Letters
Keeping Touch
To THE EDITOR:
Two of us spent, a very enjoyable Sunday morning listening to Dartmouth's victory over Princeton. It gave us a real feeling of pride when Bill Stern said it was the first basketball game to be short waved to the armed forces overseas. There were many of us listening, and it brought home the phrase "Round the Girdled Earth." Let's have more of it!
It takes some time to get our copies so we rely mostly on verbal news of the latest Dartmouth victories.
Noticed that Brown has altered from the style that Cowles made famous but the play sounded sound. We're looking for another EIL Championship.
c/o Postmaster, San Francisco.
A Literary Find
To THE EDITOR:
A few years before Robert Frost first arrived in Hanover, 1891 would seem to be the date, there is evidence that the town was visited by another bard, one Alexander Burgess Beard.
Beard, from the portrait with which his work—Choice Poems, Manchester, N. H. 1896. 8vo. Wrappers. Pp. 32—is embellished limited himself to a heavy moustache after the fashion of the time and wore his thick and neatly brushed hair well down his neck. His brows were warmly thatched and from his general appearance and the heredity implied by his name it is fair to say that he might have eclipsed the features of Whitman, Longfellow, Lanier and others had he wished.
But Beard was modest in this as in other things and sought the small fees of a wandering minstrel rather than prominence. He says in his brief preface, "Justice to myself as well as to others is always my motto, and not to be exceedingly, most through fear of being branded as a self-conceited person." There is a certain fascination about this sentence but I think Beard, he would be 92 years old if alive today, would be the first to disclaim any intention of foreshadowing any movement in modern poetry.
Earning his living by reciting or singing his ballads and selling his book, Beard tramped over New England and New York. Usually he found the going not too-hard but when he did he did not hesitate to preach the heartlessness of other places to rouse the pride and soften the sympathy of the one he happened to be in.
Vermont takes the cake for those unfeeling ones, Either village or county or City; Springfield, Mass., is as bad, Keene and Haverhill. N. H., The people lack feeling or pity.
Hanover is not in this category though it is doubtful if the reason Beard celebrates it is any better. He says the following was composed immediately after the event.
The Horrible Murder At Hanover, N. H., July 21, 1891.
Within the town of Hanover, excitement does prevail, Each neighbor and each citizen's familiar with the tale; One evening Christine Warden, a maiden young and fair, Was gaily walking homeward, of all danger unaware.
Her mother and her sister were walking by her side, When lo that happy trio, a hardened wretch espied; With mind intent on blood-shed, Frank Almy was his name.
Who previous of Christie her hand had sought to claim. But she with truest wisdom did his attentions slight, She was by far too pure, with Almy to unite; Then he in fiercest anger did a vow of vengeance make, He swore the life of Christie eventually to take.
His form beside the highway by bushes was concealed, When Christie fast approaching, the moonlight soon revealed; Frank Almy, like a panther, sprang forth and barred her way.
"I want you Christie Warden," was all that he did say.
His hand was viselike grasping his helpless victim's arm.
Fain would the frantic mother have saved her from all harm; Indeed, she and the sister a moment vainly fought, At each of these defenders he hurled a random shot.
Then from the spot, in horror, those frightened ladies fled, And for to seek assistance, with all their might they sped; Meanwhile that human demon into the bushes drew, The victim of his malice and her in cold blood slew.
He leveled his revolver, with the wickedness of. Cain, At the head of Christie "Warden, two bullets pierced her brain; Soon officers and people from places all around, In answers to the summons, were gathered on the ground.
There lay poor Christie Warden, quite stiff and stark and dead. But nought was seen of Almy, he from the scene had fled; That he may soon be captured, we all should hope and pray, And perish by the hangman upon some future day.
Such prayers are often answered, for One who reigns above,
Ne'er fails to give us justice, Although a God of love; There is no place of hiding from his all-seeing eye Such devils as Frank Almy can never him defy. '
There is a vivid stanza in "The Tragedy at Haverhill, N. H.," which probably surpasses anything in "The Horrible Murder."
Upon his little grandson's head he rained three blows or more, Till he a corpse with fractured skull lay bleeding on the floor; One wild and piercing startled shriek the frightened sister gave, And from that monster's cruel blows her brother sought to save.
Nor have the Hanover lines the lyric quality of the opening of, "The Great Cyclone at Lawrence, Mass. Took place July 26, 1890."
The people of 'South Lawrence, one morning in July, Beheld a cloud of darkness bedeck the summer sky, When with a roar like thunder, there hitherto unknown, Went sweeping o'er the city a terrible cyclone.
Still, "The Horrible Murder" is, characteristic Beard. It leads directly to the question, What has Kentucky that New Hampshire hasn't?"
West Cornwall, Conn.
P.S.—A. B. Beard was unknown to me until last week when I found his book in an out-of- the-way junk shop. This letter is being sent on the long chance that he's slipped from the College's memory.
