Into the dusk and snow One fared on yesterday; No man of us may know By what mysterious way. He had been comrade long; We fain would hold him still; But, though our will be strong, There is a stronger will. Beyond the solemn night He will find morning-dream; The summer's kindling light Beyond the snow's chill gleam. The clear, unfaltering eye, The inalienable soul, The calm, high energy,-- They will not fail the goal. Large will be our content If it be ours to go One day the path he went Into the dusk and snow. PROFESSOR VAN INGEN. Dear Professor Van Ingen! Why does everybody who knew him well say this at the mere mention of his name? He was a Hollander who had come to this country in the studio of an artist friend in Rochester about the time the college was completed, and was the accepted candidate in 1865 for the art professorship. A clever artist; an inspiring teacher; a true gentleman; a good friend. Tennyson's lines once quoted of him express most nearly the common sentiment concerning him,--"One too wholly true to dream untruth." He was here at the opening of the college, and made one of the resident (unmarried) members of the Faculty that year. In the summer vacation of 1866, he returned to Holland to be married, and brought his wife back with him. [Illustration: HENRY VAN INGEN 1865] He had rooms in the north wing the first year of his coming, and used to relate in his characteristic quiet, humorous way many amusing anecdotes of that chaotic time. One I recall enjoying keenly. It was midwinter and intensely cold weather. His room was on the west side in the north wing, and one night the high wind and raging snow storm combined to make his quarters uninhabitable. Towards morning he could stand it no longer but got up and dressed himself, and putting on hat and overcoat thought he would spend the rest of the time before breakfast in the college parlors, trusting to find some heat in the registers. Making his way through the dark corridors two flights down, he reached the parlor, where in the dawning light he saw a group of students huddled close to the register that happened still to have comfortable warmth remaining. The experience of cold and discomfort in the students' rooms had matched his, so they had anticipated him in dressing and with shawls and cloaks were spending the rest of the night down stairs. He knew them all, had a cordial welcome, and the party began in subdued tones to talk and laugh and have a merry time. An hour, perhaps, went on this way, when a timid cough from the doorway arrested their attention. Winnie--Miss Lyman's maid--stood there. "If you please, Miss Lyman heard the voices in her room above, and sent me down to inquire what was the matter." The situation was explained briefly and the maid retired. With Miss Lyman's strict