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as a team to the purposes of the School. They acquire the habit of giving command with the punch of decision, and are exercised as far as possible in assuming responsibility and making rapid and accurate decisions. They are taught the needs of a company, how to supply them, and to care for men under service conditions, and to lead and control them in campaign. The School aims to give each Cadet experience in his duties, and an opportunity to organize this experience, so that he will be fitted to meet new situations. It attempts to make him an aggregate of tendencies to act in a firm, prompt and definite way in all the principal emergencies which he will encounter as a Company Officer.

To the extent that this training succeeds, Cadets are put in touch with the source of a strength, which by appealing to the instinct of subordination, is the most effective and economical means of control. It is thorough

ly impressed upon them, that it is not the insignia of rank, but the personality behind rank which dominates, and that the principal purpose of the School is to develop personality and

character.

The Country is rich in materials out of which soldiers can be made under efficient officers, but very short in the supply of men trained to the power of commanding, who are capable of whipping raw material into fighting shape. For a Volunteer Army of any size, the Country needs a roster of at least fifty thousand officers. The work of the Training School is but a drop towards this end, but it is a pioneer effort, which may show the way and suggest a solution of the problem, when the Federal Authorities assume the burden of training and furnishing the Nation with an adequate number of officers to instruct and lead her Volunteers.

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I

CONFESSIONS OF A HARVARD SENIOR At Home for the Summer

By "PERRISCUS"

AM a Harvard Senior. It is not It is not much of a characterization; there are hundreds more of every type of mind and body. I do not say it in a spirit of achievement, for it is no achievement. I merely acknowledge it for what it is worth-to fit myself into the scheme of things for you who are to read my words.

I belong to that small group of lit

erary aspirants in Cambridge which is coming more and more favorably before you day by day. Yet I have never written much. Twenty thousand words would be a fair estimate of all that I have as yet done in the line of work for publication. I have never contributed to the college papers. My influence, such as it is, has invariably been in the circle of the writers them

selves. By them I am held in no little esteem. They bring their lame plots, their stylistic difficulties, their financial troubles, to me. I cheer them as best I can, and send them away. It does them good. It does me good.

In scholarship, I am not one of the honor men, so-called. I have my own methods of study, my own standards of educational value. These methods and these standards do not yield themselves readily to a scheme of marks, but as educational assets they are excellent, permanent, stable. Even in those courses where my marks do not reach the honor grade, I have the respect and friendship of my instructors. It is enough. They know that my knowledge is equal to that of any, but the system of the university will not allow them, conscientiously, to admit this in their grades.

Unlike the majority of honor men, what I do I do for love of learning. I care not a straw for all their grades; for what they can teach me, I am truly thankful. When the course is over, I continue voluntarily to work along the lines it has suggested. I have taken no course in Latin for three years, yet every day I find the time for a little reading in that tongue. Only recently the vast treasures of the Roman liturgy have been opened to me, revealing much of absorbing interest and marvelous merit. I have the mind and will of the scholar-the mind to judge, the will to search.

Needless to say, I love books. I have read very widely and with some care. I am as much at home in German literature as in our own. I rarely read in translations. In fact, the Bible and Tolstoi are the only works I have so read. The great masters of German, French, Spanish, Italian, Norwegian and Danish, I know in their very own words. Reading is one of my greatest pleasures. Truly, without cant, I love books; and, as I love books, so likewise do I love men.

The love of one's fellowman is an excellent thing-in the abstract and

collectively. In the abstract and collectively, I possess this love. The love of individual men is not, however, so easily arranged. easily arranged. I want to like people, but I find it difficult. People are so distant in these days. They will not come half way; I cannot well go further. As result, my friends are few; my acquaintances, legion. Such friends as I have may be depended upon to give me their all. They, I am sure, love me as I love them. With one or two exceptions, they are all in Cambridge. I have few friends at home.

Men and books! Enough for any man brought up in the city! But I was not so brought up. The country boy, even though seeing little enough of the wilder stretches in a protected childhood, inevitably feels in later youth the call of nature. I have felt that call. To my love of men and books, I must add a third-the love of Nature's solitude. Even as I write these words, I feel the call of the brook, the shaggy rocks of distant fields, the reek of drying fish-ponds. I shall obey that call. I shall put down my pen and go away from the harsh realities of my present position. I shall forget all troublesome things by the roaring hillside brook. The timid chipmunk shall peek at me from afar. The butterflies shall flutter about me. I shall go to the bosom of Nature and dream dreams. Truly I love Nature's thickly creatured solitude, as all who know it do.

