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'^ Pei-haps the air of proud pos- session, so often repi'oNcd in freshmen, is not altogether without excuse ; for tlu^ feeling is no\'el, and though this just pi'ide does not diminish as years «,'o on, we; see it empliasized in tlu; new comers, for stern discipline lias not y(>t t.au,<,dit the in«j;enuous tirst-year man to hide his emotions. In the ^cry term, "colleije life," there is a charm, the j^own enfolds a mystery whicli (!ven Philistines may appreciate. Theie is a freemasoin-y in the student society, wiiose mysteries none but its members can share ; it has a dialect of its own, it has a spii-it of its own. Did the freshman m(^asure liis importance by the attentions he receives, his vanity would b<^ unbounded, his room would be lined with lookin<;-- as they (h'ove tlie enemy from liis position, and emi-r^'ed in triumph from the eoniliet, only <<' lieai' a sophomoic, when he had reors ar«^ thi'own open to the public, and one of these occasions is most important from its influence on collefje liistory. llun'ors were abroad of a purposed raid of tlie Mufti's minions, and the, as yet, uninitiated were l)id(len beware. The fray whicli began in t]uM)rtho(lox manner after the del)ate, was composed by the intervention of the Presithuit, and then th(^ Council, faithful guardian oi the tirones, took tli(» mat- ter in hand, and by decree abolished the old and (shall we say) time-lionored custom of "hazing" (a term which th(!y dis(hiin, by the way). Henceforth, the: " liberty " of the freshman is secured ; he may carry an elaborate cane, and address sophomores "familiarly, with.out being subject to anything worse than remark. The Borgian rule of the Mufti and his " boiling tar " court is now a part of Varsity mythology. Now that hazing can be looked on as a bit of history, let us consider what the term means. Few remain I 'VAIISITY cr-Ass OK '92. 15 witliiii V^irsity ])n»oiiu*tH to \vlnnn it is iiioi'*' tlmii a iiuui'.'. WImm'c tin* custom oi'i^iimtcd wt^ cuiiiiot tell, l)Ut uuiy tnu'C! it l)iit'k, pui'ullcl with the sccrrt societies and tlicif initiiitions, to the iinoieiit I'^tjyptiaiis. The student epic, " Litoria," may \)o a description of what it was in nioH! hai'haric; times ; howtiNcr it l)e, w(i can speal< of it only as it lias come down to us, and speak with little detail, for secrecy was the <^reat feature of th«5 institu- tion. The oriijfinal idea seems to have heeii that som(( special test fitted a num for something — what ? There has been an attempt to presei-ve the idea, hut in thes(» latter days the cei'cmony seems to hav(! '»r< n tor the anmsement of the Mufti and his coui't, i.ither than foi* the benefit of the victim whose unwittinj^ness, or too evident wittingness, had brought him into their clutches. The masked court, and the deep-voiced Mufti with oracu- lar utterance and ominous threats, and the armed guaids who executetl the sentence, the hour in the subterranean chand)ers of the college, form a seldom numtioned pait of th(; college experience of many a graduate before '92's freshman days began. ' Ninety-two ' may be said to have given the death-blow to hazing. The custom was decidedly unpopulai-, and the roll of the anti-hazing party containcid the greater nund)er of the names of the class. This position, and the; influence of the freshman claus, which held to its opinion even thi'ough the sopho- more year, left hazing in such neglect tliat it scarcely needed the order of the council t;» make it a lost art. Conversazione, the annual college f'te, came on Feb- ruary 14th. Old Varsji' '• was ablaze with light, and the murmur of many voic(^s, and noise of moving to and fro, 4^ Ki VAllSTTY ri.ASS OF 92. made iiiiy the dini Jik-ovcs where iii^lit reii^nied silent except on ocejisioiis such ;is this. The gr()tes(|ue carved faces ill the unsteady light seemed to lau,ty elections, and this temporary excitement serves only to })i-ing a reaction, deepening despair, or tightening the tension. Why dwell on the anxious weeks of April? At last examination time-tables (result of the mathe- matical genius of the registrar) come out — two yards 4 18 'varsity class of '92. loll",', or nearly, and <»no is presented to each student. He adorns the wall of his room with his prize, and makes severely critical remarks on the general fitness of things, and ends by underlining his part in the progrannne with red ink. The scene changes to Convocation Hall, now furnish- ed with tear — and ink-stained desks. A stentorian voice from the rear — " Gentlemen, stand up ; " and, songless. they stand. The mace reaches the dais, waves, and the students resume their seats. Then the presiding ex- aminer begins: — "Candidates " — a word that sends an ominous thrill over every impatient listener. For two hours and a half the only sounds heard in the hall are the frenzied scratchings of the hurrying pens, the creak- ing tread of some attendant, and ever and anon a voice beseeching or conunanding, " More paper, please." Woes as well as joys must have at last an end, so by the end of May the corridors are deserted for fairer fields. In due time an eager group surrounded the stair leading to the Senate chamber, waiting to hear the results of the exam., and probably no other bit of oratory has produced such diverse emotions in the hearts of the listeners. By those who had sought provincial homes as soon as freed, the morning paper was scanned with un- exampled eagerness, on that first Saturday in June, and woe to the unfortunate whose name was found wanting. So falls the cui-tain on our first act, and the orchestra of nature plays a soothing overture to wejiry ears in the '* dolce far niente " of the sunnner months. 'varsity class of '92. 19 II. Again October, and Ninety-two again assemble, l)ut there is a change. The man of '92 is now a sophomore, and freshmen days are far behind, so far that three ad- ditional years will scarcely alter the perspective. The class had gained in dignity and in numbers ; tlie ninety names on the Convocation roll of a year ago were in- creased by more than a thii'd, A new class entered, too, to reap the benefits of '92's battles, and to listen to '92's stories of the mighty deeds of valor achieved " when I was a freshman." A college year had never opened with l^righter pros- pects. A year ago Professor Ashley had been appointed to the neAv chair in Political Science, and the popularity of the course was now quite assured. In October, 1889, Doctor Alexander delivered his first lecture as Professor of English Literature, and in the years to come, when college days " come Ijack with recollected music," those of us who were fortunate to take the course under his guidance, will think of him as one who has given new interests, new inspiration in the study of the literature of our language. The chair left vacant by the death of Professor Young now was divided, and Professor Baldwin, of Princeton, appointed to the chair of Psychology, Logic and Meta- physics, and Professor Hume to that of Ethics and His- tory of Philosophy. Professor Baldwin began his duties in October, and 'Ninety-two were his first hearers. Pro- fessor Hume did not take his place in the college until the following year. 20 'varsity class of '92. Anioni,' the iiiuny liistoi-ic corners of old Varsity, th(! west aiiipliitheatre room stands pre-eminent. Tliitlier twice a week tlie sophomores werc^ wont to r(^})air to con- sider tlie tlieoiy of force, and when tlie minutes dragged, to cut their names on tlie d(>sks. But a horde of vandals one day swooped down upon the graceful scene, and a bitter conflict ensued. What charm was there in the first row of seats that the tirst year medicals deter- mined to carry them at all costs? They came full of confidence, but, alas, they had not reckoned with their host. For several days the Demonstrator was relieved of his duties, and the men experimented in enei'gy and heat after their own methods. The author ities took the matter in liand ; they did not like to be eclipsed in this way, and threatened to restore the noi'- mal temperature by the violent and concentrated appli- cation of (iqun pnvd, a proceeding the con)l)atants con- sidered an infringement of the rights of war. At lasf , " by mediation of treaty and acconnnodation," the de- batable land was e(iuital)ly diA'ided, and fi'iction being removed, the course proceeded. December 6th — a day to b(>. remembei-ed as the date of the first annual dinner of the class of '92. The " other element " could not be included, except in the discussions beforehand, but the dinner was a class event nevertheless. An interesting meint, an extensive toast list, enthusiastic speeches, aiul lusty songs left little con- vivial joy to be desired. Christmas holidays followed soon, and many an hour was stolen from study before they came foi- bHssful an- ticipation of the merry-making, and many a gripsack 'varsity class of '92. 