CADET GREY

Act first, scene first. A study. Of a kind

Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave;

Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind

Of common man to compass or to crave;

Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined

The soul at first to trifling, till, dismayed

By text and title, it drew back resigned,

Nor cared with levity to vex a shade

That to itself such perfect concord made.

Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain

Of Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth,

As on the threshold of this chaste domain

He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth

To darkened canvases that frowned amain,

With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began

To spread their roots in Georgius Primus’ reign,

Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan,

Their century fruit,— the perfect Boston man.

Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom

A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member's ear:

“Brief is our business, Jones. Look round this room!

Regard yon portraits! Read their meaning clear!

These much proclaim MY station. I presume

YOU are our Congressman, before whose wit

And sober judgment shall the youth appear

Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit

To serve his country and to honor it.”

“Such is my son! Elsewhere perhaps‘ twere wise

Trial competitive should guide your choice.

There are some people I can well surmise

Themselves must show their merits. History's voice

Spares me that trouble: all desert that lies

In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne's day,

Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy's,—

Reverts to him; entailed, as one might say;

In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey!”

He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled,

On the cropped head of one who stood beside.

Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child

Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father's pride;

‘ Twas but a Mind that somehow had beguiled

From soulless Matter processes that served

For speech and motion and digestion mild,

Content if all one moral purpose nerved,

Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved.

He was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eight

He had despoiled the classics; much he knew

Of Sanskrit; not that he placed undue weight

On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew,

His favorite tongue. He learned, alas! too late,

One can n't begin too early,— would regret

That boyish whim to ascertain the state

Of Venus’ atmosphere made him forget

That philologic goal on which his soul was set.

He too had traveled; at the age of ten

Found Paris empty, dull except for art

And accent. “Mabille” with its glories then

Less than Egyptian “Almees” touched a heart

Nothing if not pure classic. If some men

Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit,

But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen,

The better to instruct them, through some sheet

Published in Boston, and signed “Beacon Street.”

From premises so plain the blind could see

But one deduction, and it came next day.

“In times like these, the very name of G.

Speaks volumes,” wrote the Honorable J.

“Inclosed please find appointment.” Presently

Came a reception to which Harvard lent

Fourteen professors, and, to give esprit,

The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent,

Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment.

Four poets came who loved each other's song,

And two philosophers, who thought that they

Were in most things impractical and wrong;

And two reformers, each in his own way

Peculiar,— one who had waxed strong

On herbs and water, and such simple fare;

Two foreign lions, “Ram See” and “Chy Long,”

And several artists claimed attention there,

Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere.

With this indorsement nothing now remained

But counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux;

No foolish tear the father's eyelash stained,

And Winthrop's cheek as guiltless shone of dew.

A slight publicity, such as obtained

In classic Rome, these few last hours attended.

The day arrived, the train and depot gained,

The mayor's own presence this last act commended

The train moved off and here the first act ended.