-To every man there comes a time when seclusion seems sweet. The monks of the olden time sought it in their quiet monasteries that they might pursue their studies free from all earthly cares. In our day the lack of human sympathy often causes men to withdraw from others. Both these influences acting on the sensitive nature of Dante Gabriel Rosetti caused him to retire to a quiet village to pursue his studies in a picturespue old house, steeped as he was in the romance of the Middle Ages and unable to obtain from any one sufficient sympathy in his passionate interest in poetry, painting, mysticism and woman. Thus he preferred, in a sort of mystic isolation, with his divine conceptions, to cause the altars of the rural churches of Lancashire to give forth a radiance almost heavenly; and a recluse, to execute in his picturesque home in Chelsea his conceptions of Saint Cecilia, with a coloring almost equal to the glow that nature's sun throws upon one of her seas at eventide.

It is seldom that Dame Nature, generally so chary of her gifts, has bestowed her blessings so bountifully upon one man. For Rosetti is no less a poet than a painter. With him walked hand in hand along pleasant paths of sweet thought and high conceptions, the Muse of Poetry and the Goddess of Painting, each claiming him as her child and lavishing her bounties upon him. In him did these two powers sweetly blend, as when the sound of some sweet music arouses in the listening soul feelings of past joy, and yet of sadness, so intermingling as to form a union so sweet, one wishes it could last forever. So united that in his painting there is realism, as when the Goddess of Love looks out from the tangled roses and honeysuckles, while in his poetry, in the midst of mystic vision, there is imagery as in his "Blessed Damozel." We may well be thankful that heaven has granted a double flow from the sweet spring of his deep soul. That power was given him beyond mere verbal expression to make us sharers of his divine conceptions, for the highest emotion goes beyond speech, which is at best but a part of life's great poverty. even in his retreat he could not escape the ills of life, and his sensitive and gloomy nature was made to suffer greatly from violent criticisms of his poems. Not perhaps until our century has passed away will the world fully appreciate the genius of this poet-painter who now lies buried in the old church yard of Birchington-on-Sea,

But

T. W.

-Up under the gnarled old apple trees, just beginning to shed their blossoms; now past the fragrant hawthorn hedges and moss-covered stone walls, from behind which our ancestors worried the steps of the retreating enemy over a century ago; now by the old colonial mansion to whose bullet-riddled walls the inhabitants still point with a pardonable pride; and then sharply around the old "elm tree corner," leads the road to the village parsonage, a modest white cottage nestling away behind a cluster of firs. In the yard, the parson himself, in his shirt sleeves and an old silk hat, is trimming his vines, an occupation wholly in keeping with his character and means; indeed frugality is a necessity to one who gives away half of a small salary and supports himself and his invalid wife upon the other half; for his salary composes his entire income, except the annual dividend on one share in the railway that runs through the village. But the old gentleman is content, so long as his flock gives evidence of growth and expansion in spiritual and temporal affairs. Although as to himself, he is willing to trust to what the Lord will provide. There is an element of nobility and beauty in a patient, compassionate, self-denying life like his, that causes us to feel all the more emphatically the imperfection and comparative selfishness of our own characters.

Although the aspect of the parson's home was humble, one was always sure of a heart-felt welcome there and knew that the best of everything the place afforded was unstintingly laid open to his use,—to be taken advantage of or not at his own option. But there was one place never to be neglected and that was the old haystack down in the orchard; for there it was that I used to spend many an afternoon not so very many years ago, reading of Siegfried and Brunhilde, Arthur and Guinevere, Robin Hood and Maid Marion, or any old romance in poetry or prose, that I could lay hands upon. And when I had finished my book, I would lie there with my hands clasped behind my head and look up into the sky, where the birds darted hither and thither, while big fleecy clouds floated lazily above me, drifting as I seemed to drift without a care, without knowing the real meaning of trouble, simply enjoying the unalloyed bliss of existence. There, in the midst of my boyish day-dreams, of great achievements with the sword and buckler and of friendly bouts with Will Scarlet or Little John,

there gradually came to me, as the days went by, broader and loftier ideas of life and its meaning. I began to comprehend the vastness of knowledge and there, too, while the scent of the apple and pear trees and all the sweetness of spring was wafted to me, I acquired a love for nature and unconsciously at the same time a love for all that is beautiful in art, literature and music.

