Tales Out of School [Reprint 2014 ed.] 9780674493780, 9780674186101

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TALES OUT OF SCHOOL

LONDON : GEOFFREY CUMBERLEGE OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS

TALES eW out oí M»

SCHOOL By GEORGE H. CHASE HARVARD UNIVERSITY

HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS I947

COPYRIGHT, I 9 4 7 , B Y THE PRESIDENT AND FELLOWS OF HARVARD COLLEGE

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

PROLOGUE I have written this book with many misgivings. In the first place, it was written "in response to a demand," a statement which is always suspect. But in this case it is really true. In the course of many years of teaching and administrative work at Harvard University, one of my pleasant duties has been to visit Harvard Clubs and report on "the state of the University." In these reports I have naturally tried to enliven a recital of facts and figures by stories of life in Cambridge and other tales. At different times, many men (or at any rate half a dozen) have suggested that I write these stories down, so that they might not be lost to posterity; and, at long last, I have decided to do so. Perhaps the fact that I am now retired, and therefore, presumably, approaching my dotage, may be the real explanation of this decision. A second reason for nay hesitation is closely connected with the first. Though I am now •ν ·

Emeritus, I may yet be called upon to speak before Harvard clubs. If I publish all the stories I know, can I retell them in future speeches? T o this question the answer is fairly simple; faculties and students can be relied upon to produce a new crop of stories from time to time. Finally, in telling tales about well-known and highly respected professors, one runs the risk of offending relatives and friends and adoring pupils. For this aspect of the problem my defense can only be that of the New York storekeeper whose shop was wrecked by an angry mob when, in his ignorance, he displayed an orange banner on St. Patrick's day, "My intentions were honorable." At all events, I hope that those who urged me to undertake this writing may find here many of the stories which they remember — and perhaps some new ones. GEORGE H . CHASE

Cambridge, Massachusetts February, 1947

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TALES OUT OF SCHOOL

A N Y MEN have written of the joys of teaching, none more delightfully than Professor Bliss Perry in And Gladly Teach. But even Professor Perry gives only a hint of one aspect of the teacher's life, namely, that a teacher is in constant association with men of ready wit and caustic tongue, accustomed to express their opinions positively and vigorously. The attitude of the average American toward the teaching profession is perhaps summed up in one of my earliest experiences. In 1898 I was returning to America after two years of travel and study in Europe, and on the steamer made the acquaintance of a burly Hoosier who was one of the most skillful poker players I have ever seen. He told me, among other things, that he had been abroad as a representative of the American Tobacco Company and another large corporation, the name of which I do not remember. On the last morning of the voyage, as we were approaching New York, he remarked, "Well,

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young man, I've told you a lot about my affairs, and you haven't told me a thing about your business." "Oh," said I, "I haven't any business now, but with luck I suppose some day I shall be a teacher." Whereupon, he looked at me with a puzzled air and said, "Well, I'll be Goddamned!" ¡S¡É?3 In spite of this I continued my studies and, having taken a doctor's degree, began my career as a master in Greek and Latin at St. Mark's School. Here I was immediately informed that I was the second Ph.D. to join the Faculty, and that I must expect to be called "Doc," since a few years before another Harvard Ph.D. had so strongly insisted on being addressed as "Doctor" that the rest of the Faculty had decided that they would all be called "Doctor," and Ph.D.'s would be addressed as "Doc." " D o c " Johnson (as I will call him) excited the interest of the boys by his devotion to learned meetings; that at least was his excuse for frequent absences in the evening. Since all outer doors except one in the basement were locked at ten o'clock, any master who arrived later than that hour had to come in through the boiler room. • 4

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After one of his meetings, " D o c " unfortunately fell over an ash barrel and sprained his ankle, whereupon one of the boys wrote a verse in the meter of the familiar hymn, " T e n Thousand Times T e n Thousand." It ran: The Doctor's gone to Worcester, T o buy a new dress suit, He's dyed his beard a flaming red, And thinks it is a beaut. He won't be home till midnight, And he'll be full of gin, Fling open wide the cellar door And let the Doctor in. Needless to say, " T e n Thousand Times T e n Thousand" was soon given up as a chapel hymn. The headmaster of St. Mark's at that time was the Reverend William Greenough Thayer, whose many anecdotes did much to confirm my impression of the pleasures of the teaching profession. His best one, I always thought, concerned a Memorial Day celebration in a small town, at which he was invited to deliver the principal address. When the time came, the presiding officer rose solemnly and announced, " W e shall now listen to the Memorial Day Address by the • 5

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Reverend William Greenough Thayer of St. Mark's School, after which the military company will fire a salute over the dead." But the great delight at St. Mark's, as, I imagine, at other schools, was the boys themselves. I must confess that my first week was difficult. Every master had to carve for twelve boys, and, since I had had no experience in carving, the first boy was back for a second helping before I had served the twelfth. Finally, I confessed to an older master that I was slowly starving to death, and asked him how he managed. "Oh," said he, "that's easy; give 'em big helpings and serve all the tough parts first." Among the boys at my table, the most interesting was a second-former whom we will call Johnny. H e was simply full of mischief, and so clever in covering his tracks that only rarely could any of his misdeeds be traced back to him. But everything else was so interesting to Johnny that he found little time for study; and so, about the middle of the year, the Faculty reluctantly decided to drop him to the first form. Thereupon, his father promptly appeared and pro• 6

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tested to Mr. Thayer, who later reported the conversation. "I don't see why you've dropped Johnny. Isn't he bright enough?" "Oh, yes, he's bright enough, but we can't get him to work." "Well," said the father, "may I have him for the afternoon? Id like to take him to Cambridge." Mr. Thayer, of course, assented, and reported that the father returned quite crestfallen and confessed, "I'm afraid you are right. I took Johnny to Cambridge and spent two hours, showing him my old room and all the places that mean so much to me. At the end of it all, I said, 'Johnny, what do you think I brought you here and showed you all this for?' And Johnny replied, Ί don't know, sir; I was thinkin' of somethin' else.' " Ultimately, Johnny won his diploma, and, when he entered Harvard, chose me as his adviser (I had been appointed an instructor at Harvard after my year at St. Mark's). But once again his interest in everything under the sun interfered with study and in the middle of his Sophomore year he was "relegated," in the office slang of the early twentieth century. This meant that he must spend a half-year in a pre• 7

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paratory school other than his own, and, if he made a good record, might be readmitted on probation. This task he accomplished without difficulty. Indeed, he made such an impression at the school that he was asked to come back as a teacher when he had finished his Harvard course. One day in May of his Senior year, he appeared at my room wreathed in smiles. At that period, Seniors during May wore caps and gowns as evidence of their candidacy for the degree. "What do you think happened this morning?" said Johnny. When I confessed that so many things happened to him that I couldn't guess this one, he said, "Well, I was wearing my cap and gown when I met Professor Emerton in the Yard. You remember his course in history was one I flunked badly in Sophomore year. I think he always kind of liked me, even though I was such a dub in his course. Anyway, he stopped me and said, 'Good morning, Mr. L . I never expected to see you in cap and gown.' 'Well, I've got one,' said I. 'And what are you going to be doing next year, Mr. L ?' says he. 'Teaching,' says I. 'Oh, and what are you going to teach?' says he. 'History,' says I, and I left him goggle-eyed." • 8

