Shawmut of Yale by two lengths. A regatta in which Harvard was again victorious was held at Springfield in 1855, and from 1858 to 1870 race-meets were held at Lake Quinsigamond, near Worcester. In most of these the Yale men were vanquished, but they generally helped their conquerors to celebrate the occasion in a manner which was the origin of the traditions, long obsolete, that still find their way into the papers in accounts of the excesses of football enthusiasts. The Bay State House was the scene of rejoicing, and after all convivial spirits had been whipped into its net the doors were locked against escape and the proprietor had to deduct from the profit on his wine account the cost of broken crockery and demolished furniture. In 1872 and 1873 the races were rowed at Springfield, and in 1874 and 1875 at Saratoga, under the auspices of the Rowing Association of American Colleges, and were won successively by Amherst, Yale, Columbia, and Cornell. In 1876 Harvard and Yale rowed again at Springfield, and ever since that year, save for the interregnum which is now so happily ending, the banks of Thames have echoed to the imprecations of the brazen-lunged little coxswains. The life at quarters for the four weeks preceding the race is a serene existence removed from all clamor or utilitarian affairs and devoted to out-of-doors and the apotheosis of youth, health, and strength. Although there are long conferences and debates on rowing matters, the primal forces are dominant and match the wide simplicity of sky and river. The sweating fierceness of four-mile trials, the sharp bursts of practice speed with each man marking the catch with voice and oar, the savage cries of the coach and the evening tingle of stretching muscles bring a man to the realization of the elements of his nature. The era of modern football at Yale was inaugurated in 1872 by a game with Columbia under association rules with twen ty men on a side. A thrilling match was played in the next year with an eleven of old Etonians, most of them in the British diplomatic service. The Englishmen were more adept, but the exchange of international hospitalities had not improved their "condition," and the Yale team carried the day by a score of three goals to two in an exciting game which lasted until after dark. The Englishmen introduced a novelty in the wearing of uniforms, consisting of white flannel jackets and trousers trimmed with broad light-blue ribbon. In 1876 the Rugby rules were adopted, under which Yale, Harvard, and Princeton have ever since played with elevens, except in 1877 and 1878, when Harvard insisted on playing with fifteens. The public which cheers the skill or marvellous concert of an eleven knows nothing of the process out of which it has come, tried as by fire, the real effort of the college as a whole; knows nothing of the longing of the man on the sidelines who has given his best toil for three months, perhaps for as many years, and finds his only reward in carrying his rival's sweater during the great game. The little band of substitutes who make up the second eleven and who are driven back day after day in practice, doggedly resisting every inch of trampled ground, receive no pæans from the thousands at Manhattan Field or Springfield. Is one of them hurt in practice-“Ah, yes, hard luck, but he couldn't have made the team anyhow;" and perhaps not the least of trials is the indifferent encouragement of a coach, when blame would imply potentiality worth disciplining. The college, which stands about under the cold November sky and measures out impartial criticism at the Field, may praise their efforts, but it is always as efforts, never as results, and no reverent posterity can ever honor them as "the tackle of '84" or "the man who kicked the goal from the forty-five yard line." They represent unselfish loyalty, striving in full consciousness that the heights of fame lie above their climbing, but bringing to the struggle all the enthusiasm, all the devotion, all the persevering courage which are the true spirit of Yale. There is no mention in these pages of the organization of the University, or its development and progress under President Dwight; nothing of the Sheffield Scientific School, whose growth has doubled the number of undergraduates, of the Divinity, Law, and Medical Schools, of the material expansion of the college, or of commodious and elaborately equipped buildings. These are but random and incomplete allusions, jetsam of the stream of college life and history, and there is in them no effort to order the factors of the complex whole. Some glimpses of the life of the college have been here suggestedas one can sometimes learn more of the inhabitants of a distant country from a song or a story than by the aid of a Baedeker; but curriculums, professional schools, or athletic records have no graphic force. Most college graduates, men who have felt the spring in their blood, and tasted the subtle sweetness of college days Days that flew swiftly, like the band That in the Grecian games had strife And passed from eager hand to hand The onward-dancing torch of life know how ethereal and intangible is the spirit of their Alma Mater; to all others knowledge can come, not by study, but by inspiration. Still less to be desired is the trumpeting of virtues. The names of the famous sons of Yale