Alexander's Magazine (Vol. 1, No. 1, May 15, 1905)

But a shadow came into their lives. He grew silent, reserved, almost afraid of beautiful Lilia. She watched with eager anxiety and entreated his confidence, but his lips were sealed. Only his tremulous voice and shaking hand betrayed suffering. Sometimes she fancied that his hands grew palsied and his bright eye was dim, but repelled the fancy with terror. One day he came home with such a look that her heart stood still, and words died upon her lips. He gazed into her eyes with passionate agony and, taking her hands, said “Will you still believe in me if I say we must part; that I must leave you and go away, and you must stay here and live out your life—your precious life, so dear to me—all, all alone?” Then her courage came, and she said, “No, I will never leave you. You are mine. I must go too, wherever you go!” “But,” said he, “I have seen the examining surgeon today, and he says I must go by the next trip of the steamer to Honolulu.” And then the full measure of her woe dawned upon the stricken wife. With unutterable anguish she threw her arms about his body and clasped him tightly to her breast. “I was allowed to come here and prepare to go, and to bid a last farewell to all I hold so dear. I shall never see these trees, the flowers, this house, my friends, nor you, my precious wife, again.” But her face had grown hard and stern, and, relaxing the hold, she told her plan. It was to take him into a far off deep recess in the woods. There was up the mountain side a deep crater, overgrown with trees, ferns, vines and a wild luxurious growth, which kindly nature had draped so softly that its hideousness was lost. It was considered inaccessible, and only the family knew of an ancient lava cavern which entered its deepest recess. One of several mouths of the cavern was near the house. “But the law says that I must go” he urged. “There is no law higher than my love for you,” and he yielded to her imperious urgency. Quickly and stealthily she carried such articles as the simplest life might require, and a few days later, when the officers of the law came, Keawe was not to be found and no one knew where they had gone.

With untiring love the wife watched and aided her husband. Together they built a little bower out of view from the upper edges of the crater, under the spreading branches of a kukui tree. A little pool, fed by the constant drip from the over-hanging wall, supplied them with pure water. Near at hand, under a mass of ferns, maile and ieie, was the mouth of the cavern. She grew familiar with its turns and windings, till she almost dared to brave its black recesses without a torch. In one of its dry and sheltered windings, she stored articles of food and clothing thinking that sometime a watch might be stationed at the home on the hill-side and she could not venture out. But days melted into weeks; weeks became months: two years passed, and their hiding place was not discovered. No one came, though Keawe often longed to see the faces of friends. But they were afraid to venture near and the cavern echoed only to her feet, and the silence of the deep pit was only broken by their voices and the music of the birds. At times a sudden gust rushed down the steep sides and every tree waved and bowed and quivered. The sunlight only touched the bottom in summer and then for a few minutes only. But it was not gloomy, the glorious sky was always there and the brilliant light, and the bloom and fragrance filled the air. No, it was not always bright, sometimes tempests whirled far over their heads; trees in the world above tossed their branches over the abyss, leaves and twigs fell gently, or branches, and once, a tree, were hurled down with deafening noise. The roar of thunder, and vast sheets and torrents of rain filled the pit. Once, in a still night, they were startled and terrified by a sudden boom far below their feet and the earth shook, stones rattled down the rocky sides of the abyss, and they remembered the dread power of the volcano. “It is Pele! she is angry with us!” cried Lilia. “No,” replied her husband, “we have thrown ourselves into the protecting bosom of the Goddess! We are safe in her arms.” They were safe from human sight and interference, and Lilia’s soul feasted in the presence of him she loved. She poured out upon him such a wealth of devotion, that a miser might have envied. But alas, though safe from man, he was under the fell power of disease, and slowly yielded. Day after day he grew weaker and less able to help himself, until the fond wife performed the most menial tasks. But they were not menial to her. Everything for him was a glory and a joy. “I cannot last long” he said one day, “and I want you to have my lands. Get your mother’s young husband, the lawyer, to come, that it may be settled.” He came, and, looking wonderingly about, prepared a deed which he said would accomplish the object. Keawe was not satisfied. “It sounds wrong—why should the name of your wife appear?” he asked. “She’s your wife’s mother,” was the reply, “and you cannot convey to your wife direct. When this deed is recorded my wife can then convey to your wife. You must hurry or it will be too late,” said the coming man. With some doubt still, but trusting to his friend’s good faith, knowing he was alone, cut off from all the world, Keawe signed, and the deed was taken away. Patiently they waited for weeks to finish the business, “and then,” said Keawe, “you will have a home.” But the lawyer did not come, and evaded Lilia’s eager questions.

