xt7g1j97700c https://exploreuk.uky.edu/dips/xt7g1j97700c/data/mets.xml Rice, Cale Young, 1872-1943. 19131907  books b92-245-31687528 English Doubleday, Page, : New York : Contact the Special Collections Research Center for information regarding rights and use of this collection. Night in Avignon  : [a drama] / by Cale Young Rice. text Night in Avignon  : [a drama] / by Cale Young Rice. 1913 2002 true xt7g1j97700c section xt7g1j97700c 















A NIGHT IN AVIGNON

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A NIGHT IN



AVIGNON



BY



  CALE YOUNG RICE
Author of "Charles Di Tocca," "David,"
     "Plays and Lyrics," etc.



       NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
        McMXIII

 























    CopyrighIt, 1907, hy
CALE YOUNG RICE


  Publisied, March, 1907

 























       To

DONALD ROBERTSON

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A NIGHT IN AVIGNON

 

             CHARACTERS

FRANCESCO PETRARCA - A Young Poet and Scholar

CHERARDO   . . .   . His Brother, a Monk

LELLO     ..       . His Friend

ORSO .                His Servant

FILIPPA -     . . . . Ladies of light life in Avig-
SANCIA  -               non

MADONNA LAURA

 

   A NIGHT IN AVIGNON

SCENE: A room in the chambers of PETRARCA at

    Avignon. It opens on a loggia overlook-

    ing, on higher ground, the spired church

    oj Santa Clara ana the gray cloistes oj

    a Carthusian monastery. Beyond lte the

    city walls under glamour of the blue Pro-

    venpal night.

      The room, jaintly frescoed, is lighted

    with many candles; some glittering on a

    wine-table heavy with wines toward the

    right front. A door on the left leads to

    other rooms, and an arrased one opposite,
                     3

 
4         A NIGHT IN A VIGNON

    down to the street. Bookshelves and a

    writing-desk strewn with a lute and 'zrit-

    ings are also on the left; a crimson couch is

    in the centre; and garlands of myrtle and

    laurel deck the wine-table.

      GHERARDO, the monk, is seated by the

    desk, following with severe looks the steps

    o, PET R4RCA, who is walking feverishly to

    ond jro.

Gherardo (alter a pause). Listen. Another

        word, Francesco.

Petrarca.                     Aih!

    And then another-that will breed another.

Gherardo. Dote on this Laura still-if still

        you must:

    Woman's your destiny.

 
A NIGHT IN AVIGNON



    But quench these lights and set away that

        wine.

Petrarca. And to no other lips turn hers

        denied me

    Never, Gherardo!

Gherardo.        Virtue bids you.

Petrarca.                         Vainly!

    I've borne until I will not . . . For it is

    Two years now since in the aisles

    Of Santa Clara yonder my heart first

    Went from me on mad wings.

    Two years this April morning

    Since it fell fluttering before her feet . .

    As she stood there beside our blessed Lady,

    Gowned as young Spring in green and

        violets! . .



5

 
6        A NIGHT IN A VIGNON

GhCerardo. And these two years have been

        inviolate;

    Your life as pure as hers,

    As virgin-

    Save for the songs you've sung to her;

        those songs

    This idle city echoes with. But now

Petrarca. Now I will open all the gates to

        Pleasure!

    To rosy Pleasure-warm, unspiritual,

    Ready to spring

    Into the arms of all

    Whom bloodless Virtue pales.

    For, of restraint and hoping, I have drunk

    But a vintage of tears!

    And what has been my gain

 

A NIGHT IN A VIGNON



Gherardo.                Her chastity.

Petrarca. A chastity unchallenged of desire-

    And therefore none!

    Aih, none!

    For, were it other;

    Could I aver that once, that ever once

    Her lids had fallen low in fear of love,

    I'd bid the desert of my heart burn dry-

    To the last oasis-

    With resignation!

    But never have they, never! and I'm mad.

             (Pours out wine.)

Gherardo. And you will seek to cure it with

        more madness

    To cast the devil of love out of your veins

    With other love and lower!



7

 
8        A NIGHT rM AVIGNON

Petrarca.           Yes, yes, yes! (drinks.)

    With little Sancia's!

    Whose soul is a sweet sin!

    Who lives but for this life and asks of

        Death

    Only a breath of time before he ends it,

    To tell three beads and fill her mouth with

        aves.

    Just for enough, she says,

    "To tell God that He made me "-as He

        did.

