Chapter I: Introduction (1)

The present work owes its existence to a conviction on the part of its editors that much material published by past Williams undergraduates in past and present literary periodicals of the college, deserves a resurrection from the threatening oblivion of musty library shelves. That this conviction has been justified by the quality of the verse and prose herein published, the editors believe; and they therefore submit this volume to the public without undue fear as to its reception, adding only the caution that its readers remember always the tender age of the writers of these pages.

The purpose of the editors was to collect material which might be adjudged to possess real literary merit; but in some cases in which the historical interest attaching to the production, either by reason of its subject or by reason of the fame attained in later years by its author, is obvious, this rule has been waived. Among such exceptions may be cited that of the Resolutions addressed to President Adams by the students, and copied herein from the pages of the _Vidette_. The matter has been arranged in the order of class seniority, with two exceptions. It has seemed fitting to the editors to begin the work with that immortal song, "The Mountains"; the second exception is that of the series of biographical sketches entitled "Nine Williams Alumni," which for obvious reasons were published as a whole.

The editors burrowed through all files of the college publications which the college library contains, files which are reasonably complete. In such a mass of material, some ninety volumes, it will be astounding indeed if some creditable work has not been passed inadvertently over. If such a mistake has occurred it is at least pardonable. The editors fear only the presence of some unworthy matter in this volume, a sin of commission and hence vastly more heinous.

In going over the works of their academic ancestors the editors have been struck by several very interesting facts. The literary quality of the poetry, as all will recognize, has made a steady advance, until the last six years of the _Lit_. have seen the magazine second to none, for verse at least, in the intercollegiate press. Dutton, Westermann, Gibson, Holley, all of the same collegiate generation--they are names which are widely known and which have brought the college renown of a nature which, ordinarily, she is apt to obtain rather by athletic than by intellectual means. It is striking, too, to notice how the college poetry has changed during the seventy years of its existence, as the present compilers have known it. There are specimens of the "poetry" of the early days included herein, which find a place, as is intimated elsewhere, not so much for their intrinsic merit as for the interest attaching to them in other directions; and as for the prose of the _Quarterly_ and the _Vidette_, it was, indeed, like the essays of the college press to-day, carefully written and with a degree of that indescribable something called "style"; but so philosophical, heavy, and devoid of any human interest that we cannot imagine the average student going through the magazine at a sitting as (despite all reports to the contrary) is done with the college papers to-day.

An interesting light on the alteration in undergraduate problems that has gradually come about is furnished by a reading of Mr. Mabie's essay included herein. At the time of its production Mr. Mabie saw the need of a greater degree of organization among the students, in order that the college might thereby become more of a community. How directly opposed the present-day cry is! Student organization has to-day so spread and so wound itself about the very life of the college, that it threatens to hide the intellectual aims for which the college exists. The editors venture to express the opinion that, had Mr. Mabie written when they are writing, his essay would perhaps have had a different tone.

The college has indeed much to be proud of in its literature and journalism--for it has been enriched with names like Bryant, Prime, Franklin Carter, Mabie, Stoddard, Scudder, Alden, Gladden, G.L. Raymond, L.W. Spring, G. Stanley Hall, H.L. Nelson, G.E. MacLean, Cuthbert Hall, Isaac Henderson, Bliss Perry, F.J. Mather, Rollo Ogden: many of them are represented here; and we are glad for the college that their fame had its beginnings, even if often modest, in our student publications.

For the purpose of embodying the literary history of the college as completely as possible in one volume, the compilers have added an appendix containing the names of the editors of the _Literary Monthly_ for the twenty-six years of its existence. For the same purpose, they quote below a chronological sketch of the various publications, which appeared in the _Gulielmensian_ of the class of 1908. The present editors cannot vouch for all the facts there set forth.

"So far as is known, the earliest periodical published by Williams undergraduates was _The Adelphi_, a bi-weekly, of which the first issue appeared August 18, 1831, and the last June 21, 1832. After twelve years _The Williams Monthly Miscellany_ was started in July, 1844, and continued until September, 1845. After another lapse of several years, _The Williams Quarterly Magazine_ was founded in July, 1853, and continued publication until June, 1872. Meantime, April 13, 1867, _The Williams Vidette_ had been started, and in 1872, the older _Quarterly_ was merged into it. The _Vidette_ was published fortnightly until June, 1874, when it, together with _The Williams Review_, a tri-weekly, started in June, 1870, was united to form the fortnightly _Williams Athenoeum_, the first issue of which appeared October 10, 1874. In May, 1881, another fortnightly, _The Argo_, was started, which, with _The Athenoeum_, appeared in alternate weeks until April, 1885, when the two gave place simultaneously to _The Williams Literary Monthly_ and _The Fortnight_. Two years later, April, 1887, _The Fortnight_ was reorganized into _The Williams Weekly_. In 1904 _The Williams Weekly_ became _The Williams Record_.

"Volume I of the _Gulielmensian_ appeared in the early spring of 1857."

To these must be added two more, whose existences have begun since the above was published. A humorous monthly, _The Purple Cow_, first saw the light in the fall of 1907 and has since prospered. Two volumes have appeared of _Coffee Club Papers_, containing productions read before the meetings of that body. The first volume bears the date of 1909 and the second of 1910. Every class on its graduation publishes its _Class Book_ and these sometimes attain a degree of literary merit; hence any review of the literary interests of the college would be incomplete without at least mention of them.

