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Title: Sanctuary - A Bird Masque
Author: MacKaye, Percy
Language: English
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SANCTUARY
A BIRD MASQUE
“_Herkneth these blisful briddes how they singe;
Ful is mine herte of revel and solas!_”
CHAUCER
[Illustration:
ORNIS
(_Miss Eleanor Wilson_)
]
SANCTUARY
_A Bird Masque_
BY
PERCY MACKAYE
_With a Prelude by_
ARVIA MACKAYE
_Illustrated with Photographs in Color and Monotone by_
ARNOLD GENTHE
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright, 1913, 1914, by_
PERCY MACKAYE
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration: _February, 1914_]
THE·PLIMPTON·PRESS
NORWOOD·MASS·U·S·A
TO
ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
‘WILD NATURE’S HUMAN SYMPATHIZER’
IN ADMIRATION OF HIS DAUNTLESS
SERVICE TO THE BIRDS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
NOTE
REGARDING PERFORMANCE AND PUBLIC READING
_Requests for permission to perform or read publicly this Bird
Masque having been received from a great many quarters, the
following information is here given for those desiring such
permission:_
_The Masque is copyrighted in the United States and countries of the
Copyright Union, and all rights are reserved._
_The purpose of the Masque is to be of public use, so that all
adequate presentations of it are welcome. To this end the special
conditions of performance or public reading should in each case be
communicated direct to the author, in care of the publisher._
_No performances may be given without such direct communication, and
permission thus first obtained._
_As the publication of this text is designed to serve the definite
cause for which it was written, performances must be, in some
degree at least, for the benefit of Wild Bird Conservation._
_Music for the lyrics “The Hermit Thrush” and the three songs of
Quercus has been composed by Frederick S. Converse, and is
published by the H. W. Gray Company, 2 West 45th Street, New
York._
_A bird bath, specially designed for use in bird sanctuaries and
gardens, with plastic groupings of characters in the original cast
of this Masque, has been executed by Mrs. Louis Saint-Gaudens,
Cornish, New Hampshire, post office Windsor, Vermont._
_The four photographs in color, as well as those in black and white,
which illustrate this volume were taken by Dr. Arnold Genthe of
enactors in the Masque, as first performed by members of the
Cornish Colony and the Meriden Bird Club at Meriden, New
Hampshire, September 12, 1913._
FOREWORD
This Masque was written for the dedication of the bird sanctuary of the
Meriden Bird Club of Meriden, New Hampshire, where it was first
performed on the night of September twelfth, 1913. The text was
composed, the lyrics set to music, the masque rehearsed, costumed and
acted, within the brief space of a month. Its production came about by a
spontaneous and glad cooperation of artists, neighbors, lovers of
nature, imbued with a deep feeling in common—concern for the welfare of
wild birds. In this important concern its enactors were happily
encouraged by the sympathetic presence of the President of the United
States and the participation of his family.
Swift and spontaneous as its production was, however, the masque in its
reasons for being was not unpremeditated. It took its origin from two
important sources, rarely, if ever, associated—nature study, and the art
of the theatre.
The union of these was its _raison d’etre_.
However tentative its realization, it stands none the less as a
pioneering suggestion of real moment to those two potent influences upon
our national life. As such it has seemed worth while to present to the
public, and to make clear the suggestion which it illustrates, however
sketchily.
From a recent volume by the writer on “The Civic Theatre, in Relation to
the Redemption of Leisure,” I quote the following paragraphs upon
“Nature Symbols,” as they apply directly to this subject:
“The relation of the theatre’s art to the naturalist’s vocation is
probably not obvious to the man on the street. That is because the
commercial theatre relates itself to so few of the pursuits of science
outside of Broadway interests. The civic theatre would do otherwise.
“Aristophanes symbolized the birds for the purposes of Greek satire. The
costuming of his play in Athens probably expressed no direct attribution
to the science of ornithology. Yet its attribution to the Greek race’s
intimate love of Nature was as spontaneous as the symbolizing of flowers
in the capitals of their temple columns. The movement to-day for the
conservation of our birds and their more intimate study might well take
on significant, lovely forms of symbolic expression in pageants,
festivals and the drama of the civic theatre.
“By the same art, the fascinating designs, embossings, colorings, of
insect forms could be symbolized in spectacles of astonishing beauty,
motivated dramatically to the real and tremendous human relation which
that ignored but pestiferous race bears to human society and the state;
as witness the movement, involving millions in taxes, for exterminating
the gypsy moth and the boll weevil.
“Such implications for art may seem, at first, a far cry from actual
possibilities of the theatre; yet thus may the civic theatre directly
relate its activities not only to the enthusiasms of naturalists in the
fields and woods, but to the inspiring studies of scholars in their
laboratories: a cooperation which may soon stultify the popular notion
that art and science are divorced in their special aims. The same
relation of the theatre’s symbolic art to all the sciences—the
discoveries of chemistry, the splendid imaginings of engineering—is
implied in their common aim: the bringing of greater joy, beauty,
understanding, to our fellow men and women, the people.
“Science represents idea, art its expression; theatrical art its
expression in forms best adapted to convened numbers of the people. The
forms of popular art, therefore, are limited only by the ideas of man.”
It is thus as an illustration of one of the multiform _genres_ of the
civic theatre’s potential art that this little masque has its main
significance.
Before the actual establishment of the Civic Theatre among us, the
opportunities of the working dramatist to make tangible contributions by
his art to its repertory are, of course, very scant and at best groping
and experimental. One such as the present may serve, however, to suggest
certain immediate, practical possibilities.
If, for instance, every bird sanctuary were to possess its stage and
auditorium for bird masques—if every Natural History Museum had its
outdoor theatre, equipped to set forth the multitudinous human meanings
of its nature exhibits to the crowds that frequent its doors in their
hours of leisure—if the directors of every Zoölogical Park were to
provide for it a scenic arena, and seek the civic cooperation of the
dramatic poet and theatrical expert, to vivify by their art the
tremendous life stories of wild nature to the receptive minds of the
human thousands convened to listen and behold—by such means, would not
the disciples of nature study not simply adopt for their own ends a
means of education and publicity a thousandfold more dynamic,
imaginative and popular than any of the static means of exhibits,
lectures and published volumes on which they now rely: would they not
also thereby splendidly assist in enlarging the civic scope of the
theatre’s art, still cramped, as for generations, within the walls of
speculation and commercialism?
