The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. LXXXVIII, No. 9, June 1923)

As I sat wondering why he let me see This grief or shame which smote him to the core, He slowly fluttered, took the wine from me, Poured twice and drank; then filled his glass once more, Smiled wistfully, and, raising up his head, Told me that it was nothing I had said.

MORRIS TYLER.

_Three Fables_

I.

I heard not long since the tale of a weary knight and his crippled horse. It had come about, after days of long travel in search of a lost princess, that the poor steed had worn away his shoes. Indeed, every step now left a clot of blood in the dust of the highway. The knight, realizing the suffering of his companion, dismounted and walked by his side, vainly seeking for a smith. Finally, one night when both knew his strength must be spent before the dawn, there gleamed a light in the distance. With words of encouragement the knight urged the horse on to a last effort. And his prayers were realized, for the light proved to be that of a forge blazing against the darkness. In the doorway sat the smith, drinking ale. When he saw the knight and his horse, he burst out laughing.

“Well, this is a prize,” he cried.

The knight smiled. “You’re a great prize to us,” he answered, “for this poor animal has plodded on through many days in great pain. Forge him the best shoes you know how to.”

At this the smith laughed all the louder. “I’d have you know, Sir Knight,” he replied, “that I am Martin Barrow, the greatest smith who ever blew a forge in all England!”

“So much the better,” answered the other, for he had heard of Martin Barrow. And, looking more carefully around, he saw that this was no ordinary forge. Such huge bellows must for certain hold a whirlwind; the anvil showed not a dent; and four hammers lay against the wall too heavy, he thought, to be wielded by any man. “I beg you to proceed with your business, Martin Barrow,” he went on, “for my horse needs help at once.”

“Not I,” laughed the smith scornfully. “I have forged the greatest swords that ever flashed in the sun. Mine are the horses’ shoes which have fought through many a battle. Now is my rest. I do no more!”

“But this forge,” cried the knight, “this anvil, these hammers—”

“For the pleasure of the many travellers who come to look on the forge of Martin Barrow!” So saying, the smith gulped down the last of his ale and turned away.

The knight flushed with anger, but he made no answer. Silently he took the bridle of his horse and the two pushed out again into the night. Neither had thought he could go further, but strength of the spirit is a strange thing. Such courage is never without its reward, and they had not gone far when there shone a faint glimmer by the roadside. The light seemed too small at first to be that of a forge, but as they came nearer the slow striking of a hammer echoed through the dark. Reaching the doorway, the knight saw an old man pounding away at his anvil.

“Good sir,” he said, as the smith paused in his work, “we have come far, and my horse is in great pain. Will you please shoe him with the best shoes you can forge?”

“That I will, Sir Knight,” he replied, and quickly set about his work. As he did so, the knight looked about him: he noticed the small little fire, the chipped anvil, and one poor hammer. And the smith was a bent old man—one who should long since have been awaiting in rest the near approach of death. He thought of Martin Barrow—his shining forge, and his glass of ale.

Soon the horse was shod, and the knight offered the smith some silver coins, all but one of which he refused.

“Great thanks to you,” said the knight. “I have yet to meet as fine and generous a smith. May I ask what name men call you by?”

“I have no Christian name,” he answered, “but men call me the _bad smith_.” And, looking down, the knight saw that the shoes were roughly forged and poorly set in place.

“Well, _bad smith_,” he replied, “you’ve done us both a great service—and that, after all, is doing any task well.” And turning from the doorway, the knight and his horse pushed out into the darkness again to continue their quest. And although I never heard whether or not they found the lost princess, I know they had found in the person of the _bad smith_ something ten times more valuable.

II.

By the rocky shore of a vast sea there once lived an old philosopher. As long as men could remember, there he had dwelt in a stone castle built far above upon a high cliff. Huge rocks for many miles out prevented all approach to the shore by water. Once in a while a boat might be seen on the distant horizon, but never had one ventured nearer. Back from the coast stretched a dense forest inhabited not only by wildest monsters, but also by demons and strange spells—though I am at a loss to imagine how any man could have returned from such an Erebus to report his tale. However that may be, the only access to the castle lay by a narrow, dangerous path up the very side of the steep cliff.

