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his representatives. There are many professors who have a distaste for all faculty politics, who loathe administrative duties, who shun faculty meetings, and who long to give themselves wholly to study and teaching. Such men desire to place the government of the university in the hands of colleagues who possess their confidence, yet they feel that there should always be the latent power of intervention. They hope that the necessity for such action may not happen and that their scholarly peace may be unbroken; but the possibility of such intervention may well be a curb on the acts of legislators and administrators.

Whatever the original meaning of the word university may have been, it is now a whole made up of parts: The task of every university is unity in diversity, freedom for all and wise oversight and control by all, efficiency in administration, wisdom in legislation, democracy in opportunity, and temperance in action. Whatever ability the young members may possess in advancing the corporate interest ought to be developed and used; nor should the older men with their weight of experience be rejected from counsel, nor the administrative officers with their superior knowledge of the actual condition of things be disregarded. Any scheme of university government that fails to profit by adequate employment of all these factors is fundamentally unstable and will inevitably prove unsatisfactory.

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All men agree that the century which began with the Age of Pericles was the Golden Age of the human spirit. There agreement ends. No two give the same answer if asked what were the causes. To take one or two examples from a possible hundred, Mr. Wells is inclined to give the lion's share of the credit to Aspasia. Not long ago we heard—and saw-a lady with a penchant for the plastic demonstrate that the Greeks owed their mighty achievement to a knack of plucking up their diaphragms in just the proper way at crucial moments. If you read the Sunday supplements, you know it was because Pericles possessed “the subtle principle of success”—and you wonder did he “Send no money,” or are we on the track of that little shortage in his accounts that once so mystified Thucydides? But enough—those who have looked upon the Greater Mysteries know that Athens owed her greatness to her Phrontistery. It was not merely that she had a Phrontistery, but because that Phrontistery was like the leaven in the loaf, like the Singing Bird in the eastern fairy tale, or like the loaves and fishes that fed the multitude. Its spell was upon the whole city, and every spot where men gathered together to converse was penetrated with its spirit. Even by the tables of the money changers men sat and heard not the clink of golden coins, for their ears were filled with the speech of the Master and their souls were athirst for the True, the Good, and the Beautiful.

So let us set up the tabernacle within our midst, and devoutly hope the miracle may be repeated. Let it be a foundling home for poor little ideas that can find no other homes, little baby ideas that have no hope of ever dwelling in stately volumes all their own or even of finding corners for their cowering forms in our exclusive literary apartment-houses, so filled with the majesty of the élite of letters that the sign must be hung out “No children or dogs.” Perchance it may some day save from an untimely end some poor little idea in swaddling clothes that will grow up and live to serve a worthy cause.

That first ancient Phrontistery, which is to be the device of this great undertaking, Perham W. Nahl has sketched for us. Perhaps in some former life, as Zeuxis, or Parrhasius, he paid out his good obols to see brought upon the scene the very incident he here depicts so sympathetically.

A happy Wanderer in a land where mountains match their grandeur with the beauty of the sea had flung himself upon a sunny ledge. To his right, above a glistening scaur of serpentine, rose a somber, rugged peak. From it descended ridges, harsh at first and bleak where they outlined themselves against the sky, but softening to a succession of sloping downs and rounded knolls, with here and there a dark clump of weird, gnarled, storm-swept trees. They were such downs as lie in that strange world of romance where none do dwell but goodly knights and fair enchantresses, or mayhap foul witchwives, or dwarfs, or lusty churls. Still further down a dark green forest clothed the walls of vast ravines. To the left, the ocean showed a wondrous blue that only the north wind brings. Beyond, a billowing sea of fog, like a vast, shifting snowbank, stretched to the distant sky; it rose and fell, and from it licked up slender wisps that fought against the wind and for a moment flecked with white the deep blue of the sky before they vanished.

Round about the ledge midsummer reigned with lazy warmth; on the hot rocks basked lizards, little dry, dusty creatures that love the sun; a sparse growth of stunted bushes, dry and dusty, too, scarcely flecked with shade the hard-baked earth around their roots. Even the insects that fitted in the sun were dry and dusty and made harsh, metallic sounds; such creatures might Daedalus have fashioned in a playful mood from iron or brass to be the toys of baby gods.