These suggestions speak for themselves.
If this Bird Masque shall help, in the slightest degree, to illustrate
them, it will do its ephemeral service in the only permanent sanctuary
of men as of birds—imagination.
PERCY MACKAYE.
CORNISH, NEW HAMPSHIRE,
October, 1913.
PERSONS OF THE MASQUE[1]
_in the order of their appearance_
QUERCUS, _faun_
ALWYN, _poet_
SHY, _naturalist_
TACITA, _dryad_
ORNIS, _bird spirit_
STARK, _plume hunter_
PARTICIPANTS IN PANTOMIME
_Hunter Attendants of Stark_
_Many species of birds—in human form, garbed symbolically_
SCENE
_The sylvan glade of a bird sanctuary._
Footnote 1:
The complete programme of the original production of the masque, as
first enacted at Meriden, New Hampshire, by members of the Cornish
Colony and the Meriden Bird Club, is printed in the AFTERWORD of this
volume.
THE PRELUDE
[Illustration:
THE LITTLE GIRL FALLS INTO REVERIE
]
THE PRELUDE
_Wandering in the quiet of the bird sanctuary, a little girl hears the
voice of a hermit thrush, and meditates this song_:
THE SONG
While walking through a lonely wood
I heard a lovely voice:
A voice so fresh and true and good
It made my heart rejoice.
It sounded like a Sunday bell
Rung softly in a town,
Or like a stream that in a dell
Forever trickles down.
It seemed to be a voice of love
That always had loved me,
So softly it rang out above,
So wild and wanderingly.
O Voice, were you a golden dove,
Or just a plain gray bird?
O Voice, you are my wandering love
Lost, yet forever heard.
_Passing on deeper into the wood, the little girl thinks dreamily of
all wild birds and the wrongs done to them by their human brothers
and sisters._
_Out of her reverie grows the Masque which follows._
THE MASQUE
[Illustration]
THE MASQUE
I
_Dawn._
_The woods are silent, save for bird pipings._
_In the background, verdure of young pines and ancient boles of oaks
form the dim-pillared entrance to a forest shrine._
_Artfully placed on tree trunk and bough are nest boxes of bark._
_On one side stands a low weathercock food-house; on the other, a tall
martin-house pole._
_In the shade of a great oak glimmers the shallow pool of a bird
bath._
_Peeping at this from behind the oak, appears, vanishes and appears
again the horned head of_ QUERCUS, _a faun_.
_Stealing forth_, QUERCUS _approaches the pool, bearing in one hand an
enormous pitcher plant_.
_Peering upward among the boughs, he raises his voice in quaint
falsetto, and sings._
QUERCUS
Veery, veery!—vireo!
Waxwing wild!—warbler wary!
Ori-ori-oriole!
Seek our sanctuary!
Robin rath,
Little tail-twitcher,
Drink from my pitcher,
Dip in my bath!
Dew’s in my bath,
Rain’s in my pitcher,
Dawn’s in the greenwood eerie:
Hither, highhole!
Redpoll!
Oriole!
Vireo!—veery!
[_From his pitcher plant_ QUERCUS _pours into the bird bath. Skipping
then to a little swinging bird-house, he sprinkles its shelf with
seed from a pouch. Here he pauses dreamily; furtively takes out and
fingers a pipe; blows a few notes, pauses, starts, puts it quickly
away, stoops his ear to the ground, springs away to the oak, and
snatches an ivied staff which stands against the trunk. The staff
is designed like a martin-house pole in miniature. Placing himself
on guard where a foot-path enters the glade, he calls_:]
Stand yonder! Hold! who treads beneath my trees?
A VOICE
[_Outside._]
A friend.
QUERCUS
A friend to what?
THE VOICE
To Song, and Song’s melodious silences.
QUERCUS
Still enter not.
The race of wings reigns in this solitude.
No foot may here intrude
Without fair passport. Tell me first your name
And cause of coming here.
II
QUERCUS. ALWYN.
[A YOUNG MAN _enters, pausing in the path_.]
THE MAN
From hence even now a piping filled mine ear
With quaintish memory: familiar,
Yet old, it seemed. Long since, I heard the same
Lulling to paleness the white morning star
Among Sicilian oaks. So here I came
To spy upon the piper. Now, methinks,
I know him, by those horns and merry winks.
—Good morrow, Quercus, the faun!
QUERCUS
Now, by Lord Pan!
The poet’s ear and eye still spy me out.—
Alwyn, maker of songs—hail to you, master!
You!—Can it really be?
ALWYN
It can,
And _is_—by Pan, our ancient pastor!
But you, slant shanks, what make _you_ here at dawn?
QUERCUS
Newfangleness! The classic gout
Still crooks my knees with the old lyric wine,
But now they run new errands.
[_Flourishing his staff._]
Lo, the sign
Of my new office!
ALWYN
New! What may that be?
QUERCUS
Wood warden of the wild birds’ sanctuary:
Janitor of their sylvan temple!—See,
My staff acclaims me. Poor Mercutius!
Old mythologic nature-faker,
He’s out of date with his caduceus.
Behold in me
A modern science-tutored fairy
And practical care-taker—
Grand marshal of the martin-house!
ALWYN
[_Pointing at_ QUERCUS’ _staff_.]
Of that?
QUERCUS
Nay, this, my bard, is but the breviat
And little pattern.
[_Pointing toward a tall martin-house pole._]
Yonder, you behold
The real palace. Through those portals
We lure the feathered broods to fold
Their wings above the world of thievish mortals.
ALWYN
_We_—say you? Who are _we_?
QUERCUS
Myself and my lord master.
ALWYN
And what’s he?
QUERCUS
Nay, if I knew, I should be wiser.
He is the fellow of all friendless things,
Wild nature’s human sympathizer:
In form a man, yet footed so with silence
The deer mistake him for their brother; so
Swift that, meseems, he borrows the birds’ wings;
An eye, that glows and twinks
Through noon like twilight’s vesper star; an ear
That harks a mile hence
The purring of a lynx!
I love him, follow, obey him, yet I know
Naught of him—but his love.
ALWYN
Not even his name?
QUERCUS
Yea, what men call him by;
And he is like the same.
Men call him Master Shy.
ALWYN
Ah, Shy, the naturalist.
Why, he is my good crony. If he wist
To rhyme he’d be a better bard than I.