are in the catalogue of graduates for the curious to see. Her learning has been garnered into books, and the love of her offspring has been builded into bronze and stone. But the origin itself of that love, the devotion of the sons, the wisdom of the kindly mother," are things too fine, too spiritual for deliberate exposition. There is no master-word by which they can be unveiled to stranger eyes. J A REJECTED TITIAN By Robert Herrick OHN," my wife remarked in horrified tones, "he's coming to Rome!" "Who is coming to Rome - the Emperor?" "Uncle Ezra-see," she handed me the telegram. Shall arrive in Rome Wednesday morning; have Watkins at the Grand Hotel." I handed the dispatch to Watkins. "Poor uncle!" my wife remarked. "He will get it in the neck," I added, profanely. "They ought to put nice old gentlemen like your uncle in bond when they reach Italy," Watkins mused, as if bored in advance. "The antichitàs get after them, like --like confidence-men in an American city, and the same old story is the result; they find, in some mysterious fashion, a wonderful Titian, a forgotten Giorgione, cheap at cinque mille lire. Then it's all up with them. His pictures are probably decalcomanias, you know, just colored prints past ed over board. Why, we know every picture in Venice; it's simply impossible Watkins was a connoisseur : he had bought his knowledge in the dearest school of experience. "What are you going to do, Mr. Watkins?" my wife put in. "Tell him the truth?" and she has been looking about for an opportunity for throwing it away"-my wife had never sympathized with my cousin Maud Vantweekle. "She had better save it for her trousseau, if she goes on much more with that young Professor. Aunt Mary should look after her." Watkins rose to go. "Hold on a minute," I said. "Just listen to this delicious epistle from Uncle Ezra." 666 We have hoped that you would arrive in Venice before we break up our charming home here. Mary has written you that Professor Painter has joined us at the Palazzo Palladio, complementing our needs and completing our circle. He has an excellent influence for seriousness upon Maud; his fine, manly qualities have come out. Venice, after two years of Berlin, has opened his soul in a really remarkable manner. All the beauty lying loose around here has been a revelation to him" "Maud's beauty," my wife interpreted. "And our treasures you will enjoy so much-such dashes of color, such great slaps of light! I was the first to buy-they call it a Savoldo, but I think no third-rate man could be capable of so much-such reaching out after infinity. However, that makes little difference. I would not part with it, now that I have lived these weeks with so fine a thing. Maud won a prize in her Bonifazio, which she bought under my advice. Then Augustus secured the third one, a Bissola, and it has had the greatest influence upon him already; it has given him his education in art. He sits with it by the hour while he is at work, and its charm has gradually produced a revolution in his character. We had always found him too Germanic, and he had immured himself in that barbarous country for so long over his Semitic books that his nature was stunted on one side. His picture has opened a new world for him. Your Aunt Mary and I already see the difference in his character; he is gentler, less narrowly interested in the world. This precious bit of fine art has been worth its price many times, but I don't think Augustus would part with it for any consideration now that he has lived with it and learned to know its power.'" "I can't see why he is coming to Rome," Watkins commented at the end. "If they are confident that they know all about it, and don't care anyway who did them, and are having all this spiritual love-feast, what in the world do they want any expert advice upon their text for? Now for such people to buy pictures, when they haven't a mint of money! Why don't they buy something within their means really fine—a coin, a Van Dyck print? I could get your uncle a Whistler etching for £25, a really fine thing, you know This was Watkins's hobby. "Oh, well, it won't be bad in the end of the hall at New York; it's as dark as pitch there; and then Uncle Ezra can leave it to the Metropolitan as a Giorgione. It will give the critics something to do. And I suppose that in coming on here he has in mind to get an indorsement for his picture that will give it a commercial value. He's canny, is my Uncle Ezra, and he likes to gamble, too, like the rest of us. If he should draw a prize, it wouldn't be a bad thing to brag of." Watkins called again the next morning. "Have you seen Uncle Ezra?" my wife asked, anxiously. "No. Three telegrams. Train was delayed-I suppose by the importance of the works of art it's bringing on." "When do you expect him?" "Mr. Watkins," my wife flamed out, "I believe you are just shirking it, to meet that poor old man with his pictures. You ought to have been at the station, or at least at the hotel. Why, it's twelve now!" Watkins hung his head. "I believe you are a coward," my wife went on. "Just think of his arriving there, all excitement over his pictures, and finding you gone!" "Well, well," I said, soothingly, "it's no use to trot off now, Watkins; stay to breakfast. He will be in shortly. When he finds you are out at the hotel he will come straight on