Richard Hovey,-Barnstormer!

Mr. Cleaves has done it! We've always wanted an intimate picture of Richard Hovey, done in the modern fashionwithout frills or aureoles. And this article gives Hoveycredit for something we never dreamed of, yet somethingthat now seems quite convincing as told by the writer. Thepresent feeling about Dartmouth is not so old as we thought;men in older days apparently felt the endearment of theircollege and worked for her good, but there was lacking an expression and an organization of the elements of this loyalty.Hovey must have played the great part in the developmentof this feeling. We are printing in italics the 9th paragraph,which is Mr. Cleaves' expression of the former feelingabout the College contrasted with the present expression.It's hard to imagine Dartmouth without the qualities whichHovey ascribed to it; yet those qualities did not exist whollyin Hovey's imagination! They were there waiting for expression.And it was the deep-feeling, rollicking» gifted,beloved Dick the Vagabond that made us know what Dart-mouth really is.

YEARS have passed since my association with Richard Hovey, Dartmouth's most distinguished name in the field of American letters. Surely this statement would be unchallenged were the choice confined to poetry alone. At any rate, we who revere his memory and love the College are proud of his accomplishments.

One of Hovey's warmest friends, indeed he probated his will, writes as follows: "Had Dick lived until now and had fulfilled only in a small degree what we all felt should be his greatest work, he certainly would have become the best known of all the American poets."

Could we who knew him rather intimately have sensed his dawning greatness, we might have been well prepared to undertake a sketch of the real personality of the man. But callow years are ill fitted for deep penetration into much of anything. At best, the writer's contact with Hovey was all too short. Perhaps five years would measure this irregular segment of his life, before he became the artist and finely balanced man he was at the time of his death.

So when called upon to speak of my early associations with this distinguished man, I felt it was all too dim in memory; too distraught with "the tumult and the shouting," through all the intervening years, far from these early scenes, for me to even attempt a revival of long forgotten incidents. But sincere purpose and desire always find a way. These with the help of reminders, under various disguises, enable me to begin the chronicle.

Two of the years of our acquaintance were spent in Hanover, and the three following ones in Boston, including two summers at the White Mountain resorts. Relative to the city, we were rather companionable on occasion, when "we went places and saw things"; others might say running together in the "wilds of Boston," but this is not fair to New England's capital; it were better to say "running wild in Boston," It always seemed to me one of the proofs of immortality, in that wisdom seems to be reserved for old age, too late for the right start in this life, to say the least. It would point to the fact that we should have an opportunity to try again and to profit by our mistakes.

Yet the field of reminiscence, relative to our intimacy, contains nothing quite so rich as the unusual conditions under which we met during the summer months. Like many other Dartmouth men, particularly of that period, I spent my summers in the retreats of northern New Hampshire in various earning capacities. It was there that I was able to assist Dick somewhat in arranging dates for his lectures and recitals at the. hotels. Indeed being then considered something of a dramatic character myself, I undertook to aid him sometimes, when duties permitted of it, with impersonations from the "immortal bard." On these occasions Dick would read from his own poems and occasionally recite "pieces" such as were popular at the time.

These recitals, if such they may be termed, brought us rather intimately together. When we were in Boston we were almost always "broke"; but the period at the mountains was generally an opulent one for me, if not for Dick with his recitals. I was always interested to have hi™ carry on whether he had much of an audience or not. I recall that one season he went the rounds of the summer resorts lecturing on "Mephistopheles and Other Kinds of Devils." What his other subjects were I have forgotten.

My rather hectic experiences with Hovey ended somewhat abruptly. I was called to the far West, there to remain. It was time for both of us to "turn over a new leaf." Neither success nor happiness lay in the road we were following. While our literary ambitions were high, our finances were low, for our habits were thoroughly bohemian. In days of poverty, we had a theory and lived it, that red wine and crackers stimulated the flow of soul, and that our "muses" hovered over us when the exhilaration of the wine and the hunger of the stomach worked conjointly. Perhaps it was this sort of thing that led to my quick "get away" to the regions of the cactus and the rattlesnake.