How do you serve him?
QUERCUS
I’m crew to his Jason!
I multiply myself for rare adventures,
And serve his Ship of Birds as carpenter,
Box-joiner, bath-cementer, mason,
Seed-storer, water-carrier,
Worm-steward, nest-ward, treehouse thatcher,
Man-chaser and mouse-catcher.
ALWYN
Nay, do you please in all?
QUERCUS
I carry to his call,
And never yet have earned his censures
For botch or shirk.
ALWYN
I prithee show me of your handiwork.
What’s here—this little box
With paddle wings?
QUERCUS
One of our weather-cocks.
Look you, it swings:
So when, in winter, the white tempest blows,
Here sit the birds at breakfast ’mid the snows,
With porch turned ever to the cosy side.
In that cold time, my master Shy
Brings more devices to provide
Bird-comfort: Food-bells full of millet
We place in covert nooks, and tie
Our knitted suet bags on many a bough
Of pine and larch. And I must plough
Through many a drift, to crack the frozen rillet
For little beaks to drink.
ALWYN
By Phœbus, now
Is this in sooth mine old Sicilian faun,
That wont of yore to dally
On violet-scented lawn
With lily-crownéd nymphs in lovelorn valley!
What modern change is here? What magic—
QUERCUS
Hush!
[_With lowered voice, he looks around warily._]
I am not always quite so modern!
At times—at times—as when just now
You heard me pipe below this bough—
I slip my master’s traces,
And slink by paths untrodden
To lovelorn, lush
Arcadian places,
Where Philomel still lingers,
Plaining her ancient pity,
And there I fetch forth this
With idling fingers,
And, pouting on its lip my kiss,
I pipe some dulcet, old, bucolic ditty.
[_Taking out his pipe, he plays again a few languorous strains, but
breaks off abruptly._]
Whist! Here he comes.—It grates upon his ear.
[Illustration:
“IS THIS IN SOOTH MINE OLD SICILIAN FAUN?”
]
III
SHY. QUERCUS. ALWYN.
SHY
[_Enters, carrying a nest-box._]
A hermit thrush is pleasanter to hear.
[_He greets_ ALWYN.]
Good morning, friend! How comes it _you_ are caught
Walking so early? Poets, I had thought,
Salute the sunrise only in their song.
ALWYN
[_Smiling._]
Fie, then! You do us wrong:
We rhyming slugabeds
Walk with Aurora at our pillows’ heads,
For dreamers can see dawn rise in the dark.
Poets are owls that elegize the lark.
SHY
And now you’ll talk to me of nightingales!
Three birds exhaust your bard’s vocabulary:
Larks, nightingales and owls! High time, you see,
To wean this fellow from your piper’s tales,
And teach him craftily
To build our hungry birds a homelike sanctuary.
ALWYN
[_Patting_ QUERCUS’ _shoulder_.]
Good Shy, no schooling could so much relieve
My modern apprehensions: Tutor him,
Hoof, head and limb,
And let me humbly hearken. By your leave,
God shall provide the dawn,
And you the tutelage, and I—the faun.
QUERCUS
Waiting, my masters!
ALWYN
Give your pipe to me!
QUERCUS
[_Holding it behind him._]
Must I give up my pipe? The sound is sweet.
ALWYN
Truth is more sweet than melody,
And wisdom than melodious words.
When you have learned to greet
With their own mystic speech all living birds
And minister to their necessity,
This pipe shall be restored, and we will make
Together a new song, more sweet for knowledge’ sake.
[_In pantomime, he demands and receives the pipe from_ QUERCUS. SHY
_then addresses_ QUERCUS.]
SHY
This nest-box: Nail it on the barest bough
Of that tall maple. Place it well,
Like yonder one.
QUERCUS
Right, master. Now!
SHY
Soft, soft! Not so pell-mell!
You’ll scare that nuthatch at her nesting.
First tell me of your other questing—
Those errands which I sent you yesterday.
QUERCUS
That cowbird, master,—
SHY
Did she lay
Her egg?
QUERCUS
Indeed she did, the pest!
She laid it in a redstart’s nest;
But up I poked my nose in, nabbed it
And cracked it cursory:
Good Mama Redstart now can hatch her nursery
Without a big stepchild to smother her chicks.
SHY
Old Deacon Rathburne’s tom-cat, is he—dead?
QUERCUS
What, Tom, that dabbled in gore the wee goldfinches?
[_He nods shrewdly._]
Wild huckleberries are growing at his head!
That almost got _you_ in the fix:
Old Deacon saw me do it, blabbed it,
And Missus sicked her dachshund at my heels.
[_Grinning._]
Eh, master, it’s _your_ shoe that pinches!
SHY
When cats invade bird-temples, boy, it feels
Good to be wicked.
But tell me of our forest planting ground:
What shrubs and creepers have you found
And marked, to make our shelter thicket?
QUERCUS
Why, sir, to give it
Birdblithesomeness, I’ve chose
Shad bush, blue cornel, withe rod, privet,
Red osier, raspberry, wild rose,
Black haw, and dangleberry.
SHY
A proper list!
What trees—deciduous?
QUERCUS
Box-elder and bird cherry,
White ash, gray birch and cockspur thorn.
ALWYN
What make you thus?
Some sylvan pound, to stalk an unicorn?
SHY
Good poet, whist!
No more mythology.
Your faun is learning better. Truce!
ALWYN
Most humbly, my apology!
SHY
So, Quercus: and what evergreens?
QUERCUS
White spruce,
Red cedar, balsam fir, and Norway pine.
SHY
Good, fellow! Fine!
In such a shelter-tangle we can hatch
Ten thousand nestlings. Run, now! Catch
That squirrel there, before
He makes his call at your new nest-box door.
QUERCUS
[_Skipping to the maple tree._]
Right, master!—Heigh, Sir Alwyn—ho!
Just see now what a jack-o’-trades your Quercus is!
When Master Shy discharges me, I’ll go
And rent nine fairy-rings, and start three circuses!
[_Climbing among the branches, he disappears, whistling bird-notes._]
[Illustration:
ALWYN
]
IV
ALWYN. SHY.
ALWYN
Shy—honest friend, your hand once more!
SHY
Heartily! Welcome to this wood.
ALWYN
Do you recall how once we stood
Here, and discoursed of songs I made of yore—
Dryads and poet’s dreams?
