Riverside; a forester may take to the woods at the forestry stations at Santa Monica or elsewhere. The biologist may carry on his studies at the Scripps Institute at La Jolla. Medical and dental education must be completed in San Francisco. By means of the Division of University Extension, with its lectures, its class instruction, and its correspondence courses, many departments are enabled to give instruction, throughout the state, to a multitude of people who could not otherwise profit directly by the University.

Different from all these is the Southern Branch, which is, properly speaking, not a branch at all, but a replica or duplicate of certain parts of the academic colleges at Berkeley. It is, moreover, very closely related to these in all its departments and in its administration. In this great and growing center of population, a center with a distinguished character of its own, five hundred miles away from the northern center, this Southern Division of the University, under the able direction of Dr. Moore, is assured of a brilliant future.

Even though a partial enumeration like this be somewhat reminiscent of the catalogue of ships in Homer, it is yet our duty, from time to time, to remind ourselves of the true nature of the institution in which we all play our parts. Very few men have seen it all and no one is personally acquainted with all the individuals who labor in it.

The University of California is a complex institution, organized to meet demands of increasing complexity and rapidly increasing size. It will have shortly to provide for an enrollment much greater than the present one. No one knows just how this problem can be solved. Some look to a multitude of junior colleges for relief. Personally, I do not venture to hope for much aid from this source. I think it more likely that the junior colleges will rather function as missionary outposts, reaching out for new students, and sending a relatively small number

of these to Berkeley. They will thus increase our Upper Division instead of decreasing our Lower Division. For the American tradition of the four years' liberal education in one institution will not die. And I do not think that we can venture to hope for aid from a multitude of four-year colleges. These, if they were worthy of the state, would require impossible outlays for the duplication of libraries and laboratories and for the employment of faculties of university grade.

The situation is a difficult one, and we may well rejoice that we have in our Board of Regents a group of men deeply interested in higher education in the state, learned, through long experience, in its special problems, and, utterly without self-seeking, devoted to its cause. And though they may seem to some of us to proceed at times too slowly, or by mere reluctant concessions rather than in the light of prophetic vision and far-reaching plans, yet I think that we may safely put our faith in their wise guidance and follow loyally where they lead. It is well to proceed cautiously when what is done is so hard to undo. And the slow pressure of actual public need is more likely than the most brilliant foresight to develop an institution perfectly adapted for all its forms of public service.

I have been reminding you that we are all at work in various small corners of one great whole. That whole, if one takes the wider view, is itself but a small corner. It too has its functions to perform as part of a still larger whole. Within the state it is part of the educational system; it must give all possible aid and advice to the public schools; it must concern itself with the training of teachers and to this important function I wish presently to recur. Outside the state it is a member of the Association of State Universities and a member of the Association of American Universities. This latter is a smaller and more select body; there are only twenty-four members the twelve state universities of California,

Illinois, Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, Nebraska, Ohio, Virginia, Wisconsin; and twelve privately endowed institutions-the Catholic University of America, Chicago, Clark, Columbia, Cornell, Harvard, Johns Hopkins, Northwestern, Pennsylvania, Princeton, Stanford, and Yale. Eligibility for membership in this Association is determined by the organization and facilities of the graduate school for research, and by the quality and amount of research actually carried on by faculty and students.

In many other ways are the threads of university life interwoven in the nation-wide web of higher education. There are, for example, the honor societies, like Phi Beta Kappa and Sigma Xi, with chapters in all the greater institutions. There are the many learned societies, scientific, historical, philological. There are associations of administrative officers-of recorders, of deans of summer sessions, directors of university extension, and the like. Some of the societies are international in their scope. And there is scarcely a scholar in any American university whose work does not in some way involve international contacts. He corresponds, perhaps, with foreign scholars; his books are reviewed in European journals; in his sabbatical years he works in foreign libraries, side by side with English or French or Italian colleagues. He cannot well avoid "entangling alliances," which, be it said, make in this case for mutual understanding and for peace; though these alone, manifestly, cannot insure peace.

This then is the world to which the University of California belongs. And all of us who are members of the University are citizens of that world, are members of the universal company of scholars. What does this mean for us and for California? What are the distinguishing characteristics of the scholar? What are his ideals? What is his way of life? What is the nature of the influence which he is likely to exert?

Five hundred and fifty years ago Geoffrey Chaucer painted his immortal portrait of the scholar, riding along there with his fellow pilgrims on the road to Canterbury:

His horse was lean as a rake, and he was not right fat, I trow, but looked hollow cheeked, and grave likewise. His little outer cloak was threadbare, for he had no worldly craft to beg office, and as yet had got him no benefice. He would rather have had at his bed's head twenty volumes of Aristotle and his philosophy, bound in red or black, than rich robes or a fiddle or gay psaltery. Albeit he was a philosopher, he had but little gold in his money-box! But all that he could get from his friends he spent on books or learning, and would pray diligently for the souls of them that gave him wherewith to stay at the schools. Of study he took most heed and care. Not a word spoke he more than was needful, and that little was formal and modest, in utterance short and quick, and full of high matter. All that he said tended toward moral virtue. Above all things he loved to learn and to teach.

Chaucer's description may require some translation into the terms of modern life, but it remains as true today as when it was written.

From the worldly point of view, from the point of view of the materialist, the figure of the scholar is not altogether attractive. How dreary and how drab the lean horse, the threadbare cloak, the preference of books, dull books, to musical instruments and fine clothes, the silence, the gravity, the love of learning and of teaching! Youth today, perhaps, will find more sympathetic the view of the medieval youth, of Aucassin, who had no desire to enter Paradise, because it was the destination of the people who wear "worn out mantles and old tattered habits." But this is the superficial view; it fails to take cognizance of the man within. As a matter of fact no life is less dull, less grey than the life of the scholar. It is full of romance, of adventure, of enthusiasm, of color, of fire, of deep and lasting satisfactions.

Our medieval scholar yearned chiefly to possess certain volumes of Aristotle, whom he regarded as the great

authority in the whole realm of human knowledge. Respect for authority is the distinguishing characteristic of medieval scholarship, and here, indeed, is to be found a sharp contrast with the modern spirit. Today the spirit of scholarship is the spirit of research; which rejects, or at least distrusts authority, and, from the very nature of its being, must find out for itself. Less than a hundred years ago Emerson wrote, in that famous Phi Beta Kappa address on the American Scholar, "Meek young men grow up in libraries, believing it their duties to accept the views which Cicero, which Locke, which Bacon, have given; forgetful that Cicero, Locke, and Bacon were only young men in libraries when they wrote those books." Emerson's warning is still needed. But certainly it is less needed than it was in 1837; the scholar of today is independent; he accepts nothing on faith; he plans and conducts his own investigations. He is not subject to orders; he is not working at a task set by a taskmaster, in a field whose bounds have been determined by some one else. He is free-and he must be free to follow the subject where the subject leads. He is self-active; he supplies, so to speak, his own fuel. His duties as an investigator are not thrust upon him from hour to hour or day to day. He must voluntarily and actively assume them; he must carry them upon his own shoulders. He is capable, at need, of plodding. George Meredith made one of his characters, a mountain climber, say, "To plod on and still to keep the passion fresh is the secret of all great work." The scholar possesses that secret; he plods willingly, cheerfully, because he has a goal. He may never reach the summit; but he knows that it is there, and that he is moving toward it, though he may sometimes lose the way, though some method of approach may, after years of trial, prove unpracticable. The scholar is an incorrigible optimist. He makes large plans and proceeds, slowly, persistently, steadily, to carry them out. He may not live to see them completed; they may