One day when returning to the cavern, her heart stood still as she saw slowly emerging from its mouth, several police officers, bearing on a rough litter the helpless form of her beloved Keawe. At a glance she saw the whole base deception. Her stepfather had betrayed their secret hiding place, and the end had come! With a frantic wail of despair, she flung herself at their feet and begged and implored. But her entreaties were vain, and the sick man was taken to Hookena where the steamer was waiting. At the landing, as the boat drew near the shore, she learned that he was to go alone and then her grief knew no bounds. As he was put on board and turned his imploring eyes on her she made a desperate attempt to go too, and in her struggle her clothing was almost torn away. The officers of the law thought they were doing their duty, but their eyes were full of pity. “Keawe! Oh Keawe, my beloved husband!” she cried, “let me go with you!” But no answer came. The steamer turned her head towards the sea, and he was gone. She fell to the earth, and lay with buried face for many minutes. It seemed to her that nothing was left and bitterly she mourned her loss. But suddenly starting, she asked eagerly for a horse, which was furnished at once by a sympathetic friend. Mounting, she went without stopping for rest or food until, on the second day, Kawaihae was reached. Soon a steamer came, and she went to Honolulu, only to hear on landing that Keawe had died on the trip down. Giving way to despair, she dejected, sought the house of an aunt, where she was kindly received, and there she remained for several months.

“And that is the story,” said the Native.

“It is rather sad, but she was a heroine sure enough,” said the Planter.

The pale light of the crescent moon served only to render the landscape shadowy. All nature rested. An owl fluttered slowly by and a soft murmur from far below told that the restless sea alone moved. There was no other sound. The riders mounted and silently stole away.

SAMUEL COLERIDGE-TAYLOR, COMPOSER

_A Sketch_

_By Booker T. Washington_

FROM THE MUSICIAN

It is given to but few men in so short a time to create for themselves a position of such prominence on two continents as has fallen to the lot of Samuel Coleridge-Taylor. Born in London, August 15, 1875, Mr. Coleridge-Taylor is not yet thirty. His father, an African and a native of Sierra Leone, was educated at King’s college, London, and his medical practice was divided between London and Sierra Leone.

As a child of four Coleridge-Taylor could read music before he could read a book. His first musical instruction was on the violin. The piano he would not touch, and did not for some years. As one of the singing boys in St. George’s church, Croydon, he received an early training in choral work. At fifteen he entered the Royal College of Music as a student of the violin. Afterwards winning a scholarship in composition he entered, in 1893, the classes of Sir Charles Villiers Stanford, with whom he studied four years or more.

Mr. Coleridge-Taylor early gave evidence of creative powers of a higher order, and today he ranks as one of the most interesting and remarkable of British composers and conductors. Aside from his creative work, he is actively engaged as a teacher in Trinity college, London, and as conductor of the Handel society, London, and the Rochester Choral society. At the Gloucester festival of 1898 he attracted general notice by the performance of his =Ballade in A minor=, for orchestra, Op. 33, which he had been invited to conduct. His remarkable sympathetic setting in cantata form of portions of Longfellow’s =Hiawatha=, Op. 30, has done much to make him known in England and America. This triple choral work, with its haunting, melodic phrases, bold harmonic scheme, and vivid orchestration, was produced one part or scene at a time. The work was not planned as a whole, for the composer’s original intention was to set =Hiawatha’s Wedding Feast= only. This section was first performed at a concert of the Royal College of Music under the conductorship of Stanford, November 11, 1898. In response to an invitation from the committee of the North Staffordshire Musical Festival =The Death of Minnehaha=, Op. 30, No. 2, was written, and given under the composer’s direction at Hanley, October 26, 1899. The overture to =The Song of Hiawatha=, for full orchestra, Op. 30, No. 3, a distinct work, was composed for and performed at the Norwich musical festival of 1899. The entire work, with the added third part—=Hiawatha’s Departure=, Op. 30, No. 4—was first given by the Royal Choral society in Royal Albert hall, London, March 22, 1900, the composer conducting.