This is what I am a youthful scholar, a humanitarian, a lover of na ture, of books, of men; still in the dark as to most things, but with the will to learn; still wofully ignorant of the guiding passions of my kind, but interested beyond measure, still somewhat childish and whimsically inclined to the idealistic and the imaginary; still in the age of hero-worship, with faith unbroken in God and

man.

It is now August. I am at home in the country-at home for the Sum

mer. From the great New England city, I have come home to the little New England town where I was born. The contrast is surely great. For an individual of my temperament, both town and country have something to offer. Which offers most? Which is better? It is not my purpose to answer this question by a mere affirination. I mean here merely to record how the little town of my birth-a town like hundreds of others among New England's hills-seems to me, a Harvard senior, a man of "educated" tastes and active mind.

My town is a manufacturing town of great natural beauty. At least, it was of great natural beauty. The many factories spread along the banks of the river which passes through the older portion give one an impression of great commercial activity. One's senses are disturbed by the sight of rambling mills, by the crash of many looms, by the odors of dyeing and cleansing. The older portion is certainly not beautiful but, as one goes farther away from the river, one meets with many a pleasing sight. Many fine residences, some representing an outlay of hundreds of thousands of dollars, rise from smooth. green lawns. Gardens, formal or otherwise, surround these estates. Magnificent terraces rise from the lower levels. In this, the better portion, there is certainly much beauty, but it is beauty of a studied sort. Except for the fine old elms along the older residential streets, all natural beauty has been obliterated in favor of a dubious "landscape architecture" which does not recognize the charm of Nature's haphazard prodigality. My town is a manufacturing town, as it was when I first knew it. It has the same old industries. It still retains a sort of beauty-the studied sort. Its natural beauty is, for the most part, a thing of the past. Progress has entered upon us.

Since my childhood, the population has changed as much as the natural features of the town. Some of the

old families, to be sure, remain. These old families are still here, but with a difference. Where before they counted their savings in thousands, they now count their wealth in millions. Where before a rich complement of brains augmented their carefully husbanded resources, now immense fortunes render mental vacuity acceptable.

From my study-window I look upon a vast, estate, resplendent with Italian gardens and a marvelous mansion of the chateau type. The interior of this mansion is taken bodily from an old Italian castle. With another sky and another sun, one might readily imagine oneself in Italy—until one met the owners. They belong to an old family, a family that once prided itself on its culture. Today, the dwellers in that transplanted castle are unadorned by the least vesture of culture. They are not acquainted with a single foreign tongue, though they have traveled widely in Europe and Asia. Chambers is the height of their literary appreciation. Their taste in clothes is abominable. In all respects they are less to be sought for than their predecessors, yet they are present at every society function. No social event would be complete without them, for pater familias is a great business man. He understands wool. Nothing else counts. Progress, forsooth, has entered upon us.

From another window of my study, I can look out upon a tiny estate graced by a most attractive townhouse and the cutest imaginable formal garden. In so restricted a space, the taste shown in the arrangement of house, garden, garage, and what not, is exceptional. An architect did the job. The inmates-to-be were away at the time. This explains the absence of jarring members. The women members of this family are most successful exponents of the new terpsichorean art. It is enough. Their legs and their millions gain them wide entrée. What does it matter if they occasionally lapse into an "ain't" or

two? Have they not legs and millions? Have they not millions and legs? Mentality is not in fashion. It is a question of legs and millions. Let us have these things, and all else shall be added unto us.

This family is also the possessor of two "boys." One of these "boys" would be thirty-two, were it not for his millions. As it is, he is "such a dear child." The other is still in swaddling clothes. He is only a year older than I. The "boys" can "shake a leg or two" also. They are so clever. Moreover, they are "nice" to the girls. They work in "dear father's office," when there are no ballgames and the court is too wet for their dainty feet. The "boys" must not get their feet wet. They would most surely die of pneumonia. Their grandfather, a fine old gentleman long since departed, came to cur town on a snowy winter's day with four cents in his pocket and no coat on his back. He survived this terrible exposure for upwards of fifty years, but we have improved since then. His grandchildren would die of pneumonia, if they should take a shower oftener than twice a week. So far as I know, they never even approach this dangerous limit. Truly, progress has come

upon us.

I should wrong the town if I did not point out one other family, also within the view from my study windows. Their house is more than a hundred years old. Their trees are yet older. Flowers are arranged in colonial profusion in their yard. The master of the house is an old colonial. He is not very rich, but has quite enough to satisfy his wants. A quiet library far off from the street contains his favorite books. There are only about a thousand of them, but one can readily see that they have been read. The colonel loved to talk about them, but for several years now he has been too ill to read and too weak to talk much. His wife reads to him occasionally, but his attention seems to wander. It is symbolic of It is symbolic of

the passing of the good old times. Nobody reads the good old books any more. Everybody's attention seems to wander. There are so many new and interesting things to think about such things as the price of wool, the latest dancing pumps, the base-ball scores, the fickle debutante of last season's offering. Why read books, when it is so easy to be a book? Realism is the thing. Live your own fic tion!