DARTMOUTH POWER NOT REALIZED

Dartmouth College did not then rest in the minds of hersons as now. a name to conjure with and to live for. Wedid not then realize her 'power within herself and in thelives of her sons. We did not then vision it as a talismanurging to nobility in thought and deed. The present greatmoral forces of the College were not organized within, norin the great alumni body without, as they are now. Thentoo, the present day alumni associations and clubs,throughout the land, would have furnished added stimulusto bring us together once more. Had present feeling swayedus, we would have kept in touch with each other the rest ofour lives, but we did not.

Memory is keen as to the appearance and individuality of the man himself. To meet Dick once was to never forget him; one of the most personable of men. He would attract attention anywhere, even in these latter days when the worship of external things seems so absorbing. Dick's wearing apparel at that early period was about as bizarre as even a modern youth might imagine. His stage, or better platform "get up" consisted of a black or brown velveteen coat with trousers of knickerbocker style; a broad flowing tie, a la Elbert Hubbard, either red or black, with sash to match. A soft black hat completed the ensemble. His "knock-about" clothes were invariably tweeds.

It is more difficult to recall particular incidents, first hand, as would tend to illuminate this period of Richard's life. However this lack is met, to a degree, vicariously through correspondence with members of his class and others who knew him well. These "jogs" to memory enable me to revive long forgotten events. Deeply am I indebted to one of Dick's classmates, who was a fraternity brother as well.

Then too, the range of narration has been greatly increased by a review of his literary works. They contain throughout reminders of Dick as I had known him years ago. We are all one, even though the traits of our early lives are modified as time moves on. Education and environment, of course, make great changes; yet there is a certain individual constancy that shows clearly through it all, a "method" of getting at things. Herbert Spencer calls it style, and says that it is the man himself; that it shows in all the arts of life, as well as in literature. It belongs to him and it is difficult for him to divorce himself from it.

SPIRIT OF THE VAGABOND

From the way an artist expresses himself in his chosen subject, we are able to note certain characteristics in any other form of art, or human activity, he may undertake, however variant it may be with the first. From the way one task is accomplished we learn what to look for in another. We reason from one to the other, or to read one thing in terms of something else. Every human endeavor or every art of life, as I choose to call it, even the humblest, evidences a consistency of handiwork, com- mensurate with our grasp on the universe of things. It shows in the rhythm and pantomime of life, in the tone color of the voice, in one's very walk even. Our method penetrates into every nook and corner of our lives.

So it is possible to reincarnate from enduring forms, such as literature, painting, music and the like, the very living presence of the creator of them Why, because they are all derived from the same spiritual characteristics; they are like him. Those who understand may read. Yes, Richard Hovey's writings reveal his past to one who knew him. One is able to "tie up" with what is partially forgotten, through reminders met with in his poetry.

His spirit is there, gorgeous, colorful. With increased dignity, of course, he rollicked through to the end. Hoopla! Such a "happy go lucky kind of man." Such glowing optimism and friendship for all with whom he came in contact; calm confidence that "all is well though faith and form be sundered in a night of fear."

Sometimes it seemed as though Dick was almost pagan in his ardent love of nature in all her forms. He loved the growing things and the freedom of the great out of doors. It manifested itself in a jaunty, joyous rhythm, free as the very winds and brimming over with the exuberance of living. He exploited nature and celebrated life, Hurra! and hoopla!

When the wind comes up from Cuba, And the birds are on the wing, And our hearts are patting juba To the banjo of the spring, Then it's no wonder whether The boys will get together With a stein on the table, and a cheer for everything.

Hovey was aware of his unusual gifts and so prided himself upon his rather unorthodox way of viewing life. He allowed no trammels of tradition or circumstance to quench his independent spirit. "His were the notes of a master singer," but he was not bound by the conventionalities of art or of life. No rules formulated by others shaped his verse. He was bohemian in thought, word and deed.