* * * * *

And now the editors have done their task. It has been pleasant work; may the results prove as pleasant to those before whose literary palates they are spread. It remains only to thank the alumni for their loyal financial support through the subscription blanks sent out in June, and the library staff of the college for the generosity with which more than the ordinary facilities of the library have been tendered.

THE EDITORS.

_Williamstown, Massachusetts, November 1, 1910_.

A WILLIAMS ANTHOLOGY

THE MOUNTAINS

WASHINGTON GLADDEN '59

O, proudly rise the monarchs of our mountain land,
With their kingly forest robes, to the sky,
Where Alma Mater dwelleth with her chosen band,
Where the peaceful river floweth gently by.

_Chorus_.
The mountains! the mountains! we greet them with a song!
Whose echoes, rebounding their woodland heights along,
Shall mingle with anthems that winds and fountains sing,
Till hill and valley gaily, gaily ring.

The snows of winter crown them with a crystal crown,
And the silver clouds of summer round them cling;
The autumn's scarlet mantle flows in richness down;
And they revel in the garniture of spring. _Chorus_.

O, mightily they battle with the storm-king's pow'r;
And, conquerors, shall triumph here for aye;
Yet quietly their shadows fall at evening hour,
While the gentle breezes round them softly play. _Chorus_.

Beneath their peaceful shadows may old Williams stand,
Till suns and mountains never more shall be,
The glory and the honor of our mountain land,
And the dwelling of the gallant and the free. _Chorus_.

_Quarterly_, 1859.

ADDRESS OF THE STUDENTS OF WILLIAMS COLLEGE TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES

From the _Hampshire Gazette_, Northampton, Mass., July 25, 1798

Sir,--Though members of an infant Institution and of little comparative weight in the scale of the Union, we feel for the interest of our country. It becomes every patriotic youth in whose breast there yet remains a single principle of honour, to come forward calmly, boldly, and rationally to defend his country. When we behold, Sir, a great and powerful nation exerting all its energy to undermine the vast fabrics of Religion and Government, when we behold them inculcating the disbelief of a Deity, of future rewards and punishments; when we behold them discarding every moral principle and dissolving every tie which connects men together in Society, which sweetens life and renders it worthy enjoying; when we behold them brutalizing man that they may govern him,--as friends to Humanity; as sharers in the happiness of our fellow-men, as Citizens of the world, our feelings are deeply affected. We commiserate the fate of our European Brethren; we weep over the awful calamities of anarchy and atheism.

But when we behold this Nation, not contented with its vast European dominions, but endeavouring to extend its Colossean empire across the Atlantic, every passion is roused; our souls are fired with indignation. We see that their object is universal domination; we see that nothing less than the whole world, nothing less than the universal degradation of man, will satisfy these merciless destroyers. But be assured, Sir, we will oppose them with all our youthful energy and risk our lives in defence of our country.

Untaught in the school of adulation, or the courts of sycophants, we speak forth the pure sentiments of Independence. We give you our warmest approbation. We behold with true patriotic pride the dignified conduct of our Chief Magistrate at this alarming crisis. We are highly pleased with the moderation, candor, and firmness which have uniformly characterized your administration. Though measures decisive and energetic will ever meet with censure from the unprincipled, the disaffected, and the factious, yet virtue must eternally triumph. It is this alone that can stand the test of calumny; and you have this consolation, that the disapprobation of the wicked is solid praise.

At this eventful period our eyes are fixed upon you, Sir, as our political Father, and under Providence we rely on your wisdom and patriotism, with the co-operation of our national Council, to perpetuate our prosperity; and we solemnly engage, that, while our Government is thus purely and virtuously administered, we will give it our whole Support.

These, Sir, are the unanimous sentiments of the Members of Williams College, who, though convinced of the evils of War, yet despise peace when put into competition with National Freedom and Sovereignty.

Signed by a Committee in behalf of one hundred and thirty Students of Williams College--

DAVID L. PERRY.
SAMUEL COWLS.
SOLOMON STRONG.
SILAS HUBBELL.

_Committee_.

WILLIAMS COLLEGE, June 19, 1798.

THE SWALLOW

From the Italian of T. Grossi by

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 1813

Swallow from beyond the sea!
That, with every dawning day,
Sitting on the balcony
Utterest that plaintive lay!
What is it that thou tellest me,
Swallow from beyond the sea?

Haply thou, for him who went
From thee and forgot his mate,
Dost lament to my lament,
Widowed, lonely, desolate.
Ever then, lament with me,
Swallow from beyond the sea!

Happier yet art thou than I,--
Thee thy trusty wings may bear,
Over lake and cliff to fly,
Filling with thy cries the air,
Calling him continually,
Swallow from beyond the sea!

Could I too!--but I must pine,
In this dungeon close and low,
Where the sun can never shine,
Where the breeze can never blow,
Whence my voice scarce reaches thee,
Swallow from beyond the sea!

Now September days are near,
Thou to distant lands will fly,
In another hemisphere;
Other streams shall hear thy cry,
Other hills shall answer thee,
Swallow from beyond the sea!

Then shall I when daylight glows,
Waking to the sense of pain,
'Midst the wintry frosts and snows,
Think I hear thy notes again--
Notes that seem to grieve for me,
Swallow from beyond the sea!

Planted here upon the ground,
Thou shalt find a cross in spring;
There, as evening gathers 'round,
Swallow, come and rest thy wing.
Chant a strain of peace to me,
Swallow from beyond the sea!

_Vidette_, 1871.