For five summers now, I have come home only to see things more muddled than before. All the millionaires are now away at the seashore, at the mountains, in Europe. The other classes, for the most part, are too weary for social contact with others. Practically everyone is in the same mental condition that he was ten years ago; those who are not have no mental condition. Practically everyone knows quite enough, does not wish to know any more, and would like to forget half of what he does know. A pitiable condition indeed!

For three long months each year, I am lonely for kindred spirits who have interests beyond business, and dancing, and base-ball and gossip. But here there are no spirits, only bodies, big, fat, and sloppy-no gods, but Mammon and Mrs. Grundy—no books, but the cheap novel, the Ledger, the Dance Programme, and the Score Card. All these are doubtless good in their way, in fact, I like them myself, but from them as a steady diet, good Lord, deliver us!

To be sure, I have a few intimates of a more or less satisfactory character, but when I say that, with the exception of an elderly Methodist minister, two Catholic priests, three young men of about my own age, my parents and relations, I have spoken to no living soul except in the most trivial terms, you may begin to appreciate my loneliness. When I add that the above-mentioned individuals are generally occupied when I am free, you may begin to understand my growing heaviness of spirit. I am becoming in

creasingly sentimental in consequence. My friends, the Roman priests, always warn me when there is to be a funeral mass. I always attend. Funeral masses encourage a mood that I am fast coming to like!

I have intimated that companionship with men of my sort is a necessary part of my life. My town does not give it to me. Occasionally, but all too frequently, a letter from a friend brings in a ray of happiness. Occasionally again, I find it possible to visit one of these friends, but most of my time is spent in my study. As a social organization for the exchange of ideas, my town is a failure. The great city is easily its superior. A sort of specious progress has entered upon us.

Like the Troll community in Peer Gynt, we all must have our tails, said tails being golden eagles. Like the Saetter-girls, our maidens must dance across the stage of life. Like Peer Gynt, our men must ship heathen gods to the Chinese and missionaries to convert them. Then, like Peer Gynt, all must go to the Buttonmoulder, for none has the character, in good or in bad, to live forever.

Such are the men and women, yet many of them are college graduates. Diplomas from Yale, Brown, Wellesley, and Mount Holyoke grace our "study" walls. The only Harvard graduate of the town is a son of the Lutheran minister and he, under the kind dispensation of Providence, finds it convenient to summer elsewhere.

Proper relations with men being lacking, I naturally turn much attention to books. The few hundred volumes in my home are all thoroughly familiar; the newer books in my collection are all in Cambridge. Thus, the public library is my only recourse.

We have a public library, of course. All country towns have them. Ours is housed in a very fine building, a memorial gift to the town. One walks up fine granite steps, between formal gardens, to a marble façade. Surely Surely so stately a building should hold a

veritable treasure of books, but such is not entirely the case.

About twelve thousand volumes comprise the collection. The stacks are open to the public. Books in English, German, Polish, Italian and French are on the shelves. The foreign books are intended for the town's large foreign population. For the most part, they are of the popular sort. The English books are largely of an ephemeral nature, though standard books make up perhaps ten per cent of the collection. The library is notably weak in philology, in art, in science, and in philosophy. It is fairly rich in essays, in religion, and in history. I find it impossible to get the newer books of Conrad, of Hardy, and of Moore. The books of Galsworthy are entirely absent, as are many of the works of the older masters. Fielding is represented only by Tom Jones. I have asked in vain for Bergson. I was referred to Münsterberg!

The records show that Sienkiewitz's Quo Vadis in several volumes has had a great vogue among the Poles of the town. I was much impressed, until I was told that Volume I had never been out and that Volume IV was by far the most popular! A characteristic order of reading was as follows: Volume IV, Volume VI. Volume II, Volume V. Let me add that the Poles are not the only philistines in the town. The volumes of Scott have not been out for over a year, some of them for over two years. Conrad's Lord Jim lacks readers, while that libelous book The Wandering Jew-present to the extent of two copies!-has had a very large circulation. Perhaps everyone should at some time read The Wandering Jew, but does this not also apply to Lord Jim?

Money is somehow found to buy one or two copies of all the new novels, but the library is too poor to buy Francke's History of German Literature. ture. They cannot afford Bergson, although they have Münsterberg in

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