He achieved directness and simplicity in a manner peculiarly his own. No one else should or could follow it. It was his. It is difficult to reconcile Richard's love of pomp and show with the extraordinary naturalness of his expressional powers, manifest both in his literary works and in his life. Dick was a genius; that's the only way of accounting for his rather paradoxical ways at times.

However he was amazingly sane in some things. He took life as he found it and was equally at home with prince or pauper. He feared neither the vicissitudes of life, nor death. The feeling of confidence that all was well pervaded the life of Richard Hovey. I know well enough how he met his last summons.

"My soul melts like snow in the waters of joy; Thy love is like a white silence, The joy of death is in my soul."

Such splendid nonchalance just never was. He met all problems with calm poise, with no solicitude for himself or any one else. His good spirits fairly effervesced and were infectious. He stands for comradeship; for partnership with things as they are.

There were times, to be sure, when it appeared that he really ran wild, but it was superficial. He was ready to try everything once, even hasheesh as inspiration for a poem. Whenever he left the ground he was so strong of wing that he never fell. He might have gone into a "tail spin" but he always righted himself. "East to the dawn, and West and South and North, Loose rein upon the neck of fate and forth."

Dick was not a radical by any means in literary views or in his relations to life. Such a staunch patriot hardly ever was. Had he been living the past few years he would not have been found in the ranks of the parlor bolshevists. He reveled in imaginative flights most assuredly. The famous quotations relative to the poet, "he renders to airy nothing a local habitation and a name," and another, "the enamoured architects of airy rhyme," fit him perfectly, but he could be extremely prosaic when occasion warranted. However this paper is not a literary criticism but an attempt to identify the spirit of his writings with the shaping years of his life.

HOVEY ON THE STAGE

Dick was inclined towards the stage, which state of mind is not uncommon in anyone's callow years. In Dick's case however the urge was most pronounced. I have reason to know for we were both "in the same boat." Perhaps our friendship hinged on this fact more than any other one thing. I had been a poor stagestruck boy long before I met Dick. When in college, I was nicknamed "Brutus" because I was cast for that part in the play of Julius Caesar. I do not recall that he was a member of the cast, but was interested in the outcome, for there was much stir about it at the time.

Two or three years afterwards in Boston, I recall, we were wont to present ourselves incognito at the stage door of some theatre calling for "supers," seeking the lowly opportunity more for the fun or experience perhaps than the mere fact of drawing fifty cents a day, matinees thrown in. Such occasions were most interesting. Speaking of this same Julius Caesar, Dick and I "doubled" one time when Edwin Booth made his annual visit to Boston, or it may have been Booth and Barrett; we were both soldiers and carried a spear, and also were members of the mob in nondescript garments.

Most of the supernumeraries were Harvard men, enlisted for the lark of the thing, and the mob scenes became one enthusiastic rah, rah, affair. In modern parlance. we supers "stole the show." People came avowedly to see the supers tear things loose. The affair became somewhat complicated and rough in that the female parts were impersonated by youths.

As this band of college men became aware of the important part they were contributing towards the box office receipts, they began to overstep the bounds, and truly the closing nights of the engagement were riotous when it came to the mob scenes. The last night when Antony had closed his final appeal, ending with the familiar words, "Now let it work, mischief thou art afoot, take thou what course thou wilt," pandemonium broke loose. I do not recall that any property was really destroyed, but things were thrown around rather freely, and liberties were taken with the rostrum occupied by Mark Antony, who had made a hasty exit when the tumult began.

The real truth of the matter is that the occurrences that night furnish good argument for the Volstead Act. In fact I know of a loved fellow member of my class at Dartmouth College who "tanked up" to say even one line, and he didn't get that straight. The line read, "I hope today your enterprise may thrive, fare ye well"; he sidled up to the conspirators and said, "I hope today your enterprise may thrive, good evening."