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The system of advisers, in the early days of my Harvard teaching, was not what it has since become. Each adviser had some twenty advisees assigned to him, and his duty consisted of little more than making sure that study cards were properly filled out. As a result one rarely saw his advisees after the first day of a term, unless they were in trouble, and it was difficult to remember their names. There was one man especially who came to see me fairly often, but whose name I never could remember. Finally one day, late in the spring, when he came to my room I said to myself, "Now, I've got it," and greeted him with a hearty "Good morning, Mr. Smith." "Good morning sir," said he, "what is my name this morning?" When the Committee on the Choice of Electives was organized in 1910 Professor Morris Hickey Morgan, who successfully hid an essential friendliness behind an extremely brusque manner, was made its first Chairman. After a few years he resigned, and himself reported his last interview. He was busily engaged in cleaning up for his successor at a desk so placed that his back was towards the door. He heard the • 9 ·

door open, but kept on until he had finished what he was doing. Then he whirled around and demanded, "Do you wish to see me, sir?" "No, sir," replied the undergraduate, "but I am obliged to." For Professor Morgan I always had a great liking and I always felt that I had found the basis of his brusqueness when, in 1903, Mr. Edward Robinson, who had given Fine Arts 3 for several years, resigned to accept the directorship of the Metropolitan Museum in N e w York. Shortly after the resignation was announced I met Mr. Morgan in the Yard. "I hear they're talking of you for Fine Arts 3," said he. "What do you think about it?" "Well," said I, "I should think I wasn't very well prepared to give it, but of course if I am offered a chance, I shall tackle it." "That's one thing I like about you, Chase," said Morgan, "the only rule for getting on at Harvard is, 'When you see a head, hit it.' " One of the most difficult things for the young instructor is to maintain a proper gravity when his elders behave in ridiculous ways. Quite early in my career a plan proposed by the Department of Classics was rather summarily re10 ·

jected by President Eliot. T h e next meeting of the Department naturally turned into an indignation meeting, at which Mr. Eliot's shortsightedness was pointed out by practically every older member. T h e final statement, which was almost my undoing, was the remark, "Well, after all, we must remember that Eliot is fundamentally a chemist!" T h e lecture system also presents many problems for the young instructor. How much material will the fifty-minute period require? Shall he stick to facts and be utterly dull, or shall he let himself go and run the risk of putting his foot in it? Professor Archibald Cary Coolidge, who later had such a distinguished career as Professor of History and Director of the University Library, always denied the truth of a story which was frequently told in Cambridge, to the effect that at his first lecture in History ι he was somewhat upset to see President Eliot in the midst of his audience. He was more upset, when the hour was only half over, by the discovery that he had used up all his material. Feeling quite unable to improvise for twenty-five minutes, he simply went over the same ground again, varying his • II

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sentences as best he could. At the close of the lecture, Mr. Eliot waited for him, and as they walked across the Yard remarked, "I was interested to note, Mr. Coolidge, that you believe in the good old pedagogic principle of repetition." y ^ j Another story of History ι has to do with a young instructor who was inclined to a rhetorical style. He ended a lecture in a burst of eloquence, "And victory perched on the banners of the Burgundians!" Whereupon a six-footer in the last row rose and shouted, "Now fellows, three times three for the Burgundians!" An equally hilarious outburst at one of Professor Norton's lectures is reported by Edward W. Forbes, whose directorship of the Fogg Art Museum is such a remarkable chapter in the history of that institution. Forbes naturally took Professor Norton's Fine Arts 4 at the earliest possible moment and sat in the front row. One morning Professor Norton began by asking with a smile, "Will some young gentleman lend me his copy of my Church Building in the Middle Ages? I wish to read a passage in that book and forgot to bring my own copy." Forbes was instantly on 12 ·

his feet to present his copy of the book, amid the admiring murmurs of his fellow students, and Mr. Norton started to thumb through the pages. His smile vanished, and in a tone of deep disappointment he remarked, "I am sorry to note that the pages of this book are uncut." yftS The last minutes of a lecture, too, are often difficult. Lecturer and students are aware that the bell will ring in a few minutes. Students tend to shuffle their feet and reach for their bags. One of my friends told me, with obvious pride, that he once solved the problem of a restless (and, I am afraid, very spiritless) class by remarking, "Gentlemen, please be patient; I have a few more pearls to cast." Much better, I am sure, was the technique employed by Professor George Harold Edgell, whose acceptance of the directorship of the Boston Museum of Fine Arts was a great loss to Harvard. In Fine Arts id, which covered in a half year the history of art from the Roman Empire to modern times, he once came to the close of a period some five minutes before the end of the hour. When the men reached for their bags, he held up his hand an announced, "Gentlemen, in this course five minutes is fifty

years," and proceeded to summarize the developments of the next half century. One of the most troublesome types among students, and especially among graduate students, is the man who is always on the alert to impress the teacher (and his fellow students) with the breadth of his knowledge. Such a one is reported to have made life miserable for Professor Edward S. Sheldon in his course in Old French, by constantly quoting a learned German whose theories Professor Sheldon did not approve. Finally, after several encounters of this sort, when Mr. Sheldon had carefully explained a difficult passage and the student had countered, "But Schmidt holds a different theory," the professor's patience was exhausted, and he exclaimed, "Schmidt is an ass!" And then, after a pause, " A very learned ass, but still an ass." The student who goes to sleep in class presents another type of problem, the solution of which depends largely on the temperament of the instructor. I have heard of teachers who gathered up their notes and stamped angrily from the room when a student went to sleep. One of • H ·

my friends, whose lectures were given with lantern slides, simply provided himself with a long pointer and prodded sleepers into some semblance of attention. Another faculty member is said to have remarked, when he met a colleague in the Yard, "I've got a good one on you. When I met my class yesterday in Sever 18, there was a man asleep, left over from your class." "That isn't on me," replied the friend, "that man was there when my class came in." I have always thought that the happiest solution of the problem was that of Professor Josiah Royce, who simply stopped lecturing and stared at a sleeper until the attention of the whole class was centered on the unfortunate student. Then, looking up at the ceiling, he remarked, "The ancient Greeks had a theory that during sleep the soul leaves the body; I hope not," and resumed his lecture. Another source of irritation is the man who suddenly rises and leaves the room in the middle of a lecture. Does he withdraw from boredom or from dire necessity? One never knows, and the safest course is to pay no attention. Professor Kittredge once tried another method. Irritated because several men in his famous course "Six

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Plays of Shakespeare" had left in the middle of a lecture, he announced one day that hereafter any man who left the class without previous permission would no longer be regarded as a member of it. At the very next meeting, just as the lecturer was getting into his stride, a man in the second row suddenly rose, stumbled over the feet of a neighbor, dropped his bag of books, and made such a commotion that he was almost at the door before Professor Kittredge shouted, "You, sir; if you leave this class now, you will no longer be a member of it." "That's all right, sir," replied the young man politely, " I was only visiting." One of the perennial problems for the young instructor, naturally, is the question of promotion, and the amount of time which he spends weighing his chances and discussing them with his friends runs into many hours. Unless my memory of my first years of teaching is greatly at fault, my contemporaries never worried much about the future. In the early years of the twentieth century, enrollment in colleges and universities was increasing rapidly all over the country and the demand for teachers was considerable. Few of us, I think, expected to continue at Har• 16 ·

vard, but we felt sure there would be a place for us somewhere. Indeed, there was a general feeling that a man's chances of rapid advance might be better if he went somewhere else. A job at another institution, combined with the publication of a good book or a series of articles, not infrequently resulted in a "call" to a full professorship at Harvard. T h e problem was called to my attention early in my career by a somewhat older instructor who bustled into my room one morning and remarked, "George, I haven't been so scared since I was a kid as I was this morning. I had a note from Mr. Eliot a few days ago asking me to call at his office at ten o'clock today. W h e n I entered he said, 'Sit down, Dr. G ,' and motioned me to a chair. Then he sat down and twirled his thumbs for what seemed to me an age (you know how he looks at you and twirls his thumbs), and then he said, 'Dr. G — — , I recently heard something you said about Harvard, and I want to discuss it with you.' I'd said so many things about Harvard that I could only wonder which one he'd heard and hope for the best. Then he smiled and said, Ί heard you said that any young instructor here who got a call from '7