SHY
Yes, I recall
I wondered at them all.
ALWYN
First—as to-day—you smiled
Your incredulity of my quaint creed,
Till soon, in further converse, we agreed
In nature’s heart our faiths are reconciled.
For both of us seek nature’s fellowship,
The common language of all living things:
I—more in music of the human lip,
You—in the whirr of beaks and wings.
So both—craving the beautiful—
Still worship the same shrine and oracle:
This temple, and its dryad—Tacita.
SHY
I will confess
Of all the nymphs in your Arcadia
I worship her
Alone.
ALWYN
Because her moods are numberless
I do the same. Between the heart of Man
And Nature’s heart, which I do name God Pan,
She stands and moves—divine interpreter,
Translating with her shy and pagan dances
Our world life and its trances.
SHY
She is, in truth,
The sylvan priestess of this sanctuary.
ALWYN
[_Eagerly._]
What if, through her as intermediary,
And after thousand ages of uncouth
Estrangement,—what, I say, if we
Might find through her the key
To comprehend the native speech of birds,
And hold communion with them in our human words!
Would not that be a modern consummation
Nobler than fable?
SHY
Almost, I would have said, we might be able,
If it were not for one who scorns this shrine
And violates the beauty of creation,
Marring all contemplative quietude.
ALWYN
Whom do you speak of?
SHY
One whom the red wine
Of slaughter has made drunk, and the false glister
Of dollars dazzled with blind arrogance.
Close by this wood
He plies a bold, sinister
Traffic in wings and plumage. Not by chance
But calculated orgies, he commits
His venal murders, slits
The bridal plumes from backs of mating birds,
And leaves the nested broods
Unhatched or starveling. So he girds
His loins, and like the Patagonian
Displays his feathered trophies: not a man
Swayed by ecstatic moods,
Nor even to equip
A hardy sportsmanship;
Not so: he slaughters birds for stocks and bonds,
And when we challenge, smiling he responds:
“Mine is a lawful market, where fine ladies pay
For plumes, to wear on Sabbaths and Christ’s Easter day.”
ALWYN
What is this desecrator’s name?
SHY
Stark, the plume-hunter.
ALWYN
Surely he dares not
Track his defenseless game
Here to this hallowed spot!
SHY
No place is holy to unhallowed minds:
He covets gain, and grasps it where he finds.
ALWYN
Still I have faith
That Tacita, in her serenity,
Is mightier than he.
SHY
Ah, nature’s quiet mood is delicate
And crushes like a flower.
ALWYN
Faith without works is vain, the Prophet saith.
So now, while nature muses in the thrush,
Here let us sit this hour,
And meditate
On Tacita, till meditation shall create
Its own shy image.—Hush!
[_They sit upon a log and listen._]
V
TACITA. ALWYN. SHY.
[_Dreamily, the fluting of birds sounds in
the forest. Dimly from the background_
TACITA _appears. With steps of reverie,
she approaches, and pauses before
them_. ALWYN _looks up and, touching_
SHY’S _arm, speaks low_.]
Tacita! It is she!
SHY
Speak to her—you.
Alwyn
Dryad, and spirit of serenity,
Whose steps have fallen timeful as the dew
Upon our pathway, intervene
For us with that still-undiscovered queen—
Ornis, who reigns among your ancient boughs
Spirit of birds and sister of our race,
Man. Stir your spell-enchanted feet,
And by their moods arouse
Her hidden grace
To heed us, and hold speech from realms unseen.
[_To mysterious music_, TACITA _treads a dance of invocation,
appealing in pantomime to the unseen spirit of wings, which flits
and sings and broods in the boughs above her_. ALWYN _and_ SHY
_watch her, rapt and expectant_.
_Suddenly a sharp gun-shot sounds, shivering the music, which ceases.
Through the boughs, a bird falls fluttering to the earth._]
VI
ORNIS. ALWYN. SHY.
[_With a gesture of startled wildness_, TACITA _breaks abruptly from
her rhythmic motions, and flees into the wood, while simultaneously
from the other side there enters, swift but staggering_, ORNIS—_a
maiden, garbed symbolically as a bird. On one of her wing-like
sleeves blood shows. With shrill, melodious cry, she flutters
forward._]
ORNIS
Ee-ó-lee! O-rée-o! Sanctuary!
[_Swaying, she falls to the ground._ ALWYN _and_ SHY _spring toward
her_.]
ALWYN
Help, Shy! She falls!
SHY
[_At_ ORNIS’ _side_.]
Wing-struck! Here’s blood.
ALWYN
That shot?
SHY
The gun of Stark.
[_Seeking to lift her._]
Up, birdling! Here is Shy.
ORNIS
[_Droops, moaning._]
O-rée-o!
SHY
Quick! Bring Quercus.
ALWYN
[_Hastening off._]
In a jot.
SHY
[_Soothingly strokes_ ORNIS’ _arm and shoulder_.]
So—so! Dew water soon makes well. So—so!
ORNIS
[_Moans dazedly._]
Ir-re-o! P’tee!
QUERCUS
[_Reëntering with_ ALWYN.]
Here, master!
SHY
[_Pointing._]
Water!—There!
ALWYN
The bird bath!
QUERCUS
[_Dipping his plant pitcher, hastens with it to_ SHY.]
Coming!
SHY
Sprinkle.
QUERCUS
[_Sprinkling water upon_ ORNIS, _sings gaily_.]
Ó-ree-o!
When shawes ben sheen and shraddes full fair,
And leaves both large and long,
’Tis merry walking in the fair forést
To hear the small birds’ song!
[ORNIS _revives_.]
SHY
[_Assisting her._]
Now, gently!
ALWYN
[_Bending over her, calls low._]
Ornis!—Sister!
ORNIS
_Who_ calls? Where
Am I?
ALWYN
In sanctuary. Have no fear.
ORNIS
[_Looking from one to the other._]
Ah, me! But what are these?
SHY
Your brothers, dear.
ORNIS
My brothers—they are birds. But you are Man.
ALWYN
Through Tacita you know us now; we can
Speak to each other. Ornis!—Hark.
ORNIS
[_Rising in glad wonder._]
At last!—
At last!
ALWYN
A thousand ages—they are past,
And dumbness, like a dream,
Sinks with them into sleep. We are awake,
And each to each
Can bid good-morning in our common speech.