Gherardo. And to blaspheme with! 0 ob-

        sessed man.

            (Hlas risen, flushed.)

    But you will fail! For this vain revelry

    Will ease not. And I see all love is base

 

         A NIGHT IN AVIGNON             9

    As say the Fathers-

    All! . . . and the body of woman

    Is Xile from the beginning.

Petrarca.                  Monkish lies!

        (Drinks again 'or courage.)

    The body of woman's born of bliss and

        beauty.

    Only one thing is fairer-that's her soul.

Gherardo. And is that Word which says thou

        shalt not look

    Upon another's wife a monkish lie

                 (Silence.)

    Your Laura is another's.

Petrarca (torn).          As I found!

    After my heart became a poison flame

    Within me!

 
A NIGHT IN A VIGNON



A fierce inquisitor against my peace!

After I followed her from Santa Clara,

That mass-hour,

To an escutcheoned door!

After and not before . . . And such an-

    other's!

Ugo di Sade's!

A beast whose sullen mind two thoughts

    would drain;

Whose breath is a poltroon's;

Who is unkind. . . . I've seen her weep;

    who loves

Her not. . . And yet the fane of song I

    frame her,

The love I bum on it, she laughs away.

To hide her own . . . I will not so believe.



IO

 

         A NIGHT IN A VIGNON            II

Gizerardo. Nor should you.

Petrarca.        Yet you bid me quarry still

    The deeps of me to shrine her

    And be Avignon's laughter

    A mock, a titter on the tongue of geese

    That gad the city gates

    A type of fools that sigh while others kiss

    "Francesco Petrarca!

    Who never clasped his mistress-but in a

        sonnet!

    Who fills empty canzone with his passion-

    But never her ears!

    Never!-though she was wed against her

        will

    To an unlettered boor out bartering-

    One whom she well could leave!" . . .

 
t2       A NIGHT IN A VIGNON

    I'll not, Gherardo! . . . Sonnets

         (Tears several from desk.)

    Vain, all!.. .

            (Casts them away.)

    But Lello comes! and brings me Sancia!

    Filippa! merry Filippa and Sancia!

    We'll drink!-wine of Rocella!

    Wine of the Rhine! Bielna ! San Porciano !-

    And kiss!

          (Throws back his head.)

    Kiss with the lips of life and not of .

    (A knell has begun to beat from the church

        without. He hears it, and, awed,

        sinks, crossing himself, to the couch.)

        (GHERARio, exalted, shudders.)

Gherardo, It is the knell of Matteo Banista,

 
A NIGHT IN A VIGNON



    Whose soul is gone for its licentious days

    Upon steep purgatory.

              (Prepares to go.)

    Your sin be on you . . . and it will.

Petrarca (fearful).           No! . . . no!

                (Starts up.)

    But hear, Gherardo, hear!

          (His words come stifled.)

    There in the cloister have you peace-in

        prayer

    In visions-penances . . .

    Swear that you have! swear to me! once!

        . . .but once!

    And I . . . !.

    No, never! . . . never!

            (He wipes his brow.)



13

 
A NIGHT IN A VIGNON



While we are in the world the world's in us.

The Holy Church I own-

Confess her Heaven's queen;

But we are flesh and all things that are fair

God made us to enjoy-

Or, high in Paradise, we'll know but

    sorrow.

You though would ban earth's beauty,

Even the torch of Glory

That kindled Italy once and led great

    Greece-

The torch of Plato, Homer, Virgil, all

The sacred bards and sages, pagan-born!

I love them! they are divine!

And so to-night . . .

             (Voices.)



14

 
         A NIGHT IN A VIGNON            15

   They! it is Lello! Lello! Sancia!

   (Hears a lute and laughter below, then a

        call, "Sing, Sancia"; then SANCIA

        singing:)

    To the maids of Saint Remy

      All the gallants go for pleasure;

    To the maids of Saint Remy-

      Tripping to love's measure!

    To the dames of Avignon

      All the masters go for wiving;

    To the dames of Avignon-

      That shall be their shriving!

    (He goes to the Loggia as they gayly ap-

        plaud. Then LELLO cries:)

Lello. Ho-ho! Petrarca! Pagan! are you

        in

 
A NIGHT IN A VIGNON



    What! are you sonnet-monger

Petrarca.                     Ai, ai, aih!

      (Motions GHERARDo-who goes.)

Lello. Come then! Your door is locked!

        down! let us in!