W. W.

-The olden time seems to weave about itself an air of mystery and romance, so enchanting we are fearful lest we dispel it. How bewitching with its romance seem those golden days when good King Arthur came and Launcelot the mightiest of his Table Round. When valiant knights were eager to enter the lists for their fair ladies, before the flower of Arthur's court, upon the tourney field gleaming with the royal pavilions and banners with emblazoned arms. When Elaine, the lily maid of Astolat, guarded the sacred shield of Launcelot, or when maid and lover rode beneath some leaguelong grove to talk of love and tilts and pleasure. In the olden time a subtle charm seems to us to have hovered about the grand lords and ladies of the king's court.

To-day it is not pomp nor power that awakens romantic feeling in the better classes, but the vine-clad cottage or some humble dwelling. Here Dickens found inspiration for some of his most fascinating tales. More poetry clusters around a cottage than a palace for one accustomed to luxury. T. W.

-For a long time the ancient literature of Wales has been hidden from men of learning. A deep silence, like that which reigned over the buried cities of central Italy, has rested over some of the most remarkable treasures in all literature. Only during the last half century, by the untiring efforts of a few zealous men, have many of these old productions been brought again to light. The Welsh poet, it is said, is the only one who has "an eye that can see nature and a heart that can feel nature." The principal characteristics of his poetry is its originality. Its themes are found in natural character; and its spirit is the spirit of the nation, embodied in song. Although nothing in this ancient poetry can be fittingly compared with the best productions of the Greek, Roman, and English muse, yet in reading it, we are ever delighted with its concise thoughts moulded into harmonious verse, and its brilliant.

natural descriptions told in flowing and modulated sentences. About three centuries ago, at a famous congress of Welsh bards, was established a metrical system that has not its parallel in the language of any other people. Its characteristics are rhyme and alliteration-the rhyme being both final and internal. It owed much to a language which possesses rich resources of metrical harmony and poetic power; sometimes gliding along in a rippling flow of liquid and labial sounds, and again bursting forth in rough, guttural tones, which are grand and effective. It had a powerful influence over the people, the sweet strains of the bards were ever stirring and inspiring in their hearts feelings of love and veneration. With what poetic fervor did they receive the productions of these enthusiastic masters! In their lowly cottages on the mountain sides, or in their palaces surrounded by luxury and wealth, how many pleasant nights were passed by this earnest poetry-loving people in chanting the songs of their Taliesin or Gwilyn.

If the yesterday and to-day of Wales foreshadow its morrow, no prophetic tongue is needed to predict the future of the Cambrian. The logic of history leads to the unavoidable conclusion that his ardent love for his language, his close adherence to the traditions of his ancestors, and his persistent individuality must soon yield to the onward march of English speech and civilization. But must the harp so dear to his forefathers also be consigned to the memorial chamber? Instead of chanting the praises of Arthur and Llywelyn, is the bard doomed to hymn those of Henghist and English heroes? Must English scholars banish Taliesin and Anenim from the realms of poetry, and leave the Arthurian legends for his only relics in literature? His nationality may be lost; his language, after existing more than three thousand years, may be doomed to perish; but the example found in the symplicity and innocence of his character will remain an eternal monument of his fame.

R. B. S.

MEMORABILIA YALENSIA.

In Memoriam.

Levi Ives Bushnell, '91, of New Haven, drowned August 8.

Junior Promenade Committee

Are McClung, chairman; Bayne, floor manager; Mullally, Ivison, Paddock, H. Cheney, Husted, B. Hollister, Floyd-Jones.

Poet, Broatch; Secretary, Gruener; Orator, F. Brown ; Historians, Green, Tweedy, Herod, Sears, Guy; Ivy Committee, Bovey, W. McClintock, Dalzell; Class Day Committee, Hoppin, Hale, Childs, Bunce, Simpson; Statisticians, Hall, Tilson; Cup Committee, Brewster, Townsend, Witbeck; Supper Committee, W. Simms, Harvey, Lillagore, Lee, Sackett; Triennial Committee, Blake, Graves, Walcott.

Intercollegiate Tennis Association Officers.

President, F. H. Hovey, L. S., of Harvard; Vice-President, E. P. McMullen, of Columbia; Secretary and Treasurer, J. Howland, '94, of Yale.

Trial Tennis Tournament.

The winners were: Singles, A. Parker, '91, J. Howland, '94, L. Parker, '92. Doubles, A. and L. Parker, C. and J. Howland.

Intercollegiate Tennis Tournament.

The finals resulted: Singles, H. T. Hovey, Harvard, first; J. Howland, Yale, second; N. H. Larned, Cornell, third. Doubles, Chase and Shaw, Harvard, first; A. and L. Parker, Yale, second.