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the presence of Olive, for I liked Olive; her
eyes were endless blue grottoes. So I remarked :
*' Truly this man will make an admirable English
soldier: running down the American in peace,
running from him in war," whereupon the blue
grottoes sparkled merrily and the Doctor cackled,
and Dekker scowled and with him the youth of
Britain.

So we quarrelled and ceased to speak and
were all firm and foolish and miserable. One
day after about a fortnight of taciturn hostility
Fisher, Morgan and I were parodying cricket in
the shed with broom handle and tennis ball.

''What's that?" exclaimed Fisher, dropping
the ball and bolting.

"Lord, what a row!'- said I. "Come on.



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Morgan, let 's get nearer to it." We found the
other fellows gathered round a piper, who was
proclaiming in high, shrill voice his glorious and
gory part in the Crimea. He was an old man,
with hair and moustaches white. He wore the
regulation Highland uniform: garich kilts and
iridescent stockings that left the knee bare. A
long plaid fastened on the left shoulder with a
silver clasp, hung down his back. On the right
side of his girdle dangled his purse — a fierce
looking pouch with tufted hair appended. The
exhausted bagpipe under his arm completed the
picture.

" Aye, laddies, the Black Watch I served in —
a glorious regiment." (Here he pointed to a
small silver crest on his bonnet). "Many an
honorable scar hae I to show. Thank you
kindly," he said, sinking into a chair Williams
had brought. '* You hae an unco guid heart to
care for an ould carl the likes o* me. Och, 'tis
a grievous wound that in my foot what the
Russian gae me at Sebastopol — damn 'em eter-
nally 1 A'weel what would ye hae me to play ? "

*• The Campbells are comin," said Dekker.

" O, good I and since you hae so well chosen,
will ye no blow him up " — him was the bagpipe
— '* for the breath is f ailin' in my old carcass ? "

Dekker hung back. I jumped up accordingly
and blew till the escaping air squeaked dolefully.

** Thank you, bairn," He gave the pipe a
tender squeeze under his arm and marched
forward with long martial stride. I spat vigor-
ously. The long plaid stood out from his back
like a bellied sail. The bagpipe's woe was long
and monotonous, but finally with one high,
exulting squeak it ended. We three applauded
loudly; the others, as a matter of course did
not applaud at all.

** And what will ye have now, laddies ? " asked
the piper, after a recuperative pause.

" Yankee Doodle," I exclaimed.

** Right," said the piper, smiling. " 'Tis a
bonny race ye hae over there; 'tis no more,
though, than a clan from old England," with
which encouraguig encomium he struck up.

"He's a poetical chap, isn't he?" Fisher
remarked. "That's a rum brogue, though; it
does n't sound Scotch."



"No.^ Perhaps English alloy has debased
the pure Gaelic gold."

" Yes," assented Fisher, absently.

" Those apoplectic gaspings of the pipe might
as well pass for the ' Dead March in Saul ' as
* Yankee Doodle,' but he means well," I said,
rubbing my hands in anticipation.

Fisher, Morgan and I made a respectable
noise, but we were obliged to make it alone. A
look of surprise wrinkled the Scotchman's face.
" Can it be ye dinna like the music ? " he queried
in a puzzled way. "But no, ilka body likes
that. Then 'tis the lad ye dinna love as ye
should and his country, what's a clan o' your
clan. Out upon ye for Englishmen. Fie upon
ye ! Do ye no' ken the Holy Scriptures what
bids ye to love the stranger in your gates. Up,
every one o' ye, up and grab him by the fist," he
continued with such chromatic crescendo that the
fellows turned from his fiery glances. **Hoot,
ye will no' do it? But ye shall do it or my
name 's no Sandy."

But his name was Sandy, for mirabik dictu up
rose French and strode straight to where we were
inspecting pebbles on the ground. " I suppose
we've both been wrong," he blurted. ** Let's
make up."

So we did and all shook hands mightily, for-
getting Sandy. He did not realize the slight.
"I e'en thought ye were the right sort," he
interjected, calling attention to himself.

** Those who dance, come on, pay up," shouted
Hallahan, enriching the old gentleman by a
*bob.'

Well-earned increments speedily raised the
musician's finances to pound respectability.
" Real gentlemen ye are and mindful of a poor
old soul what has fought for your country,"
exclaimed Orpheus, much moved.

Fisher threw himself on the grass beside me.
"The old boy has asked Williams for a shirt.
I should have thought he could buy one now."

"Scotch thrift," I replied. "Like his coun-
tryman * who hadn't been in London half a day
when bang went sexpence.' By Jove, I 've got
a shirt for him."

I believe we all remembered shirts we could n't
use, for in a few moments there emerged from



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the house a procession of shirtbearers who laid
their offerings at the shrine of the peacemaker.
" God bless ye, laddies,*' exclaimed the departing
piper. His old face was covered with smiles;
his arms — with shirts.

Next day Tom came home from Cambridge.
Told about the piper, he burst into uncontrol-
lable laughter. " You 've been horribly swindled.
The scoundrel got enough shirts at Cains to
clothe him and his male descendants for a hun-
dred years to come. Now Jones happened to
need cash and hied him to the pop shop. There
he saw all of the skirts and the bag-pipe to boot."



'* Well, he 's an old man," pleaded forgiving
Fisher.

