The midland journal., 1902-09-12

z a YE are taught, I believe, by
A~ the best critical authority
" that the essence of tragedy
lies in the conflict of will
and fate, or, rather, in the victory of
fate over the more or less consciously
struggling individual, and that the
catastrophe to be truly Greek must
in some way result from deeds morally
significant. But is there not an ap-
pallingly tragic element in the action
of fate when, as we SO often know it,
the catastrophe has no relation to re-
sponsibilities anywhere; when it is but
blind bolt, falling blindly, stopping,
crushing, annihilating, without more
moral significance than is in the rain
which falls alike on the just and on the
unjust? Is it not because this is too
appalling, because it frightens US as
children are frightened in the dark,
that we cling so closely to those in.
stances of human history in which
deed and doom are bound together by
brief and simple sequences?
IL 10 d fcIJ l1lllC AS
that is most deeply associated in my mind
with that other and more mysterious
tragedy in which the fine and sane and
true are overpowered by that blank,
meaningless and terrible power we call
chance.
One spring day years ago it happened
that for few hours I, myself only
schoolgirl, was given charge of an un-
familiar village school. 1t was in
mongrel southern mountain town,
where some coal mines were lamely
contributing to the foundations of that
new south which as yet the old south
scarcely grudgingly admitted as pos
sibility. The school was made up Of
such variety of elements as probably
could not have been matched at that
time in any schoolroom south of the
Ohio river. There were Yankee chill
dren from the east and the west, noun
tain born and southern born children
(the mountaineer is southern only in
shallow geographical sense), even chill
dren with brogue and a touch of
broad Lancashire dialect, but in this
crowd, so heterogeneous for the south,
so homogeneous compared to the mix
lures the north is forced to venture
upon, there was but one child who
spoke the English language with for
eign accent.
To me, as 1 struggled with the open
ing class, they all seemed conspicuous
ly united by common dullness. This
class was of the older scholars, and
they were studying "Peter Parley's
Universal History" that absurd yet
admirable little book, superseded gen.
erations ago everywhere but in forgot
ten and benighted southern hooks by
works paralyZingly full and distress
ingly accurate. The lesson was about
Prussia. That torpor which nature en-
ables all but the liveliest children to
take on as protection against the
horrors Of the schoolroom pervaded
the class. The big girls and boys sat
| about in attitudes of heavy wooden
| ness, answering questions, when they
| could answer them at all, as if badly
constructed, insufficient machinery
were for the moment put in motion. !
was casting about in my mind as to
what would bring them to life when,
as quoted something from the lesson
about the king of Prussia (the book
dated much farther back than the sew
enties), heard the shiest, softest, ca
gerest young voice say, as if the bar
riers Of repression had perforce given
way, Hes emperor now"
turned to see to whom all these les
son words meant facts, thoughts, some
thing else than gibberish, with sense
of unreasonably grateful refreshment.
There he was, a broad shouldered,
dark eyed little boy, about twelve years
old, who was seated when school open
ed half way back in the long, grimy
room, but who was now wriggling with
vitality, suppressed interest and an
overpowering but abiding sense of mis-
conduct on seat just behind the reci-
| tation benches, drawn there evidently
by a force similar in its imperiousness
to gravitation itself.
Hes Dutch" remarked boy in the
class in a tone explanatory, but not
lowered.
whats your name" / asked.
Rudolph, ma'am." 1t seemed that
for purposes of convenience the regular
teacher had found Rudolph" name
enough and had pointedly refused to
struggle with further Teutonic sylla.
bles.
"Well, Rudolph, come out here and
tell these big boys and girls about how
the king came to be made emperor.
Come, sit there"
But Rudolph had found an opportu-
nifty for something more dear than hui
initiating others. His bright dark eyes
were fastened upon me as he slipped
from the one seat into the other, say
ing: "The war it was that made so,
was not? The emperor is bigger than
the king. They want the German-the
German one to be big, my father say.
Who-how it come done-what Herr
Bismarck do?"
The child sat on the edge OF the
bench, bending toward me as he poured
forth his questions, as If the major
part of his young life had hitherto been
spent in fruitless search for the facts
of the German consolidation. lis.
tened, divided betwixt admiration and
NandInCC 70 Il did ir1d