A step or two below, and all was changed. There stately trees shaded with sweeping frond dim, cool recesses, softly carpeted with moss and yielding litter, in which the forest noises died away. The cool, moist air was scented with bay and evergreen and with the faint fragrance of dainty, slender blossoms that nestled underneath the spreading ferns. But for the joyous trilling of a bird perched in the sunshine amid the topmost branches, there was no sound, save only the gentle drip of water from an overhanging bank and the soft music of a tiny stream, as it plashed over mossy boulders or tinkled into still, dark pools. Downward and ever downward it made its way until it found the cañon floor, where giant redwoods reared their dark green spires, a Titan brood of Earth, born in those far-off times when Kronos ruled among the Men of Gold.

Above, upon his sunny ledge, our Wanderer lay and peered into the quiet depth, following with his gaze long shafts of sunlight where they pierced the heavy fronds and dotted the dark ravine with patches of soft radiance in which the madrones gleamed. With just such radiance, in the Days of Gold, did Titan's wandering beams bathe the soft limbs of woodland nymphs and spy upon the charms of lissome naiads in their shaded pools. As he gazed, he pondered what men have gained -and lost—through all the centuries, and wondered dreamily about those creatures of a new-born world, blithe spirits of mountain and woodland and stream. Whither have they fled for refuge from this age of Iron and Steel !—the hamadryads and the water nymphs, the lithe brown satyrs that followed in their train, and the fat sileni? Do they still live in forest and in stream, unheard, unseen of mortal men? Are our eyes blinded with much gazing upon coinéd gold, our hearing dulled by constant clang of steel and iron, that we hear not their silvery laughter nor see their unsubstantial forms! Or did they cease to be that time when great Pan died and left a world that followed newer gods?

By the Wanderer's side the bushes rustled. Then silently, as steps the wary doe into the open meadow from the brush, a slender, girlish figure, trimly clad in brown, came forth and stood upon the ledge. Brown eyes laughed frankly into his;

; graceful, sunburned fingers drew back a gleaming wisp of hair from the flushed cheek, soft as damask but faintly bronzed; a girlish bosom rose and fell in eager gasps to drink the mountain air, the sunlight, the whole glorious day. Then from below a burst of silvery laughter blent with joyous cries, the tramp of feet, the noisy rending of the chaparral, and a merry band of boys and girls sprang out upon the rock. A moment more and they were gone, darting along the trail, their happy uproar lost in the next ravine. But now the Wanderer knew. The gracious nymphs die not. They are born again, and live, beloved of the gods, to haunt the mountains and the woodland trails; the lithe brown fauns still follow in their train with merry laughter, and somewhere far behind the fat sileni toil.

G. M. C.

Woodrow Wilson has left the political stage. His was for a season the central and most dominating personality in a world comprising all the known continents. His voice was the voice of authority and his judgments on political issues acquired a sort of moral finality. And now Woodrow Wilson is a lonely and tragic figure whom to belittle and deride has come to be the fashion of the day. Yet his tragedy is not one of circumstance. It is a tragedy of character. The circumstances which gave him power and prestige proved not unyielding to his daring statesmanship. The greatest war in history sweeping on, so it seemed for a long time, uncontrollable as a cyclone or a tidal wave, obeyed for a while his political genius and under his moral leadership assumed spiritual form and direction. His passionate resolve to transform the destructive force of war into an instrumentality for the regeneration of human society exhibited the rare strength of one refusing to be overwhelmed by the power of stark circumstances. Had he continued his moral defiance of brute force he might have come very near achieving his great ideal. But in the end he succumbed to the fate of events and surrendered his mastery over them. At the most crucial moment his character showed itself to be marred by grave defects. He evinced a lack of faith in his own ideals which should have been strong enough to move mountains and a want of courage to fight for them which should have been heroic enough to face failure. He stooped to compromise. And a compromise born of a faith that is half-hearted and a courage that

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