ORNIS
How sweet and strange! Are we indeed awaking
From callous slumber and old wrong?
So sorrowfully long
The hand of Man has wrought my birds’ heartbreaking!—
Was it a savage dream?
Methought I sat on Morning’s golden beam
And sang of God’s wild gladness: High and higher
I showered His temple woods with ecstasy;
When suddenly
The earth screamed thunder, and a singeing fire
Shattered my wing. I fell.—
Groping in flight, my feet stuck fast
In smear of lime; swift from below
A tangling net was cast
Where, panting upward, a black hell
Of bloody mouths barked under me;
And there beside them—oh,
There watched, with eyes of wanton cruelty,
A man—bright clothed in many-colored plumes
Of my dead sisters. “Save me from their dooms,”
I cried, “O Sanctuary!”
ALWYN
And you woke
With us, your brothers—healed.
ORNIS
[_With wonder._]
Oh, have you heard
What now I spoke?
And can we answer truly, word for word?
[_Curiously._]
Alwyn!
ALWYN
You know my name?
ORNIS
[_Turning eagerly from one to the other._]
Shy!
SHY
[_Smiling._]
No mistake!
ORNIS
Quercus!
QUERCUS
[_Skipping with a bow._]
Your birdship’s faun!
ORNIS
[_Laughing joyously._]
Good-morning, brothers!
ALWYN
When have you known us?
ORNIS
Many an age and long!
No syllable has bubbled in your song
But I have blown it first from yonder trees:
[_To_ SHY.]
No brooding-place of yours—but _I_ was in the breeze;
[_To_ QUERCUS.]
And ever to your whistle
I pipe the last note from the nearest thistle.
[TACITA _appears remotely_.]
O beautiful my brothers!
O dryad dear, I thank you! In your dawn,
How brave it is to speak with Man and Faun
As mates and fellows. Quick! Fetch me still others.
[_A crashing resounds in the thicket_. TACITA _disappears_.]
Who’s coming now?
SHY
Still others—our fellow man.
ORNIS
I hear a breaking bough.
ALWYN
Kind hearts and cruel are one clan.
ORNIS
Hark! Surely ’tis some strange distress.
Come, brothers, let us look:
It may be one who needs our friendliness.
Come with me!
ALWYN
[_Calling off scene._]
Stand there! Stay beyond the brook.
QUERCUS
[_With excited gestures._]
Back, ho!
ORNIS
[_Suddenly recoiling with a cry._]
Ah, save me!
[_She flies to their protection_. QUERCUS _also scampers back
fearfully, and hides_.]
VII
STARK. ORNIS. ALWYN. SHY.
[_Enter_ STARK, _in garb of a hunter. He
wears a tawny leopard’s skin, and his
head is gorgeously plumed. Behind
him, two panting dogs are held in leash
by attendants._ STARK _rushes toward_
ORNIS, _passes her oblivious, and seizes
up the fallen bird_.]
STARK
Bagged!—Hold off the dogs!
[_The_ ATTENDANTS _withdraw with the hounds_.]
ORNIS
[_As_ STARK _grasps the bird, clutches her own side in pain_.]
Ee-ó-lo!
STARK
A rare beauty!—Bah, one wing
Shot-torn! Well, well, we’ll patch the thing.
[Illustration:
“Sir—Here is _No Hunting_”
]
Madame La Mode’s a tricksy milliner.
[_He thrusts the bird into his game pouch. Turning to leave, he sees_
ALWYN _and_ SHY, _and greets them gaily_.]
Halloa! Fine hunting weather!
SHY
[_Quietly._]
Sir,
Here is _No Hunting_.
STARK
[_With a laugh._]
Pipe that to the frogs!
SHY
This ground is sanctuary.
STARK
And what’s that?
SHY
A place held sacred from the hunter’s trail.
STARK
Why, man, I am no hunter, and that’s flat.
I only plume myself—to trim a hat.
Besides, I shot outside your pale;
And now
[_Touching his pouch, he winks._]
the game is bagged.
SHY
You bag the spangle
And lose the spirit.—Sir, here is no place
To preach or wrangle
Our creeds. I am a student, not a teacher.
So I would only learn of you: what joy
Urges you to destroy
So gracious, fair
And innocent a fellow-creature
As yonder?
[_He points at_ ORNIS.]
STARK
[_Looking._]
Where?
ALWYN
Our sister, who stands there
And dumbly pleads for all her race—
And ours.
STARK
By Christ in Hades,
My eyes see nothing but a brace
Of popinjays, who pipe to me of ladies
And show me—no one.
ALWYN
Look more near.
Speak to him, Ornis!—Listen, now!
ORNIS
[_Drawing back in dread._]
O-rée-o!
STARK
I am listening.
ALWYN
Did you hear
No voice?
STARK
I heard a bird call from that bough.
QUERCUS
[_Peeping toward_ SHY _from the bushes_.]
Have at him, master!
SHY
[_To_ STARK.]
Did you spy
That fellow’s horns there, when he drew back
Into the bush?
STARK
I saw
A stirring in that staghorn sumach,
And caught a rabbit’s eye.—
What are these crazy quizzings? Pshaw!
Good day to you!
ALWYN
Stay yet!
Once more look yonder, where my comrade stands,
Turning to take the gentle, outreached hands
Of our shy sister: Can you see
No timid form beside him?
STARK
Perfectly
My eyes discern
A man, who peers within the morning mist,
And murmurs to the air,
And smiles, as if he held sweet converse there.
In short, I see a sentimentalist.
I am not of that ilk.
[_Calling_]—Ho, there!—Holá!
Wait with my dogs: I’m coming.
ALWYN
Stay, and learn
What we ourselves have only learned through quiet
Listening. So long, in rampant haste,
Your dizzy soul has chased
The spinning dollar sign which stars your zodiac,
That you have lost the track
Of paths serene, and pace God’s world in riot
Of blinding gold. Pause, for this little space!
Put off that blood-emblazed regalia
Gorgeous with death,
And draw with me one meditative breath
Here in the temple of cool Tacita.
STARK
[_Who has listened with half-amused curiosity._]
Ah—Tacita? And who may that be, friend?
ALWYN
One lovelier than you have yet set eyes on.
SHY
Go, Quercus: Pray our mistress to attend.
[QUERCUS _goes out_.]
STARK
Mistress! Is she a maid?—and lovely, too?