another institution would be wise to take it.' That was a proposition I was prepared to defend, and we had a very interesting and satisfactory talk. But for several minutes I felt as I used to feel when my father said, 'Young man, I will see you in the woodshed.' " On another occasion, one of my friends dropped in with the remark, "George, I've got a 'call,' and it's so darned big I'm afraid I've got to take it." "Hard luck," said I. "Where is it?" and he named one of the largest of the state universities. His account of his experiences when he went to investigate gave me many new ideas of university administration. He reported that when he called at the President's office, he was told that he would have to go to the state capital, because the President was "up there, striking the Legislature." So he repaired to the capital city, and met the President early next morning. "I can't talk with you during the day, Dr. C ," said the President, "because I must spend the day before a committee of the legislature. But come to dinner tonight and we can have a good talk." It was a hot day and after dinner the President suggested that they would be more comfortable in his • 18 ·

room. Arrived there, he lighted a fat cigar, took off his coat, vest, and shoes, put his feet up on the bed, blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, and began. "When I came up here, I told the Faculty I was going to strike for a 75 per cent increase in our appropriation. A lot of 'em said I was a damned fool. But I didn't believe 'em. I struck for 75 and I got 50. N o w about this job, Dr. C ." "It all seemed to me," concluded my colleague, "very different from the life of our dear queen." Perhaps it should be added, that he took the "job" and after a few years came back to Cambridge as a full professor, several years before those of us who had been continuously in service attained that desired goal. Not only the young instructor, but the professor as well, is troubled by the necessity of giving examinations and assigning grades. One experience which helped me greatly in my early years was a conversation with a student whose debonair attitude had impressed me from the first day of our acquaintance. W e were discussing various aspects of college life, when he suddenly remarked, "Mr. Chase, I don't see why men worry so much about examinations. Sometimes you look • 19 ·

over an exam and see you can kill it, and you write comfortably for three hours and come away knowing you have passed. And sometimes you see that you don't know a darned thing about it and write for three hours to see if you can pull the professor's leg." An unsuccessful attempt at leg-pulling was told to me by one of the men who assisted Professor Norton in his course on the art of the Renaissance. One of the examination questions was "Describe the Ghiberti Gates in Florence." On this the student wrote pages of pure generalities, praising the beauty of the gates at great length, and ending with a long dissertation on Mr. Gates' style. A more difficult problem was posed by a performance of the late Robert Benchley, who, by some chance, took a course on international law. The professor who gave the course reported that, after attempting two or three of the examination questions with little success, Benchley wrote: Dear Professor: The questions which you have asked on this examination cover all the topics which have inter• 20 ·

ested me least. If I should leave the room now, I should seem to my fellows less able than I really am. And I have been somewhat interested in the problem of the Canadian fisheries. I shall, therefore, devote the rest of my time to a discussion of that problem — from the point of view of the fish! He then proceeded to write a really brilliant . essay on such topics as whether the fish would prefer to be brought in fresh or salt, whether they would prefer to come in American or Canadian bottoms, and other equally relevant topics. The professor always ended by remarking: "I hated to flunk him, but of course I had to do it." Jijfg Few teachers regard examinations so lightly as Professor Sophocles is said to have done. One of the many anecdotes about him which are still current in Cambridge, although he died in 1883, is to the effect that during an examination period a colleague met him in the Yard with his face wreathed in smiles. "What's so funny, Professor Sophocles?" he asked. And Sophocles replied, "I have just heard that some of my students have bribed the printer to give them an advance copy of the examination. They do not know • 21

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that their marks have been in the office for two weeks." It should, perhaps, be added that the course was conducted by recitation, and Professor Sophocles' grades probably would not have been greatly affected by the results of the examination. But another story can hardly be explained in the same way. Professor Sophocles' course was taken by two men named Jones, one of whom was a notorious loafer and the other a very hard worker. When the marks were given out, the loafer received an A, and the hard worker a D. This so distressed the good student that he decided to beard Professor Sophocles in his room. The old gentleman heard him patiently as he told how hard he had worked and how he knew that the other Mr. Jones had done little or nothing in the course. "Let me see," said Professor Sophocles, "you are Mr. A. R. Jones?" "Yes, sir." "And the other man is Mr. D. C. Jones?" "Yes, sir." "Well, Mr. Jones," said Sophocles, "you must take your chances, you must take your chances." Among other things that made Professor Sophocles unique was the fact that he raised • 22

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chickens and sometimes presented a small bird to other members of the faculty or to their children. Professor John Williams White used to tell of meeting Professor Sophocles and being told, "I have named one of my chickens for your daughter Alice, and when it is a little older, I shall give it to her." After some weeks, when there was no sign of the chicken, Mr. White again met Mr. Sophocles and asked, "How about that chicken you were going to give my daughter Alice?" "Oh, Mr. White," said Sophocles, "such a misfortune. The Alicia turned out a cockerel!" Another famous professor whom I missed was George Martin Lane, whose knowledge of Latin literature was a tradition in the classical department. Professor Clifford H. Moore, who took Professor Lane's course in the eighties, once told me of an occasion when Professor Lane, to illustrate a statement in the assigned reading for the day, quoted a passage which seemed to Moore especially appropriate. He therefore raised his hand and asked if Professor Lane would name the author of the quoted passage. With a pained expression, Professor Lane removed his glasses, leaned far over the desk, and replied, "That, Mr. • 23 ·

Moore, was written by a certain Quintus Horatius Flaccus, a poet of some reputation in his own day." Of all the members of the Faculty whom I had the good fortune to know, Dean LeBaron Russell Briggs was, I think, the most universally loved. His fairness in dealing with Faculty and students alike, his patience with erring undergraduates, and his always kindly humor endeared him to everyone. For many years he rode a horse for exercise and was also Chairman of the Committee on Athletic Sports; and in 1903 he was elected President of Radcliffe College — an event which led one of his colleagues to remark, "Briggs is such a good man; one would hardly suspect that his three great interests are horses, sports, and now women." Briggs was at his best at the dinners of the Radcliffe alumnae in June, where, of course, he was always expected to report. I remember especially one dinner on a very hot June night, when the caterer had provided every guest with a newly varnished chair. When Briggs was called upon, he rose and lifting the tail of his dress coat • 24 ·

remarked with a rueful smile, "I had hoped to come before you with an unvarnished tail." On another occasion when he had just returned from a long trip during which he had addressed several associations of Radcliffe alumnae, he commented on the number of babes in arms that had been brought to the meetings. "I know, of course," said he, "that babies are the hope of the country; but in this case I thought the hope was misplaced." And one of his judgments which was much appreciated was pronounced when a visitor to Cambridge asked him if President Eliot had a sense of humor. Briggs pondered the question for some time and then replied in his best judicial manner, "Yes, he has; but it's unreliable." Another story for which I cannot vouch, but which bears all the marks of genuineness, concerns an undergraduate who, late at night after a Yale football game, had an encounter with a Yale man in the Yard. The Harvard man got home a strong punch and the Yale man went down and lay like a stone. The Harvard man in terror ran all the way to Briggs's home and when •

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the Dean at last appeared in a dressing gown, gasped out, "Dean Briggs, I've killed a Yale man in the Yard." To which Briggs is said to have replied, "why bother me at this time of night? Come around to the office Monday morning and collect the customary bounty." On another occasion, an undergraduate whom I will disguise under the name of Thompson somehow got possession of a large number of office "summonses" — postcards which were addressed by the Dean's office to erring undergraduates requesting an interview. He sent one to every member of his class, with the result that at eleven o'clock the next morning practically the whole class assembled in and about University Hall. Nothing happened for some time. Then Dean Briggs appeared at a window and remarked, "Gentlemen, I do not know why you have honored me in this way at this particular time, but if Mr. Thompson is among you, I should like to see him." ftfy There is also a story about a student who was stricken with tuberculosis early in the spring term and sent to Saranac by his physician. Being • 26 ·