21 wjis chocked for a provincial homo witli nev'er a book in it. Tlie throe weeks pa.ss most rapidly, and with .).in- uary the serious part of the term begins. The time came round a<;ain for the conversazione. Fov many days busy hands were decking the stately halls with bunting and evorgreen, and never did old \;usity look brighter than on the evening of February 14th, 'O' 1890, as she awaited her hundreds of guests. All was in readiness, nnd all was quiet, except where two at- tendants were .;ari-ying the lamps for the microscope room up the eastern stairway. It all happened in a moment : an unlucky misstep — a crash — and blazing oil spread over the floor. In the minutes that followed, the flames gained headway, darting up the eastern tower, licking up the light decorations, and running along the corridor, greedily devouring the hard, dry wood. The alai-mful word, "tire !" soon brought many to the scene, eager to fight the flames, tliey knew not how ; then, in the panic, opening of doors and crashing of windows only added to the increasing fury of the lire. Why does something always go wrong at such times 1 There was delay in giving the alarm ; then when plunging horses drew up reel after reel with the helmeted firemen, the force of the water was found quite inadequate. It was a scene splendidly beautiful in spite of all the grief it brought. The rainy sky, darker yet by night, and the dusky fringe of trees, formed a back- ground whence stood out in striking relief the tall gray towers, pale and steadfast, while the flames leaped from ledge to ledge, or seemed to pour from the windows like a cascade in the slanting sun. Two hours passed ; the B 22 'varsity class of '92. moving crowd of onlookers, ronardloss of tho rain, or the deep slusli wiiicli covered the i^roiind, now \Lrro\ving black with cinders, saw the tire gain hit by bit, till a lurid fringe brightened the turret of "the main tower. Then came a crash, and clank ! as the old bell fell from its station. There was a moment which seemed an age, then an excited cry from those who stood watching the slow but sure victory of the fire. Far into the night the struggle lasted. At last the firemen succeeded in checking the flames, but not until all the eastern part of the building, including convocation hall, the library, and the museum, was in I'uins. The morning following was a complete cliang(» — cohl, bi'ight sunshine and a black ruin, in contrast to the black night and its centrepiece of flame. Light wrt^aths of smoke rose from the smouldering debris, while around stood those who had come to mourn over the wreck, or to pick from the ruin some bit of metal or stained glass, or the charred fragment of a book to carry away as a memento. The annual banquet of the lady undergraduates was to liave taken place in the afternoon, and at the appointed hour tlu^y assem])led, but in no mood for merry-making. The president came to announce that the faculty had met, and that lectures would be continued on Monday as usual. •'As usual ! but how different ! " No longer the deep tone of the old bell in the tower sounded the hour ; no longer was the "quad" the scene of contention, physical or oratoi-ical ; no longer did " William of Wickham " keep silent guard over the volume-filled alcoves. The wl like the Tarnliill i,^( the atmosphere of Convocation Hall, heavy with the sii^hs and vows of many a night since the days of the foi-ti^s. Part of tlu^ examina- tions were held in the half-restoi'ed rooms of Varsity, part in the biological building, and part in the medical council building. The resuiis of the examination show- ed no laxity i the part of the examiners. The gradu- ating class of '90 had expressed a wish that Connnence- ment be hekl within sight of the much-loved building which had sheltered their four years of undergraduate life, and, accordingly, a huge tent was pitched on the campus, and Commencement pi-oceeded in the okl way, the degrees this year being granted by the chancellor. IIT. Time, with his stealthy tread, again brought Octobei", and the students meet, in the old haunts after four months' separation. — It is not to be foi-gotten that some came to view the scene of their May labors in Septem- ber — it is so rumored. A story with so many characters .IS this has, cannot but have an underplot, one which is purposely kept in the back ground, one wh(!re not all the characters have a part, Imt very interesting to those con- cerned, and a necessary link in the great scheme. The herald of this "play within the play " is a star appearing on the May horizon, a star not like other stars, for it did not give but rather stole light. Let no one say Astrohjgy 4 K 'varsity class of '92. 25 perished centuries ,'iss they tritul to do, whih.'all throu.i,di tln! exeirises tlie hannnei-s of tlie carpentei's made lively choius lu'vond. The ^'owiied thntnt^ dis))osed of themsehcs at t.h<^ back of tlu^ I'oom with the evident intention of amusin;;' the speakn is untiaeeai)h\ Tn .January, a hockey clul) was orj^aiii/ed, and the (h'eam of the coUei^e <,'yiiinasiuni set^ned .»l)out to mater- ialize, when y)lans of the liuildinjj; came up for discus- sion ; but the tiuK! was not yet, for the tvstofation of the collef^e still tu-eded both th(! funds and the attention. At the end of tlie fourth year, however, we lind work al)out to conmionci^ on tlu; nc^w i^yninasium, so the t'lrorts of Ninety-two in this direction arc like those of the wise husbandman wlio planted the trees, tlu^ fruit <»f which he would iu)t ;^ath(!r. " Th(^ boys " celebrated hallowe'en ; till the " very witchini^ hour of niijht" they were abroad, but thei'i! was nothing,' ^diostly in their tread. From tbe"^ods" of the " Grand," alonij; the streets at its (»wn sweet will the procession moved in iile, chanting f.)rth ever and anon its stirrin*^ songs to unlistening citizens or to aj)- preciative groups of maidens in enchanted castles, watched by ogi'e's eyes. Tn this " grand rally," Nov- eml)er had an interesting beginning, and on the 'jntli the class spent a social evening in tlu; Y.M.C.A. parlor, a quite informal evening, for the " constitution" was in no way consulted. Witliin a fortnight the annual class dinner took place. There is plenty of class spirit in '92, and on (tccasions such as this it finds expression. Erudition, patriotism, and wit characterized the eloquent speeches, and, as llobbie Burns has it, — i 30 'varsity class of '92, " Wi' merry ways an" fiiomllj' cracks, I wot they didna weary ; An' unco' tales an' funnie jokes — Their sports were cheap and cheery." The (lis;iKti-(iiis ye;ir of '90 draws to a close, uiul after the holiday we return full of resolutions that the next fiv(! niontlis arc^ to put to proof. Tn Octobei', Mr. J. M. McEvoy, B.A., was appointcnl to the new fellowship in political science, to niak«^ a sp(KMalty of Canadian history. In January, "91, Mr. (». II. Needier, Ph.D., was appointed to the new fellowship in iiiodei-n lan,<^ua<^es, to aid (^specially in the (merman department. Thus we see j^'rowth in our college even in the year of tlu; disaster, foi- the need of the creation of new fellowships arises from the growth of the student body. Tin; history of college societies should have a chaj)ter by itself. The mov(Mnent towards tluiir formation is t^oo (l(!ep to be peneti'ated by the series of ev(3nts which ti'ou- ble the surface of college life. Duiing our four undei'- graduate years these events have been greatly inlluenced by this movement. The tendency was in the colk^ge, and must have taken form soonei- or later, when the suum'f^- tion of the forming of class societies came from the colleges acr'oss the boi-der. To Ix- sure, thei'C! had l)een societies in the college before, and which still existed in undiminished strength, but they were of a general character, such as the litei-ary society. l)u]-ing the months of October and Novcnnber, of 1.S88, this matter was the subject of discussion. The advantages none seemed to doubt, if only the working e(|uall(>(l the 4 'varsity class of '92. 