                (Rattles it.)

Petrarca. No, ribald! hold! the key is on the

        sill!

    Look for it and ascend!

               (ORso enters.)

    Stay, here is Orso!

    (The old servant goes through and down

        the stairs to meet them. In a moment

        the tramp of feet is heard and they

        enter-LELLo between them-singing:)

    Guelph! Guelph! and Ghibbeline!

 

     A NIGHT IN A VIGNON           I7

Ehyo! ninni ! onni ! 6nz!

I went fishing on All Saints' Day

And-caught but human bones!



I went fishing on All Saints' Day.

The Rhone ran swift, the wind blew black!

I went fishing on All Saints' Day-

But my love called me back!



She called me back and she kissed my

    lps-

Oh, my lips! Oh, onni! 6nz!

"Better take life than death," said she,

Better take love than-bones! bones!

     (SANCIA kisses PETRARCA.)

Better take love than bones."

 
18       A NIGHT IN A VIGNON

(They scatter with glee and PETRARCA seizes

              SANCIA to him.)

Petrarca. Yes, little Sancia! and you, my

        friends!

    Warm love is better, better!

    And braver! Come, Lello! give me your

        hand!

    And you, Filippa! No, I'll have your lips!

Sancia (interposing). Or-less One at a

        time, Messer Petrarca!

    You learn too fast. Mine only for to-night.

Petrarca. And for a thousand nights, Sancia

              fair!

Sancia. You hear him Santa Madonna!

            pour us wine,

    To pledge him in!

 
         A NIGHT IN A VIGNON            I9

Petrarca.     The tankards bubble o'er!

         (They go to the table.)

    And see, they are wreathed of April,

    With loving myrtle and laurel intertwined.

    We'll hold symposium, as bacchanals!

Sancia. And that is-what some dull and

            silly show

    Out of your sallow books

Petrarca.       Those books were writ

    With ink of the gods, my Sancia, upon

    Papyri of the stars!

Sancia.               And-long ago

    Ha! long ago

Peirarca.              Returnless centuries!

Sancia (contemptuously). Who loves the past,

        loves mummies and their dust-

 
     A NIGHT IN A VIGNON

And he will mould!

Who loves the future loves what may not be,

And feeds on fear.

Only one flower has Time-its name is

    Now!



Come, pluck it! pluck it!

o.               Brava, maid! the Now!

-ia (dancing). Come, pluck it! pluck it!

carca.               By my soul, I will!

         (Seizes her again.)

It grows upon these lips-and if to-night

They leant out over the brink of Hell, I

    would.

       (She breaks from him.)

ppa. Enough! the wine! the wine!

cia.                     0 ever-thirsty



20



Lellt

Sam

Petr,



Fili

Sano

 
         A NIGHT IN AVIGNON             21

    And ever-thrifty Pippa! Well, pour out!

         (She lilts a brimming cup.)

    We'll drink to Messer Petrarca-

    Who's weary of his bed-mate, Solitude.

    May he long revel in the courts of Venus!

All (drinking). Aih, long!

Petrarca.  As long as Sancia enchants them!

Filippa. I'd trust him not, Sancia. Put him

             to oath.

Sancia. And, to the rack, if faithless This

            Filippa!

    Messer Petrarca, should she not be made

    High Jurisconsult to our lord, the Devil,

    Whose breath of life is oaths . . .

    But, swear it! . . . by the Saints!

    Who were great sinners all!

 
A NIGHT IN A VIGNON



    And by the bones of every monk or nun

    Who ever darkened the world!

Lello.                   Or ever shall!

                (A pause.)

Petrarca. I'll swear your eves are singing

    Under the shadow of your hair, mad Sancia,

    Like nightingales in the wood.

Sancia.              Pah! Messer Poet .. .

    Such words as those you vent without an

        end-

    To the Lady Laura!

Petrarca. Stop!

               (Grows pale.)

    Not her name-here!

        (All have sat down; he rises.)

Sancia. O-ho! this air will soil it and it might



22

 

        A NIGHT IN A VIGNON           23

   Not sound so sweet in sonnets ever after

          (To the rest-rising:)

   Shall we depart, that he may still indite

       them

   'To Laura-On the Vanity of Pas-

         sion " 

   "To Laura-Unrelenting"

   " To Laura-Whose Departing Darkens

       the Sky"

               (Laughs.)

   "To Laura-Who Deigns Not a Single

       Tear" 

              (ORso enters.)