very anxious to obtain his degree, he arranged with friends to send him lecture notes for all his courses and did his best to cover the required reading. Late in May he asked a classmate to see the Dean and find out if he might be permitted to take the examinations at Saranac. Dean Briggs looked very serious, but finally said, "Well, it's very irregular, but if you can persuade the instructors to consent, I'll send him the papers." So the friend visited the instructors concerned and found them all sympathetic but one, who became very much excited and charged the ambassador with trying to deceive him. At this the young man lost his temper and told the professor in no uncertain terms just what he thought of him. Then, fearful of his own position, he again went to Briggs and told him what had happened. Again Briggs looked very serious, and inquired, "Just what did you say to Professor G ?" When he had the detailed report, "Yes," said he, "that was pretty bad, I'll talk to him myself." T w o days later he met the young man in the Yard and said, "Well, it's all right; Professor G has agreed to send his examination to Saranac." After the student had thanked him • *7 ·

profusely, Briggs smiled and asked, "Would you tell me once more exactly what you said to Professor G ?" ¡¡¡¡jÇ^ Among other members of the Faculty as I knew it, Professor Kittredge was one of whom many stories were told. A great favorite had to do with the time when Kittredge in English 2, pacing the platform as he often did, stepped over the edge and fell to the floor. There was a gasp from the class, and then, as he picked himself up and was obviously unhurt, a titter. Whereupon, the professor climbed back to the platform and remarked, "Gentlemen, this is the first time I ever reduced myself to the level of my audience." At one period, Kittredge conducted an advanced seminar for graduates in the evening at his house. He always opened the meeting by throwing a box of cigars on the long table with the comment, "The church is the center of the parish; there are cigarettes for the weaker brethren." One meeting became famous. Kittredge himself was reading a paper, which had not been written out but was in the form of notes on large sheets. He began, as usual, by lighting a cigar. • 28 ·

After a time he laid the cigar down on the edge of the table and, as he shuffled his papers, covered it up. In a few minutes he looked for the cigar, and not seeing it at once, lighted another. Shortly after, a new shuffling of papers buried the second cigar, but uncovered the first. And so he went on, keeping both cigars going throughout the reading. None of the members of the seminar, so far as I could discover, remembered much about the paper; they were too deeply interested in the skillful manipulation of the cigars. Professor Copeland, too, was the source of many stories. Among them is the tale of an afternoon class at Radcliffe for which Copeland habitually arrived some minutes late. Naturally, the class got into the habit of late arrival. Then, one day, the professor was on time. As individuals drifted in, he became more and more irritated; and at last, when an unfortunate girl appeared some twenty minutes late, he could contain himself no longer, and asked, in his most sarcastic tones, "Oh, have you come for afternoon tea, too?" T o which the student replied, "Yes; and no lemon, please." • 29 ·

Before the Faculty Club was built its site was occupied by a town-and-gown organization called the Colonial Club. Among its famous features was a long table at which a group of older Faculty members regularly took lunch. T h e presiding genius was Professor A . S. Hill, author of the Principles of Rhetoric, familiar to many generations of Freshmen. One day, Professor John Hays Gardiner, a younger member of the English Department, who gave a course in the Bible and also courses on various aspects of English literature, had hardly taken his seat before he burst out, " T h e ignorance of those Radcliffe students in simple matters of Biblical reference is simply appalling. Today, in one of my classes, we came upon the word 'shibboleth.' I asked if anyone could tell me how the word came to have its modern connotation. N o one spoke for fully a minute. Then one girl rather timidly raised her hand and said she wasn't sure but she thought shibboleth was the mother of Samson." As the laughter subsided, Professor Hill inquired, "By the way, Hays, who was the mother of Samson?" As a teacher of the Bible, Gardiner was clearly on a spot. A f t e r some hesitation, he replied, • 30 ·

"I'm sorry; I must have known at some time, but I've forgotten." "It's certainly unfortunate if you've forgotten," said Hill, "for you're the only man that ever knew.' Another Colonial Club story that should be preserved concerns Professor Bartlett and the late Pierre La Rose, who, after a few years as instructor in English, led the life of a private scholar and contributed greatly to the success of the Tercentenary celebration in 1936 by his designs for the many banners and coats-of-arms needed for the ceremonies. Professor Bartlett was a thin man, always very meticulous about his appearance. La Rose, on the other hand, was distinctly on the stoutish side. The two met one day at the door of the Club, and as La Rose opened the door for his colleague, Bartlett smiled and said, "Ah, Mr. La Rose, age before beauty, I see." "No, sir," answered La Rose, "grace before meat." Another story about La Rose was told me by a member of the Princeton Expedition for the Excavation of Sardis. La Rose, as a friend of several members of the expedition, paid them a • 3

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visit, and one night, after dinner, the talk turned on the way in which the Turks were impressed by titles. Various members of the company suggested titles that they might assume, such as Muktar of Sart or Voivode of Alascher. Finally, someone said, "And what title would you choose, La Rose?" "Oh," said he, " I would be the Citrate of Magnesia." When I became a Faculty instructor in 1903, Professor John Williams White gave me what I afterwards recognized as excellent advice. "Chase," said he, " I think a young man is wise to attend Faculty meetings. You'll be bored at times, but you will find out how the College is run and get to know the older men, which I believe to be worth while." It is true that much Faculty business is pure routine, and too many members, to quote a statement of which I never could discover the author, have "a difficulty for every solution," but many of the discussions are interesting and entertaining. One such which sticks in my memory is the debate on the proposal to allow the football team to accept an invitation to play a post-season game in the Rose Bowl at Pasadena on January 1, 1920. The Fac32

ulty was almost evenly divided, with many members convinced it was a hardship for the members of the team to keep in training for an extra month, and that, after the long trip, they would hardly be in condition. There was suspicion, too, that Messrs. Raymond and Whitcomb, the travel agents, were actively urging the trip, for which they would undoubtedly make the arrangements. Dean Briggs, as Chairman of the Committee on Athletics, was the principal advocate for granting permission; the opposition was led by Dean Greenough of the College. Much to Greenough's disappointment, the final vote was in favor of granting the request of the Athletic Committee. As we left the meeting, Greenough's final comment was, "George, I think I'll have a sign put up on the Johnson Gate, 'Sold out to Raymond's.' " Perhaps it should be explained that "Sold out to Raymond's" is a slogan used by a Boston firm which deals largely in the stock of firms which go out of business and dispose of their current holdings. And the feelings of Dean Greenough and other opponents of the trip were considerably soothed by the fact that Harvard won the Rose Bowl game.

• 33 ·

Even after retirement, teachers continue to be a source of stories. Indeed, an interesting study could be made of the ways in which retirement is accepted by different individuals. A comparatively rare type is the man who thinks himself just as good, if not better, than he ever was and resents retirement as a sort of personal insult. One such, who shall be nameless, always referred to himself as a Professor Demeritus. With him a younger colleague had a most embarrassing experience. They met on Tremont Street in Boston during the noon hour of a beautiful spring day, and our nameless emeritus proceeded to enlarge on the wrong that had been done him. Naturally, a crowd of idlers, clerks out for luncheon, and others collected. " H e reminded me of the Ancient Mariner," said the colleague. "If I tried to get away, he seized me by the arm and forcibly detained me. Finally, when in his loudest tones he shouted, 'God damn the Corporation of Harvard University,' I dived into the subway and escaped to Cambridge." Another type is illustrated by a story told by a man who was long a clerk in one of the stores in Harvard Square and whom we will call • 34 ·