MARTIAL, BOOK X

EPIGRAM 23

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT 1813

Oh fortunate Antonius! o'er whose head
Calm days have flown and closed the sixtieth year,
Back on this flight he looks and feels no dread
To think that Lethe's waters flow so near.
There is no day of all the train that gives
A pang; no moment that he would forget.
A good man's span is doubled; twice he lives
Who, viewing his past life, enjoys it yet.

_Quarterly_, 1865.

EXEGI MONUMENTUM

TO MELPOMENE

"Horace,"[1] Ode 30, Book III.

E.C. BENEDICT '21[2]

I've a monument reared more enduring than brass,
Which is higher than pyramids built by the kings,
Through the rains and the tempests, unharmed, it shall pass,
And the wear the corrosion of centuries brings.
For, not all shall I die, but my greater part still
Shall survive from the grave, and my fame shall increase
Long as virgin and priest on the Capitol Hill
Shall ascend to their altars in silence and peace.
Where once Daunus of deserts and rustics was king,
Where swift Aufidus roars, in my praise shall be told
That, though humble in birth, I was foremost to bring
Into Italy's songs the Greek music of old.
Then, Melpomene, take to thyself all the pride
Of the glory thy merits so justly declare,
And now freely of Delphian laurel provide
A fresh coronal wreath to encircle thy hair.

_Athenoeum_, 1875.

[Footnote 1: The Melpomene of Horace was, I suppose, the Greek muse of singing, not the muse of tragedy, nor a general muse.]

[Footnote 2: Died 1880.]

THE SCULPTOR TO HIS STATUE

JOHN J. INGALLS '55[1]

"Thou silent, pallid dream, in marble stone!
No rare, sweet phantasie which my divine
And all unearthly-mingled soul has thrown
Around a glowing form, art thou, where shine,
As garlands wove about a kindled shrine,
The beauties of a godlike art and more
Etherial thought fashioned to high design,
But a remembrance of that unknown shore
Where youth and love eterne on spirit pinions soar.

"O'er the hushed vales and gulfy hills of Greece
Night brooded on her darkly jewelled wing,
Binding in drowsy chains of dewy peace
Sweet birds, white flocks and every living thing,
And lapsing streams which to the forest sing.
Beneath that pillared fane which guards the place
Where spirits twain sleep in the charmed ring,
I slept after the banquet, and the rays
Of a past heaven flashed on my soul's astonished gaze.

"The emerald isles that sail a silver sea,
Caverned by plumy groves of sunny palm,
Broke on my startled vision suddenly;
When as but quickly parted, sweet and calm,
That long forgot yet ever haunting psalm
Floated from lips that flew to greet me home.
A meteor flamed; I woke in rude alarm;
Above me orbed the temple's sullen dome;
Around me swam the early morning's starless gloom.

"Of that fair dream thou art the memory,
My genius, in its wildest fancy, bound
And petrified to immortality!
A holy presence seems to hover round
The deep, perpetual loveliness, as crowned
With angel radiance, and plumed for flight,
Thy pinioned sandals spurn the flowerless ground,
Striving to gain that far Olympian height
Towards which in rapturous awe upturns thy longing sight.

"Why are thy parted lips so dumb and cold?
Else with my eager arms about thee thrown
And folded in thy soft embrace, had rolled
The Lethean tide of love, in which, unknown
And all unheeded in their state, had flown
The future and the past, merged in that sea
The present, whose far deeps are felt alone
By the pale diver, reaching breathlessly
Through pearled and coral caves concealed from mortal eye.

"Oh, shape divine! Such madd'ning grace must have
A soul, a consciousness of love and life
Though tombed in pallor, with no epitaph
But silence! What mighty spell with power rife
Can wake thee into Being's passion strife?
Yet if there be such, let it rest unsought;
For every boon thou couldst from breath derive
I would not wrest from thee that higher lot,
The need of deathlessness, thou pale, embodied thought!

"Great poet souls and people yet unborn
Shall lay their speechless homage at thy feet,
And still thy life be in its rosy dawn,
Whose eve eternity alone shall greet.
While I, to whom thy changeless smile were sweet
As heaven, long mingled with earth's vilest mould,
Shall be forgot! What wealth of fame can mete
The loss of love? None, none! Thy fate is cold,
But oh, what starry treasures might it not unfold!"

He ceased. A lambent halo seemed to play
About her head, as lightnings round the moon;
Her marble tresses streamed in golden spray--
A tremor throbbed along her limbs of stone,
And sky-hued veins with life's warm pulses shone.
One thought of wordless love beamed from her eyes,
Then, gently floating from her shining throne
'Mid blushing smiles half drowned in tearful sighs,
She faded slowly heavenward through the sunset skies.

_Quarterly_, 1853.

[Footnote 1: Died 1900.]

OPPORTUNITY

JOHN J. INGALLS '55

Master of human destinies am I;
Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate
Deserts and seas remote, and, passing by
Hovel and mart and palace, soon or late,
I knock unbidden once on every gate.
If sleeping, wake; if feasting, rise before
I turn away; it is the hour of fate,
And they who follow me reach every state
Mortals desire, and conquer every foe
Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate,
Condemned to failure, penury, and woe,
Seek me in vain and uselessly implore;
I answer not, and I return no more.

The date of first appearance of this sonnet is not known to the editors. It is extracted here from Professor A.L. Perry's _Williamstown and Williams College_, (1899), and of it Dr. Perry remarks "Ingalls also wrote a notable sonnet on 'Opportunity,' which will no doubt survive, for it has a fine form and considerable literary merit, though godless in every line."

