The Haverfordian, Vols. 52-53, Nov. 1932-June 1934
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STACK Class LTl2sis.frooK \\3 v,SZ-S3 THE LIBRARY OF HAVERFORD COLLEGE THE GIFT OF ytyjt ]\^*H^JLt^J&J~(>S*r^ ACCESSION NO. /3o/^ • I 4-^*i." ..5 1 V \ J HAVERFORD COLLEGE WCT29 1932 Wbt ^aberfortitan J^obember 1932 y \. Chartered 1836 Capital and Surplus $20,000,000 Individual Trust Funds $821,000,000 Girard Trust Company BROAD AND CHESTNUT STREETS, PHILADELPHIA Effingham B. Morris Albicrt A. Jackson Chairman of the Board President MEMBER FEDERAL RESERVE SYSTEM WetherllVs PAINTS AND VARNISHES For All Interior and Exterior Purposes MANUFACTURED BY Geo. D. Wetherill & Co., Inc. Established 1807 BOSTON PITTSBURGH MEMPHIS PHILADELPHIA Patronize our Advertisers SUPPLEE ICE CREAAV oJufywme A PRODUCT OF NATIONAL DAIRY A. TALONE Insurance For Students Personal Effects, Automobiles, TAILOR Accidents, Fire or Theft while at col- lege or elsewhere. Risks to property French Dry Cleaning or person while traveling in this country or abroad. and Dyeing Damage to motor cars. Liability for accidents to persons Altering and Repairing or property. J. B. LONGACRE 318 W. LANCASTER AVE. Bullitt Building Phone, Ardmore 416 141 S. 4th Street, Philadelphia, Pa. Appropriate Flowers (or All 'ASK THE MAN WHO COMES Occasions HERE" at Reasonable Prices Established 23 Years A. VASSALLO Hengel Bros. BARBER Florists 118 West Lancaster Avenue ARDMORE, PENNA. ARDMORE OVERBROOK Ardmore 3353 INCORPORATED 1812 The Pennsylvania Company For Insurances on Lives and Granting Annuities TRUST AND SAFE DEPOSIT COMPANY S. E. Cor. 15th and Chestnut Streets PHILADELPHIA, PA. C S. W. PACKARD, President Cable Address "Penco" Patronize our Advertisers Table of Contents The Phantom of Satan's Head JOHN hazard 4 On Hitch Hiking OLIVER EGLESTON 5 Illustrated by J. A. Church 111 Dialogue entre un Pauvre Poete et l'Auteur C. W. HART 10 The Romance of a Song Writer C. M. BANCROFT 11 A Note on the "Faerie Queene" Charles frank 14 Interlude rene blanc-roos 20 Phi Beta Kappa david L. wilson 21 Agrippa CHARLES FRANK 22 Editorial 25 New Books, Four Reviews 26 THE HAVERFORDIAN Vol. LII HAVERFORD, PA., NOVEMBER, 1932 No. 1 The Haverfordian is published monthly during the college year. Its purpose is to foster a literary spirit among the undergraduates. To that end contributions are invited. Material should be submitted to the Editor before the tenth of the month preceding publication. Entered as second-class matter March 19, 1921, at the post office at Haverford, Pennsylvania, under the Act of March 3, 1879. Acceptance for mailing at special rate of postage provided for in section 1103, Act of October 3, 1917, authorized April 11, 1921. CLARENCE P. BAKER, Editor JOHN L. BYERLY, Book Review Editor Associate Editors JOHN HAZARD OLIVER EGLESTON RENE BLANC-ROOS RICHARD E. GRIFFITH Art Editors D. DENNIS DUNN JOHN A. CHURCH, III ALBERT B. ZINTL, Griffon Business Manager Advertising Alanager JOHN R. SARGENT R. W. KELSEY Circulation Department C. G. SINGER M. W. STANLEY, Assistant I .4 The Phantom of Satan's Head The swells are breaking on the shoal, The old ship's begun to roll, With all her timbers groaning, While a weary wind is moaning. You can hear the hollow toning Of Satan's Head bell. We're passing by the very place, Off yonder where the tide-rips race, Where Old Andy s sleeping, And strange things are keeping Watch, and ever creeping Over his dead shell. One night when the sky was sojt, Andy was lookout up aloft, When suddenly we heard him scream— He pointed wildly off abeam— Asfrom a man in some mad dream Came that unholy yell. One moment he stared crazily, Then dove straight off into the sea. We never found him in the night. God only knows what awful sight He saw—or some undreamed delight? No man can tell. But sometimes when the helmsmen steer The southeast course that passes here, Amid the timbers' groaning, And the bell's deep hollow toning, You can hear Old Andy moaning, Way down in hell. John Hazard. ' / I OTT'i 1 "LT'l * Somebody in The Nation began an II nitCri niKing art icle recently by saying that hitch hiking, like rugged individualism, started its career with honor, only to get into bad odor eventually. Too bad for the boys who have small stakes but sweeping affection for both grandeur and prettiness in these United States, and who have a certain comradely feeling toward People In General, the boys not yet screwed into materialism by souring disil- lusionment. Of course, you're right, all you sensible people who want other people