3

Wednesday, March 22, 1950

THE COLLEGE NEWS

Page Three



Mrs. Manning Discloses Facts
Concerning Roosevelt Archives.

by Frances Shirley, ’53

' Gazing for the last time at Mrs.
Manning’s carefully dictated in-
structions, I perched rather shak-
ily on a borrowed bicycle and zig-
zagged down Morris Avenue to
Pennstone Road, bent on finding
out just what had happened at
Hyde Park last Friday afternoon.

There, before a select audience
_of “fifty or sixty,” the Archivist
of the United States, Wayne C.
Grover, had made public the papers
_ of Franklin D. Roosevelt. There
were speeches by Mrs. Roosevelt;
by Jess Larson, Administrator of
General Services, who “really only
read a message from President
Truman”; and by Waldo Gifford
Leland, Director Emeritus of the
American Council of Learned So-
cieties.

“The papers themselves,” said
Mrs. Manning, “included many
things not written by Mr. Roose-
' velt. In fact, there are many let-
ters to him; even a congratula-
tory message from the Pope when
he won an election.” She expressed
the opinion that “there ought to
. be an act of Congress making
presidential correspondence part of
‘ the National Archives. Most of it
‘ds now public, like the Lincoln
Papers, but the things collected at
' the White House used to be treat-
ed like private correspondence.
- When Mr. Roosevelt made ar-
_,rangements to keep his papers in
‘ong, building, administered by the
' National Archives, he set a pre-
cedent for other presidents.” She
also said that the Taft family and
the Library of Congress still had
' President Taft’s papers, but that
' they planned to turn them over

to the Archives in the future.
‘ Mrs. Manning seemed to be an-
.ticipating my questions, so I
_ pocketed a list of queries and sip-
_ ped tea while she related the. his-
‘tory of Mr. Roosevelt’s plan. As
recently as twenty years ago there
was no Archives building, and dif-
ferent departments kept their own
papers. However, since then all
the papers have been housed under
one roof. Mr. Roosevelt presented
his plan at a party attended by a
large number of historians, among
whom were Charles Beard and Mr



Dodd, then president of the Ameri-
can Association. “I was one of
two women present,” said Mrs.
Manning. “The other was the presi-
dent of the League of Women
Voters! I was the only Republican
on the committee, and was invited
as a representative of the Taft
family. (The President could also
say he had a Republican on his
committee!) I sat between the
President and Senator Frank Gra-
ham of North Carolina. Judge Ros-
enman and Basil O’Connor were
there, too,” she added as an after-
thought, remarking that of all the
original group, only the Judge, Mr.
O’Connor, and she were at Hyde
Park last week. “Professor Morri-
son of Harvard would have been
there, but he was in the South
Pacific on his honeymoon or some-
thing at the time.”

“Mr. Roosevelt explained his
plan to us, and asked for comment
or criticism. There was some feel-
ing that the papers should be kept

Continued on Page 4

The Observer

Funny, how we felt the other
night. We walked to the library in
the dark, under the dark trees—
and the lions that crouch in the
heavy branches stirred as we pass-
ed under.

The cold reached its fingers up
the sleeves of our fall and winter
coat and we stood on the black
plain between Taylor and the li-
brary. We saw the moon in the
library windows and waited for
Carey Thomas to brush past us in
the moonlight.

Cream cheese — no, it’s a bal-
loon: and Carey Thomas holds the
string. She bought the moon —
spirited it away from the seller of
dreams — so it would hover over
the library cold, clear nights. She
knew.

The lions are restless on these
nights. We would be easy prey,
transfixed on the open plain. But
the lions are enchanted too and
we are only prey to dreams. If this
is winter, spring may forget.

‘Child of the moon, lions at my
gide, dream-bound. Library night ..



Handsome Humphrey Hunts Halls
Searching For Love, Adventure

Specially Contributed

by Hanna Holborn, ’50
Out of the night—came Hum-
. phrey. Or rather, he loped. We
were eating cashews at the time,
dreamily, for it was a dark, foggy,
romantic evening. ‘When we look-
ed around, the cashews were gone.
In their place was-a very large,
very blaek creature. “Humphrey!”
we cried, and ran...