AUTUMN

JAMES A. GARFIELD '56[1]

Old Autumn thou art here! upon the Earth
And in the heavens, the signs of death are hung;
For o'er the Earth's brown breast stalks pale decay,
And 'mong the lowering clouds the wild winds wail,
And, sighing sadly, chant the solemn dirge
O'er summer's fairest flowers, all faded now.
The Winter god, descending from the skies,
Has reached the mountain tops, and decked their brows
With glittering frosty crowns, and breathed his breath
Among the trumpet pines, that herald forth
His coming.

Before the driving blast
The mountain oak bows down his hoary head,
And flings his withered locks to the rough gales
That fiercely roar among the branches bare,
Uplifted to the dark unpitying heavens.
The skies have put their mourning garments on
And hung their funeral drapery on the clouds.
Dead Nature soon will wear her shroud of snow
And lie entombed in Winter's icy grave.

Thus passes life. As hoary age comes on
The joys of youth--bright beauties of the spring,
Grow dim and faded, and the long dark night
Of Death's chill Winter comes. But as the spring
Rebuilds the ruined wrecks of Winter's waste,
And cheers the gloomy earth with joyous light,
So o'er the tomb, the Star of Hope shall rise,
And usher in an ever during day.

_Quarterly_, 1854.

[Footnote 1: Died 1881.]

IN THE FOREST

ANON.

We lie beneath the forest shade
Whose sunny tremors dapple us;
She is a proud-eyed Grecian maid
And I am Sardanapalus;
A king uncrowned whose sole allegiance
Resides in dusky forest regions.

How cool and liquid seems the sky;
How blue and still the distance is!
White fleets of cloud at anchor lie
And mute are all existences,
Save here and there a bird that launches
A shaft of song among the branches.

Within this alien realm of shade
We keep a sylvan Passover;
We happy twain, a wayward maid,
A careless, gay philosopher;
But unto me she seems a Venus
And Paphian grasses nod between us.

Her drooping eyelids half conceal
A vague, uncertain mystery;
Her tender glances half reveal
A sad, impassioned history;
A tale of hopes and fears unspoken
Of thoughts that die and leave no token.

"Oh braid a wreath of budding sprays
And crown me queen," the maiden says;
"Queen of the shadowy woodland ways,
And wandering winds, whose cadences
Are unto thee that tale repeating
Which I must perish while secreting!"

I wove a wreath of leaves and buds
And flowers with golden chalices,
And crowned her queen of summer woods
And dreamy forest palaces;
Queen of that realm whose tender story
Makes life a splendor, death a glory.

_Quarterly_, 1856.

CORSICA

ANON.

A lonely island in the South, it shows
Its frosted brow, and waves its shaggy woods,
And sullenly above the billow broods.
Here he that shook the frighted world arose.
'Twas here he gained the strength the wing to plume,
To swoop upon the Arno's classic plains,
And drink the noblest blood of Europe's veins--
His eye but glanced and nations felt their doom!
Alas! "how art thou fall'n, oh Lucifer,
Son of the morning!" thou who wast the scourge
And glory of the earth--whose nod could urge.
Proud armies deathward at the trump of war!
And did'st thou die on lone Helena's isle?
And art thou nought but dust and ashes vile?

_Quarterly_, 1857.

LOOKING BACKWARD

WASHINGTON GLADDEN '59

From one who belonged in a remote antiquity to the fraternity of college editors, a contribution to this centennial number[1] has been solicited. Perhaps I can do no better than to recall a few impressions of my own life in college. Every year, at the banquet, I observe that I am pushed a little nearer to the border where the almond tree flourishes, and I shall soon have a right to be reminiscent and garrulous. At the next centennial I shall not be called on; this is my last chance.

I came to college in the fall of 1856. My class had been in college for a year, so that the vicissitudes of a freshman are no part of my memory. I shall never forget that evening when I first entered Williamstown, riding on the top of the North Adams stage. The September rains had been abundant, and the meadows and slopes were at their greenest; the atmosphere was as nearly transparent as we are apt to see it; the sun was just sinking behind the Taconics, and the shadows were creeping up the eastern slopes of Williams and Prospect; as we paused on the little hill beyond Blackinton the outline of the Saddle was defined against a sky as rich and deep as ever looked down at sunset on Naples or Palermo. I thought then that I had never seen a lovelier valley, and I have had no occasion to revise that judgment. To a boy who had seen few mountains that hour was a revelation. On the side of the picturesque, the old way of transportation was better than the new. The boy who is dumped with his trunks at the station near the factory on the flat gets no such abundant entrance into Williamstown as was vouchsafed to the boy who rode in triumphantly on the top of Jim Bridges' stage.

The wide old street was as hospitable then as now; if the elms were something less paternal in their benediction their stature was fair and their shade was ample; but the aspect of the street--how greatly changed since then! There were two or three fine old colonial houses, which are standing now and are not likely to be improved upon; but most of the dwellings were of the orthodox New England village pattern, built, I suppose, to square with the theology of the Shorter Catechism, or perhaps with the measurements of the New Jerusalem, the length and breadth and height of which are equal. The front yards were all enclosed with fences, none of which were useful and few of which were ornamental. The broad-shouldered old white Congregational meeting-house stood at the top of the street in Field Park; it was the goal of restless Sophomores for several hours every Sunday, and it was also the goal of all ambitious contestants for college honors. Griffin Hall was then chapel, museum, laboratories, and recitation-rooms; East, South, and West Colleges, with Kellogg Hall, on the West lawn,--"factories of the muses," in Lowell's expressive phrase,--stood forth in their naked practicality much as they stand to-day. Lawrence Hall library, in its earlier, wingless character of colossal ink-pot, Jackson Hall[2] and the little magnetic observatory, still standing, completed the catalogue of the college buildings.