Johnson. For a good many years, he reported, the telephone would ring at fairly regular intervals, and a familiar voice would say, "Johnson, this is Charles Townsend Copeland. A quart of the usual." And he would send a quart of whisky to Hollis Hall. Then one day the telephone rang and the voice said, "Johnson, do you know what emeritus means?" "I'm afraid I don't exactly, sir," replied Johnson. "Emeritus means 'on the shelf,' " said the voice, "Two quarts of the usual." Finally, the ideal attitude was undoubtedly expressed many years ago by Professor George Herbert Palmer, who once stated that he was grateful to the Corporation, which had paid him for many years to do just what he most liked to do. But perhaps only a philosopher could take such a detached attitude. But the largest collection of stories and legends naturally gathers around the head of the institution, especially when the head is a man like President Eliot or President Lowell, with definite ideas and definite policies to be implemented. Of the many stories about Mr. Eliot's early years, the two which I have always liked • 35 ·

most have to do with the Medical School and the Observatory. Both these institutions, before Mr. Eliot's time, had enjoyed a large degree of independence and both resisted his efforts to bring them into closer relations with the rest of the institution, to make them parts of the real university which he had in mind. Of the Medical School Faculty it is told that, during a debate on one of Mr. Eliot's proposals, an older member burst out, "What does this mean, Mr. Eliot?" And Mr. Eliot calmly replied, "It means that Harvard has a new President." T h e Observatory of the i86o's had its own governing body. T o this the Director made an annual report, which was hardly more than a formality. At the first meeting of the governors after Mr. Eliot became President, when the Director had finished his report, the first comment, in an unfamiliar deep voice from the back of the room was, "An excellent report. I move it be printed." T h e Director jumped, but recovered himself sufficiently to exclaim, "What! Print this rot, when I want a new astrolabe. I should say not." And he tore up the report and threw

.36.

it in the waste basket. But the next year the report was printed. There is also a story that the day after a lively meeting of the Faculty of Arts and Sciences, in which one of Eliot's proposals was violently attacked, two members met in the street, and one said, "I certainly admired Mr. Eliot's self-control at that meeting yesterday." "So did I," said the other, "but the janitor tells me both arms of his chair were pulled off their supports." By the time that I became a member of the Faculty, such violent meetings were long a thing of the past. Mr. Eliot's proposals were often debated, but never violently. He also encouraged debate, in the belief, it was sometimes suspected, that novel proposals had a better chance of adoption if every one had a chance to "blow off steam." At most one might expect a speech from Professor Shaler, one of whose favorite openings was, "Nigh on forty years, Mr. President, have I been a member of this Faculty, and never have I heard a proposal like the one now before us." One interesting experiment which Mr. Eliot induced the Faculty to try was the introduction 37

of early morning lectures. He himself was always an early riser, and in the late nineties he convinced the Faculty that the "plant" was not efficiently used when lectures began at 9 o'clock. So an 8 o'clock period was introduced, and after a year the time was set back to 7:45 on the ground that men could not attend an 8 o'clock class and get to chapel at 8.45. M y recollection is that few classes except sections of German A and other elementary courses given by young instructors who had little to say about their teaching appointments were ever assigned to the 7:45 period; certainly the hour was not popular with older teachers. After some years of experiment there was a rather short Faculty meeting, at the end of which Mr. Eliot leaned back in the Presidential chair and suggested, "Perhaps this would be a good time for the men who have been conducting the early morning classes to tell us something of their experience." There was a dead silence, broken at last by Professor Kittredge's, "Evidently, Mr. President, they are sleeping it off." One of the elements of President Eliot's success was his knowledge of the details of Uni-

.38.

versity administration. Dean Briggs always told with delight of a student who took his undergraduate degree and stayed on in the same room for a year of graduate work. Soon after the Commencement of his extra year he went to the Dean's office and demanded a second diploma on the ground that mice had ruined the document he received the year before, which he had kept in his desk; since he was living in a college dormitory, he argued, the college was responsible. Dean Briggs agreed that perhaps he had a case and assured him that he would write to President Eliot at his summer home in Northeast Harbor, since only the President had the right to order a second diploma. In due time the authorization arrived, but before the young man came in to hear the verdict, a second letter came from Mr. Eliot, in which he wrote: "On second thought, it occurs to me that the young man may have courted disaster by keeping cheese in his desk. Will you inquire into this?" When the student came in, therefore, the Dean said, "President Eliot thinks you may be responsible for the loss of your diploma. H e wants to know if you kept cheese in your desk." The young man said, • 39 ·

"Yes, I did," and was told that no second diploma would be issued. ^ f g In his later years Mr. Eliot occasionally enlivened the meetings of the Faculty with accounts of some of his experiences. I recall especially a meeting at which a comparatively large gift to the University was announced. Mr. Eliot smiled and remarked: "One can never tell how funds will come in. I remember how Austin Hall was built. Mr. Austin was a typical Bostonian, who always carried an umbrella. He had already made several gifts to the University, when one day as I was hurrying down State Street, a little late for a meeting of the Corporation, he barred my way with his umbrella and demanded, 'Charles, what is the greatest need of the University today?' I had to think quickly, but finally I said, Ί believe the greatest need is a building for the Law School.' Oh, damn it all,' said Mr. Austin, Ί hate lawyers.' And the next day he sent a check for f 100,000 to build Austin Hall. One of Mr. Eliot's well-recognized characteristics was his outspokenness. He was at one • 40 ·

time much perplexed by an intimacy which sprang up between two members of the Faculty who shall be nameless. Finally, he said to one of them whom he knew very well, "Frank, I can't understand why you and G see so much of each other. He is certainly a very learned man and you certainly are not." T o which his friend made the disarming answer, "Perhaps it rests him." There is a story, too, that he was once shocked to hear that the undergraduate son of one of his friends was drinking heavily. By chance he met the young man one morning when he was on his way to chapel. "Good morning, Mr. ," said Mr. Eliot, "are you drinking now?" "Thank you, Mr. Eliot," replied the student, "not so early in the morning." As a pendant to this story, the late President Ogilby of Trinity College told with great delight one of his experiences. He was asked, very early one morning, to come to the police station, since a Trinity student had been arrested the night before on a charge of disorderly conduct. He found the young man looking remarkably • 41 ·

chipper in his cell, and was welcomed with the greeting, "Good morning, Mr. President, are you coming in or am I coming out?" When the question of retiring allowances for members of the Harvard staff was raised by the members of the Corporation, Mr. Eliot told the Faculty of their discussions and said that the Corporation had instructed him to ask the members of the Faculty for their ideas, especially in regard to the age at which retirement should begin. There was an interesting debate, in which various ages from sixty-five to seventy were proposed and one or two votes taken. Mr. Eliot himself was over seventy at the time, and finally one of the older members asked the question that was in everyone's mind, "Mr. Eliot, is this retirement age to apply to the President of the University?" Mr. Eliot replied, "No; the members of the Corporation thought not. My own idea has been that I should retire the moment I discovered any break in my physical powers. And if I should fail to note it, I feel sure that Mrs. Eliot can be relied upon to notice it and call my attention to it." . 42 .

That his faith in Mrs. Eliot was justified appeared many years later. In 1924, Mr. Eliot's ninetieth birthday was celebrated by a meeting in Sanders Theater, after which he spoke to the undergraduates from the steps of University Hall. Mrs. Eliot was ill at the time, and on his return he naturally gave her a detailed account of the proceedings, ending with the statement, "What pleased me most in the whole affair was the fact that in spite of my deafness I heard everything that was said except Frank Peabody's prayer." "Well, after all, Charles," said Mrs. Eliot, "that was not addressed to you." Among the many aphorisms attributed to Mr. Eliot is his statement after a dinner in his honor at which one speaker after another praised him, "After all, adulation does a man no harm, unless he inhales it." I have always felt that the University was very fortunate in the choice of Mr. Lowell as Mr. Eliot's successor. Mr. Eliot had transformed a college with a few loosely related institutions into a real university. In the elective system he had brought about a great reform, not only in • 43 ·