Since then,.we have seen him
often. Entranced, ‘we heard him
| deliver a lecture on Shelley, his
paws placed soulfully on the
podium in Room E. Slowly, but
surely, his talents began to unfold.
He could: epen doors—and has thus
more than once -invaded the sanc-
tity of private’ béudoirs.,.- He
kibitzes at bridge, he can eat any-
thing from chocolate cake to wool
stockings. Besides all this,—he
is very strong—or very playful,
‘ according to the way you look at
it. Student after student has heard

the rush of soulful paws and a

moment later, has found herself
flat. on the ground.
Last Sunday, Humphrey was

bored. He was tired of games and.

yearned for intellectual stimula-'
_ tion, At length he came to the
Library. In no time at all, the
corridors were littered with bodies
and Humphrey headed for the
stacks. Here we found him look-
ing hungrily at the circulation
desk. .

“Humphrey,” ‘we said and laugh-
ed. “All right,” said a bitter voice.
“If you think it’s so funny, why



don’t you take him home?”

Filled with desperate courage,
we agreed. Humphrey lives on Old
Gulph Road, past the cemetery,
past the lights—past civilization.
Neither of us was anxious to leave
the comfortable security of the
dear eld M. Carey Thomas Me-
morial, our friend least of all. But
somehow, the lessons of Body Me-
chanics drifeted into our thoughts
and we fell out the door after an
angry Humphrey.

The burdens of humanity were
heavy on our ‘shoulders as we
plodded on through cold and tomb-
stones. At last we saw a house.
“This it, Humphrey?” we asked
hopefully. There was no reply. We
rang the bell, the front door open-
ed, and Humphrey surged into the
house., _ Bric-a-brac¢, lay shattered
on the floor as {Humphrey lept
dramatically: ‘into. living” ‘room, “just clearing the
grand. piano; ‘and. chewed. happily
ona very new red rug. ©

-Asmall Milquetéast-like: individ-
ual emerged from the. wreckage.
“Does Humphrey belong to you?”
we said merrily. “Good God, no!”
jhe said, ‘cowering against: the wall.

‘We tugged and. tagged, ‘but
Humphrey refused to ‘budge. Mum-
bling apologies, we begged for
help. “No thanks,” said the man.

“Wouldn’t go near the beast.”
Hours later, we were out in the
cold again, a chastened and dis-
consolate Humphrey at our bruis-
ed side. This time, we hit the right |
Continued on Page 5

ThirdHandHigh

by Judith Waldrop, '53

Huddled in her ancient Sears-
Roebuck shawl, a remnant of bet-
ter days, old Ellie Culbertson sat
by an oil stove, staring at the
ecards before her and writing furi-
ously: “South bids one spade.
North is in need of information,
and the spade response will not
prevent him from making any
cheaper rescue he may have plan-
ned for himself. North may pre-
fer a spade contract...” So en-
grossed was she in finishing her
copy for “The Daily Bridge Hand”
that she did not hear a masked
intruder furtively steal up behind
her. And when she was finally
aware of his presence, the knowl-
edge was hardly of any practical
use to her, for the stranger was
busily bludgeoning her with an
unidentified blunt instrument. With
a dying hiccup, she fell forward
on her table, clutching the ace of
spades with one hand, and with the
other, scrawling “Declarer enters
his hand with the spade ace.”

What strange hunch had prompt-
ed her to write those words? This
was the problem that confronted
Lieutenant Smythe-Frothingham of
homicide. “This smacks of vio-
lence,” he thought as he surveyed
the scene. Suddenly his fish-like
eye fell upon an ominous note: on
the table before the dead woman
was a common garden-variety
garden spade. He had not scrutin-
ized this object for more than an
hour and a half when he perceived
dried blood and grey hairs upon
the instrument. His brain, renown-
ed for its agility throughout seven
and a half continents, grasped the
implication.

“Sezglic,” he said, turning to his

assistant, “regard: the murder
weapon. The case is virtually
solved.”