The faculty of that day can be recalled without difficulty: President Hopkins, whose clear and venerable name no eulogy of mine shall here disfigure; his stern-faced but great-hearted brother Albert; Emmons the geologist; Griffin, Tatlock, Lincoln, and Chadbourne, who succeeded Hopkins in the presidency; Bascom, the only survivor to-day, and Perry, the best-known of them all. I have taken no pains to refresh my memory of the faculty of 1856, but I am confident that here are no omissions. It will be somewhat less easy for undergraduates to-day, writing so many eventful years after their entrance, to recall the names of their teachers. One only of our memorable nine is now in service, and long may he serve the community! All these were ranked as professors; there had been tutors and instructors before our days, but none in our time.

The _Gul_ of those days was a four-page sheet containing in briefest form the membership and official lists of the various fraternities and associations; it sold for ten cents a copy. The only other college publication was the _Quarterly_, a solid magazine of about one hundred pages. None of the fraternities then existing, I think, possessed a chapter-house; their rooms were in more or less obscure quarters, over stores or in private houses. There was quite as much rivalry between them then as now, and poorer spirit. There was also an Anti-Secret Confederation, of which General Garfield in his time was the leader; it mixed freely in college politics and was no less clannish than the other fraternities. The absence of chapter-houses and the less fully developed social life of the fraternities left room for a stronger class feeling and perhaps a more sympathetic college spirit than exists to-day. The smallness of the classes and the absence of the electives, too, aided the cultivation of class feeling; the classes ranged from forty-five to sixty, and the whole class was held solidly together during the whole course, all reciting in the same room three times a day from the beginning of freshman year to the end of senior.

College singing was hearty and spirited, but our repertoire was limited. I recall many evenings of blameless hilarity on the benches under the trees in front of East College. For more ambitious musical performance we had our "Mendelssohn Society," whose concerts were not probably so classical as we then esteemed them, but whose rehearsals gave us not a little pleasure. Athletics had hardly a name to live. Now and then a football was mysteriously dropped into the West College yard, and kicked about in a very promiscuous fashion; the freshmen and sophomores generally had a match of what was by courtesy called base-ball. The only intercollegiate contest of which I had any recollection, and as it seems the first ever to take place, was a ball game at Pittsfield between Williams and Amherst. Amherst was the challenging party, and the college by vote selected its team with much care and went forth to the contest with strong hopes. The game was not lacking in excitement. It was none of your new-fangled, umpire-ridden matches: the modern type of base-ball had not, of course, been invented. Foul balls were unknown, the sphere could be knocked toward any quarter of the earth or sky; runners between bases could be pelted with it by any of the outfielders. I think that the score stood something like 60 to 40, and it was not in favor of Williams. It was a melancholy company that trailed homeward after this contest past the Lanesboro pond; but since then I understand that times have changed.

[Dr. Gladden has embodied his college reminiscences more fully in his recent volume _Recollections_, wherein is told also the story of "The Mountains." (Houghton Mifflin Company, 1909.)]

_Literary Monthly_, 1893.

[Footnote 1: October, 1893.]

[Footnote 2: Demolished in 1908.]

TO THE MOUNTAINS OF WILLIAMSTOWN

ON THE INTRODUCTION OF THE NEW RAILROAD

ANON.

Ye guardian mountains of the western world,
Enthroned like monarchs of primeval days!
Ye that hold lofty converse with the stars,
And bind your shaggy brows with clustering clouds
As if with wreaths of laurel! ye that count
Your years by thousands, and your bosoms robe
With all the pageantry of Autumn's gold,
And lull your sleep of ages with the wild
And murmurous drone of woodland waterfalls,
And multitudinous song of windy groves!

What spell hath bound ye now? what lethargy
O'ercomes your ancient power? that undisturbed
Ye slumber on, as if ye heeded not
The piercing shriek from yonder fuming car,
Which saith that even here presumptuous man
Has dared intrude upon the green domain,
Which ye inherited when Time was born.
Awake! arise! are ye forever dumb?
Let Greylock, most majestic of your band,
Stand up and shout aloud to Audubon,
Until from peak to peak the sound rolls round,
Until yon mountain that o'erlooks the west
Takes up the cry, of vengeance upon him
Whose strange devices break your long repose.

In vain! ye are indeed forever dumb,
Obedient to the will of Destiny,
Who sits enthroned among the stars of heaven,
And unto man's inquiring vision points
Toward the westering sun forevermore.
Such is the law that rules the universe;--
Planets and systems, e'en the sun himself,
Around one common point progressive move.
And thus a few millenniums more shall man
Proclaim the march of mind, and when ye pass
Into oblivion with your weight of years,
When galaxies and suns are quenched in gloom,
Th' unshackled soul of man, itself a star
Lit by the smile of God, shall wing through space,
The destined heir to immortality.

_Quarterly_, 1859.

THE YELLOW JASMINE

FRANKLIN CARTER '62

Ye golden bells, that toss your heaven-born fragrance
On air around,
And know to make the most harmonious music
Without a sound!

Ye fragile flowers, whose delicate, dear tendrils
Upward do climb,
Reveal to us the sweet, mysterious secret
Of love sublime!

Entwining with your gentle cunning fingers
The ragged tree,
Ye leave behind ye crowns and chaplets wondrous,
Of jewelry!

Not pearls nor diamonds of a radiance peerless,
Not amethyst.
When softly swaying on the human bosom,
Or flexile wrist,

Can add to life and beauty lustrous splendor,
With grace divine,
As when ye wreathe on gnarled oak and holly
Your trailing vine!