Harvard College, but throughout the United States. Mr. Lowell, even before he became President, had advocated some modification of the elective system and had been made chairman of a committee "to consider how rank in college may be made a more generally recognized measure of intellectual power." It was the report of this committee which inspired the system of "Concentration and Distribution" adopted shortly after Mr. Lowell's inauguration in 1909, and ultimately the tutorial system. In all these movements Mr. Lowell was the leader, and his interest in the development of higher standards and greater respect for scholarship among undergraduates continued to be one of his aims during all the years of his administration. One manifestation of it caused almost endless discussion. He had the final grades in a group of large elementary courses collated and plotted in an "ideal curve," based on the percentage of A's, B's, C's, D's, and E's. With this he compared the grades given in other courses, and instructors whose grades deviated from the curve were asked to discuss the problem of marking with the President, especially if the curves • 44 ·

were markedly above the ideal line. I had such an interview, since the grades in my only large course were somewhat high. I made what defense I could, pointing out that the "ideal" was based on a series of courses regularly open to Freshmen, whereas my course was regularly open only to upperclassmen, and advancing such other arguments as I could muster. Mr. Lowell listened politely to my defense and merely remarked, "Yes, they all say something like that; and after all yours isn't a very bad case. For the really bad courses, I have another type of graph which shows what grades the men in a particular course got in other courses. When I show a man that students whom he rated A or Β regularly made C's in other courses, that his C men regularly have D's everywhere else, and so forth, there isn't much that he can say. One older man whose course has been a notorious 'snap' for years got quite excited and burst out, Ί will not have my course a sink.' And I'm still wondering whether he meant 'sink' or whether that is his pronunciation of 'cinch.' " By such methods, and by his encouragement of the tutorial system, Mr. Lowell undoubt• 45 ·

edly raised the standard of performance and the respect for scholarship in Harvard College. The best proof lies in the fact that in the late 1930's nearly 50 per cent of the members of every Senior class were candidates for honors at graduation. But he also had other methods. At one time, when I was Dean of the Graduate School, he felt that our standards of admission were too low, that we allowed students of mediocre ability to remain too long in the School, and that candidates for the doctorate were encouraged to spend their time in the investigation of topics of little real importance. I always felt that his attitude was partly inspired by the fact that on one unfortunate occasion, when he had been asked in the middle of the year to recommend a man for an instructorship in a sister institution, we could submit only a list of rather mediocre candidates, since our best men had already been placed. Mr. Lowell examined their records with increasing dismay, and at last exploded, "Why, all you have here is a bunch of mavericks." Under his prodding the Administrative Board of the School raised the requirements for admission. But we never could do much about the thesis subjects, 46

and Mr. Lowell continued to prod us in various ways. One of his methods was the invention of a supposedly typical thesis subject which he cited on several occasions, "On the left hind leg of the Paleozoic cockroach." This suddenly disappeared from his repertory, and we were told, though I never could verify the report, that at a dinner for graduates, as soon as the President had finished speaking, one of the diners rose and announced with great solemnity that he was sorry to disagree with the President of the University, but he was the man who wrote the thesis on the left hind leg of the Paleozoic cockroach; that it was not a narrow subject at all; that he came to Cambridge prepared to write on the last joint of the left hind leg of the Paleozoic cockroach, but the professor who specialized in that particular field was on sabbatical leave, so that he had to expand his subject and treat the whole of the left hind leg. At another time, Mr. Lowell was disturbed by the teaching methods of the Division of Fine Arts. H e thought too much stress was laid on • 47 ·

facts and the identification of slides in examinâtions. And again he invented a story to illustrate his point. It had to do with an undergraduate who was doing very badly in a course in Fine Arts. Finally, his tutor suggested that he consult the instructor in the course, to see if he could suggest any explanation of the boy's failure. He found the instructor full of ideas. "Why, yes, Mr. Jones, I think I know why your marks are so low. You sit through the lectures like a Stoughton bottle; I haven't seen you take any notes; and you haven't asked a question since the course began." Here was an idea, and at the next lecture the undergraduate watched the slides as they came on the screen, saying over and over to himself, "Question, question." At last a much faded Madonna and Child made its appearance. He raised his hand and was at once recognized by the pleased instructor. "Excuse me, sir," said he, "is the child a boy or a girl?" "And that," said Mr. Lowell, "is the way they teach the fine arts in Harvard University." ^jSg President Lowell's attitude towards callers at his office was quite the opposite of President Eliot's. One usually found him pacing the floor, .48

and this he continued to do after the visitor was seated. Usually, too, Mr. Lowell at once stated the problem to be discussed and gave his own views at some length. Indeed, I remember one distressed chairman of a department whom I met soon after Mr. Lowell's inauguration. "Have you had an interview with the new President yet?" said he. "Oh yes," said I. "Did you get your business transacted?" "Why, yes," said I. "Well," said he, "I had an hour's interview, and he spent the whole time telling me how the department ought to be run. Finally I went away and wrote him a letter, submitting the questions I wanted to ask." Throughout his administration Mr. Lowell was inclined to be suspicious of the actions of the alumni. He was so sure of his goals that he tended to regard any criticism of his plans by graduates as unwarranted interference. At an annual meeting of the Associated Harvard Clubs he even advised the members to disband the organization unless they could be more actively helpful to the University. This attitude was revealed most clearly when he was made a member of Governor Fuller's commission to review the famous •49-

Sacco-Vanzetti case. After he had consented to serve, the Governor is said to have remarked, "Of course you know what the result of your investigation will be." "Why, no," said Mr. Lowell, "what do you mean?" "Well," said Mr. Fuller, "there is a large number of people who believe Sacco and Vanzetti guilty, and you won't change their opinion; then there is another large group of people who believe them innocent, and you won't change their opinion; and then there is the great mass who have no opinion, but as soon as you pronounce one, will be against you." "Yes, your Excellency," replied Mr. Lowell, "we have such a group associated with Harvard University. We call them alumni." Any incongruity was grist to Mr. Lowell's mill. He was fond of stating, " W e have in front of University Hall a statue with the inscription 'John Harvard, founder,' and certain dates. It is not a portrait of John Harvard; he was not the founder; and the dates are wrong. And the motto of Harvard is Veritas." At one time the 1857 Gate (between Wadsworth House and Lehman Hall) was under re• 50 ·

pair. This is the gate over which is the inscription, "Enter to grow in wisdom." During the repairs, a much larger inscription appeared below, "Use the other entrances." He quoted as a similar occurrence the time when one of the churches in Boston was being renovated, and a similar sign was placed across the entrance below the inscription, "This is the house of God, the very gate of Heaven." One of Mr. Lowell's favorite stories was about a Beacon Street family who owned a grandfather's clock. T h e father had always told his eldest son that he had left him the clock in his will. But after the boy married, the father thought he should have the clock at once and get the same enjoyment out of it that he had had. So one Sunday, after church, he told his son of his decision and asked when he would like to take it. "Oh," said the son, "I'll take it now. Our house isn't far and I can carry it perfectly well." He found the clock heavier than he expected and in his progress down the street had to stop to rest every now and then. This was observed with interest by an intoxicated man on the opposite side of the street. Finally his curi51

osity got the better of him. H e wandered rather unsteadily across the street and asked, "Young man, wouldn't it be easier to carry a watch?" Mr. Lowell, too, enjoyed mystifying his Faculty when opportunity offered. His announcement of Mr. Harkness' first gift for the construction of the Harvard Houses was typical. A special meeting of the Faculty was called. After ι routine business had been disposed of, Mr. Lowell began: " A few days ago the card of a gentleman whom I had never met was handed to me at my office. When the gentleman came in, he immediately asked, 'Mr. Lowell, have you ever thought of the advantages of breaking up the large body of undergraduates into smaller units?' I assured him that we had, and took him into the Faculty Room to discuss the problem. After considerable talk, he asked, 'How much do you think it would cost to build a single experimental unit?' Of course, we hadn't got that far with our plans; but, after some thought, I replied 'About three million dollars.' 'I'll give it to you,' said he. Ί think I am good for it.' I assured him that I had every reason to think so and he left. I have forgotten the gentleman's name. I told • 52

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him I would." And with that the Faculty had to be satisfied. J^fg Around Mr. Conant, as yet, few legends have gathered. Indeed, I can think of only two. Soon after his election, a classmate is said to have expressed to him a widely held opinion that it was a shame to take a great research chemist and make him a college president. T o this Mr. Conant is said to have replied, "It might be interesting to have two careers." He could hardly have anticipated then that he was destined to add a third career as a distinguished public servant. ¡¡¡¡¡Çg Mr. Conant's youthful appearance at the time of his election was the subject of many comments. This was amusingly illustrated at one of the first meetings of the Associated Harvard Clubs which he attended. Following a custom established by Mr. Lowell, Mr. Conant was the last speaker at the annual dinner. He had hardly finished when one of the diners made his way rather unsteadily to the head table and remarked: "So you're the new President of Harvard." "Yes, I am," replied Mr. Conant. "Well, I'll be damned," said the graduate and took himself off. • 53 ·