   Shall we depart

Lello.          Peace! Sancia.

Sancia.                      Ah-ha!

 
24       A NIGHT IN A VIGNON

              (Moves away.)

Petrarca (still tensely-to ORSO). Speak.

Orso.                  Sir, you are desired.

Petrarca.                By whom

Orso.                              Her veil

    Was lifted and she told me:

    Therefore I say it out-Maclonna Laura.

        (All stare, amazed. Silence.)

Petrarca (hoarsely). What lie is this!

Orso.                I am too old to lie.

Sancia (laughing). Who was the goddess that

        his books tell of,

    The cold one so long chaste, but who at

        last-

Lello. Be silent, Sancia! Francesco . . . what

Petrarca (to ORSO). Lead Monna Laura here-

 
         A NIGHT IN A VIGNON           25

               (ORso goes.)

    If it is she! . . .

    But you, my friends, must know how

        strange this is,

    And how-! . . . I have no words!

    Wait me, I pray you, yonder, in that

        chamber.

    (They go, left, SANcIA shrugging. Then

        ORSo brings LAURA, whom PETRARCA

        is helpless to greet, and who falters-

        yet nobly determining, comes down.)

Laura. Messer Petrarca, . . . I have been im-

            pelled

   To come . . . and as the purest should,

         boldly,

    With lifted veil, to say .

 

26       A NIGHT IN A VIGNON

Petrarca.                   Lady!

Laura.                           To say-

    (Of gratitude I cannot give another . . .

    For life to a woman is but resignation,

    And that at last is shame) . . .

Petrarca.         At last. .. shame

Laura. To say-Love is to us as light to the

        lilies

    That lean by Mont Ventoux.

    The love of one pure man for one pure

        woman.

Peirarca (dazed). Lady! . . .

Laura.                 Yes, and-I've been

        unkind to you.

    Ungentle ever.

            (Shakes her head.)

 
         A NIGHT IN A VIGNON           27

    But there's no other way sometimes for

        those

    Who would be wholly true.

    And yet . . . do I owe any truth to him

Petrarca. To-Ugo di Sade

Laura (bitterly). Who is called my husband

    How I was bound to him, you know! and

        how

    I've dwelt and have endured more than his

        bursts

    Of burning cruelty. For still, I thought,

    He is my husband!

    And still-He is my husband! . . .

    But now no more I think it-oh! no more!

    Too visible it is

    That he belongs to any-who sell love.

 
A NIGHT IN A VIGNON



    So I may innocently say to you

    Who for two years have sung my name

        and suffered,

    Yet never once have turned unto another-

             (PETRARCA pales.)

    I well may say . . .

         (Stopped by his manner.)

    There's something that you . . . Ah!

    (Sees, stricken, his grief and shame. Then

        her glance goes round the room and fails

        on the wine-table.. . Then SANCIA is

        heard within:)

Sancia. Well, well, Messer Petrarca! How

        long will

    You shut us in this dark-that is as black

    As old Pope John the twenty-second's soul



28

 

A NIGHT IN A VIGNON



    A pretty festa, this!

Petrarca (brokenly). Merciless God!

    (Falls abased before LAURA'S look, tor-

        tured with remorse.)

    0 lady, what have I done beyond re-

        pair!

            (She gathers her veil.)

    What have I lost within this gulf of shame!

    For a paltry pleasure have I sold my dream,

    Whose pinions would have lifted you at

        last 

Laura (very pale). I did not know, Messer

        Petrarca, you

    Had friends awaiting.

              (Pauses numbly.)

    I came to-night, as first I would have said,



29

 
30       A NIGHT IN A VIGNON

    With holy gratitude-

    For a love I thought you gave.

    With gratitude that honor well could

        speak,

    I thought, and yet be honor;

    With gratitude forgetful of all else . . .

    And trusting . . . But no matter:

    All trust shall be embalmed and laid

         away.

    I go with pity; seeing

    My husband-is even as other men.

    (Size passes to the door and out: PETRARCA

        moans. Then LELLO enters and comes

        to him anxiously.)

Lello. Francesco !

Petrarca.       Lello !

 

     A NIGHT IN A VIGNON            31

             (Dazed.)

Lello! Have I dreamed

       (Rising, -wilh anguish.)

Did Laura come to me out of the night-

Come as the first voice breaking beyond

    death

To one despairing

And was I lifted up to Heaven-s dawn

And then . . .