And may this wonder dawn on my horizon
If I remain?
ALWYN
Remain—to meditate!
STARK
Why, now, you stir my fancies.
In truth, ’tis early still, and little to do
This hour. Come, I will wait
And watch with you. But mind! The nymph must be
More lovely than my eyes did ever see!
ALWYN
With loveliness more deep than eyes discover.
STARK
So, ’tis a bargain, then?
ALWYN
Sit by me here;
And if your musings cause no fear,
You shall behold her in her secret dances.
STARK
By Hercules! I’m half prepared to love her!
[_He sits on the log beside_ ALWYN. ORNIS _still stands apart, under_
SHY’S _protection_. QUERCUS _enters, beckoning backward into the
wood_.]
[Illustration]
VIII
TACITA. ALWYN. ORNIS. STARK. (SHY. QUERCUS.)
ALWYN
Now, Tacita, shy pagan nymph, appear!
[TACITA _enters from her shrine of greenery, and pauses before them_.]
Spirit, unblind this man! Delusions blur
Inward his sight. He is a murderer,
Yet knows not he is such. Unseal
The fountains of his vision, and reveal
Yonder the sister spirit, whom so long
His blind heart strove to wrong—
Ornis: Reveal, and let him speak with her!
[_Soft music sounds, various and elusive in its rhythmic themes_.
TACITA _approaches_ STARK, _and weaves about him a dance of
revelation, lulling, charming, luring him by the appeal of
numberless wing-swayings and bird-dartings, for which the music
suggests the song-notes. During her dance_, STARK _rises,
bewildered, and is gradually lured and led by her toward_ ORNIS,
_before whom—at the consummation of the dance—he stands, staring_.]
STARK
[_Rising, speaks to the music._]
O twilight—holy dusk—dawn twitterings!
How far, how dim and hollow
You darkle over me:
Wings, wings! swift wings, shy wings, eternal wings!
Where shall I follow?
Ah, joy—jubilant melody—
And morning! Joy—I follow!
I dream, and drink from your immortal springs!
[TACITA _disappears_. STARK _beholds_ ORNIS.]
IX
STARK. ORNIS. (ALWYN. QUERCUS. SHY.)
STARK
What _are_ you?
ORNIS
[_Appealing with half-fearful affection._]
Brother!—brother!
STARK
[_With sudden cry and gesture._]
Ha, my net!
The shy bird shall be captured ’live!
[_From his shoulder he looses the net, and flings it over_ ORNIS,
_seizing the meshes_.]
Now, Joy,
I hold you fast!
ORNIS
[_Struggling._]
Ee-ó-lee-o!
SHY
[_Extricating her._]
Not yet!
ALWYN
[_Seizing_ STARK.]
Untamed, and still unshamed! Will you destroy
The wings that raise you? Sister, speak to him!
ORNIS
My brothers—all of you! Oh, wage not war
Because of me. I fear not. Stark, you dim
The brightness of our union, greeting so
Your sister.
STARK
[_Dropping his net._]
Sister?
ORNIS
Hunt no more
With lime and net: Your love shall hold me faster;
For I am Ornis.
STARK
[_Fascinated._]
Ornis!
ORNIS
Dear my master!
Do you not know me? I am she
Whom first, beneath the dark, ancestral tree,
You rose upon your feet to hearken to.
By me you grew
To song and freedom. Round your olden feasts
You watched my circling flights, whereby your priests
Proclaimed their omens and their oracles;
My cranes announced your victories, my storks
Fed your hearth-fires, my silver-throated gulls
And golden hawks
Saved many your sea-towns from sore pestilence;
And my sweet night bird tuned your poets’ shells
To lull sad lovers in languorous asphodels;
Yet all my influence
Shone dimmer than my beauty: my bright plumes
Lured you to squander them, till, in the fumes
Of greed, your heart forgot to cherish me,
And sold me unto death and slavery.—
Yet, master, as you will:
Lo, I am Ornis, and I love you still!
STARK
[_With altered tone of yearning._]
Yet—yet it seems I never heard your voice
Till now; nor ever understood
Till now; nor paused, as now in this still wood,
To tremble and rejoice
At greeting you, my sister. I am stunned,
And wait to comprehend this wonder.
ORNIS
Ah,
You never prayed before to Tacita!
Your feet have shunned
Her gracious paths, yet only she
Can lead and show my brother Man to me.
[Illustration:
“Lo, I am Ornis, and I love you still!”
]
STARK
[_Glancing at his gun._]
Why, then,—why have I brought this instrument
Of murder here? What black intent
Clouded my mind with blood?
[_Flinging it from him._]
Out of my hands!—My sister, can it be
That still you soar above my sanguine flood
Of passion, and forgive? Though yet I kill,
Oh, is it true indeed—you love me still?
ORNIS
Ha, put me to the test!
Show me the field that breeds your harvest pest
Of chinch or weevil,
Where all the blossoms wither with strange evil,
Or where, in filmy tents,
The hairy creepers gorge in regiments
Your budding apple boughs;
Show your ancestral elms
Gaunt limbed with leprosy, which overwhelms
Their green old age in death;
Or those swift locust clouds, whose breath
Blasts the ripe loveliness of Spring;
Show these, and more
Than these, and cry on _Ornis_! She shall bring—
From hill and shore
And plain—her wingèd flocks and warbling broods,
And swinge away their deadly multitudes.—
If _service_ be true love, I love you, brother.
ALWYN
[_Drawing near._]
And for her sake, so _we_ will love each other.
[_He takes_ STARK’S _right hand_.]
SHY
[_Taking his left._]
A greenwood partnership!
STARK
[_Pressing their hands._]
Thanks!
SHY
[_Whispering to the faun._]
Quercus, run!
QUERCUS
I skip,
I gambol, master. Ha!
I have a tale to tell to Tacita!
[_He leaps away._]
ORNIS
[_As_ STARK _tears off his headdress of plumes_.]
And those—?
STARK
For these my heart shall build a fire
Here at this shrine:
[_He hangs the headdress on a tree._]
And here, as on a pyre,
I place them, with this pouch, which hides
The victims of my blind desire.
There, at sad cost,
I let them tell my pain—the votive part
Of one long lost,
Who now has found himself in nature’s heart.—
Ornis, my trail divides:
There lie the ashes of the thing I was.
Henceforth, I walk with you—
[_Turning to_ ALWYN _and_ SHY.]
and these.