31 plan. There was much talk of the brothei'hnod of the students, and a great deal of conventional sentimentality therewith ; but this scheme, which seemed to imply the division of the college society, was not of this nature really, it was the gathering together of little factions and cli(jues into unions on a greater scale with a clearly defined l)asis, and with greater effectiveness. A man spends four years at college, not simply that he may be a learned man, l)ut that he may be an educated man, and the social course is the most important part of the unprinted cui'riculum of University College, a ])art on which no lectures are given, no books read, l)ut it is an honor course Avith all the world as examiners. In interest, these societies should revolve around one centre — Varsity- This is just where the strong point, or tlie weak point, la}'. Class societies have two purposes at the ])asis, that of advancing the interest of tlu; college, and that of }K!rsona1 advantage to the individual members ])y in- creasing the faciliti(?s foi- social intercourse. An organized l)ody acts nuich more >• 'varsity class of '92. 38 meetings are less useful, oi" the essays less carefully writ- ten. Wliy then? Are the students of our c()lle<^e it^rovv- ing into hermits? Stress of work has a |»;ii«!iit (liitit;(M- tliicalfiiiiig cotilcinporiiry v«!r'!sn of his fauKj, has been so lavishly worshipped by his admirers. The reasons are not far to seek. He ap- peals to lovers of his poetry by four powerful channels — by the religious sense, by the love of beauty, by the affections, and by the communication of his joy. Religion in Whitman is too large a theme to discuss here, but the broadness of his view may be perceived by a study of the poem entitled " Chanting the Square A\ ^ 'VARSITY CLASS or '92. 48 Dtiil'u!." lir (l('Ii;;;lit(!(l in (he name of tin- " Po«'t. of Comrades," and an inipoilaiit portion of his work Iumvs uj)oii tlic lujH of liiuiiaii friciidsliii). lA'w jtoois carry sucli a dinK!t and jx^i'sonnl ajipf.'d from human luiart to hoart. If any por i n('<'d he iiKuitioncd as illustratif.^' tho ox(iiiisit(^ tenderness and eompassion <»f his viM'se, one mi,L,dit (ittin,L,dy s(^h'et for tlu^ pui-pose the poem in "Drum Taps" caUed " Vi«;il Stran,i,'e T K(!pt on the Field One Nif,'ht." ilis poems cixpross, }»«s few <»tliers do, the j)oetry indwiOliiiif in the avei-ai^'e imiiuin lif(!, and in the eom- moit sights and sounds that sur-round oui' path. ll(! coiivetys a sense of the burd(vii of tlie mystery of life, yet witlial riifusin^ to encumber his mind witli distrc^ss- ini;' prohltMns. Tiis panace.-i, for human wocis is a ii;ift that cjinnot he confcM-red on i juiture less i!ituitiv(! than his own. Discjuisition is extr'(Mn(,'ly distasteful to him, and he is not smitten with tlie modern lust for know- ledije that p(!r[)(!tuates the Faust type to all time. Like Tennyson, to all art^umeut diriH-ted against the divinity in man, he can rise up and answer : "I have felt. ' ' Logic and sermons never coiivinoe, The (lamp of tlie night drives deeper into my soul. I say to mankind, he not curious about (Jod, For I, who am curious about each, am not curious about (»od. (No array of terms can say how much I am at peace about God and about death. ) " If tlie purpose of poetry be to exalt the noble emo- tions, then Whitman's high place in literature is assured. He has, moreover, this quality, which is peculiai' to him- 44 'varsity class OB' '92. self, namely, that vvliile other poets render keenly sensi- tive our sonse of grief, Whitman exalts our sense of joy. In considering Whitman's attitude toward nature, we must give credit to the inaugurators of the poetic nature" worship of our century, for it is the spirit of to-day that is animate in Wordsworth and in Shelley. Among a nmltitude of new sympathies which their poetry evokes, predominates che powerful appeal to the sense of mystery within us. The visib e world about them is not matter for a trifling interest ; legible upon its face are the graven characters of God, and all life to them is instinct with the indwelling Deity. Before Whitman's vision, too, the vastness of inrtnitude expands. He goes forth into the night, and the mystic stars impart to him the burden oi their meaning, and the bird-awakening dawn imparts to him the suiiit of its freshness. He is a mod- ern in his possession of that scientific vision that floods all life with a wondrous significance, and which with every world that it redeems from the void of space in- creases the burden of the mystery. He is a modern, too, by force of a certain prophetic mysticism which can vivi^v the else inert mass of science's gathering. Per- haps only our poets will save us in the end, by this very quality of imagiiiation, from the slough of materialism, that with hideous maw threatens to engulf us. In other respects. Whitman is Homeric in the directness and vividness of his description. He resorts to nature that he may find wide spac(^s for his soul to soar, and per- haps to this desire for expansiveness we may ascribe his intense sympathy for tlje grandeur of the ocean and the spaci(msness of the starry sky. As Hugo almost made I A 'varsity class of '92. 45 |S»t his own the innocence of children and the music of the birds, so has Whitman taken unto himself the ocean's splendor and the mystery of night. He has dwelt long and lovingly with nature, and she has granted him to catch her every tone, and to learn her mystical, deep meaning. The stars have shed their secret influences upon him, and the rosy dawn has left the imprint of her fleeting foot upon his pages. There is an incompleteness about all surveys of this poet. Pjrhaps there is a reason. The plummet line of criticism does not strike bott«;m in the deepest souls, and the inability of aix to deal aaequately with Whitman is some indication of his greatness. Of his subtler sig- nificance, little has been said. It is enough if the curios- ity of some is stimulated to venture to wrestle with the poet. Many will decline the contest, others will retire baffled and bruised to renew the strife. He is like nature, rude and incomprehensible at first, balking a frivolous enquiry, yet provocative of ever further ques- tionings. With deeper vision into his soul the sweet- ness of the morning and the heroism of a strong con- tent are yours. He strengthens the sinews of endur- ance and relaxes the selfish fibres of the heart. He has spoken the greatest words on death arid the most in- spiring words on life. He appeals to that which is noblest in man, and of meanness he takes no account. His strength overmasters his weakness, and he has the secret of communicating that strength. Grethe made the sorrows of his life divine. Whitman has merely glorified his joys. Accept him, and receive that assur- eance which is happiness, and that strength which alone is peace. 46 'varsity class of '92. MY FIRST MOUSTACHE. «i^ I sat where March's tempered sun His rays most kindly poured, And blessed him that he smiled upon The thing I most adored. I heard the whispering winds go by To rouse the slumbering flowers, And watched the chirping robins fly To herald happy hours. But still no raptured rhymes I sung. To bring me fame and cash, But stretched forth my prehensile tongue, And felt for my moustache. My love was false, but what caied I, I deigned her scarce a thought, For one so base I could not si^h. Nor be with grief distraught. A truer love than hers I'll find, This to myself 1 said — ' • A maid of mercenary mind I vow I ne'er shall wed ; By others let her charms be praised, I scorn to be her ' mash," And then my hand I gently raised, And toyed with that moustache. What cared I though the sun went down 'Mong clouds of heavenly hue. Though shadows dark began to frown. Though chill the breezes grew. Though angels trimmed with tender care Their starry lamps on high, Till beautiful, beyond compare, Appeared the sunless sky ! 'varsity class of '92. 