One might suppose that the old philosopher, so fortified against the world, had as many hours to sit alone and think as his heart could desire. But it was not so. The little path up the cliff had been worn away by the feet of thousands of pilgrims—and that at the risk of their lives. Even the death of four men in one year failed to diminish the ever increasing number. The sand for miles along the shore had been pounded into a hard, even road. The sun never rose that it did not light the path to some figures plodding up the cliff. It never slipped to the west but it touched the faces of those returning to their far-off cities—a fearful tale upon their lips and wonder in their eyes. For the old philosopher was accredited the wisest man in the world—nay, even the wisest man who had ever walked upon the earth. There was no secret of the universe which he had not fathomed. You might ask him what question you would, and its darkest mystery would be at once revealed. What lay beyond the sea which stretched from the foot of the cliff endlessly away no man but he might say. For like his castle and the far horizon, Life and Death were playthings to his genius. Exactly what he told his pilgrims I know not. But it shall never be forgotten how king and peasant alike went away marveling at the miracle they had witnessed, though their hearts, if they knew it not, were no closer to the secret they sought.

There was only one other human who dwelt in the great castle with the philosopher. This was Endelhan, an old servant who had lived with his master ever since the time—if there were such a time—when a whole day passed without a knock at the stone gate. It was Endelhan who patiently waited upon the other, caring for his slightest comforts. It was Endelhan who met each pilgrim at the gate and led him quietly into his master’s presence. There he would sit upon a stool close by, silently listening, gravely staring upon scholar and fool. Little did he understand the wisdom that he heard; the philosopher’s words to him were meaningless. That he was a very great man Endelhan realized, but his mute affection was born mainly of their long years in close contact together. Sometimes a whole day would pass with no more than a few words between them. To the philosopher Endelhan was a good servant—of low intelligence, to be sure, but careful and satisfactory. To Endelhan his master was a feeble old man whose care and comfort it was his duty to serve.

One dark night they say a boat came in on the tide and slipped away again before the dawn. The next day the pilgrims found the gate barred and their calls unanswered. Slowly the word passed from land to land that the old philosopher had uttered his last prophecy. And the dangerous little path which so many had perilously climbed was gradually overgrown, until to-day the castle stands upon the cliff inaccessible to all chance travellers.

One thing more may be added. When you, too, have slipped out with the tide and sailed that sea, you will stand on some far shore before the Master and that “goodly companie”. Surprising to say, you will find that the old philosopher is not there. Asking patiently, you will meet one or two who remember such a one—“wise in his own conceits”. That was long ago; he has passed on. But lo! At the feet of the Master with silent lips and eyes upon all who come sits Endelhan—faithful servant.

III.

Prince Toldath stood before the King:

“Most gracious Majesty, I have come a long way from my golden kingdom on the Northern Shore. Through storms terrible even in imagination, over mountain-passes ventured never yet by bravest men, across the length of a desert which holds the bones of many of your gallant people have I travelled. Yet the prize I seek is worth a whole life spent in such journeys. My slaves lay before you a treasure which the gods themselves might dream of: those silks have come from far Cathay; Earth gave up her fairest secrets in revealing those priceless gems. Yet such a treasure is small indeed compared to that I now would ask of you. Most mighty King, my father is an old man, and it will not be long before his wide and rich domains are mine. As you very likely have been told, I am accredited one of the best swordsmen in our part of the world. And my distant travels have brought me a good measure of knowledge and wisdom. O great King, the prize I seek—my deepest and everlasting desire—is the hand of your only daughter!”

A hush was upon the court. All stared at this handsome prince who had come so far in quest of their fair princess. Here, indeed, was a suitor worthy at last. Brave and daring, he would succeed where so many before him had failed. Hilnardees for once should taste defeat. Slowly the King made answer—in the words he had addressed to numberless suitors in the past.