ALWYN
A compact, then, we three: that when we go
Forth from these gracious trees
Into the world, we go as witnesses
Before the men who make our country’s laws,
And by our witness show
In burning words
The meaning of these sylvan mysteries:
_Freedom and sanctuary for the birds!_
Say, is our compact sworn?
STARK
I swear.
SHY
And I.
[_Enter_ QUERCUS _and_ TACITA.]
X
TACITA. QUERCUS. STARK. ORNIS. SHY. ALWYN.
STARK
[_To_ ORNIS.]
Look, sister: friends are coming.
Now lead us to their shrine close by.
ORNIS
Oh, first let all make joy of this our union!
For now my glad heart, like a partridge drumming,
Calls for my mates to join us, all together,
In frolicsome communion.
Ho, Quercus, Quercus, call them!—Tacita,
Summon them with your fairy feet!
QUERCUS
[_Bounding forward._]
Holá!
ALWYN
[_Taking from his pouch_ QUERCUS’ _pipe_.]
Call loud and long!
Here’s our old pipe, to carry a new song.
[ALWYN _puts the pipe to his lips, while_ QUERCUS _sings to it,
calling to the birds. At the end_, QUERCUS _begs in pantomime for
the pipe which_ ALWYN, _smiling, restores to him_.]
QUERCUS
Come here, come here, you little comrades coy,
From hill and swamp and heather:
Make joy, make joy
Together!—
Tawny beak and scarlet vest,
Slant wing and sleek feather,
Bulging bill and cocking crest,
Hither!
Tumble out of nest,
Topple out of windy weather
Here, holá!
With preenings quaint,
Purple dyes and crimson paint,
Here, holá, in merry state!
Up from dew-grass, down from aerie,
Tacita—Tacita
Summons you to dedicate
Here her sanctuary!
[_While_ QUERCUS _calls, from all sides Birds of many species and
colors—like_ ORNIS _human in form—gather, and peer from the edges
of the scene. To these_ TACITA _now beckons, and by her gesture
summons to her dance, while_ QUERCUS _plays joyously on his pipe_.]
ORNIS
Bird and faun and man and fairy,
Gather now to sanctuary!
[TACITA _first dances alone, then with_ QUERCUS; _then, inviting and
leading them all in pied procession, she marshals all away into her
woodland shrine_.]
FINIS
AFTERWORD
In the original production of this masque, referred to in the
_Foreword_, the sanctuary stage was devised by MR. JOSEPH LINDON SMITH
in two planes—the natural and the supernatural, harmoniously blended.
The natural plane, in the foreground, was a leaf-strewn plot of earth;
the supernatural, in the background, was a constructed stage some
eighteen inches higher, sloping slightly upward toward the back, covered
with smooth canvas, practical for dancing, so painted as to suggest a
weathered outcropping of rock, overgrown in places by moss and
greensward.
This constructed stage was divided from the foreground earth by the
trunk of a felled maple tree, straight in line and inconspicuous in
color.
In front of this dividing line, SHY and ALWYN remained always in the
natural plane; behind it, ORNIS and TACITA remained always in the
supernatural. Their scenes together were enacted near or beside the
fallen tree trunk.
In the scene of his conversion, STARK was lured into the higher plane by
TACITA; while QUERCUS alone among the characters skipped back and forth
from one plane to the other.
As audience, the non-participating spectators sat in dominoes of brown,
flanked on either side by the bird-participants in their pied bird
costumes. These latter watched the performance until, at the _finale_,
they were summoned by QUERCUS upon the constructed stage.
There, when all had been marshalled, entered the CARDINAL BIRD [enacted
by MR. HERBERT ADAMS, the sculptor], accompanied by two small
scarlet-tanager acolytes [boys], bearing great candles, to light a
crimson cushion held by the Cardinal. On the cushion lay an open scroll.
This scroll, itself a sheet of parchment-like paper from the original
press of Benjamin Franklin, had been inscribed by MR. STEPHEN PARRISH
with a _Sonnet-Epilogue_,
[Illustration:
Cardinal Bird and Hummingbird
]
composed by the author of the masque and signed by all of its
participants, with their real names opposite the species of birds they
severally impersonated.
Moving slowly forward to music till he stood before PRESIDENT and MRS.
WILSON, where they sat near the centre of the first row of the audience,
the CARDINAL BIRD, with simple dignity, read from the scroll this
EPILOGUE
Addressed to MRS. WOODROW WILSON:
Lady, WHEREAS your gentle patronage
And presence have to-night so favored us
In this our ritual, that you have thus
Lent to our earnest cause a double gage:
One gracious daughter to make glad our stage
And one to make its theme harmonious
With song—whose sire now makes illustrious
The larger theatre of our living age:
Therefore, ere yet the privilege be spent
Which grants our thoughts the spell of human words,
We vow by you, here in this tranquil wood,
Our loyal love to him—the President,
Whose heart has heard the call of the wild birds,
And sign ourselves
Your Servants, with gratitude.
Having thus presented the scroll, the CARDINAL BIRD with his ACOLYTES
retired to the stage, where the final dance and procession of the
bird-participants then took place.