The first performance of the entire work in America was given under the direction of Mr. Charles E. Knauss by the Orpheus Oratorio society in Easton, Penn., May 5, 1903. The Cecilia society of Boston, under Mr. B. J. Lang, gave the first performance of =Hiawatha’s Wedding Feast= on March 14, 1900; of =Hiawatha’s Departure= on December 5, 1900; and on December 2, 1902, =The Death of Minnehaha=, together with =Hiawatha’s Departure=.

In 1902 Mr. Coleridge-Taylor was invited to conduct at the Sheffield musical festival his orchestral and choral rhapsody =Meg Blane=, Op. 48. The fact that this work was given on the same program with a Bach cantata, Dvorak’s =Stabat Mater= and Tschaikowsky’s =Symphonie Pathetique= indicates the high esteem in which the composer is held.

A sacred cantata of the dimensions and style of a modern oratorio. =The Atonement=, Op. 53, was first given at the Hereford festival, September 9, 1903, under the composer’s baton, and its success was even greater at the first London performance in the Royal Albert hall on Ash Wednesday, 1904, the composer conducting. The first performance of =The Atonement= in this country was by the Church Choral society under Richard Henry Warren at St. Thomas’s church, New York, February 24 and 25, 1904. Worthy of special mention are the =Quintet for Clarinet and Strings=, Op. 6 (1897), which Joachim has given, and the =Sorrow Songs=, Op. 57 (1904), a setting of six of Christina Rossetti’s exquisite poems.

Beside the work already mentioned are =a Nonet for Piano, Strings and Wind=, Op. 3 (1894), =Symphony in A minor=, Op. 7 (1895), =Solemn Prelude for Orchestra=, Op. 40, (1899), between thirty and forty songs, various piano solos, anthems, and part songs, and part works in both large and small form for the violin with orchestra or piano.

Mr. Coleridge-Taylor has written much, has achieved much. His work, moreover, possesses not only charm and power, but distinction, the individual note. The genuineness, depth and intensity of his feeling, coupled with his mastery of technique, spontaneity, and ability to think in his own way, explain the force of the appeal his compositions make. Another element in the persuasiveness of his music lies in its naturalness, the directness of its appeal, the use of simple and expressive melodic themes, a happy freedom from the artificial. These traits, employed in the freedom of modern musical speech, coupled with emotional power and supported by ample technical resource, beget an utterance quick to evoke response.

The paternity of Mr. Coleridge-Taylor and his love for what is elemental and racial found rich expression in the choral work by which he is best known and more obviously in his =African Romances=, Op. 17, a set of seven songs; the =African Suite= for the piano, Op. 35; and =Five Choral Ballads=, for baritone, solo, quartet, chorus and orchestra, Op. 54, being a setting of five of Longfellow’s =Poems on Slavery=. The transcription of Negro melodies recently published is, however, the most complete expression of Mr. Coleridge-Taylor’s native bent and power. Using some of the native songs of Africa and the West Indies with songs that came into being in America during the slavery =regime=, he has, in handling these melodies, preserved their distinctive traits and individuality, at the same time giving them an art from fully imbued with their essential spirit.

It is especially gratifying that at this time, when interest in the plantation songs seems to be dying out with the generation that gave them birth, when the Negro song is in too many minds associated with “rag” music and the more reprehensible “coon” song, that the most cultivated musician of his race, a man of the highest esthetic ideals, should seek to give permanence to the folk songs of his people by giving them a new interpretation and an added dignity.

_Outwitting the Devil_

A STORY

BY KELT-NOR

What you want to press upon your brethren of African descent is (1) hard work, (2) the earnest use in that work of all the brains with which the Almighty has blessed them, (3) the acquirement of knowledge whereby that work may become better paid, and (4) chiefest of all the highest possible standard of morality, higher therefore than has been reached by any people in the old or new world, in this first decade of the 20th century.

Now the most bigoted citizen north or south, of European or Asiatic extraction, has always been only too glad to concede to your people the first mentioned of these blessings; but, in the southern part of our country at least, he is very apt to do all in his power to prevent his fellow citizens, with African blood in their veins, from acquiring the last three.