“Prince Toldath, we thank you for these lavish gifts which you have bestowed upon us. And we acknowledge the honor you pay us in asking for the hand of our only daughter. That your request may be granted depends upon one thing alone, and that simple enough. Listen with care: You shall travel eastward seven days, crossing the desert and plunging into a dense forest. At night you shall rest—except for the seventh night, when you shall push on after the fall of the sun. About the twelfth hour you will come to a narrow, rapid stream. The name of this river is Hilnardees, which means in our language ‘many-visioned’. On the west bank you will find a small boat. Push out into the darkness, and without effort you will be swept downstream with the current. It will not be far before you come to a place where the river branches into three parts. In the dark you will not know; the current will choose which one you shall follow. And each of these three streams in turn branches into three more. Each of those does the same, and so on indefinitely. Somewhere Hilnardees empties into the Sea—no man knows where nor in how many places. Before that, however, your boat will come to rest on the bank of one of the many branches. There you shall see a vision of your own life—a living symbol of what you yourself are. For Hilnardees is a blessed river, and the hand of the gods is upon it. Many who have pushed out in the current have never returned again to their homes, although rumors of their existence in other parts of the world have later been reported. Such has been the fate of most who have sought the hand of my daughter. Those who have come back have told of strange and fitful sights. Go, Prince Toldath, if your desire is as great as it was, and return to me, paddling slowly upstream and crossing the forest and desert as before. May your vision prove worthy of my daughter’s hand.”

Prince Toldath smilingly bowed to the King. Here surely was no difficult task, and the whole was likely enough a foolish legend. If there were any truth in it, he need not doubt of a successful pilgrimage. If not, he might invent all manner of splendid “visions” on his way back. Thus, on the following morning he confidently set forth.

All happened as the King had foretold. At midnight of the seventh day he came upon Hilnardees, river of many visions. By the bank he found a small boat in which he pushed out into the dark. Whether he was exhausted from his travel or the river cast some strange spell upon him I know not—nor did he. Many hours passed in dreams of his princess before he was finally awakened by the sudden jolt of the boat as it struck the sandy beach below the bank of the river. It was broad daylight and the sun was high in the heavens. Before him rose a flight of marble steps. Slowly realizing that he must have come to the end of his journey, he pulled his boat upon the shore and mounted the steps. It was a glorious sight that lay before him. Never in all his far travels had he seen such shining beauty. Babylon in all its splendor could not have been like this. Rushing through the open gates—completely forgetful of the purport of his journey, the Prince found himself within a marble city. With awed wonderment he walked through one street after another. At every turn the beauty of architecture and sculpture surpassed the dreams of the wildest poet. Towers and turrets on all sides sparkled in the sunlight. His unheeded steps led him shortly to a wide square at the center, where a fountain murmured as it played into a round pool. Then it was that suddenly the Prince realized that the fountain was the only sound he heard. The streets were empty. In his transfixed wonder he had not noticed the deep silence which was upon the city. Not even the cry of a bird was in the air. With ominous forebodings he entered one of the largest buildings—surely the palace of the king. The great door swung slowly open. Within was a grandeur and beauty akin to the exterior. No court in the world was the equal of this. Through room after room he marveled at the lavishness of paintings, and furniture, and ornament. Strangest of all, it seemed as though the palace had been built but yesterday. Time had left no touch upon it. So with the entire city. All was polished and shining—an ordered perfection.

Then fear seized upon the Prince. Wildly he dashed from the palace and shrieked aloud in the square. Only the taunting echo of his voice laughed back on all sides. Then the deep silence again. Turning, through one building after another he desperately, madly searched—only to find the same splendor, the same perfection. Finally, wearied, he sat by the edge of the fountain—the lone bit of life in the whole city. Gazing into the bright pool, he quickly laughed. Why, this was just a vision—a vision of himself! Of course! Now he understood! This beauty—this shining glory was his—_his!_ Could any prince ask more? With a wild thrill of exultation, he ran through the gates down to the river, and leapt into his boat.

Ten days later Prince Toldath stood once more before the King. Dressed in his finest raiment, he smiled with easy confidence upon the assembled court. Indeed, the great hall was crowded to the full, for rumor had spread that Prince Toldath had seen a vision glorious enough to receive the hand of any princess.