*' Old man ? O, you poor fools. He 's a clever
young English rogue, who has n't seen any more
service than have you or I. You don't believe
it. Well, when he pawned those shirts and the
bag-pipe he had a smooth face and bald head.
Just when it was too late, of course, the * bobbies '
sent warning to look out for him : they described
him and his little game. The patriot had worked
the same trick at Oxford."

" Well, he 's welcome to my ' bob '," smiled
Fisher.

Murray Seasongood.



BOOK REVIEWS.



«*What Is Art?" — Leon N.Tolstoi. Trans-
lated by Charles Johnston: Henry Alte-
mus, Philadelphia.

In reviewing Tolstoi's " What Is Art.?" one is
tempted to grow controversial. We had thought
that the proposition briefly suggested by "Art
for Morality's Sake" or '*Art for Humanity's
Sake " had been defended for all time by Ruskin.
Certainly it seems that any new attack on " Art
for Art's Sake " should at least show an improve-
ment on Ruskin 's method, by being cool, dis-
criminating and logical. Whatever Tolstoi's



book may contribute in crude idea, is set forth
in an intemperate manner.

Beginning with an amusingly satiric descrip-
tion of the rehearsal of a comic opera, the
lowest form of artificial sight and sound that
struggles for the title of art, Tolstoi seems to
conclude with an air of triumphant irony that
this, your "Idols' Eye," or your *'Jack and The
Beanstalk" (to translate his allusions for the
modern American) which people call art, is
worthless, with its common place tunes, bad
rhymes and vulgar pink uniformed semblance of
naked legs ; ergo art as art is worthless. Now



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NEW YORK.



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any book on art which begins by choosing such
a specific example of rottenness to represent all
stage production ought to put us on our guard
at the outset

We are told that beauty is merely another
name for personal gratification or pleasure and
is the " vitiating factor '' (mark the word) in art.
Beauty has nothing to do with real art, for
beauty and goodness have nothing in common
and art is the expression of " good " feelings.
It is just here that Tolstoi touches Ruskin, for
Ruskin taught that morality must be at the
bottom of good artistic expression. In no other
respect do these critics agree. Their attacks on
" art for art's sake " are from different points
of view and Ruskin's ideas are of course vastly
more tolerable if not more tolerant. Good art,
according to Tolstoi must be clear, lucid expres-
sion of emotions possible in all sane men, which
tend to bring them into a common brotherhood
with each other, with God as the father. Any
art which an average workman cannot understand



is not only worthless, but pernicious. That taste
is bad which considers itself educated above the
masses. Of course such sweeping socialism is
hardly acceptable. Arguments against it would
be truism to the modern reader.

The good of the book lies in its severe and
much needed rebuke of literary snobs who form
mutual admiration societies called '* schools of
art," and are constantly whitewashing the fence
that separates them from Philistines (/. e. every-
body else) . We at Harvard know too well that
there is a tendency among certain gentlemen of
the English department to estimate super-subtle
indirectness of expression above everything else
on either side of the heavens. The idea em-
bodied counts for nothing so long as it be con-
cealed in language which shows *' sensitiveness
to word effects, etc." If Tolstoi can pull such
people into the sunlight, his book will not have
been in vain. His rating of word-jugglers like
Mallarm^, Verlaine, Maeterlinck, is of course too
dependent on personal taste to be final, but to



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BOOK REVIEW.



Vibration the Law of Life. By W. H.
Williams. The Temple Publishing Com-
pany, Denver, Colo.
In these latter days, when the bright rays of
Christian Science and mental healing are fast
dispelling the blighting cloud of superstition
known as medical science, the rising of Mr.
Williams "with healing in his wings" will be
eagerly welcomed. The new ** cure," heralded
by «* Vibration the Law of Life," consists in the
agitation of the solar plexus. Persistence in
this exercise brings about wonderful results, if
we may believe Mr. Williams. " It rends the
veil of the temple, opens the door to the sub-
conscious, and lets a flood of life and light in
upon the soul germ."

The volume is taken up with a description of
the various methods of agitating the solar plexus,
and thus rending ** the veil of the temple," best
fitted to persons of different ages and tempera-
ments, and with a no less graphic description of



the joys attendant upon the opening of '^the
door to the sub-conscious." We fear, however,
that the book is too technical to be popular. It
will pass above the heads of the crowd. But
certainly its contents, and especially the exer-
cises prescribed, should appeal most strongly to
the enlightened few, who, to borrow an apt
phrase of the mental healers, are "in the
thought." It is needless to add that the style of
the book is highly suggestive of the contents.

Books Received.

La Main Malheureux, H. A. Guerber. D. C.

Heath & Co., Boston.
Le Siege de Paris. Francisque Sarcey.

Edited by I. H. Spiers. D. C. Heath & Co.,

Boston.
Essays in Dramatic Criticism. L. Dupont

Syle. Wm. R. Jenkins, N. Y.



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NiSl 1C99



VOLUME LXVL — No. 7



CONTENTS.

Page



The Week

Jaffray's Death 97

" Fathers, Mothers and Freshmen " . 97

Prizes for Debating 97

Dusk 98

On Blue Nose Mountain 99



Paok

The Leaf 104

Her First Escapade X04

A Russian Proverb xo6

On the Last Night X09

Book Reviews no

The Poet's Death 112



Cambridge, Mass., January i6, 1899.



Pkintbd by Edwasd W. Whxslsr, CambudgSi Mass.



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Online LibraryHarvard UniversityThe Harvard advocate, Volume 66 → online text (page 3 of 3)