As I sat pondering on this melancholy fact and on how best to enforce the precepts of which I have spoken, my eyes fell on the theme which my little girl had just written for humble submission to her school ma’am. It seemed to me to the point, and I straightway copied it out for you, just as written. Here it is:

The Students’ Adventure.

Two German students, Dietrich and Hans, wished to get for their Botany Professor a specimen of a particular kind of rare pine which grew only on the Hartz mountains. They were natives of a district near there; so, when they went home for their Christmas vacation, they went on a snowshoeing trip, to get some.

They gave, on their way, in return for food and lodging, such songs and stories as they knew; and so they traveled on pleasantly enough until, on the third day, they found themselves near the lonely tract on which grew the pines. As there were no more farmhouses at which they could stop, they hurried forward, hoping to get to the trees and back before nightfall.

The snow was deep, but as they were young and strong, and more than that had on snow shoes, they had no difficulty. But alas! about half a mile from the pines, the strap of one of Hans’ snowshoes broke. He took his snowshoes off and carried them, but found doing so hard work, and when they reached the pines the sun had almost set, and Hans was tired. “You rest old boy,” said Dietrich (in German of course) “and I’ll get the boughs.”

It was easier said than done, for when he got to the trees he had to take off his snowshoes and shin up. The huge trunk was hard to grapple, but he managed it, and after about 20 minutes had two fine specimens. But when Dietrich was safe on the ground again the sun had set, there were only a few golden clouds floating on the horizon, and the light was waning fast.

“Oh, beloved Heaven! We must hasten wind-fast” (literal translation), exclaimed he, and, when he reached Hans, “Get up, old fellow!”

Hans got up, and they started home by moonlight.

Now there happened to be a devil on that mountain—the devil of ignorance—and, of all that he hated, professor and students he abhorred most; for did not they forward learning more than any one? Hearing these students talking he gathered—being a German devil, and so understanding them—that they were students, and that they were going to forward his enemy, Learning, by giving some pine-boughs off his mountain to a hated professor.

“This must not be!” he stormed; so he took hold of the heels of Dietrich’s snow shoes, and putting his tail round Hans’ waist, for every step they took he pulled them back three; so they went backwards towards his cave.

Now Hans wore spectacles, and he saw what the devil was doing, reflected in them. He told Dietrich, in Latin, what went on, and the devil, being very ignorant did not understand. So they figured out by geometry that if they turned round and walked the other way they would get shelter even sooner than before.

They carried out this plan so scientifically that the devil, being also very unperceptive, did not find out how they were fooling him, until he saw the farmhouse lights. Then, being very much frightened he let go of the students and fled shrieking and howling up the mountain. That was the last they ever saw of him—which they did not regret.

When the students went back to the university, they triumphantly gave the pine-boughs to the professor.

Goodness knows how the young person who wrote that story got it into her head that one is justified in tricking even the good old-fashioned Nick with his horns and hoofs, for any purpose whatever. Myself I disclaim any responsibility for the morality involved. But this I will say that if trickery and “lying low” of any kind is ever justified, or (I may rather say) not much noticed by the recording angel, it must be when they are brought to bear on the very Evil Spirit which grudges to any race the attainment of more knowledge and a higher civilization than that to which their ancestors, near or remote had arrived.

KELT-NOR.

HIS LESSON IN ARITHMETIC.

(By Carolyn Schlesinger.)

Orville Wright, the flying machine man, told a reporter this story:

“A little boy bustled into a grocery one day with a memorandum in his hand.

“‘Hello, Mr. Smith,’ he said, ‘I want 13 pounds of coffee at 32 cents.’

“‘Very good,’ said the grocer, and he noted down the sale, and set his clerk to packing the coffee. ‘Anything else, Charlie?’

“‘Yes, 27 pounds of sugar at 9 cents.’

“‘The loaf, eh? And what else?’

“‘Seven and a half pounds of bacon at 20 cents.’

“‘That’s the Arrow brand. Go on.’

“‘Five pounds of tea at 90 cents, 11½ quarts of molasses at 8 cents a pint, two eight-pound hams at 21¼ cents and five dozen jars of pickled walnuts at 24 cents a jar.’