47 «^ In vain did night her jewels don, They seemed to nie but trash, For all my thoughts were fixed upon My young, my first moustache. Dec. 6th, 1889. PLUCKED. In life's old University, One idle summer day, In Nature's class-room, dreamily, Among the flowers I lay, And heard a learned professor of Coquettish arts expound The mysteries that in the lore Of loving hearts are found. My battered college cap she wore Her playful curls upon, And through my tattered gown the grace Of girlish beauty shone ; She tapped her foot and cried " Ahem ! " And then on Cupid's arts She lectured lucidly, and, well— I learned it all by heart. She thrilled me with the eloquence Of drooping, roguish eyes, And when the term was o'er, I thought Myself exceeding wise ; But when before her on the sward I knelt for my degree, Sht bade me rise, for she could but My Alma Soror be. 48 'varsity class of '92. Although 'twas hard to so be plucked, I drained the bitter cup, And that "exam." was one that had No dunce-relieving " supp." But now the love is half forgot, I smile whene'er I sigh, She lectures some one else, perhaps, I'm glad it is not I. 4» COY. A light wind wooed a floweret once, And all a summer's day it pled ; But still the more it breathed its love. The more the floweret shook its head. THE KINDEST SEASON. When winter dies we triumph o'er The surly foe of sunny hours ; But spring, forgiving, on his grave With lavish hand bestrews her flowers. SPRING. >•>.. Dame N.ature now, on pleasure bent, Puts on her gayest duds, And introduces to the world, And chaperones the buds. 'varsity class of '92. 4* A LOST WORK. .HK [by the sanctum philosopher.] BELYING among the debris of the University Lib- rary last Saturday morning, one of the workmen stumbled upon what proved to be the charred remains of a curious book. The fiery ordeal through which it had passed had rendered it almost illegible and unrecogniz able. After a careful examination, however, its antique form, its quaint parchment, resembling the skin of human beings, and its marvellous contents proclaimed the work to be one of rare and priceless antiquity. Its existence was probably unknown even to the librarian, as it does not appear to be mentioned upon the University cata- logue. The title-page is so obliterated that the names both of author and work remain illegible. From the still readable fragments the book appears to be the mar- vellous tale of a lost tribe of Indians and the story of their decadence. The tale is told in the form of an epic poem, and with a graphic force that proclaims the unknown author to have been a poet of the highest quality. The opening pages of the book contain a fine and idyllic description of the tribe that has passed away : — In the days of dream and shadow, In the vistas of the by-gone, In the prehistoric epoch, Dwelt of yore a mighty people, Dwelt a mighty tribe of Indians. 50 'varsity class of '92. Many times, I ween, they bore them, Mystic titles deep with meaning, Jun-yahs, Seen-yaws, Oon-dah-grad-utes, And they lived within a wigwam. Tall and stately, built of lime-stone, Metamorphic rocks and felspar. Gneiss, hornblendic scist and basalt. By the hands of cunning craftc-men. Here throughout the snows of winter Live the tribe in peace united, And they dug them for their sustenance Plants of an exotic nature Brought from Greece into their valleys ; On these Liddel roots they fed them. But when winter's rigor weakened And the vernal sunshine beckoned, Then they girt them on their blankets, Blankets of a prescient blackness, Wrought by cunning hand of fairies And retailed to them at profit. And they laid them on their helmets. With the nodding plumes above them, Crinal plumes of sombre darkness, Scalps of many a by-gone battle. Then they hied them to the war-path In the balmy days of May-time. All throughout a lunar cycle Dipped the steel the warriors wielded Till the foe lay dead around them. Then they hied them whooping homeward, And the stars looked down upon them. Home they carried all their trophies. Glittering tin the mead of valour. But the noblest and the bravest, Still unsated with the slaughter, Sped again upon the war-path, ' Mid the fading leaves of autumn. f >♦. «l* 'varsity class of '92. 51 Many chiefs they had among them, Sages gray and venerable, Who no longer sought the war-path, But who sat within the wigwam, Chewing roots and ever mumbling In a long-forgotten language. Yet the proudest of the chieftains Was a warrior great and mighty, Still he trod a doid^le war-path. And they called him ever Mouph-tai. He it was that led the sun-dance In the hazy days of autumn, When the children, the papooses. Sought admission to the warriors. He it was that in the mystic Ceremonies of tlie autumn Tried the courage of the striplings, Tested them if they were worthy, Proved them as his future vassals ; ( Jave them fond, paternal counsel. Taught them on the lawn to galop, Promised, as the mead of valor. That, if staunch, he'd teach them further. Teach them o'er the green to gamble. Following this comes a long portion of the book which unfortunately is no longer readable, and probably lost forever. Where the story is again legible the author is found depicting the mystic rites of the sun-dance which he eulogised in the opening pages. As we read the account of the gruesome cruelties inflicted by the warriors of the tribe on the young braves, the explana- tion of the skin-like appearance of the parclunent is revealed to us. T 52 'varsity class of '92. Always when the full moon glimmered Tnrougb the trees about the wigwam, Touching every tower with silver, Making all things weird and ghostly, Then the warriors donnef? ^heir blankets, Met them in a solemn pow-wow Where they chewed whole bales of cotton Over who the bravest l>rave was In the days now long forgotten. And the wise ones, ever ^noozing, .Snored each time the same decision. When the great debate was finished And the last chestnut was roasted Then they seized the young papooses. Bore them shrieking through the darkness To the cave beneath the wigvi^am Of the mystic Phi-a-wata. There they thought of all their misdeeds. Of the times they looked reproachful At the Seen-yaws when thoy smote them On the ear with wliiz, the snowball. Of the times they'd dropped saliva On the fair and virgin campus, Of their canes, and gloves and wliiskers. So their hearts were bowed with aP;':;uish, Loud they wailed in deep contrition. But withir his sacred wigwam Sate the Moujjh-tai calmly smoAing, Heeding not their childish clamor. As he sits there slowly puffing, Shadowy figures gather round him Wrapped in fllowmg torture mantles, Liable robes of awful meaning. 1^' In the uombre caves of torture. Underneath the grimy arches. **^- «» 'VAllTITY CLASS OF '92. 53 'Midst a hundred tiaring torches, Lie the pallid, quivering bodies Of the striplings waiting torment. For a moment all' is silence. Then the Mouph-tais circle swiftly, Circle in the sacred sun-dance ; Fiercer, swifter every moment In the Kay-a-Gee, the sun-dance. As they fly they strike the Freshment Blow on blow with blazing torches Till their skin is burnt and blackened Like the pine tree in the forest When the fire has breathed upon it : And they make them rise and join them In their mystic, flying circle, Till they fall down, sobbing, dying. The next part of the book contains what is at once the finest and saddest part of the entire epic. The author tells, in his simple yet graphic style, the story of the tribe's decadence and the punishment inflicted by their tutelary deity : — But a change came o'er the nation, For the sages, they that mumbled In the long-forgotten language. Said within their stagnant senate ' * Let us look into the future, Let us elevate the nation." And they brought upon the war-path Blushing s(iuaws of erudition. But the warriors looked upon them And forgot their ancient valor As they looked upon the maidens. They no longer on the war-path D 54 'VAIISITY (T.ASS Oh' 'f)2. Shouted tlie symbolic Hoop-la. For' the warrior's steel lay useless, And tliey softly sighed them Ha-there. So th(! tiibe was enervated Till the fcebltfst of the lighters, Craven dogs with sickly s])irit9, Oatliered in a prurious [)ow-vvow. And they croaked in coward accents : " Let our valor go untested, Let us have no riiystic sun-dance." Then they formed themselves a union. And they made themselves a title, From the mumblings of the sages In the long- forgotten language, Speaking of themt^elves as Antis. Hut Die few that yet were noble, Chi'istcned them in scorn tlie (Jrannies. Ikit the weaker were the stronger, And the force of numbers triumphed, And the sun-dance was forgott'^n. So tlie nation lingered broken, All its valor ciiervated. Tyrannized by mumbling sages In the long-forgotten language. So they might have dwelt for ever. But the being of the cloud-land, Manitou, the moving spirit. Angered at their vile decadence. Breathed his mighty wrath upon them, Breathed the fire from out his cloud-land And consumed all the wig-wam. All its limestone blazed anil tottered All its felspar and its basalt p]choed to the sky in thunder. All its gneiso and its hornblendic Melted into streaming lava, And the warriors that were noble, ( '» 'varsity class of '92. 