             (Reels.)

God! am I falling ...  shall I

Down   this. ..  . .. iMy fr

    with me!

No, go . . . and take them  as

    Sancia-all! .

I have slain the Spring forever!



ever. ..

iend stay



-ith you-

 
     A NIGHT IN A VIGNON

The green of the whole fair world! . . . 0

    Laura! Laura!

(Sinks down on the couch a,:d buries his lace

    in his arms. LELLO goes sorrowfully

    out.)



            THE END.

 




































q_



THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS
    GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

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               PORZIA
                    By
         CALE YOUNG RICE
IT PRESENTS a last phase of the Renais-
    sance with great effect."  Sir Sidney Lee.
      "' Porzia' is a very romantic and beauti-
ful thing. After a third reading I enjoy and
admire it still more." Gilbert Murray.
  "There are certain lyrical qualities in the
dramas of Cale Young Rice and certain dra-
matic qualities in many of his finest lyrics
that make it very difficult for the critic to
resolve whether he is highest as singer or
dramatist. 'Porzia' is a poetic play in which
these two gifts blend with subtle and powerful
effectiveness. It is not written in stereotyped
heroic verse, but in sensitive metrical lines
that vary in beat and measure with the
strength, the tenderness, the anguish, bitter-
ness and passion of love or hate they have to
express. The bizarre and poignant central
incident on which the action of 'Porzia' turns
is such as would have appealed irresistibly
to the imagination and dramatic instincts
of the great Elizabethan dramatists, and Mr.
Rice has developed it with a force and imagina-
tive beauty that they alone could have
equaled and with a restraint and delicacy of
touch which makes pitiful and beautiful a



.4

 






story they would have clothed in horror.
. . . He turns what might have been a
tragic close to something that is loftier and
more moving. . . . It matters little that
we hesitate between ranking Mr. Rice highest
as dramatist or lyrist; what matters is that
he has the faculty divine beyond any living
poet of America; his inspiration is true, and
his poetry is the real thing." The London
Bookman.
  "'Porzia' has the swift human movement
which Mr. Rice puts into his dramas, and
technique of a very high order. . . . The
dramatic form is the most difficult to sustain
harmoniously and this Mr. Rice always
achieves." The Baltimore News.

  "To the making of 'Porzia' Mr. Rice has
summoned all the resources of his dramatic
skill. On the constructive side it is particu-
larly strong. .  .. The opening scene is
certainly one of the happiest Mr. Rice has
written, while the climaxing third act is a
brilliant piece of character study . ...
The play is rich in poetry; . . in it Mr.
Rice has scored another success . . . in
a field where work of permanent value is
rarely achieved." Albert S. Henry (The
Book News Monthly).

  "Mr. Rice apes neither the high-flown style
of the Elizabethans, nor the turgid and cryptic



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style of Browning   . . . 'Porzia' should
attract the praise of all who wish to see real
literature written in this country again."
The Covington (Ky.) Post.
  "The complete mastery of technique, the
dignity and dramatic force of the characters,
the beauty of the language and clear directness
of the style together with the vivid imagina-
tion needed to portray so strikingly the
renaissance spirit and atmosphere, make the
work one that should last." The Springfield
(Mass.) Homestead.
  "It is not unjust to say that Cale Young
Rice holds in America the position that
Stephen Phillips holds in England." The
Scotsman (Edinburgh).
  "Had no other poetic drama than this been
written in America, there would be hope for
the future of poetry on the stage." John G.
Neihardt (The Minneapolis Journal).



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         FAR QUESTS

         CALE YOUNG RICE

    HE countrymen of Cale Young Rice
    apparently regard him as the equal of
    the great American poets of the past.
    Far Quests is good unquestionably. It
shows a wide range of thought, and sympathy,
and real skill in workmanship, while occasion-
ally it rises to heights of simplicity and truth,
that suggest such inspiration as should mean
lasting fame.- The Daily Telegraph (London).
  "Mr. Rice's lyrics are deeply impressive.
A large number are complete and full-blooded
works of art."-Prof. Wm. Lyon Phelps (Yale
University).
  "Far Quests contains much beautiful work-
the work of a real poet in imagination and
achievement."-Prof. J. IV. AMackail (Oxford
University).
  "Mr. Rice is determined to get away from
local or national limitations and be at what-
ever cost universal. . . . These poems
are always animated by a force and freshness
of feeling rare in work of such high virtu-
osity."-The Scotsman (Edinburgh).
  "Mr. Cale Young Rice is acknowledged by
his countrymen to be one of their great poets.



