My grandmother said, “The law of love is higher than the law of truth,” and I think she was right, for love is unalterable and truth changes. Christ’s statements may not be true to us to-day; Einstein with his “relativity” may have upset Newton’s theory of gravity; but these men remain just as great as they ever were, for in them we see their passionate love for what they thought to be true. Somehow, I can never think of Harvard that I don’t see “Stubby” Child, with that row of yellow curls around his head like a halo, hurling a copy of Chaucer’s _Canterbury Tales_ out of the window and shouting to the class: “This man is an Oxford graduate and, according to England, is a scholar, and yet he has substituted the nauseating adjectives ‘gay’ and ‘blithesome’ in that immortal description of the Friar in the line which runs: “As _hoot_ he was and _lecherous_ as a sparwe.” Chapter III. In Search of a Career _Out West_ Harvard had taught me this—that I did not know a thing—not even the meaning of human life. Somehow I think a college education is of benefit to two classes of people only—those who desire to acquire a social position and those who want to get training in a certain subject. I have not the battle instinct and could never see any use in competition. If I had not come of good people I might have wanted to fight to get with good people, and that is about all college can give. I can remember getting only one real thrill to go out in the world and do something, and that was after a sort of valedictory talk by old Doctor Grey. I had always cared for the out of doors and it appears I stood well in botany. When the venerable professor told us that it takes fifty years to make a nutmeg orchard, and that a million dollars was waiting anyone who would walk into Boston with him the next day and prove to certain capitalists that he could tell the difference between the male and female nutmeg, my commercial instinct was aroused and a gleam of ambition came to me for the first time. I resolved to find out about the male and the female nutmeg. There was no way to learn anything about beauty in Harvard—no instruction in it and no honors for it. Taking their cue from the Pilgrim Fathers and, since then, the Church, they did not believe in the value of any of the senses of the body, but only in the quality of the human mind and the power to ratiocinate. Any expression or feeling for beauty, except that made by sacred music, was common, vulgar, and to be repressed. If Harvard could manage to produce one Corot, one Beethoven, or one Michael Angelo, her name would be known longer in future ages than it will be for all the small imitation Shakespeares she has sent out over the country. Even Mr. Emerson, in my opinion, was half ashamed of his lyrical gift; and the elder Story, the sculptor, is more honored in Boston for a law book he wrote, before thirty, than for any of his statues.