55 They that yearned thein for the sun-danco, Looking sternly at the burning, (fathered in their neighl)oring temple, Gathered round the shrine of Mouph-tai, Gathered round liiu bier, and drank it. The work closes with an appenrLauce in which we learn tliat some fragment of tlie ti'ihe yet remains stead- fast in the customs of their ancestors. These, it ap- pears, dwell within a mystic and hallowed temple, re- mote from the haunts of man, where they still practice the rites of their forefathers in all their primordial glory. Though this account is probably a nnn-e legend, retold by the author from hearsay, it is extremely interesting, as showing that a lingering belief in the future revival of the sun-dance was yet harbored by the bolder warriors of the tribe : In each room within the temple. Hidden in a darkened corner, Underneath the coals and kindling You will find a tattered fragment Of the cloak of Phi-a-wata — Of the mantle decked with pictures Of the sun-dance, done in coal-tar, Touched up here and there with feathers, Wrought in all the cunning fashions Of the Wheight-khaps and the Mouph-tais. Once a year at darkest midnight All the priests bring forth their fragments ; And the one that has the largest Pins the rest about his shoulders. Robes himself in 'Wata's mantle. And the forty dance the sun-dance Underneath the trees till day dawn ; 56 'varsity class of '92. Aiul the HpiritB long departed Come once more to dance the Hun-dance. Dance the Kay-a(«ee the Hun-dance Ah it wa' of yor*; and shall be Till the wiuawa bit in the Council And their chatter rules the Senate, Till they make uh all wear legging Like their own of hideouH blueness And we all love tea and gossip And the high-priced hats from Paris. Here the tale of 'VVata ended— I'hi-a-wata, mystic Mouph tai. ■f 'varsity class of 'f)2. 57 FOUR SCENES. I. ON 10 autumn afleruoon, y((ni-s n^^o, I saw a ^I'ouj) of l)()ys walking up ihv, slopes to tlie woods that .skirted thager to pry into tlu; future, who gathered their fortunes innn the revelations the clear glassy sur- face pictured to them. Several hours later, I found myself .stretched out on a l)(!d of leaves and moss, on the bank overhanging the sj)ring, with the l)ook I had brought still unopened. The sun's slanting rays and the chilliness I'apidly over- spreading the air warned mo of approaching night. As I arose to return, I heard the boys coming to the spring, and this determined me to remain a little longer to see what they were after. There were four of them, all appanmtly genial, careles.s, open-hearted, fun-loving boys, all with the same short past behind them, and all hoping for the sanu3 happy, biilliant future. Cares rested very lightly on their shoulders, judging from the mirth that grew louder as they drew nearer. In a few moments I learned from their broken phrases that reached me, that they were going to r(!ad their futures in 58 'varsity class of '92. IS the Mirror of Fortune, as the spring v/as called. This spring V)ubbl('d through a sandy bottom, and rose until a foot or so deep in a kind of well, which had been con- structed with stones rudely held together with clay. The bank behind and above it, and the dense foliage of the surrounding trees tended to increase its refresliing coolness. The liveliest of the group rushed forward as he drew near, and was the first to get a drink, and conse({uently the first to read his fortune. He looked silently for a moment, and then said : " My face is as round as an apple, and smiling, and a'll around it I can see all that I ever wanted or could want. I see lots of fun ahead of me." TJie second boy approached readily, and seeing his reflection, said : "I see lots of fun ahead and nearly all the things I ever want to ges:, for there is lots of money all around my face, and I can buy whatever I like." The third boy was a little more cautious, and approached rather thoughtfully, and as he looked, he said : " T see a good time ahead of me, but there seems to be a lot of trouble connected with it. My face seems satisfied, as though it had what it wanted, and yet I think there is something not satisfactory aV)Out it. There is a look of care and woi-ry." The fcurtli and last boy drew near thoughtfully and quietly, as though not to be tempted with superstitions. But his boyhood prevailed and he looked and said : " I see a good time ahead of me. There is no money or fuiything like that around my face to make me happy, but there seems to V)e something away inside of it that makes me glad." When he had finished telling the rest what he saw, they sat quietly and 'varsity class of '1)2. 59 thoughtfully for awhile, i'(!sLiiioys descend from the platform. As they passed from the hall out into life T followed them again, noticing how kindly time had dealt with them, foi' their appearances were unchanged, save that the roguish brown faces were; transformed to un- tanned, less careless ones, and the dominant featui'es formerly rounding, were now hi-ought into greater pi-omi- nence and angulaiity. They stood outside tlu; doors before they parted into the different I'oads Lhey had chosen to follow. I watched them bid farewell. lie who was ilrst be- fore, proclaimed himself first this time : " Life; was gi\en us that we may enjoy it, and if happiness holds out the greatest inducements to contentment, as I belicne it does, I am going to seek happiness. My life is my own, and I am jtlaced on a par with the rest of mankind, and since every man must look to himself, T am d(!termined to look to myself. Life is too short that we can afford to let pass by anything that leads to our own enjoyment." 60 'varsity class of '92. 1 i' ... Thon he who next had looked in the spring said : " I agree that life is given us to enjoy, and I have learned that enjoynKMit conies from having what we want, and therefore wealth is the end to be sought. If the laws of nature have been so kind as to deposit gold for us in the earth, we are perfectly justiiied in seeking it and turning it to our own use. Wealthy old age is luxurious and respected, and my path will lead towards that goal." The third boy said : " Happiness is my desire also, but T do not see it in seliishness, and in seeking wealth there is too much care. Pleasure does not come from our- selves, but from the relation those outside of us bear to us. If others can see in us something to be desired^ we can persuade them to follow us, and thus obtain power over them, and ultimately fame. Fame brings all other things to be desired. Self-satisfaction is guaranteed, and unsolicited wealth follows." Tlie fourth boy was as thoughtful as ever, and weighed his words as he uttered them : " My studies are not yet done : my work has re vealed to me a sense of happiness that gives me a desire for something further, and t'.at is what I shall pursue. We all seek happiness, but we disagree as to what happi- ness is. I wish to learn the cause of things, the sources of our desires and ambitions, the goals we are to reach, and to accomplish this I iind my work is but begun. I want to learn the relation I bear to my fellow men, and our interdependence, that I may render to them what I owe them, and I know if I do this, I shall have their obligations to me fulfilled. I believe the happiness each of you is after is but partial happiness. If we seek the universal the particular will follow. My place in this 'fK I 'varsity class of '92. 