Oh, love of God! in gracious ways unnumbered,
With gentlest touch,
Thou teachest men and pitifully showest
Of patience much!

We pray, dear Father, teach thine erring children
This lesson meet--
To climb through fragile, earth born, human tendrils
To life complete.

_Quarterly_, 1871.

AFTER DINNER SPEECHES

FRANKLIN CARTER '62

According to common opinion Americans are the nation most addicted to speechmaking. Laboulaye makes a good point by representing the son of a leading character in "Paris in America" discovered by his father before a large audience, in the full tide of political speech, and maintaining afterwards to the old gentleman that it is the common practice among all the boys to make a speech on every possible occasion, that they may thus fit themselves for public life.

In New York, which tends rapidly to become the center of activity for most of the important influences of our country, there are every year many dinners, anniversaries, and assemblies, at which oratory of an ephemeral nature finds expression and attention. All the nationalities, all the religious and literary societies, all the clubs, all the distinguished foreigners, and all the leading and following colleges, must have a dinner, and every dinner must have at least a dozen speeches. Most of these speeches are more eloquent to the opinion of their authors than to the minds of their hearers.

It certainly is one of the best moral illustrations of the first law of motion that in spite of all the heroism necessary to endure such a volume of speech, the patient public seems (if we may judge from the increase in volume) every year more and more willing to sit at the tables and listen to this flow of sound. Perhaps this patience is only apparent, for competition for an opportunity to speak is said to be lively. Possibly every one of the thousands who listen is secretly comparing the eloquence of the speaker with his own skilful ability, and not quite calmly biding the time when he shall enrapture, where the present speaker wearies and annoys.

Yet not every speech made on those occasions is dull. Now and then the happy mingling of fun and sense really lifts the company out of the tiresome monotony. Were it not for these addresses beautiful and rare, we can believe that dinner speeches would be abandoned, or exchanged for a single oration from one competent to delight.

For the distinguishing mark of the dinner speech should be that it amuse not in the rough, coarse way of the demagogue, but in the subtle, fine way of the man of culture.

The dinner speeches with which the readers of this paper are perhaps most familiar, those made when the alumni of a noble college gather around the table of their alma mater, ought to be characterized by the broad sympathy, the quick insight, the flexible grace and the genial humor of the thoroughly educated man. Although to make fine dinner speeches can never be an aim worthy of an earnest man, yet to have the power and culture from which such a speech usually comes, is the highest aim in a literary regard that any man can have. It is a short-sighted and one-sighted earnestness that despises the wit and banter of society, and affects the isolation and grandeur of pure thought. The mountain summit is too far removed from the walks of men to make it possible for the recluse to wield all the influence that his powers may entitle him to exert. The metaphysician less than the poet, the country minister less than the successful lawyer, is the autocrat of the dinner-table.

Because Williams and Yale have produced great and useful men, it does not follow that their commencement dinners are always marked by the finest flow of wit and wisdom, nor that pioneers in civilization who bring great honor to their alma mater should always and everywhere speak for her. Dinner-speaking is a fine art, not one for which men need absolutely European travel and study, but one which is never mastered except by those who love and perhaps know how to reach all the beautiful thoughts of every age and clime. It is the cultured gentleman of social experience, who may or may not be a man of great ability, but who knows how to weave the poetic and humorous and commonplace into beautiful or grotesque forms, that delights and surprises a dinner company. Social experience and good abilities will not alone make the successful speaker. Underneath and back of all must be the gentleman. A lawyer, though of splendid position, can ill afford to say at the festal table of his alma mater, "Harvard takes great poets and historians to fill her vacant professorships; my college takes boys, who have proved their qualifications by getting their windows broken." Those who go deeper than the surface will perhaps surmise that Harvard has had better material to work upon than some colleges; not perhaps material of finer abilities, but material that has been more under the influence of sweetness and light. Possibly her graduates are as superior at making dinner speeches as are her trustees in choosing professors.

A gentleman must make the happy dinner-speech, for only he can perceive the proprieties of the situation. He will neither improve the occasion to give the corporation advice as to the management of the college, nor try to point out to a company of Unitarians the superior advantages of the orthodox faith, nor exhibit to invited guests the rags of his alma mater's poverty. He may, perhaps, avoid the commonplace by so doing, but he will certainly transgress the rules of propriety. The commonplace at a dinner, repeated every year under so nearly similar conditions, cannot be avoided, but can be transformed by the art of the master.

What could be more difficult than the duty of presiding at the dinner of the New England Society and rehearsing the threadbare story of the landing of the Pilgrims and dilating upon it in such a way as to entertain New Englanders, who ever since their childhood have heard the declamations of Webster, Everett, Winthrop, and the rest, about that heroic band? Yet by a mixture of shrewd wit and eloquence Mr. Choate, a Harvard graduate, went over again, last year, at the sixty-fourth anniversary of the society, the main facts of the history, and dwelt upon the relations of New Englanders to New York, making a speech that, printed, fills ten octavo pages but which the audience found charming from beginning to end.