to use their heads, too, but still, I'd rather be foolhardy once in a while, because I'm sure that you see only a part of life in unrelenting common sense. Now just for instance;—this doesn't prove anything, but it illus- trates— : I've ridden home on the bus for Christmas several times. Once I dozed by the side of a mutton-complexioned lady who told me about her four daughters, Jennie, Mary, Hilda, and Susan, and about her mother, and about— her grandmother who once said, "Well,— always say, Lucy, 'Distance lends enchantment'—uh huh, hum." This travelling companion also half turned around in her seat and wavered to the pair of soused Hahnemann students behind us, "Now boys, don't sing any bad songs." (They had already sung one with hell in it) . Another time I sat by a polite medical student wearing octagonal lenses, and talked rather wearily with him about Pushing Back the Frontiers of Intuitive Knowledge, and How Even Huxley's Materialism was Bound to Bring a Reaction . and once, while I could stay awake, I yawned and watched a couple of smoothies with — THE HAVERFORDIAN moustaches taking care of their pick-ups. They would get twisted together till the position was uncomfortable. Then they'd rest a while. Then they would get braided together, or even woven, it seemed to me, and I'd fall asleep again. Anyway you get what I mean. No, I suppose you don't. Instead— of generalizing and hammering away with "What I mean is that, uh ", I'd be much clearer if I told about the bootlegger, the farmer going to the convention, the mason jar opener salesman, and the English teacher at Kiski, all of whom picked me up on my recent journey. He was a tough son of, he was a well knit man, this bootlegger. Instead of trying to be profound, I might as well say I'm not sure he was a bootlegger, but his remarks certainly pointed that way, when I politely asked him what his business was. (I wasn't being callow; the conversation just led up to it.) "Ho ho. Led's not talk about my busi- ness. I'm a tour-'\st. We'll call it that, anyway" . when he slowed down his Willys roadster in the glorious, wet, abundant wilderness of Yellowstone Park, I liked from the first the sinister indifference of his face, which was as weatherbeaten as Douglas Fairbanks', and which, moustached and phlegmatic, he didn't bother to turn around to "see whether I would be safe to pick up" (not that any well knit gentleman would have to, but— ). Like Edmund Lowe in a gangster show when he appears not to bother to watch his enemy's movements, even when his fist is making his coat pocket bulge. Hardly a word when I got into the car and monkeyed around trying to get my solid lead suitcase into a good position. I finally set it to my right on the seat, which position sneaked me over pretty close to this iron man, with his thick, maroon, brushed wool sweater pulled over his vest. He started the car savagely. I made a bad attempt to roll some Bull Durham, but the wind in the open car spoiled it all. The big boy told me to reach in his jacket pocket and get a "Herbert Tarrington". He was already smoking one and making an awful mess out of the cork tip end, he mouthed it around so much. So for a while I smoked and thanked the Lord I had a ride (for it was getting dark in the sky) and wondered what this " tour-ist" was going to be like, and cursed the last night at Yellowstone, and the flop that it turned out to be. But it didn't last long, or I wouldn't have anything to write about. I've forgotten how we got to talking, but we did. And it wasn't a super- ficial glossing over psychical this and intuitive that, the way Maxwell and I used to talk Rhinie year. If it was blunter, it was nevertheless really interesting. After we had got on past the West Thumb a way, and also past the introductory words like, "Well, I've often thought the same way about a girl that says that," and "Yeah, I've seen a lot of fellahs that don't " " ON HITCH HIKING seem to give a, " and so on, this man with abnormally huge and hairy wrists (I thought) started gesturing with his right hand and asked me, like a prosecuting attorney, "What is education for? Why are you going to college? What is it going to do for you?" I intended to show him then and there what Sweetness and Light are, at least to satisfy myself, for I expected he was one of these mugs who think it's a crime for anyone to take Greek. I thought I'd show him I had read Culture and Anarchy, The Inner Life, The Research Magnificent, and The Haverjord College Bulletin, and make him sorry that he hadn't, too.