61 world is not to fill n niche, but to be a portion of some grand gigantic machinery. If I find my place to be nothing but an unadorned connecting rod, I yet can believe that its absence would be a loss to the perfect whole." III. Nearly half a century had passed before I again reached that same city. Everything had changed, but the same forces were still at work, developing rather than transforming. As I walked past that same University my thoughts returned to the last scene, and I resolved to look up my old friends again. I had little trouble in finding them, for they were all well known, the personal determination of character of each making him a power in the direction whither he had turned. Gray hairs marked all of them ; thought, care and anxiety had seamed all their faces, and the weight of years revealed itself in their bent backs, and in their short, slow steps. Thus far were they all alike, but as I looked more closely there was a hidden expression revealed only through their eyes,— the soul shining forth. I visited them as they had before shown themselves to me. The first I found alone, unsurrounded by friends who found no room for themselves in the mind of that man who had room for none but himself. All knew the man and wondered at him. Respect could not be held for him who showed his lack of respect for humanity by refusing to confide in his fellow creatures. His face was unpinched, l)ut there could be seen growing around the corners of his mouth traces of cynicism with distrust con tinually increasing. 62 'varsity class ok '92. Far difforcnt T found my second friend. Wealth sur- rounded liim and it bad l)rought with it a hostof friends, — not the select few who form the companionship of most people, but a self-purchased host. These constantly sounded praises in his ear. His wife and family were ever employed in seeking means of inducing and controlling happiness, and yet when I saw him the happi- ness and respectability in his face were alloyed. He had reach(!d what he had felt was the source of happiness, and had acquired wealth to the briin. But he had not counted that money brings care and worry. Benevo- lence, he believed, induced begging, and philanthropy was but misplaced soft-heartedness. The name of my third friend was in every man's mouth. Law, politics, and schendng had raised him to a high pinnacle. People stood off, gazed at him, bowed before him, and rexerently passed on. His word was an oracle, his wish the pi'oduct of a genius. Every man who thought with him thought him a god ; those who thought against him called him a devil. But power gave him a pedestal and he stands upon it wondered at and admired. But if car'e has worn the features of the others, his have paid a greater ])enalty. His restless eye betokens tlui unceasing restlessness of his mind. Fear of the loss of his power has made; him suspicious of mankind, and because some have made themselves servile, forsooth, all mankind is but a com- mercial article worth somuch — if not in money, then in favor, or a few flattering promises. Then T looked for the last of my four friends. Him I found quietly resting after the labors of his life. The 1 'varsity class of '92. 63 light in his eye revealed the accomplishment of his aim. His life had been spent in pursuit of the truth and in the overthrowal of evil through teaching its fallacies and its evil consequences. His glorious old age was revered by good and evil, by the masses and by the influential. IV. I left the city and sought to find rest in the woods near my boyhood home I followed tlie same old path and soon found myself at the spring. As I gazed down to its bottom, I saw a marble hall,— a large building, not lofty, but low and broad. Without, the marl)le looked cold and repellant ; within was no life, and as I looked T saw the floor, the walls, and the ceiling were mirrors placed at angles and opposing one another. No companions were needed there, for one multiplied himself into a thousand beings. Then the building faded away in the quivering waters, and another appeared, this time sumptuously adorned within and without with all that could add to its richness. It was filled with men and women, furnished with costly furniture, and supplied with inexhaustible stores. And as I looked, I saw that the floors and walls and ceilings of this mansion were of gold and silver beaten into thin plates, and, as the people walked about, their feet struck the metal with a harsh clang, and the place was filled with an incessant, hollow, metallic echoing. There was no peace, no silence to be had there, for the echoes lived when all else was silent. Then the waters were trouV)led again, and as they stilled I saw a lofty domed structure, at once a palace with its throne and a legislative hall. It had once been filled 64 'varsity class of '92. with mankind, all equal. Soon one man arose and called himself their leader. Many humbled themselves down before him. He mounted on their backs, and shrewdly formed them into a square. Others fell on the top of these, and he continued in his work until he had man- kind a pyramid, himself the cope stone. This was his legislative assembly, this his thnme. But it was a living, turbulent mass, and no one knew the hour of its possible uplieaval, and the engulfing of its master. And when the spring again grew quiet, I saw a building rising high into the air, springing from a broad and vast foundation. An evergreen vine mantled it to the top. Within, all was soothing peace ; colorings were exquisitely blended on the walls, and a delightful music from unseen quarters hovered through the atmosphere. The master of the palace was seated in quiet meditation, with troops of ministering spirits surrounding him. Slowly the scene faded, and the spring again took on its natural appear- ance. 'varsity class of '92. 65 TO SOMEBODY. I've watched the glow of sunset fade, I've watched the shadows fall ; I've watched the play of light and shade O'er earth and sky and all. And know that spirit twilight nears, And night, to cover me, Still castles bright my fancy rears Whene'er I think of thee. The lives we dream in summer days Are lives we ne'er can live. For we would bask in milder rays Than summer suns can give. But though the faith of youthful years No longer dwells in me. Still castles bright my fancy rears Whene'er I think of thee. The flower that buds may live to bloom, The fledgling live to sing, A hope a life may long illume, And time fruition bring. But well I know in earthly years Some things may never be, Still castles bright my fancy rears Whene'er I think of thee. 66 'VAK tiY C^ASS OF '92. Partizan : — Here's a government issue for you. Hasn't that coin a true ring ? Caustique : — Oh, yes ! everything governmental has to have a *' ring" in it. Pat : — The deadest regiment in Canada is the Toronto Highland brigade. Sandy :— The deil tak ye ! why so? Pat : — Bedad ! They'll be kilt entirely. He : — My dear, why do you persist in pressing the potatoes into that outlandish shape through a colander 1 She : — Why, what's the matter, darling ? He : — It always reminds me of Luthur at the Diet of Worms. Farmer : — Why are the taxes so heavy 1 Cynicus : — Oh, so that the Government can truthfully s , IDS duties are onerous. ■f -f 'varsity class of '92. 67 .^ EXPERIMENT DOES IT If you wish to captuvo ;i boo you had i v r take him by tho cool part of his iiatuiis for if you don't he will probably exticute a tlaiik iiioveuieut, make a few pointed remarks, and you will go away feeling that this world is a howling wilderness. De Witt : -I think women would make good soldiers, or they know how to "bang" hair. De Wagg :— Yes, and they are accustomed to face powder. DUDEKIN -.—Why, Cholly, you appeah quite exhaust- ed ! What's the mattah 1 CiiOLLY : -Ah, deah chappie ! Yesterday I saw some ladies ahead of me, I struck an attitude, and haven't g-got over it yet. Smokers : — Thorn in the flesh A briar in the mouth. Two Drunkards : — (I) A miser always tight. (-) A hypochondriac full of sham-pain. 'i •f 68 'varsity class of '92. THE WIDOW'S SONS. I knew two boys, a widow's sons, And one they said was brave, And yesterday we scattered flowers Upon the hero's grave. The notes of martial niusic rolled ; Bright banners waved on high ; A nation mourned and seemed to say : How brave it is to die. The other son, he too is dead; His grave's a nameless spot. He perished toil-worn and unknown, Exhausted, overwrought. He kept his mother's years from want, 'Twas his her tears to dry, While o'er her hero dead she cried : How brave it is to die. They both are dead, the widow's sons; We tend one's grave with care. And yesterday I with the world Bore brightest blossoms there. Then turning from the pomp of woe, A mound that through the years Will lie neglected and undecked, I dewed with heart-wrung tears. From him who nobly, bravely died, I would not rob a flower, But over him who bravely lived, My tears 1 fondly shower. Perchance the day will come when men To both their due will give, I know 'tis brave to die, but ah ! I know 'tis brave to live ! ^l^ 'varsity class of '92. 