1!

 






There is great charm in his nature songs (of
this volume) and in his songs of the East.
Mr. Rice writes with great simplicity and
beauty." - The Sphere (London).
  Mr. Rice's forte is poetic drama. Yet in
the act of saying this the critic is confronted
by such poems as The Mystic . . . These
are the poems of a thinker, a man of large
horizons, an optimist profoundly impressed
with the pathos of man's quest for happiness
in all lands."- The Chicago Record-Herald.
  " Mr. Rice's latest volume shows no diminu-
ition of poetic power. Fecundity is a mark
of the genuine poet, and a glance through
these pages will demonstrate how rich Mr.
Rice is in vitality and variety of thought
   . There is too, the unmistakable qual-
ity of style. It is spontaneous, flexible, and
strong with the strength of simplicity -a style
of rare distinction.-Albert S. Henry, (The
Book News Monthly, Philadelphia).

 








THE IMMORTAL LURE

           CALE YOUNG RICE
  It is great art - with great vitality.
                              James Lane Allen.
  In the midst of the Spring rush there arrives one
book for which all else is pushed aside  . . . We
have been educated to the belief that a man must be
long dead before he can be enrolled with the great
ones. Let us forget this cruel teaching  . . . This
volume contains four poetic dramas all different in
setting, and all so beautiful that we cannot choose
one more perfect than another. . . . Too extra-
vagant praise cannot be given Mr. Rice.
                         The San Francisco Call.
  Four brief dramas, different from Paola & Francesca,
but excelling it-or any other of Mr. Phillips's work, it
is safe to say - in a vivid presentment of a supreme
moment in the lives of the characters . . . They
form excellent examples of the range of Mr. Rice's
genius in this field. The New York Times Review.
  Mr. Rice is quite the most ambitious, and most
distinguished of contemporary poetic dramatists in
America. The Boston Transcript (IV. S. Braithwaite.)
  The vigor and originality of Mr. Rice's work never
outweigh that first qualification, beauty  . . . No
American writer has so enriched the body of our poetic
literature in the past few years.
                      The New Orleans Picayune.
  Mr. Rice is beyond doubt the most distinguished
poetic dramatist America has yet produced.
                          The Detroit Free Press.
  That in Cale Young Rice a new American poet
of great power and originality has arisen cannot be
denied.  He has somehow    discovered the secret
of the mystery, wonder and spirituality of human



I



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existence, which has been all but lost in our commer-
cial civilization. May he succeed in awakening our
people from sordid dreams of gain.
                 Rochester (N. Y. ) Post Express.
  No writer in England or America holds himself to
higher ideals (than Mr. Rice) and everything he does
bears the imprint of exquisite taste and the finest
poetic instinct.          The Portland Oregonian.
  In simplicity of art form and sheer mystery of
romanticism these poetic dramas embody the new
century artistry that is remaking current imaginative
literature.     The Philadelphia North American.
  Cale Young Rice is justly regarded as the leading
master of the difficult form of poetic drama.
                            Portland (Me.) Press.
  Mr. Rice has outlived the prophesy that he would
one day rival Stephen Phillips in the poetic drama.
As dexterous in the mechanism of his art, the young
American is the Englishman's superior in that unforced
quality which bespeaks true inspiration, and in a wider
variety of manner and theme.
                         San Francisco Chronicle.
  Mr. Rice's work has often been compared to Stephen
Phillips's and there is great resemblance in their ex-
pression of high vision. Mr. Rice's technique is sure
        his knowledge of his settings impeccable, and
one feels sincerely the passion, power and sensuous
beauty of the whole.   "Arduin "(one of the plays)
is perfect tragedy; as rounded as a sphere, as terrible
as death.                      Review of Reviews.
  The Immortal Lure is a very beautiful work.
               The Springfield (Alass.) Republican.
  The action in Mr. Rice's dramas is invariably
compact and powerful, his writing remarkably forcible
and clear, with a rare grasp of form. The plays are
brief and classic.                Baltimore News.