“Prince Toldath,” said the King, “you have come back to our palace, having carried out in detail what directions we gave you?”

“I have, your Majesty.”

“Prince Toldath, when the current swept your boat upon the bank of one of the many branches of Hilnardees, what vision lay before you?”

“Most mighty King,” cried the Prince, “I saw there a city of marble flashing in the sun—a city more beautiful than any other in all the world. As you know, I have travelled through many lands. Never before have I walked in such awe and wonderment. To describe the glory of the sparkling sunlight on the towers and turrets one would need a divine language. Yet more surprising, Time had not come into those streets, for all was as if it had been built yesterday—perfect to the last detail.”

“And what manner of people did you meet with?” asked the King.

“There were no people, your Majesty. A deep silence lay over all. But if this be a vision of me—as I may scarcely believe, so rich was its glory—then my princess and I shall bring life and breath into the square, and the palace, and the temple. Great King, I await your decision.”

As deep a silence was upon the court as ever that of the marble city. The King—who was, as you have perceived, a very wise man—looked down at the Prince. For many seconds he did not speak. Then he said very quietly:

“Have you never heard, Prince Toldath, that the life of a city is its soul?”

* * * * *

Some say the Prince married a rich countess in his own kingdom on the Northern Shore and reigned happily many years. While others believe a strange tale, saying that he drowned himself in the waters of Hilnardees, river of many visions.

WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR.

_Sonnet_

Come, Death, be imminent while I carouse To thee; press close against thy meagre lips This brimming cup, in which my whole soul dips Its daily ecstasy. Old loves, fierce vows, All I lift up to thee. I will forget, To see thy merriment, two merry eyes And a voice’s laughter. I will grow so wise That there will be no leisure for regret.

Sweet Death, so swiftly was thy captive taken He never knew—and now the Spring is here. How he would smile to see the young leaves shaken Whisperingly. He held the Summer dear....

Thou cursed Death, he was my very heart! Set down the cup, I cannot play the part.

FRANK D. ASHBURN.

_Song Before Dawn_

I.

What troubles you, my little one? The dawn is far away. Why should you struggle to be free When mother folds you tenderly Until the day? O sleep for now, my little one— The dawn is far away.

II.

You cannot rest, my precious one? The dawn is yet to be. A dream or two and day shall bring The fleeting sunlight beckoning From sea to sea. O trust in mother, precious one— The dawn is yet to be.

III.

How peaceful now you dream, my own— The dawn is still afar. O would that I might shelter you Through all the day to guard anew At even star! O hush! Be brave, my frail heart— The dawn is still afar!

WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR.

To ——

Moist stars that glimmer on a midnight pool, Those are your eyes. They seem to baffle Fate In sheer serenity, as thought they wait For things we dream not of, as though the spool Of destiny turned slowly to a rule Well known by them, as though mere love and hate Were far below their grand all-seeing state Of unimpassioned wisdom, clear and cool.

Yet in full tragic curves those lips betray Unsatiated sadness: dost foresee, Perchance, an aged couple by the fire, Love dead, and beauty turned to common clay? Nay, we have song! Age brings no fears to me: Time cannot stem the magic of the lyre!

ARTHUR MILLIKEN.

_Stanza_

To-morrow all the halo will be sped; I will love you to-morrow truly. To-night you are too beautiful to love: Oh, raise your head And let the moonlight we were speaking of Light up your tresses where they fall unruly Along your throat, and on your shoulder—so! God! where the breathing-shadows come and go, Just for to-night you have been visited By more of eternity than you can know.

D. G. CARTER.

_Sonnet_

Many a man has found his lady fair, Comparing her to flowers that blow in May. Unskilled, unworthy as I am, I dare Not set to paper words my heart would say. I shall not liken thee to moon nor starlight, Nor set thy vivid radiance by the sun, Nor conjure thee by dusk or dawning farlight, Nor name thy myriad virtues one by one. Such singing never lay within my power; I cannot call thee dear names others call. Only in memory from hour to hour I weave the loveliness thou lettest fall Unheeded, gathering up the twisted strands Of a tired heart, made silken in thy hands.