69 m pt VERSCHIBBUNG. It was an eve when winds without wore loiu'Ii. Thro' bars of dark cloud stared llio ohill pale iiiodii, A few dried leaves still rustled on the trees In dull accordance with the shrill weird tune That swelled and softened in the twilight gloom. The fire sputtered, pale blue tongues of flame Darted about the bars, while fierce and fast A demon fingered still the airy flute. The firelight on the wall strange shadows cast Which dropped a hurried courtesy as they passed. Anon the master of tlie dance appeared, And with a beck announced a minuet ; "(irimm's Law " he hight, and here at lenglli The frisking shades found one they must obey Lo ! (!, as hidden, yields his place to K. And H is in his j)lace along the line, And lisping labials, cluittering dentals too, Krstwhile they regularly move about. Pleased, I watched, and thought (it proved uuti'uc) I could remefnber all I saw them do. Methought, as madder still the music blew. The shadows, too, the livelier measure caught And glided to and fro, and in and out In strangest figures moving, and X lliouglit In their mad motion they old ( Jr-inun forgot. E 70 VAKSITV CLASS oK '})2. Kvor inoro intricate grew the nia/y whifl, My \voaric more. Antrnow in j^roup.s they tript, and now enseiiil.le, And eac'li time more confusedly tlian Ixifore, 'I'iie movement was al/ajro con furore. 'Vhv l)la/.e dropt low , went out, and with the li;j;ht \'auisli"l<»,i,T- ^^'ith Profcssoi' Alexander, an abh^ and devout a;e on the shelves of even our village libraries, it is ratiiei- presumptuous fo)- a hund)le admirer to (\Hiie forward as a deftntder of the ,yreat Hard. And pcriiaps it approaches rashness when he enters the lists to try a tilt with one who has already "wined" at thf' "\Ierm;i,id. and takes rank among the Bards of Passion and of Mirtli. One would naturally think that a poet dead forty years, whose work in the main has been before the jmb- lic seventy-tive yeais, would have an und()ul)ted rank in his native literature. A lofty place — the fifth in the succession of great English poets — the greatest Eii'dish poet of the centuiy — has been assigned Wordswoith by men whose reputation is as far-extended as the languane. 72 'varsity class of '92. n 1^ The latost voice of {lisscnt tVoiii this vordiet coiiios tVoni ii ei'itic— appJirently a xcry young (litit-, in one of our giciit metropolitan dailies, who knows " Himself to sing and build tlie lofty rhyme,"" who has caroled songs in the echoes of Lake Jluron, aid courted the muse under the sheltering shadows of the Parliament Buildings at Ottawa; who, while linger- ing at the Mermaid Tavern, " sipping l)e\'erage divine,'' expresses serious doubts about the rank and ({uality of one of his poetic fathers. Our poet turned critic, under his initial C, aftei' proving that Michne/ is not a poem, " there are not six lines of poetry in it," doubts Words- worth's claims to greatness, and adds, "T should like one of his intense admirers to ([uote from his work enough instances of ivally great verse to }H'ove their (?) ad- miration." Ideally, }>h'. C, is it possible you have not seen Ar- nold's col lei3ti(m}? You appear to have heiinlof his well- known Essay. Symington in his two octavo volumes has a less judicious selection ; Myei-s, in his short biog- i-aphy, has enough gems to prove any poet's greatness ; while every school-boy knows by heart many >'^' the spe- cimens in such hand-books as Ward, Palgj-ave, Ci-aik, and Welsh. It is really unaccountable that you have never heard of these selections made by "intense ad- mirers." Better still, a collection has bc.u mavle by a severer critic than C. of the Mermaid, — by Jefirey in his famous " crushing i-eview,"' ^\llen lie crushed nothing. Of this very colle -tion, njade fi'om oidy one poem, Jeffrey says: "When w( look liack to tl."m and to the other ^ As 'varsity class of '92. 73 ; passages we have now (wti-artcd, we feel liait'-iiieliiied to reseiiid the severe sentence we passed on tlie work at the oegiiimng. Time has i-escinded .lelfrey's sentence, and to-day A\'ords worths place is acknowledged by thousands of Iiearts, "to console the afflicted, to add sunshine ro day- light by making the liappy happier, to teach the young and the gracious of every age to see, to think, ai.d to feel, and therefore to become moi-e actively and securely vii-tuous." This may be a prosaic mission, but it is the greatest that lie oli'ers. Tt is life itself. And that Wordsworth i- illy accomplished th" aim of his life as he thus sets it oitli — a sweet, quiet life beset with diffi- culties and full of encoui'agement to all young men, we have the testimony of such as Coleridge, Southey, BurnS) Lamb, xM(»oi'e, Ha/litt, Scott, De(^uincey, Carlyle, Stuart Mill, Whittiei-, Lowell, Shelley, Christopher North, (Jeoi'ge KHot, .Matthew Arnold, Tennyson. We could add many other great names to this list, and among them that of Brownijig who makes the accusation that "Just foi a handful i^t silver he left us." only to be re- tracted later, furnishing an illustrious precedent to our poet-critic. And what fairer standard of greatness can be ollered than Wordsworth's own " to trust to the judgment of those w ho from all ages havi; ])een called great?" By the suffrages of the innnortals, tlu'n, Wordsworth is declared great, a»id nothinij: that Mr. C. or I can say will influence very m ici) tli*^' i'epu))licof letters in so well- based a eoiK'liisifrr). The elements of his greatness may be seen in the niar\«-llous power of his poetry: not a 74 'varsity (jlass of ".92. I single })a.rofound criticism of life," or "the protest of genius against the unreality of life," or "as simple, sensuous and passionate" writing, T belicive there is sufficient to warrant us in calling almost every- thing Wordsworth wrote poetry. We do not claim for him perfection. — we do claim for him the rank of a man, — of a great and good man, whose verse may not have the dainty subtlety of Tennyson's nor yet the l^old ruggedness of Browning's, l)ut yet I'ejoices in a natural music never lacking and almost uni(|ue in poetry, whose judgment and tast(^ sometimes fail, as all things mortal do fail; who in accurate observati(»n atid true feeling, ni knowledge of llie human heart and width of sympathy, in imagination and true jtathos, and in intei'p»'(;tation of Man, Nature, and God, has not l)een sui'i)assed since the days of Milton. " The sunrise on his l)reezy lakes, The rosy tints his sunset brought, World seen are gladdening all the vales And mountain-peaks of thought." Without the few detects that critics have made so much of, he would ap{)roximate absolute ])erfection. He is accused of being " jirosy " in thought and diction. His mind made much (»f all the details, and sometimes he is prolix, but in diction, no tawdry ornament e^y, poor Susan standing on a street of London, the mighty heart of great Lomlon itself, the toi'n cloak of a little girl, a faithful dog, a mourning n.iother, all come as grist to his mill. At one time he carols with the lai-k, rivalling its sweetness, or sings as he watches the gri i n linn(!t ; at anothei' he luu'sts forth into praise of "the ■»«;»i -fciif j t w. i gfc ji'acj^ g 76 'varsity class of '92. i waiulerinic voice" <»f tlu^ cuckoo, or "tumultuous liannoiiv and lifM'co " of \\\v iu<;litiiiyal('., Tlu! daisy, tlu^ celan- dine, tlie dail'odils " Tlie meanest/ flower ihat hlows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears," and thus add to tlie pleasure and power of his life, and pass oil to us a glorious heritage. ' \V(\ sang of love with (iui(!t bleuding,"' and wlio would wish one woid of those love lyi'ics changed? Those poems of affection alone would make the name of even a Canadian poet known throughout the Bi'itish world. Tn all the departments of jiot>trv he succeeded and su<-cee(led surpassingly. " Xihil Itnntaiil X ini' aliev/inii p/ifo,'' is the motto of his works. .Vnd w(! believe no one can lo(»k even at a tabh; of con- tents of Wordsworth's Poems and doubt this. lUit AN'ordswoith selfish I This is a new charge ; \w that was usetl to think r n " On man, the heart of man, ami human life ; wliose .... daily teachers liad been woods and rills, 'J'lie siknce that is in tlie starry sky, Tlic sleep tliat is among tlie lonely hills ; " tJi-( • rv' be 'H called cli'ldish for writing A/ice FdJ, and ;i' UH|]'"n on i. count d the fjfi'cli-iJntJierrr ; that was ^^cii ccniK d enough lo enunciate as his poetic docti'ine : " For I have learned i ' look on Nature, not as in the hour Of thoughtless youth ; but. hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity, !Nor harsh, nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and sulnluc. And 1 liavc felt 'varsity class of 92. 