“Ya doan_ say,” answered

Sezglic. “By the way, boss, I’ll bet
you a free subscription to the
Horror Book Club that her last
words will show us to the murder-
er. I’ll look through old Miss Cul-
bertson’s recent columns to. see
where she advised that the de-
clarer enter his hand with the
spade ace. Then I’ll check around
the local bridge clubs to find out
what player recently used that
tactic. If he lost the trick, I think
we’ve got our man.”

“Exactly as I suspected,” said
Smythe-Frothingham, “but enough
of these details—to work, man.”

Revenge Motive

The investigation was easier
done than said. Within a very few
hours, Smythe -Frothingham and
the chief of police were quizzing
their culprit. (Sezglic had slipped
out for a sardine sandwich.)

“Enough of this dallying,” rasp-
ed Smythe-Frothingham. “Con-
fess.”

The guilty man was hysterical.
“T did it! I did it! I’d been follow-
ing her advice for years, always
with success. And then, in- the big
tournament with the Lower Suds-
burg Bridge and Salami Club, she
failed me! I lost the trick. Revenge!
Revenge!” he snarled, and fell
over, insensible. :

“Good work,” said the chief of
police.. With ‘the copyright fees
from Gang Busters and This is
Your F.B.1., not to mention Holly-
wood, we should clean up twenty.
grand.on this case.”

“My sentiments exactly, old
chief of ' ‘police,” ‘said Smythe-
Frothingham, “but your use of the
pronoun ‘we’ is ill-advised. I solved
this case.” And so saying, he drew
out an unidentifiable revolver,
wrapped it fastidiously in a mono-
grammed handkerchief, and shot
the chief of police so full of holes
that the poor man looked more like
a Swiss cheese than an officer of
the law. Then Smyythe-Frothing-
ham tossed the smoking gun to
Sezglic, who happened to be enter-
ing the room.



“Tough Toek, old ‘{ellow, Remem-
- Continued on ‘Page s

Specially Contributed

by Gwynne Williams, ’50
We went to New York again
with Mr. Goodale—this time in
buses with box lunches. ‘We sat
in the back and opened windows
and were reminiscent. We felt
this was the last time we would
be going to New York with Mr.
Goodale, perhaps the last time we
would be going anywhere with Mr.
Goodale. We liked to have him
hovering as we gulped our coffee
at Arty’s while the buses tuned
up impatiently outside; as ‘we
fumbled amongst the chopped
meat and dill pickle surprises of
our box lunches we liked to think
Mr. Goodale was doing this too,
and as our bus passed his or his
passed ours we liked to see hia

face brooding at the window.

Our concert was at Hunter Col-
lege; we got there at two and piled
up against a door which was lock-
ed. We huddled in the ‘freezing
wind waiting for Mr. Goodale to



Teams Triumph;
Odds Win Honors

by Emmy Cadwalader, ’52

The Badminton Varsity and J.V.
finished their season victoriously
on Wednesday, March 15, when
they ‘beat Rosemont 5-0, 5-0. This
gives both teams an undefeated
season of which Bryn Mawr should
be very proud. The team was
captained by Anne Iglehart, and
Betty Crist acted as manager.
Both did a fine job in making the
team what it is. :

The Bryn Mawr Varsity Swim-
ming Team lost their first match
of the season on Thursday, March
16, in their meet with Swarthmore.
Both Varsity and J.V. scores were
very close all through the meet,
and it was by far the most excit-
ing match the team has had all
year. The Varsity lost 32-26, and
the J.V. 34-82, but even though the
final score was against Bryn
Mawr, we placed first in two of
the races and gave Swarthmore a
hard battle.

