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overwhelming.

      Crane published two volumes of poetry—The Black Riders and War is Kind. Their appearance in print was jeeringly hailed; yet Crane was only pioneering in the free verse that is today, if not definitely accepted, at least more than tolerated. I like the following love poem as well as any rhymed and conventionally metrical ballad that I know:—

      “Should the wide world roll away,

      Leaving black terror,

      Limitless night,

      Nor God, nor man, nor place to stand

      Would be to me essential,

      If thou and thy white arms were there

      And the fall to doom a long way.”

      “If war be kind,” wrote a clever reviewer, when the second volume appeared, “then Crane’s verse may be poetry, Beardsley’s black and white creations may be art, and this may be called a book”;—a smart summing up that is cherished by cataloguers to this day, in describing the volume for collectors. Beardsley needs no defenders, and it is fairly certain that the clever reviewer had not read the book, for certainly Crane had no illusions about the kindness of war. The title-poem of the volume is an amazingly beautiful satire which answers all criticism.

      “Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.

      Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky

      And the affrighted steed ran on alone,

      Do not weep.

      War is kind.

      “Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,

      Little souls who thirst for fight,

      These men were born to drill and die.

      The unexplained glory flies above them,

      Great is the battle-god, and his kingdom—

      A field where a thousand corpses lie.

      * * * *

      “Mother whose heart hung humble as a button

      On the bright splendid shroud of your son,

      Do not weep.

      War is kind.”

      Poor Stephen Crane! Like most geniuses, he had his weaknesses and his failings; like many, if not most, geniuses, he was ill. He died of tuberculosis, tragically young. But what a comrade he must have been, with his extraordinary vision, his keen, sardonic comment, his fearlessness and his failings!

      Just a glimpse of Crane’s last days is afforded by a letter written from England by Robert Barr, his friend—Robert Barr, who collaborated with Crane in “The O’ Ruddy,” a rollicking tale of old Ireland, or, rather, who completed it at Crane’s death, to satisfy his friend’s earnest request. The letter is dated from Hillhead, Woldingham, Surrey, June 8, 1900, and runs as follows:—

      “My Dear—

      “I was delighted to hear from you, and was much interested to see the article on Stephen Crane you sent me. It seems to me the harsh judgment of an unappreciative, commonplace person on a man of genius. Stephen had many qualities which lent themselves to misapprehension, but at the core he was the finest of men, generous to a fault, with something of the old-time recklessness which used to gather in the ancient literary taverns of London. I always fancied that Edgar Allan Poe revisited the earth as Stephen Crane, trying again, succeeding again, failing again, and dying ten years sooner than he did on the other occasion of his stay on earth.

      “When your letter came I had just returned from Dover, where I stayed four days to see Crane off for the Black Forest. There was a thin thread of hope that he might recover, but to me he looked like a man already dead. When he spoke, or, rather, whispered, there was all the accustomed humor in his sayings. I said to him that I would go over to the Schwarzwald in a few weeks, when he was getting better, and that we would take some convalescent rambles together. As his wife was listening he said faintly: ‘I’ll look forward to that,’ but he smiled at me, and winked slowly, as much as to say: ‘You damned humbug, you know I’ll take no more rambles in this world.’ Then, as if the train of thought suggested what was looked on before as the crisis of his illness, he murmured: ‘Robert, when you come to the hedge—that we must all go over—it isn’t bad. You feel sleepy—and—you don’t care. Just a little dreamy curiosity—which world you’re really in—that’s all.’

      “Tomorrow, Saturday, the 9th, I go again to Dover to meet his body. He will rest for a little while in England, a country that was always good to him, then to America, and his journey will be ended.

      “I’ve got the unfinished manuscript of his last novel here beside me, a rollicking Irish tale, different from anything he ever wrote before. Stephen thought I was the only person who could finish it, and he was too ill for me to refuse. I don’t know what to do about the matter, for I never could work up another man’s ideas. Even your vivid imagination could hardly conjecture anything more ghastly than the dying man, lying by an open window overlooking the English channel, relating in a sepulchral whisper the comic situations of his humorous hero so that I might take up the thread of his story.

      “From the window beside which I write this I can see down in the valley Ravensbrook House, where Crane used to live and where Harold Frederic, he and I spent many a merry night together. When the Romans occupied Britain, some of their legions, parched with thirst, were wandering about these dry hills with the chance of finding water or perishing. They watched the ravens, and so came to the stream which rises under my place and flows past Stephen’s former home; hence the name, Ravensbrook.

      “It seems a strange coincidence that the greatest modern writer on war should set himself down where the greatest ancient warrior, Caesar, probably stopped to quench his thirst.

      “Stephen died at three in the morning, the same sinister hour which carried away our friend Frederic nineteen months before. At midnight, in Crane’s fourteenth-century house in Sussex, we two tried to lure back the ghost of Frederic into that house of ghosts, and to our company, thinking that if reappearing were ever possible so strenuous a man as Harold would somehow shoulder his way past the guards, but he made no sign. I wonder if the less insistent Stephen will suggest some ingenious method by which the two can pass the barrier. I can imagine Harold cursing on the other side, and welcoming the more subtle assistance of his finely fibred friend.

      “I feel like the last of the Three Musketeers, the other two gone down in their duel with Death. I am wondering if, within the next two years, I also shall get the challenge. If so, I shall go to the competing ground the more cheerfully that two such good fellows await the outcome on the other side.

      “Ever your friend,

      “ROBERT BARR.”

      The last of the Three Musketeers is gone, now, although he outlived his friends by some years. Robert Barr died in 1912. Perhaps they are still debating a joint return.

      There could be, perhaps, no better close for a paper on Stephen Crane than the subjoined paragraph from a letter written by him to a Rochester editor:—

      “The one thing that deeply pleases me is the fact that men of sense invariably believe me to be sincere. I know that my work does not amount to a string of dried beans—I always calmly admit it—but I also know that I do the best that is in me without regard to praise or blame. When I was the mark for every humorist in the country, I went ahead; and now when I am the mark for only fifty per cent of the humorists of the country, I go ahead; for I understand that a man is born into the world with his own pair of eyes, and he is not at all responsible for his vision—he is merely responsible for his quality of personal honesty. To keep close to this personal honesty is my supreme ambition.”

      THE RED BADGE OF COURAGE

      An Episode of the American Civil War

      CHAPTER I.

      The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills, resting. As

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