77 A presence that diaturljs me with the joy Of elevated thoughts ; a sense sublime Of something far more deeply interfused, Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, And the round ocean and the living air, And the l)lue skv, and in the nnnd of man ; A motion and a spirit that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought." If in tlie words of oui' critic, " he liad in ;i gentle, inno- cent but cluldish way an interest in life an such thing. What Ai'n(»!d does say is : " Ii i had to pick out poems of a kind most perfectly to show Wordsworth's uni(]ue })ower, T should rather choose poems such as j/ic/iful hosv he I'cads. lie believes Ar- nold " (he most famous admirer, and witliout doul)t the 7S 'VAIJSITY CLASS OF 1)2. Ix'st judiic nt" his tiiu'st woi'k.s,' uiul reads what .Vninid lias never written. ^\' hat assurance have we tliat he has read Words woi'th with more care? How do wv. know that Wordsworth has ever spoken to him anything but that which he wi.slies to hear? We fear that at bt^st it has l)een hut an oyster })assinm, and I can concei\ > of no definition of poetiy that excludes it. AV'hercver the poet linds ti'uth noble and affecting, he lias the material for poetry. " ' IJeauty is trutli, trutli beauty,' that is all Ve know on earth and all ye neerl to know.' It may not be "ad\anced,'" it may be orthod(»x, and yet not deserve a sneer. If the truth concerns a shepherd or a gardener, yes, or even a •'Civil Servant," — and \VK '1)2. 70 .A Now, MirluK'! is simply u concrete illusti-ation of tliis. TIieiH^ may be .-i lesemblaiice to our old lijble stories, but I belie:ve that is fanciful rather than ical. It does not matter. It is in this sense a democratic poem — a poem of the people, a ch^ar cut gem with its sides still I'oufdi, a model of Greek art in proportion and clear outline. Let us h(!ar Professor Alexander (1 am ui fai' to him, for T (juote disjointed class notes): " J/v>7/fV^ • is in marki^l contrast to Pop(;'s /\fsfoni/s. The lan<^uage is \-ery simple and the picture real, and throu,i,diout Wordsworth shows true insijfht into human natuic. There is no majestic I'oU in the poem, but at times the i-hythm is Ix^autiful. He makes touehin*^ ol)servatiou (»f the suial' woi'kinj^s of the human heart, and shows art in not making those touching passages long and painful. It i'^ tlu! most successful of his poems on outward incidcMits."' Dean Church says : "He saw greatness, the greatness of the human affections and of tlu^ pi'imary elements (.f human cliamcter \u he fortunes and -^uiierings of Michael." 8ii- T. N. Talfourd l)elieves : "His rural pic- tures ai'e as fresh and lively as those of Cowper, yet how nmich livelier is the poetic light which is shed ovei- them. His exhibition of peculiarities of character and clear inununities of heart is as true and genial as that of (loldsmitu, yet how much is its interest heightened by its intimate connection, as by golden chords, with the; noblest and most uni\ersal truths." We hope now that we ha\e stated grounds on which this poem "may be called even passably beauti- ful." The " beautiful and betitting simplicity of diction," the unobtrusi\(> rhythim, tihe t«»ne — the setting *»f ihe so VARSITY CLASS OF '92. whole pdcin, the simple yet deep liiunjiiiity, has einleui'ed MirJmpJ to ;i lai^s^e cii'ole of readers, that will jealously ijuard its reputation. MirJidrl not a poem ! Then add neither is Tennys(»irs Dora^ nor ai'e Shakespeare's plays, for the formci- an Ixslievc that AFr. C. will pardon our (|Uoting it. Of course while "then; is dilFusencss, there is moralizing, (at the same time) there is a touch of nature : " *ir "Stranger ! henceforth be warned and know tliat ])riile, However disguised in its own majesty, Is littleness ; that he \vno feels contempt For any living thing hath faculties Which he has never used ; that ihought with liim Is in its inf.^ney. The man whose eye Is ever on liimself doth look on one, The least of n; tuie's works, one who might move The wise i.ian to that scorn which wisdom holds t'nlawful ever. Oh, he wisei thou ! " I'o know AX'ordsworth, one nuist enter into his spirit, and we believe our jxiet-ci'itic ui;i,y now read Wordsworth moi'e carefully. We shall always agrei; with him that \ 'varsity cl/vss of '92. .SI '■ Wordswortli sometimes nods - it is u way moitality has — but we believe he will find that in H^ufflish purity of thoui^dit ami diction, in philosophic j^nisp, in "c(msoliiiLi; power,' in fai'-reaching sympathy, in natui'al (and eliec- tive) pathos, in imau;ination, and, above all, in the pecu- liar gift of seeing things as tliey are, in api)iT)ximating expression to the reality, a greater has not a})peared in the centui'y. And when to his other gifts, our poet-(!i'itic h IS added some of the Woi'dsworthian ti-aits, and can fully profit by all the rich stores of our great T'ard, per- haps it will be from our young Canadian literature, that tli(^ next name may l)e added •' On Fame's eteruall beadroll worthie to be fylod," anmnii the innnortals in the i^-reat succession of Ih'irish poets. i.'^ .S2 'varsity class of '92. i « SIR DANIEL WILSON. XCI'i we onteied coll('<,'e tour l)iiet' years ajLfo, many inrii who held (listiiifj^uislu'd placets in tll(^ fields of learninij have hud aside their acachMiiic I'ohes and passed t(» the <^i'eat unkn<>\\n. Anionfjf them, tliere is none m ho hold a posiiioii of ii;i-eatei' dignity and hoiioi' tiiati the late Pi'esident of Toronto Univei'sity, Sir Daniel Wilson, it is a position which of itself sheds lustie on the hoidei- of it, for it seciks the scholai' and the ^reat man and is not, we hope, one to be occu[)ied niei-ely through the force of circum- stance. Let us rathe'" think that to he President means lo he, not differently constituted from the connnon run of educated men, hut in a ditler<;nt dcL^ref^ endowed witli intelli'ct and soul. If, then, there was somethini;' in Sii- Daniel which dis- tiiiifuishes a iiohU^ personage from an igiiol)le, if there was some t(;ne of the "eternal melodies" in his soul, if he had the power of "seeing'' where common men s(,'e not, as Cai'lyle uses these terms, if, in short, h(> was a veritable rafcs, then his life would always be foi- us Mil interesting one to study, and an Inspiring one t(t ('i»ntemplate. Without, howevei*, attempting to give even a brief sketch of his life, let us look at one or two of the most interesting points in his career. At the age of twenty- on(\ he set out for liondon, like manv a noted man befoic 4 'VAIISITV ( h.\SS (iV 92. «:i 4 lilm, U) iiiiikc liis way in tlu' woilil. Ilci't' Itr cajL^ci^'t'd in literary iiiid odicr work foratVw ycafs, when he returned to liis iiativc Kdiiihuf^'h, and i;a\c liinisclf up entirely to literature and research. He eontrihuted articles to nia<^a/iiie at't.er lua^a/ine, and to the then eijLjhth edition of the l^jneyclo))a'dia Hi-itannica. From early iit'«^ lie dis- played the two ^'reat scholastic loves which possessed him — his htve t'oi- the study of l*in<,dish literature and his lo\(» for th(? study of anti(|uity. "Memorials of Ediu- l)ur«;h in the OhU-n Time," })ul)lishe(l in \^\~, and illus- ti'ated by hiniself, for he was a skilful sketcluu', was his hi'st ])ul)licati(tn. Next came his ''Olixcr Cromwell and the Protectorate," an exposure of the erroneous jud^ii;- iiients on (^-omwell of i<(noi'ant historians and critics. In 1 851 apjx'ared his "Prehistoric .Vnnals of Scotland," a<^ain illustrated by his own hand. JIall un pi-onounced this work to he "the n\ost scientitic treatment of the ai'clut'o- loyical evidences of primiti\'e history which had ever been wi'itteu." 1 1 is inte resting to note, too, that t-his judii'meiit was said to be tlu^ inui\ediate occasion of Sir haniel's ap])oiiitment to tlu; chaii" of History and J*lunile poems; "Cliatterton," a biographical study, ISC)'.); "Caliban, o' the Missing W^ '< ^. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) // ^ ,