This, like every other fine art, has something cosmopolitan in it. It eschews the local and narrow, refuses to belong to any sect or party, and appeals by the widest culture to men of culture. The dinner speeches of our own Bryant are thus liberal and catholic. So were those of Mr. Everett in the main, though one discovered the superb actor now and then arranging his robe or making use of his splendid presence and reputation to draw attention to himself. Of course, when such a man comes as a guest into a company somewhat foreign in thought and life to his own belongings, he can neglect the rules that good breeding imposes on those who compose the homogeneous circles and become narrow. But he must be narrow by praising not his own methods but the unexpected excellence of life found among his hosts--thus, while apparently dwarfing himself, he throws the dignity of his own reputation and history over that which he eulogizes and really exhibits the truest catholicity of spirit. To do this and perfectly conceal the satisfaction that one has, because he can do it, was perhaps difficult for Everett. Most men who heard him pardoned the failure. It was easier for Dickens. His life was in some sense less splendid but more real.

The amusement and good feeling which it is always the aim of the dinner speaker to create, were largely the aim of Dickens' life. The humor, the knowledge of human nature, that he always had at command, were employed in his writings and daily thoughts to enliven and cheer men. No wonder then that his speeches are models of breadth and sweetness and appositeness, and that good judges regarded him when living as in this department of expression unrivalled.

He who is so guided by the love of letters engrafted on the love of man as to give constant and ample expression to these motives, will be neither a reformer without grace nor a scholar without manliness. Give to such a man a flow of animal spirits and a dash of wit, and he should be not unapt to entertain even when poised on the dangerous wing of an after-dinner speech.

_Review_, 1870.

THE STUDENT COMMUNITY

HAMILTON WRIGHT MABIE '67

A very interesting and significant feature of university life in the early days was the great part played by students in the scholastic community. They were not only included in the group described by the word "faculty," but they were charged with administrative and executive functions. The movement toward self-government, which has already borne fruit in many of our colleges, is in no sense a modern influence; it is a return to a condition widely prevalent in the early history of university organization. Not only did the students share, through various deliberative bodies, in the determination of the gravest questions of academic policy, but, in many cases, the executive head of the university was not only chosen by them but was often one of their number. The rector of the Italian universities was in most instances a student, often under twenty-five years of age. The rector of the University of Paris, who was charged with the gravest administrative functions, took precedence of the archbishop, and sat at times in the royal councils with princes and nobles, was originally elected by the student communities, and was often a very young man; and yet Paris was essentially a university of professors. Bologna, which was a university of students, was governed directly by the general assembly of undergraduates. Whether governed by students or by masters,--alumni as we should say,--these historic institutions were essentially democratic, and the student seems on the whole to have been the most important figure; not only because at the beginning he formed the constituency for the popular teacher, but because later when these throngs of students formally organized he had the largest share of privileges and for a long time the controlling voice in the management of affairs.

"Universities," said Professor Croisat at the centenary of the University of Montpellier in 1889, "do not come into the world with a clatter. What we know least about in all our history is the precise moment when it (Montpellier) began." It is impossible, in many instances, to fix the date of organization of many of the foremost of the older institutions; they were not made, they grew. There was a deep necessity for their existence in the intellectual and spiritual condition of the times, and they sprang into being here and there, in Italy, France, Spain, and England, in response to that need. They were notable, at the beginning, not for academic calm, but for turbulence and vitality; for they were not universities of science, they were universities of persons. The differences of scholastic rank were not very sharply defined. In early days, whenever the university body was formally addressed by Pope or Emperor, the students were named in the same sentence as the masters.

It is unnecessary to recall here the changes in condition which have separated the student class sharply from the teaching body and divorced it almost entirely from governmental functions. What is significant for the purpose of this article is an apparent disposition in many quarters to recede from the extreme position of entire exclusion of the student body and a tendency to move in the other direction. That tendency may become very marked and lead to a very radical change of policy in the government of colleges, a change so radical as to be revolutionary in its effect. It is certain that the government of colleges, like that of states, must from time to time undergo marked modifications if it is to remain vitally representative of, and harmonious with, the growing and changing life of the college. In healthy institutional life there is free play and interaction of all the forces that go to make up the organic life, and a certain flexibility is involved in all growth. The student community, is, after all, in most institutions the prime object of interest. A few foundations exist for the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake, instruction being incidental; in most institutions, however, instruction is the foremost and absorbing function, and the student's welfare is, therefore, the controlling factor. In western colleges, where the edge of hunger for knowledge has not yet been dulled by opportunity, it is not an unknown thing for a committee of students to wait on a president or chancellor and announce the failure of some professor to prepare himself for recitations by fresh study of his subject. It would be well if students in eastern colleges would sometimes put on a similar boldness; they would help heads of colleges out of very trying difficulties with well-meaning but incompetent or indolent professors. Undergraduate popularity is often illusive and unstable, but undergraduate perception of incompetency is often very keen and discriminating.

But whether admitted to, or excluded from the government of the college, the student community plays a part not always recognized in its educational influence and work, and many men receive more influential impressions from the atmosphere in which they live and the men with whom they associate during their college career than from their instructors. Nothing is so pervasive as an atmospheric influence, and, in its way, nothing is so important. It is significant that foreign students rarely speak of Oxford without commenting on its atmosphere; something in the air of the old town which, although intangible in its operation, is a positive factor in the educational result. Specific courses of instruction are less numerous than in many other places, and such instruction as is offered is often defective in methods and spirit; but the life of the place is adjusted to intellectual work; the library facilities are great, the traditions which seem to be part of the very structure of the colleges are liberalizing and make for generous culture. In such an air it is easy to study by one's own impetus and to develop in ourselves the passion for perfection. Culture is so different from training or favoring the acquirement of knowledge that it is so often totally lacking in men who have carried both processes to great length; it is indeed rarely conveyed, though it may be greatly aided, by definite instruction. It cannot be said of the great mass of college graduates that they are men of culture. Culture comes, in a sense, by indirection, a man absorbs it and furnishes the conditions for its growth, but he cannot receive it directly from his teachers. There are, in every college, teachers, who stimulate culture in students not so much by reason of their scholarship as by reason of their attitude toward what they know. For culture is always a personal quality; a ripeness which comes from the generous enrichment of a man's nature by contact with the best things. In certain atmospheres men ripen, as in certain others they remain hard and unaffected.

