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 0' 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.
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