The traditional rivalry of Harvard, Yale, and Princeton naturally forms the basis of many stories. That this is really a friendly rivalry is evident from the way in which the three institutions collaborate in academic and athletic matters, and by the existence of Harvard-YalePrinceton clubs or groups in several cities. One of the oldest embodiments of the tradition of rivalry is the story of John the Orangeman, the famous purveyor of fruit and other edibles to many generations of Harvard men. A group of visitors is said to have asked John if he could explain the Harvard motto Christo et Ecclesiae. "I don't rightly know, friend," replied John, "but I think it means 'To Hell with Yale.' " A variant of this story is one about a Harvard graduate who was surprised to find a classmate seated with Edward Everett Hale on one of the special trains for New Haven on the day of the Harvard-Yale football game, since his friend, so far as he knew, had never had the slightest interest in athletic contests. When he expressed his surprise the classmate replied, "Oh, I'm just going to yell with Hale." • 54 ·

One of the wittiest members of the Faculty as I knew it was Professor Barrett Wendell. Of the many anecdotes about him, I always liked best his reply to a famous French scholar who delivered a series of lectures, first at Yale and then at Harvard. In the course of conversation, the Frenchman asked Professor Wendell if he could explain why Harvard's motto is Veritas, while Yale's is Lux et Veritas. Without a moment's hesitation Wendell replied, "Oh, là bas, la Vérité c'est article de luxe." The Gothic splendor of the Yale buildings naturally comes in among Harvard men for much criticism and unfavorable comparison with Harvard's simple Georgian architecture. And even in New Haven there appears to be an occasional criticism. A Harvard graduate who is a great friend of the Yale Librarian told me about his first visit to New Haven after the new library was built. He was shown all over the building by the Librarian and expressed his admiration in no uncertain terms. As they left, the Librarian remarked, "You know, the architects forgot one thing." "I don't see it," said the Harvard man, "I should think you had everything." "No," • 55 ·

said the Librarian, "over the door or near the door, there should be an inscription, 'The LIB R A R Y is inside.' " Of Harvard graduates in New York one of the most popular for many years was the late Thomas W. Slocum. He was interested, above all, in athletics and was a frequent speaker at pre-game meetings. At one of these he delighted his hearers with the following story. "You probably noticed in the daily press the praise bestowed on the captain of the Yale football team. It appears that, as he was returning to his room after practice, he saw a small child toddle into the path of an oncoming trolley car. At risk of life and limb he threw the child to one side and saved its life. Strangely enough, the papers carried almost nothing about a similar occurrence in Cambridge a few days later. The circumstances were much the same, only that it wasn't the captain of the team who was involved, but the substitute end on the second eleven, and the child was much smaller and the trolley car much bigger. What did the Harvard man do? Did he throw the child into the gutter? N o t at all; he tackled the trolley car and threw it for a loss." • S6.

This anecdote may serve as a transition to a few stories about graduates in general. Among the excitements of the Commencement season is the procession for the afternoon exercises, which is always headed by the oldest alumni present. On one occasion the two who had that honor were respectively ninety-four and ninety-two years old. After the exercises someone asked the older man, "How did you get on with Mr. ?" "Oh," replied he, "pretty well; I had to hold him up around the corners." For several years the oldest living graduate of Harvard was the late Henry M. Rogers of Boston. Of him it is told that when he was well along in the nineties a very intimate friend who was calling on him remarked, "Henry, I suppose when a fellow gets to be as old as you are, he thinks a good deal about death." "Oh, no," replied Mr. Rogers, "very few die at my age." The "speaker from the University" naturally does not depend entirely on Harvard stories, but, as I have already done earlier in this account, uses others which he thinks may enliven his dry statistics and reports of progress. Among academic • 57 ·

tales one of the best that I know was told by a graduate of Johns Hopkins. An anniversary celebration in Baltimore was finished off, in accordance with good academic practice, by an elaborate banquet. T o speak as representative of the foreign universities a distinguished English scholar was chosen. When the toastmaster introduced him, he reached confidently into the pocket of his coat. A look of consternation spread over his face and he hastily explored other pockets. Then, in a sepulchral voice, he said, "Mr. Toastmaster, I know that I was appointed to speak for the foreign universities, and I know that I wrote out a speech. It is clear that I haven't that speech with me now. The only explanation I can offer is that last night I accompanied my daughter to the opera and somehow, in changing, I must have left the speech in another coat." Whereupon, a member of the Johns Hopkins faculty saved the situation by shouting, "Mr. Toastmaster, let us all remember that the motto of the Johns Hopkins University is Opera, non verba." Some of my experiences in Athens I often found helpful, especially the tale of the Ameri58.

can woman on a Mediterranean cruise who came to tea with the Director of the American School of Classical Studies and, as she left, remarked, "I am so glad to have seen Athens. I never could remember before whether the Parthenon was on the Acropolis or the Acropolis on the Parthenon." O f the Parthenon my most vivid remembrance is also connected with a Mediterranean cruise. During my first year as a student I met the cruise director, who later wrote to ask if I would speak to his next party for thirty minutes from the steps of the Parthenon on the history of Athens for a fee of thirty dollars. A dollar a minute seemed to me at that time a fabulous rate of pay and I readily assented. But I forgot St. Paul, and in my summary of Athenian history did not mention him. I had hardly finished when an elderly gentleman on the outskirts of the crowd inquired, "Where is the Areopagus?" "Oh," said I, "it's that little hill down there." "And where did St. Paul stand?" For this question I thought myself well prepared, having just become acquainted with the theory that the Greek of the New Testament might mean "be• 59 '

fore the Court of the Areopagus," as well as "on the Areopagus." Since the Court of the Areopagus met on the Areopagus hill only to trycases of murder and St. Paul was not accused of that, it seems probable that he appeared before the court at their usual meetingplace in Agora. All this I expounded in my best manner. "But the Bible says," persisted my tormentor, "on the Areopagus." Once more I repeated my arguments, pointing out that everything depends on the interpretation of a Greek preposition. As I turned to answer another question, I overheard the first man say to a neighbor, "Well, the young feller may be all right on his archaeology, but he don't know much about the Bible." Another very helpful Athenian experience of mine is associated with the visit of Mr. Henry Adams. Several of us were invited to meet Mr. Adams at a dinner given b y Mr. William Rockhill, the American minister, at which it was suggested that w e spend the next morning showing Mr. Adams about the city. This, of course, we were delighted to do, and we had a wonderful time defending our pet theories from Mr. Adams' skeptical comments. T h e climax came in the • 60 ·

Acropolis Museum, when we discussed the problems of the dress of the famous female figures of the archaic period, especially the question whether the small knobs on their robes with radiating lines about them were meant to represent pins or buttons. At this Mr. Adams exclaimed, "They're buttons. Of course the Greeks had buttons. Some day someone will split open a rock and find a prehistoric man with a bicycle." Among the members of the American School were several who had taken part in the excavation of the Heraeum near Argos a few years before. They delighted to tell of a famous German archaeologist who visited them, and was especially impressed by the eggnog of which it was their custom to partake before retiring. During the night a violent wind blew down all the tents in which they lived. Naturally, they hurried to the guest tent, to find the German, fully clad even to his glasses, sound asleep under the collapsed canvas; and they succeeded in reërecting the tent without waking him. In the morning when he appeared, the first question naturally was how he found himself. "Oh," said he, "a little headache; but the eggnog was wonderful." • 61 ·

