Cale Young Rice, poet and dramatist, was born at Dixon, Kentucky, December 7, 1872. He graduated from Cumberland University, in Tennessee, and then went to Harvard University, where he received his Bachelor of Arts degree in 1895, and his Master's degree in the following year. In 1902 Mr. Rice was married to Miss Alice Caldwell Hegan, whose Mrs. Wiggs of the Cabbage Patch had been published the year before. Mr. Rice has been busy for years as a lyric poet and maker of plays for the study, though several of them, indeed, have received stage presentation. His several books of shorter poems are: From Dusk to Dusk (Nashville, Tennessee, 1898); With Omar (Lebanon, Tennessee, 1900), privately printed in an edition of forty copies; Song Surf (Boston, 1901), in which With Omar was reprinted; Nirvana Days (New York, 1908); Many Gods (New York, 1910); and his latest book of lyrics, Far Quests (New York, 1912). Mr. Rice's plays have been published as follows: Charles di Tocca (New York, 1903); David (New York, 1904); Plays and Lyrics (London and New York, 1906), a large octavo containing David, Yolanda of Cyprus, a poetic drama, and all of his best work; A Night in Avignon (New York, 1907), a little one-act play based upon the loves of Petrarch and Laura, which was "put upon the boards" in Chicago with Donald Robertson in the leading role. It was part one of a dramatic trilogy of the Italian Renaissance. Next came a reprinting in an individual volume of his Yolanda of Cyprus (New York, 1908); and The Immortal Lure (New York, 1911), four plays, the first of which, Giorgione, is part two of the trilogy of one-act plays of which A Night in Avignon was the first part. The trilogy will be closed with another one-act drama, Porzia, which is now announced for publication in January, 1913. Mr. Rice has been characterized by the New York Times as a "doubtful poet," but that paper's recent and uncalled for attack upon Madison Cawein, together with many other seemingly absurd positions, makes one wonder if it is not a "doubtful judge." After all is said, it must be admitted that Mr. Rice has done a small group of rather pleasing lyrics, and that his plays, perhaps impossible as safe vehicles for an actor with a reputation to sustain, are not as turgid as The Times often is, and not as superlatively poor as some critics have held. Of course, Mr. Rice is not a great dramatist, nor a great poet, yet the body of his work is considerable, and our literature could ill afford to be rid of it. The Rices have an attractive home in St. James Court, Louisville, Kentucky.

Bibliography. The Critic (September, 1904); The Atlantic Monthly (September, 1904); The Bookman (December, 1911); Lippincott's Magazine (January, 1912).

PETRARCA AND SANCIA[71]

[From A Night in Avignon (New York, 1907)]

Petrarca. 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—I—
(Voices.)
They! it is Lello! Lello! Lello! Sancia!—

(Hears a lute and laughter below, then a call, "Sing, Sancia"; then Sancia singing:)

To the maids of Saint RÈmy
All the gallants go for pleasure;
To the maids of Saint RÈmy—
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 applaud. Then Lello cries:)

Lello. Ho-ho! Petrarca! Pagan! are you in?
What! are you a sonnet-monger?
Petrarca. Ai, ai, aih!
(Motions Gherhardo—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!
Ehyo! ninni! onni! onz!
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 lips—
Oh, my lips! Oh! onni onz!
"Better take love than—bones! bones!
(Sancia kisses Petrarca.)
Better take love than bones."

(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!
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?
Petrarca. Returnless centuries!
Sancia. (contemptuously). Who loves the past,
Loves mummies and their dust—
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!
Lello. Brava, maid! the Now!
Sancia. (dancing). Come, pluck it! pluck it!
Petrarca. 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.)
Flippa. Enough! the wine! the wine!
Sancia. O ever-thirsty
And ever-thrifty Pippa! Well, pour out!
(She lifts 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!
Flippa. I'd trust him not, Sancia. Put him to oath.
Sancia. And, to the rack, if faithless? This Flippa!
Messer Petrarca, should 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!
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 eyes 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
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 Passion?"
"To Laura—Unrelenting?"
"To Laura—Whose Departing Darkens the Sky?"
(Laughs.)
"To Laura—Who Deigns Not a Single Tear?"
(Orso enters.)
Shall we depart?