The atmospheric quality of a college is determined largely by the character and traditions of undergraduate life. If that life has generous ideals, sound impulses, and traditions which appeal to the imagination, the atmosphere will do as much for many men as the formal instruction they receive. It will inspire self-respect, firm ambitions, and general dignity and nobleness of nature. Men will be drawn together by the sympathy of aspiration, rather than by mere congeniality of habit, and their daily association will have an educational influence of the most lasting kind. It is this association which often leaves its mark on men who have failed to make right use of the opportunities for specific instruction which surround them. A college education is complete, so far as any provisional education is complete, only when the student receives the strong impress of both teachers and associates; when instruction is competent and vital, and undergraduate life is wholesome, generous, and aspiring.

It is a significant fact that when a group of men develop creative gifts in later life it will generally be found that their undergraduate life together discovered strong sympathetic aspirations which bound them together and gave their intercourse a very stimulating quality. The action and reaction upon each other of a group of young men of generous aims are peculiarly delicate and influential, affecting the very sources of individual strength and impulse.

Such influences are intermittent and irregular; it would be a great gain if they could become continuous and, in a flexible sense, organic. Student life has been, at times, highly organized and penetrated by intellectual impulses. Colleges differ greatly in this respect, but in American institutions the student life of to-day does not anywhere near realize its rich possibilities. Its interest in athletics is so great that in this single field it may be said to be fairly well organized and fairly effective in securing the end for which it works; but in no other field is a similar activity discoverable, unless it be in that of journalism. One of the most interesting features of the intellectual and moral revival now going on in France is the notable change that has come over student life, a change shown in a revival of song, of old student customs, of solidarity of feeling, and of a generous enthusiasm for the common traditions and views. May not American students learn something from this contemporary illustration of the possibilities of organized student life?

_Literary Monthly_, 1893.

SELF-MADE MEN

I.--B. PRATT

ALFRED C. CHAPIN '69

There are themes which no man can cope with. There are times when those ordinarily confident shrink back at the thought of grappling with the mighty issues that lie before them. There are minds of a structure so singularly complex and unique, that one leaves the study of them impressed only with a deep, abiding sense of his inability to fathom them. We have in our midst one such, the penetration of whose manifestations and phenomena is well calculated to baffle the most zealous investigator. Reared among the rugged hill-sides and verdant vales of Williamstown, his character and oratory bear the evident impress of his nurturing. If to Elihu Burritt belongs the title of "The Learned Blacksmith," not less to William Pratt is due that of "The Eloquent Wood-sawyer." Though he cannot, like Elihu, claim a knowledge of eight languages, he can at least use the one of which he is master, in a manner at once astounding and gratifying. No son of Williams needs to be told who he is; yet for the benefit of those unacquainted with his genius and oratorical ability, we will endeavor briefly to sketch his early career before enlarging upon the grander triumphs of his later years.

The subject of the present article was born not far from the year 1810. Whether or no any comet or other unusual heavenly phenomenon heralded his entrance upon the scenes of earth, is not recorded. If, however, the astronomical appearances which are said to accompany the birth of the mighty ones of the sons of earth are gauged with any degree of fairness, there should have been at least six large comets and any number of meteors distinctly visible. His early life glided by gently as the placid Hoosick, by which he frolicked. Several desperate attempts were made by various misguided individuals to educate him. From all these, however, he escaped unscathed, with the wings of his genius unfettered. At what precise period he began to exhibit symptoms of that highly original and forcible eloquence which he now possesses, we are unable to state. We presume that his first efforts were co-existent with the commencement of his career as a wood-sawyer. Certainly, at present, he is rarely filled with the divine afflatus except when plying his saw. He is unlike Shakespeare, as he often repeats. One utterance--"Ottah"--the coinage of his own brain, seems to be the attempt of his daring and unschooled genius to strike out not only into new lines of thought, but even to find a mystic mode of expression. This term is evidently a portion of a language wholly differing from our own. It is at once a noun, adjective, and verb, and, in the full flood of his eloquence, it changes from the one to the other with astounding rapidity.

The extreme versatility of his genius renders it peculiarly difficult to give any adequate idea of his oratory. He is equally bold in the expression of his sentiments on any subject. Perhaps for convenience in consideration we may roughly divide his oratory into wood-pile and conversational eloquence.

Specimens of his genuine wood-pile eloquence, though by no means uncommon, are yet not easily accessible to the biographical compiler. Very few of his sayings have ever found their way into print, and when thus presented they are of necessity shorn of much of their strength, and deprived of the impressiveness which they derive from the orator's gesticulation and delivery. We will, however, endeavor to present our readers with a few, selected at random, from discourses on various occasions and subjects.

It is morning. A group of students, just before going into recitation, cluster around Bill in the hope of getting a speech from him. He remains deaf to their entreaties till the bell sounds, when with uplifted hand and glaring eye he thus addresses them, in a voice audible for about half a mile.

"Go in and take your secretary, persecuting yourself with the dandelions and robes of righteousness. All the life, all the music, and the blood and electricity rolling over the mountains with the elements of pietude spread all over the fundament. Ottah!! R-R-R-Rose Ottah! Rack-a-tack."