Another tale of an earlier year concerned the famous Professor Gildersleeve of Johns Hopkins. On a visit to Greece he had brought along an adoring pupil and both went on the trip through the Peloponnesus which was conducted every year by Dr. Dörpfeld of the German Institute. There were several Harvard men in the party and one of them was delayed so that he joined the rest two or three days late. He was at once told by the others about the adoring pupil. So that evening at dinner he took a seat opposite the young man and remarked, " I hear this is your first visit to Greece, Mr. Κ—." "Yes, I'm traveling with Professor Gildersleeve." "Gildersleeve, Gildersleeve," said the Harvard man. "I've heard his name. He's written something hasn't he?" Whereupon he was regaled with a catalogue of Gildersleeve's writings. "I knew I'd heard the name," said the Harvard man, "and what is your special interest, Mr. Κ — ? " "I've been working on the Greek verb, and I have discovered that the second aorist of some verbs has a sinister meaning." "Oh, really," said the Harvard man, "is that the sort of thing they're doing at Johns Hopkins? At Harvard we gave up that kind of • 62 ·

investigation long ago." During the next few days the ragging continued, and finally, at Olympia, where the party were housed in tents, one of the Harvard men reported that he heard the young man complain to his tentmate, "I can't stand those Harvard men. They treat each other like dogs; they treat me like a dog; they're gall and wormwood to me." Finally, the group became well enough acquainted with Professor Gildersleeve to joke him about his companion. "Do you know," said Gildersleeve, "I never see you Harvard men with Johnny but I think of a time I went fishing. I baited my hook and got a fish and I baited again and got another fish and then I threw the hook over with no bait and got a fish. And I pulled up and went home. It was too easy." A Cornell professor whom I met in Athens in 1897, when Library Science was in its infancy, reported that in a public lecture on library work at Ithaca the speaker, expatiating on the difficulties of the librarian's profession, rated cataloguing among the greatest, and to illustrate the point made the statement: "Take such a familiar name as Dante. It appears in such different 63.

forms: sometimes it is just Dante; sometimes Dante Alighieri; and sometimes Dante Gabriel Rossetti." That the lecturer had a point is illustrated by an experience of Professor Goodwin's. One of his early contributions in his field of the classics was the revision of a translation of Plutarch's Moralia. The title page of this five-volume work reads: Plutarch's Morals. Translated from the Greek by Several Hands. Corrected and Revised by William W. Goodwin, Ph.D. T o his great joy, Professor Goodwin once found this catalogued as: Hands, S., translator, Plutarch's Morals. Guide? in museums, too, are the source of many stories. One that I remember especially was a guide in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. In explaining the monuments, he spoke glibly of "eighteenth century," "twentieth century," "ninth century." A member of the party finally asked, "When you say 'ninth century' and so on, you mean B.C., don't you?" "Oh yes," replied the guide, "everything in this museum is B.C. — very much B.C." •64.

This story is matched by one recently told by a curator in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts. To him there came one day a little old lady with a curious looking object which he couldn't place at all. This she deposited on his desk with great care. "This is very old," said she, "it dates from 400 B.C." "Oh," said the curator, "that isn't very old; we have things in the museum from 3000 B.C." "Ah yes," said the lady, "but this is 400 from the beginning of B.C." Of Boston stories, which are always appreciated in other cities, I shall cite only a few. One of the oldest and most foolish has to do with a Boston woman who was planning her first trip to the West. The travel agent asked: "How would you like to go? By Buffalo?" "Why, really," replied the lady, "I planned to go by train." )¡¡5tó Another very old story concerns two women from Boston who were riding across the prairie and came upon a lone tombstone with the simple inscription: "John Jones — he came from Boston." They looked at it reverently, and finally one said: "How brief, but how sufficient."

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Similar in motif is the story of two Boston women who went to the San Francisco fair and ran into a hot spell. As they were stewing on Treasure Island, one said to the other, " M y dear, I never expected to be so hot in San Francisco." "But, my dear," replied her companion, "you must remember that we are three thousand miles from the ocean." I always wondered about the veracity of a colleague from Leland Stanford, who insisted that once, when he was having tea in a Boston home, the lady of the house inquired, " H o w long did it take you to come from Leland Stanford to Boston?" "About four days," replied my friend, "at least I was four nights on the train." " W h y , really," said his hostess, "I never was on a train so long in my life. But then, of course, I'm here already." But the complacency of the Bostonian (and the Cantabrigian) sometimes exposes him to rude shocks. In 1901, the American Philological Association met in Cambridge as guests of Harvard University. T o add a lighter touch to the formal meeting, the committee in charge organized, for • 66 ·

one afternoon, a steamer trip around Boston Harbor. As we approached Governor's Island, which at that time had a small garrison, someone suggested that our members from other institutions might find a visit to the fort interesting. Professor John Williams White, the President of the Association, approved, and suggested that our request might be more readily granted if we asked permission in the name of President Eliot, who had joined the party as a guest. Mr. Eliot readily assented. As we approached the island, therefore, Professor White shouted to the corporal on guard at the pier, "Will you ask your commanding officer if he will permit President Eliot and his party to visit the fort?" T o which the corporal, to the immense delight of our visitors, shouted back, "President Eliot of what?" Ranging somewhat further afield, I have always found that stories of life in N e w England are appreciated not only by N e w Englanders but also by others. Among my favorites is the tale of the N e w Yorker who, in the course of a motoring trip in Vermont became completely lost. Finally, he saw a farmer chopping wood in his barnyard, and with some difficulty

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attracted his attention. "Can I get to Montpelier this way?" asked the motorist. "I dunno," replied the farmer. "Well, can I get to Barre?" Again the reply was "I dunno." At this the New Yorker lost his temper and shouted, "You don't know much, do you?" "No," replied the farmer, "but I ain't lost." Quite different was the experience of another motorist under similar circumstances. This time the farmer responded with very explicit instructions. After he had covered some ten miles, the stranger found himself in front of the same house, and inquired with some heat what the farmer meant. "Oh," said he, "I just wanted to make sure you could follow directions." But the best Vermont story I know has to do with a party who were hurrying home to St. Johnsbury after a long afternoon of motoring. As they rounded a curve on a down grade, they found the road completely blocked by two wagons, the drivers of which had stopped to gossip. The chauffeur applied his brakes and by good luck managed to stop less than a yard from • 68 .

the wagons. When he recovered his breath, he shouted out, "Hey, what do you fellers think you're doing, blocking the whole road?" Only then did one of the farmers turn around and carefully removing his pipe reply, "Visitin'; and we got a right ter." The New Englander's dislike of committing himself is well illustrated by the tale of a Maine boy who bought a second-hand Ford and before he had really learned to drive managed to knock down a neighbor who was walking down the road. He stopped as soon as he could and, seeing the neighbor still lying where he fell, shouted, "Si, be ye hurt?" "Well," replied Si, "it ain't done me no pertikerler good." The summer visitor is often baffled by the New Englander's reticence and unwillingness to take the stranger to his bosom. Thus it is told of an "outsider" who was spending his first summer on Cape Cod that toward the end of August he felt that he had become sufficiently acquainted with the local storekeeper to venture the remark: "There are a lot of funny-looking people around here, aren't there?" "Yes," replied the

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storekeeper, "but they'll all be gone soon after Labor Day." How should one finish off a rambling miscellany such as this? The problem baffled me until I suddenly realized that a series of stories should, of course, be ended by a final story. There was once a ten-year-old who attempted to write a tale of adventure. After dragging his hero through many dangers, he left him at the close of Chapter 12 seriously ill. The last words of the chapter were: "They feared he would die." The rest of the manuscript read: Chapter 13 He did die. T H E END

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EPILOGUE I began with an apology and perhaps I should end with one. But, as I have spun my "tales out of school," I have come to realize that perhaps I can lay claim to a serious purpose. These are days when the need for teachers is acute. With thousands of veterans entering our schools and colleges, the shortage of teachers rivals the many other shortages from which we suffer. Is it too much to hope that this book may fall into the hands of a few who have thought of teaching as a career, and, by revealing an aspect of the profession which is little emphasized, may tip the balance to the favorable side? If even one good man or woman should be so moved, I shall be well content.

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