“‘Generous Youth! Enter at your peril. We may so quicken your imagination as to bring you loss as the world counts it. There may be a great inventor in you now, there may only be a poet in you when you leave us; the captain of industry in you may give place to some obscure pursuit of philosophy; you are literary, we shall leave you forever incapable of best sellers; you are philanthropic, we may develop the detached critic in you; you are politically shrewd and practical, we may bring out the Utopian visionary in you. For our values are not those of the world of work, with which we can only incidentally help you to make terms--our values are those of the world of thought. We shall make you contemporary of all ages, and since you must after all live in this age, such an extension of your interest and imagination may make you an exile in your own day and place. We offer you no material reward of any sort for your effort here, we may even diminish the rewards you would enjoy if you kept away from us. We offer you nothing but what we ourselves most treasure--the companionship of the great dreamers and thinkers. Enter if you dare. Should you enter, this college will be indeed to you Alma Mater. All that we have shall be yours.’” In short, the duty of the college is to give its members their intellectual bearings. What the prospective lawyer really needs to broaden his horizon and prevent him from succumbing to the bondage of his shop, is letters, science, mathematics; what the future doctor needs is letters, art, history, and the unbiological sciences. This ought to be the function of the college. To continue along any other line is to destroy forever the Yale that has held such an enviable place in American life for over two centuries--to extinguish the light that has been a source of guidance and inspiration to its large and distinguished band of alumni. MORRIS TYLER. _Corydon_ The pleasant hills in solemn silence sleeping Under a sunset of perpetual fire, Past summer’s weeping, Shall know no more the vibrant melody Of thy sad songs, O lovely shepherd boy! The winds are free And chill November Sweeps thy reed music and thy lyric joy Away with all the things I would remember. The wood-smoke on the silent autumn air, The disconsolate petals on the grass Symbol despair, And all the fragrance of divine Apollo Is fled from this incalculable loss Where none may follow. Is there no rest In the stark shadow of a naked cross In silhouette against the scarlet west? Shall I forsake philosopher and sage Rebellious drawn From solemn cloister and scholastic page And get me gone. O shepherd of the slender fingers? Guide me above the mountain passes Through the lush grasses Where thy music lingers, Out of nocturnal anguish into dawn.