The Programme of the performance [omitting that part of the _Prelude_
already printed on pages xix and xx] was as follows:
UNDER THE PATRONAGE OF
MRS. WOODROW WILSON
AND THE FOLLOWING COMMITTEE
MRS. HERBERT ADAMS
MRS. C. C. BEAMAN
ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
KENYON COX
PERCY MACKAYE
MAXFIELD PARRISH
CHARLES A. PLATT
MRS. GEORGE RUBLEE
LOUIS EVAN SHIPMAN
JOSEPH LINDON SMITH
MRS. AUGUSTUS SAINT-GAUDENS
MEMBERS OF THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB JOIN WITH RESIDENTS OF CORNISH, NEW
HAMPSHIRE, AND THEIR FRIENDS, TO PRESENT A MASQUE IN THE INTEREST OF
AMERICAN WILD BIRD PROTECTION
PRELUDE
SONG “THE HERMIT THRUSH”
SUNG BY MISS MARGARET WILSON
THE SONG COMPOSED BY FREDERICK S. CONVERSE TO WORDS BY ARVIA MACKAYE,
WHO ENACTS THE PART OF THE LITTLE GIRL
MERIDEN, NEW HAMPSHIRE:
SEPTEMBER 12, 1913
SANCTUARY
A BIRD MASQUE
BY PERCY MACKAYE
PERFORMED UNDER THE FOLLOWING DIRECTION
STAGE PRODUCTION BY JOSEPH LINDON SMITH
DANCING BY JULIET BARRETT RUBLEE
ORIGINAL MUSIC BY FREDERICK S. CONVERSE
PROPERTIES BY WILLIAM HOWARD HART
PROGRAMME DESIGN BY KENYON COX
PERSONS IN THE MASQUE
IN THE ORDER OF THEIR APPEARANCE
QUERCUS FAUN JOSEPH LINDON SMITH
ALWYN POET PERCY MACKAYE
SHY NATURALIST ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
TACITA DRYAD JULIET BARRETT RUBLEE
ORNIS BIRD SPIRIT ELEANOR WILSON
STARK PLUME HUNTER WITTER BYNNER
ATTENDANT LEONARD COX
EPILOGUE
THE CARDINAL BIRD HERBERT ADAMS
FIRST ACOLYTE ROBIN MACKAYE
SECOND ACOLYTE PAUL SAINT-GAUDENS
BIRD PARTICIPANTS IN PANTOMIME
BLUEBIRD MRS. HERBERT ADAMS
CARDINAL GROSBEAK MR. HERBERT ADAMS
OWL MISS CHARLOTTE ARNOLD
BALTIMORE ORIOLE MISS FRANCES ARNOLD
OWL MISS GRACE ARNOLD
RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD MR. LEROY BARNETT
GOLDFINCH MISS BIGELOW
DOWNY WOODPECKER MRS. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
DOWNY WOODPECKER MRS. EDSON BEMIS
DOWNY WOODPECKER MR. EDSON BEMIS
GOLDFINCH MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN
BLUE JAY MISS LOUISE CONVERSE
BLUE JAY MISS VIRGINIA CONVERSE
KINGBIRD MRS. KENYON COX
CROW MR. KENYON COX
FLICKER MISS CAROLINE COX
SCARLET TANAGER MR. ALLYN COX
BLUEBIRD MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN
HOUSE WREN MISS ELIZABETH EVARTS
RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET MR. PRESCOTT EVARTS
OWL MR. ELWIN FEY
SCARLET TANAGER MR. CHARLES FULLER
GOLDFINCH MRS. CONGER GOODYEAR
RUBY-CROWNED KINGLET MISS LENA HARDY
WOOD THRUSH MISS RUTH HALL
EVENING GROSBEAK MR. WILLIAM HOWARD HART
HAWK MR. GRISWOLD HAYWOOD
KINGBIRD MISS KING
KINGBIRD MISS CLARA KING
BLUEBIRD MRS. HERBERT LAKIN
YELLOW WARBLER MISS ELEANOR LAKIN
YELLOW WARBLER MISS HETTY LAKIN
BLUEBIRD MISS BELLE LAVERACK
SNOW BUNTING MRS. PERCY MACKAYE
SWALLOW MISS HAZEL MACKAYE
HUMMINGBIRD MISS ARVIA MACKAYE
SCARLET TANAGER MASTER ROBIN MACKAYE
GOLDFINCH MISS ALICE MCCLARY
BLUEBIRD MISS ANNE PARRISH
CARDINAL BIRD MR. STEPHEN PARRISH
RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD MISS MARIE PARKER
HERMIT THRUSH MRS. MAXWELL PERKINS
GOLDFINCH MR. ROGER PLATT
SCARLET TANAGER MR. WILLIAM PLATT
RED-WINGED BLACKBIRD MISS EDNA RAPALLO
GOLDFINCH MISS HADLEY RICHARDSON
BLUE HERON MR. GEORGE RUBLEE
LOVE BIRD MRS. LOUIS SAINT-GAUDENS
SCARLET TANAGER MR. PAUL SAINT-GAUDENS
WOOD THRUSH MISS SCUDDER
BLUEBIRD MISS ELLEN SHIPMAN
INDIGO BUNTING MASTER EVAN SHIPMAN
WOODPECKER MISS FRANCES SMITH
WOODPECKER MISS REBECCA SMITH
BALTIMORE ORIOLE MISS CORDELIA TOWNSEND
OFFICERS OF THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB
PRESIDENT, DR. ERNEST L. HUSE
VICE PRESIDENTS
MRS. E. E. WHEELER
MR. NEIL CRONIN
PROF. FRANK M. HOWE
PROF. CHESTER H. SEARS
SECRETARY, MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN
TREASURER, MR. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
GENERAL MANAGER, MISS MARY L. CHELLIS
MASQUE COMMITTEE FOR THE MERIDEN BIRD CLUB
MR. ROBERT BARRETT
MRS. ERNEST HAROLD BAYNES
MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN
MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN
MISS MARY A. FREEMAN
MR. ALBION E. LANG
MR. CHARLES ALDEN TRACY
MRS. E. E. WHEELER
COSTUMES
MRS. HERBERT ADAMS
MISS ELLEN SHIPMAN
MR. JOSEPH LINDON SMITH
PHOTOGRAPHS, DR. ARNOLD GENTHE
BIRD-NOTES, MISS KATHERINE MINAHAN
INVITATIONS, MISS ANNIE H. DUNCAN
AUTOMOBILES, MR. GRISWOLD HAYWOOD
STAGING AND SEATS
MR. WILLIAM HOWARD HART
MR. JOHN FARNUM CANN
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BY PERCY MACKAYE
_The Canterbury Pilgrims. A Comedy._
_Jeanne d’Arc. A Tragedy._
_Sappho and Phaon. A Tragedy._
_Fenris the Wolf. A Tragedy._
_A Garland to Sylvia. A Dramatic Reverie._
_The Scarecrow. A Tragedy of the Ludicrous._
_Yankee Fantasies. Five One-Act Plays._
_Mater. An American Study in Comedy._
_Anti-Matrimony. A Satirical Comedy._
_To-morrow. A Play in Three Acts._
_Sanctuary. A Bird Masque._
_A Thousand Years Ago. A Romance of the Orient._
_Poems._
_Uriel, and Other Poems._
_Lincoln: A Centenary Ode._
_The Playhouse and the Play. Essays._
_The Civic Theatre. Essays._
_At all booksellers_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
1. moved page 2 to end.
2. Silently corrected typographical errors.
3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
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