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  These four dramas, each a separate unit perfect
in itself and differing widely in treatment, are yet
vitally related by reason of the one central theme,
wrought out with rich imagery and with compelling
dramatic power.        The Louisville Times (U. S.)
  The literary and poetical merit of these dramas is
undeniable, and they are charged with the emotional
life and human interest that should, but do not, al-
ways go along with those other high gifts.
                           The (London) Bookman.
  Mr. Rice never [ like Stephen Phillips ] mistakes
strenuous phrase for strong thought. He makes his
blank verse his servant, and it has the stage merit of
possessing the freedom of prose while retaining the
impassioned movement of poetry.
                    The Glasgow (Scotland) Herald.
  These firm and vivid pieces of work are truly wel-
come as examples of poetic force that succeeds with-
out the help of poetic license.
                     The Literary World (London.)
  We do not possess a living American poet whose
utterance is so clear, so felicitous, so free from the
inane and meretricious folly of sugared lines. .
No one has a better understanding of the development
of dramatic action than Mr. Rice.
         The Book News Monthly (Albert S. Henry.)







  COUNnY'IIEE       TnRWOR'tWaruc      TUEX GREN
  1K AMERICA                            MAGAZINE
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & CO., GARDEN CITY, N. Y.

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          MANY GODS
                    By
        CALE YOUNG RICE

     HESE poems are Dashingly, glowingly
       full of the East.   ... What I
       am  sure of in Mr. Rice is that here
we have an American poet whom we may
claim as ours." The North American Review
(William Dean Howells).
  "Mr. Rice has the gift of leadership.
and he is a force with whom we must reckon."
The Boston Transcript.
         "XWe find here a poet who strives
to reach the goal which marks the best that
can be done in poetry."   The Book News
Monthly (A. S. Henry).
  "When ycu hear the pessimists bewailing
the good old time when real poets were abroad
in the land . . . do not fail to quote
them almost anything by Cale Young Rice,
a real poet writing to-day. . . . He has
done so much splendid work one can scarcely
praise him too highly." The San Francisco
Call.
  "'In Many Gods' the scenes are those of
the East, and while it is not the East of
Loti, Arnold or Hearn, it is still a place of



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brooding, majesty, mystery and subtle fasci-
nation. There is a temptation to quote
such verses for their melody, dignity of form,
beauty of imagery and height of inspiration."
She Chicago Journal.
  "'Love's Cynic' (a long poem in the vol-
ume) might be by Browning at his best."
Pittsburg Gazette-Times.
  "This is a serious, and from any standpoint,
a successful piece of work . . . in it
are poems that will become classic." Passaic
(New Jersey) News.
  "Mr. Rice must be hailed as one among
living masters of his art, one to whom we may
look for yet greater things." Presbyterian
Advance.
  "This book is in many respects a remark-
able work. The poems are indeed poems."
The Nashville Banner.
  "Mr. Rice's poetical plays reach a high
level of achievement.... But these
poems show a higher vision and surer mastery
of expression than ever before." The London
Bookman.
          Net, 8I.25 (postage I2C.)



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       NIRVANA DAYS
                Poems by
        CALE YOUNG RICE

      R. RICE has the technical cunning
M4    that makes up almost the entire
        equipment of many poets nowadays,
but human nature is more to him always
. . . and he has the feeling and imagina-
tive sympathy without which all poetry is
but an empty and vain thing." The London
Bookman.
  " Mr. Rice's note is a clarion call, and of his
two poems, 'The Strong Man to His Sires' and
'The Young to the Old,' the former will send
a thrill to the heart of every man who has the
instinct of race in his blood, while the latter
should be printed above the desk of every
minor poet and pessimist. . . . The son-
nets of the sequence, 'Quest and Requital,'
have the elements of great poetry in them."
The Glasgow (Scotland) Herald.
  "Mr. Rice's poems are singularly free from
affectation, and he seems to have written be-
cause of the sincere need of expressing some-
thing that had to take art form." The Sun
(New York).
  "The ability to write verse that scans is
quite common. . . . But the inspired
thought behind the lines is a different



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thing; and it is this thought untrammeled
-the clear vision searching into the deeps
of human emotion - which gives the verse
of Mr. Rice weight and potency. . . . In
the range of his metrical skill he easily stands
with the best of living craftsmen  . . .
and we have in him   . . . a poet whose
dramas and lyrics will endure." The Book
News Monthly (A. S. Henry).
  "These poems are marked by a breadth
of outlook, individuality and beauty of
thought. The author reveals deep, sincere
feeling on topics which do not readily lend
themselves to artistic expression and which
he makes eminently worth while." The
Buffalo (N. Y.) Courier.
  " We get throughout the idea of a vast
universe and of the soul merging itse