Another of the formative influences of this period was a literary society organized by the young people. It started as a secret society, “for the purpose of mental improvement, and the study of literature.” We called ourselves the “W. B. S.,” guarding carefully the meaning of these letters. I feel almost guilty now in revealing that we were the “Would-Be-Somebodies.” It proved an interesting and profitable association. Having no older person to direct us, we groped about and attempted many ridiculous things; and we had to make concessions to the less serious-minded; but our aspirations were genuine, and the general effect of the society was beneficial. We began by reading aloud “Lucile,” but all our selections were not so absurd. In time we did some creditable work, reading and discussing good literature. There were original papers, recitations, debates, music--enlisting the talents of the various members. One winter we raised enough money to hire a professor from Rochester University to lecture on geology, and felt we were by way of being Somebodies then. On anniversaries there were sleigh-rides and suppers--gay and happy times. My first glimpse of beauty in art I owe to the “W. B. S.” We went to Rochester and visited Power’s Art Gallery. Until then I had seen no statuary, no water colours, no etchings, no oil paintings of any merit. The art with which I had been familiar was the sorry art to be found in small towns--atrocious paintings and chromos, at the best a few good steel-engravings. In these days, through reproductions, school children in small villages become familiar with the world’s masterpieces; but I was starved in this respect. I shall never forget the awe and wonder that came over me that day in Power’s Art Gallery as we stepped into the room where the statuary stood out against a background of dark plush hangings, while a sweet low air was played by an orchestrion in an adjoining room. The place was holy ground. I shall also never forget my disgust when one of the girls brought me down from the sublime to the ridiculous: While I stood gazing in rapt admiration at “The Genius of Art”--a wingèd god carved from the marble, poised as though about to fly--the beauty and aspiration of the figure holding me spell-bound, I heard the stage-whisper of this irreverent girl: “He looks as if he hadn’t had a square meal lately,” referring to the prominence of the ribs of the beautiful creature. It took me years to forget that speech; it was such a discord in this new harmony. I saw no humour in it then; now I rather enjoy the picture my imagination paints--my transition from ecstasy to detestation, and my struggle not to show her how she had jarred upon me.