Dick was dramatic in appearance both on and off the stage, and would attract attention anywhere, even in these latter days. Good height, well moulded figure, very dark complexion; a graceful and expressive pantomimer; fingers and hands that could convey the thought did not other lineaments usurp the demands of physical expression. He was a fine interpreter of lines and with an attractive voice that covered the gamut; it was neither deep nor high; the musician would classify it as baritone. I can still hear that voice with the ear of the imagination as if it were but yesterday.

Very clearly do I recall our discussion, at one time, of the foundations of physical and vocal expression in which we were both interested. We agreed that good delivery was a running commentary of the emotions on the propositions of the intellect; that t'was mind wholly that produced eloquence; that no external patching on, either in inflection, emphasis or gesture, as an end in itself, could obtain other than artificial responses. We agreed that units of thought or in larger logical combinations, possessed individual tone color; that things that were different in meaning were expressed differently. We read Poe's "Bells" together, where a contrast is drawn between golden bells, silver bells, iron bells, brazen bells; we reasoned that their vocalization should be wholly different.

For example, gold is not silver, neither should they be said alike if the mind is properly on the concept. Were thought on the word steel, upon utterance there would be a distinct tightening up of the muscles controlling the resonant cavities of the voice to meet the idea of firmness, and the voice would become hard. Such is the case with any other thought or thoughts commensurate with their logical arrangement.

Dick enjoyed color, form, show, almost to the point of affectation. But such was only concomitant to his depth of feeling and the supreme imaginative power of the man. He was sensitive in the extreme and his outward play acting was but a reaction to the pent-up forces within. He was a student of religion and philosophy, and whichever he was considering he tinged with the exotic. A friend writes, "Edwin Arnold's poem, 'The Light of Asia' gave him much food for thought, and I have often heard him quote the words 'om mani padme hum,' the poetic translation of which, as I recall, is 'the dew drop slips into the shining sea.' "

DICK WAS NO PURITAN

He considered one belief then another. One who knew him well says that "he was at one time a confirmed agnostic, yet I do not recall he was ever an atheist." Eventually Dick was attracted to the Episcopal church. I recall attendance in his company at a service of the Church of the Advent, a high Episcopal chußch on the south side of Beacon Hill. He was very devout and scrupulous in observance of every detail of the service; his obeisance, his crossing himself, the holy water, the bending of the knee with extreme graciousness and distinction, is as clear to me as if it were but yesterday.

Dick would have reveled in the present controversy within the Church of England. Recently the Literary Digest contained an article bearing on the dispute, in which there is shown the picture of a father of the order of the Holy Cross, with extreme Anglo-Catholic affiliations, carrying a reliquary containing a hair of the beard of Charles the First in celebration of St. Charles day. The cavalier Dick would have been capable of this; he was no Puritan.

From what I have read and heard about Hovey since that time, he never faltered in seeking religious growth and in constantly preparing himself to become a reputable member of that church. In looking up references relative to Dick's after career, I came upon the following: Student of the General Theological Seminary; lay pastor of St. Mary the Virgin; actor, poet, journalist, writer of plays.

It is not for me to go into a period of his life of which I know nothing, first hand. There is however a humorous episode during his college days worthy of recital in this connection. Dick paid careful attention to all days celebrated by the Episcopal church. On this particular occasion he was observing Ash Wednesday by fasting, and took only a little bread and some water. His room mate, Tom, was much disturbed and asked the reason for his fast. Dick informed him it was on account of Ash Wednesday. Tom was telling about this later in HoVey's presence to the effect that Dick never eats anything on "ash" day. Hovey looked up with that wonderful expression of his and said calmly, "ash day, ash day, ASH WEDNESDAY, you dod gasted fool."