The Varsity and J.V. Volleyball

Continued on Page 4



Concert-Bound Traveler Chants
Her Tale of the Lonesome Time

do something. On impulse some of
us went around and entered the
other side of the building where
we found him wandering down cor-
ridors looking for the inside of the
door to let his chorus in. In the
Playhouse a part of Haverford
was playing the piano and prowl-
ing around the stage peering up
at flats. The rest hadn’t come yet;
they weren’t sure when it was
coming. Mr. Goodale joined the
prowling on the stage. Overcome
with restlessness, we started to
prowl too down a hushed corridor
past blinking elevators—at the
end a rather dingy one marked
Faculty Elevator. Around a cor-
ner we found the Collegiate Cho-
rale singing Christmas Carols. We
returned to an apologetic Haver-
ford announcing how fine . they
thought it was for us to wait; we
thought they were working up to
a large party invitation, but. no
they. just wanted us to know how
much they appreciated our wait-
ing. So after. rehearsal we went
down to create a party at our
sister’s, but this time there was
no answer to. our ring—-no turkey,
no sister, no party. We went and
drowned our sorrows in flounders
and . brandy at the Empire State
Building.: ’

After leaving and retrieving our
suitcase ‘with the remains of box
lunch and other valuables stuffed
in it in a taxi, we got back to
Hunter and a nervous and irate
Betty Jean hovering at the top of
some steps because we were a
little late and had her skirt in our
suitcase with’ the chopped meat
and dill pickle. Our concert open-
ed with the Vaughn Williams
Mass. “Vaughn not Gwynne,” said
Mr. Goodale and leered~ at us
around a flat. We sang some songs,
Haverford sang some, a Small
Mixed’ Russian Group sang some,
and we all sang Jerusalem.’

We started back a little after
ten. The driver turned out the
lights, and we lit our.first cigar-
ettes since lunch and watched the
city disappearing behind us. Down
under the Hudson River and across
New Jersey flats we sped. The
midnight stop at Arty’s roused us
to coffee and a drowsy glimpse of

Continued on Page 6



Return to Poetic

Specially contributed
by Gwynne Williams, ’50

We went to hear Mr. Peter Vie-
reck the other night on “The Re-
volt of Poetry,” the first in a series
of lectures at the University of
Pennsylvania on “The Revolt of
the Arts.” ‘Mr. Viereck hastened

to interpret this title as a revolt
against revolt, i.e. a “Return” to

the conservative tradition of
poetry: to clarity and communica-
bility.

The Return will ‘a effected by
means of a synthesis; he described
the synthesis by analogy to art.
17th century Baroque art in Italy
synthesized the classicism of thé
High Rennaissance and the disor-
ganized “passion” of the period
that followed it. The new Baroque
will similarly synthesize 18th cen-
tury neo-classicism and nineteenth
century Romanticism. The Greeks
who lived on the island of Sios
in the sixth century B. C. drank
clear water when young and heady
wine when older, but in old age
they indulged in “poison sipping.”
The new Baroque will mix the
water and the wine, but must not
indulge in the “poison sipping”
revealed in some contemporary
poetry (cf. Eliot’s “My nerves are
bad tonight .. .”)

Mr. Viereck ‘calls the new syn-
thesis a “Manhattan Classicism:
classic in form, Manhattan in tem-



perament; poetry which should



Conservative Viereck Advocates

Clarity of Old

achieve a ‘difficult simplicity.’ ”
He here distinguishes between
“legitimate difficulty” and ob--

scurity, in that the poem of the
profound or original thinker may
have a “legitimate difficulty” (cf.
Yeats’ last poems), whereas the
poem of the charlatan or wilful
eccentric may be “obscure.” (But.
there are few of these, and we
would maintain that it is still dif-
ficult to decide where cleverness
has outwitted sincerity.) He gives
as an example of the difficultly
simple. poem Robert Frost’s Sand
Dunes, and hastens to say that Mr.
Frost is as often liked as disliked
for the wrong reasons (i.e. there
are those who might.:like Frost
for being simple like Joyce Kil-

mer’s Trees and those who might

dislike him for the same wrong
reason.) But because Frost is a
“pastoral” poet, he does not indi-
cate “urban” Manhattan classi-
cism.

Mr. Viereck’s profound common
sense, so well expressed, con-
vinced us that he is the critic, not
the poet of the future. He has the
clear-viewed intelligence and the
temperament of the critic, and we
cannot help feeling he would, as it.
were, “fit the emotion to suit the
form.” But he will probably be
better able than we to judge the.
poet who, always true to his poetic:
instinct, discovers (or re-discovers):
that form which most perfectly
expresses his genuine feelings and
controls his passions.