This same room mate distinguished himself one time in my zoology section. Though two years ahead of me, he was making up the subject preparatory to graduation. The learned professor, too mild and kind for the discipline of his classes, asked him what animal was peculiar to South America and found nowhere else. The books in the class were few, and it was the shameful custom to help one another along when called upon to recite. The man sitting back of Tom with text in hand, whispered "tapir." Tom, catching only the t-a-p part of the word, blurted out "tape worm," to the ecstatic delight of everybody.

How capricious is memory in allowing us to forget the deeper and nobler things of life only to project something of a banal character. I recall one time Dick and I attended a "show"; that's the proper word, show. The offensive jokes of the comedian were eliciting hysterical laughter from the audience. Dick stood it for a while, then remarked, "Listen to the nuts crack."

Dick was a very able student, but not given to consistent or continuous work. He could concentrate and accomplish a great deal in a short time. Dick's fraternity brother writes, "He would come into my room occasionally ten minutes before recitation. I would ask him whether he intended to go to recitation. He would often say 'No, I have not looked at the lesson.' I frequently told him about the lesson in the few minutes remaining, and have heard him recite and do as well as any man in the division. In English of course he was remarkably good. He had read, I think, as much as 'Clothespin Dick' himself, and he was a wonderful analyst of anything he read."

In the matter of reading, something worth recording occurs to me. I interested Hovey in the writings of Rev. Fred'k W. Robertson of Brighton, Eng., who passed away in the early fifties after a brief and glorious career. As a writer on the philosophy of poetry, there may be his superior, but I doubt it. His lecture on the Symbolism of Poetry Dick and I deemed especially fine for it summed up, at least, our youthful philosophy. It is fortunate that I have treasured up through the years the following quotation from it.

"In God's world there is a place for the eagle and the wren; a separate grace for the swan and the humming bird; their own fragrance to the cedar and the violet. Enlarge your tastes that you may enlarge your intellects and hearts, as well as your pleasures; feel all that is beautiful—love all that is good

"The first maxim in religion and art is—sever yourself from all sectarianism; pledge yourself to no school—cut your life adrift from all parties; be a slave to no maxims; stand forth unfettered and free, servant only to the truth. But this will force us to stand alone—Yes, grandly alone, untrammeled by the prejudices of any and free to admire the beauty and goodness of them all." When I think of Hovey, I think of Frangois Villon and Edgar Allan Poe—wonderful souls, utterly improvident, weak, strong, amazing abilities, generous until it became a fault. Character, yes, but so forgiving of its lack in others! Hovey's burned with a black flame, if such a thing could be. His merry laugh was like the tinkling of temple bells, and his lovable and companionable spirit was always uppermost. To be with him was to drain to the very dregs the cup of life.

On the occasion of the wonderful reunion of my class last June, I heard his Men of Dartmouth sung repeatedly. It brought back a flood of memories and a choking in the throat. It represented to me incomparable inspiration, as well as fond memories of Hovey himself, one of Dartmouth's greatest sons. It was indeed good to be there.

For Richard to leave so suddenly when he seemed quite recovered from his ailment was truly a shock. To quote again, "As you know he died at the Post Graduate Hospital, New York. He was about to leave the hospital in the early afternoon of the day of his death, and I was to go there and meet his wife and take him to the apartment, when my telephone bell rang telling me of his death."

"Comrades give a cheer tonight, For the dying is with dawn! Oh, to meet the stars together, With the silence coming on! Greet the end As a friend a friend, When strong men die together!"

As time goes on the work that Hovey accomplished will grow and grow in importance as one of the most distinctive achievements in the field of literature He is destined to be one of the "immortals."

A RARE PHOTO OF RICHARD HOVEY Taken at a late period in his life when lie had become nationally known. Furnished by Arthur L. Livermore, '88, of New York.

HOVEY AS A YOUTH

FOOTBALL IN THE SEVENTIES The whole college action. Men were assigned to one of two divisions in the college, representing general fraternities and continued in those divisions until graduation,—and after.