here, I am willing to bet." Watkins looked relieved at my suggestion. "I believe you meant to run away all along," my wife continued, severely, “ and to come here for refuge." Watkins sulked. "Damn the pictures and their influence," I said. We waited in suspense, straining our ears to hear the sound of a cab stopping in the street. At last one did pull up. My wife made no pretence of indifference, but hurried to the window. "It's Uncle Ezra with a big, black bundle. John, run down- No! there's a facchino." thinks Painter's picture and Maud's are We looked at each other and laughed. swered, and added, much as a dog would "The three!" Our patron of art came in, with a warm, gentle smile, his tall, thin figure a little bent with the fatigue of the journey, his beard a little grayer and dustier than usual, and his hands all a-tremble with nervous impatience and excitement. He had never been as tremulous before an opinion from the Supreme Court. My wife began to purr over him soothingly; Watkins looked sheepish ; I hurried them all off to breakfast. The omelette was not half done before Uncle Ezra jumped up, and began unstrapping the oil-cloth covering to the pictures. There was consternation at the table. My wife endeavored soothingly to bring Uncle Ezra's interest back to breakfast, but he was not to be fooled. My Uncle Ezra was a courageous man. "Of course you fellows," he said, smiling at Watkins, in his suave fashion, “are just whetting your knives for me, I know. That's right. I want to know the worst, the hardest things you can say. You can't destroy the intrinsic worth of the pictures for us; I have lived with mine too long, and know how precious it is!" At last the three pictures were tipped up against the wall, and the Madonnas and saints in gold, red, and blue were beaming out insipidly at us. Uncle Ezra affected indifference. Watkins continued with the omelette. "We'll look them over after breakfast," he said, severely, thus getting us out of the hole temporarily. After breakfast my wife cooked up some engagement, and hurried me off. We left Uncle Ezra in the hands of the physician. Two hours later, when we entered, the operation had been performed-we could see at a glance—and in a bloody fashion. The pictures were lying about the vast room as if they had been spat at. Uncle Ezra smiled wanly at us with the courage of the patient who is a sceptic about physicians. "Just what I expected," he said, briskly, to relieve Watkins, who was smoking, with the air of a man who has finished his job and is now cooling off. Mr. Watkins 66 66 give a final shake to the bird, Much re- Watkins put on an aggrieved and expostulatory manner. Uncle Ezra cut in. “Oh! my dear! Mr. Watkins may be right, quite right. It's his business to know, I am sure, and I anticipated all that he would say; indeed, I have come off rather better than I expected. There is old paint in it somewhere." 66 Pretty far down," Watkins muttered. My wife bristled up, but Uncle Ezra assumed his most superb calm. "It makes no difference to me, of course, as far as the worth of the work of art is concerned. I made up my mind before I came here that my picture was worth a great deal to me, much more than I paid for it." There was a heroic gasp. Watkins interposed mercilessly, "And may I ask, Mr. Williams, what you did give for it?" 66 Uncle Ezra was an honest man. "Twenty-five hundred lire," he replied, sullenly. Excuse me" (Watkins was behaving like a pitiless cad), "but you paid a great deal too much for it, I assure you. could have got it for I "Mr. Watkins," my wife was hardly civil to him, "it doesn't matter much what you could have got it for." "No," Uncle Ezra went on bravely, "I am a little troubled as to what this may mean to Maud and Professor Painter, for you see their pictures are copies." "Undoubted modern copies," the unquenchable Watkins emended. "Maud has learned a great deal from her picture. And as for Painter, it has been an education in art, an education in life. He said to me the night before I came away, 'Mr. Williams, I wouldn't take two thousand for that picture: it's been the greatest influence in my life.'" I thought Watkins would have convulsions. "And it has brought those two young souls together in a marvellous way, this common interest in fine art. You will find Maud a much more serious person, Jane. No, if I were Painter I certainly should not care a fig whether it proves to be a copy or not. I shouldn't let that influence me in my love for such an educational wonder." The bluff was really sublime, but painful. My wife gave a decided hint to Watkins that his presence in such a family scene was awkward. He took his hat and cane. Uncle Ezra rose and grasped him cordially by the hand. You have been very generous, Mr. Watkins," he said, in his own sweet way, "to do such an unpleasant job. It's a large draft to make on the kindness of a friend." "Oh, don't mention it, Mr. Williams; and if you want to buy something really fine, a Van Dyck print-a Uncle Ezra was shooing him toward the door. From the stairs we could still hear his voice. "Or a Whistler etching for twenty-five pounds, I could get you, now, a very fine No, thank you, Mr. Watkins," Uncle Ezra said, firmly. "I don't believe I have any money just now for such an investment." "My wife tiptoed about the room, making faces at the exposed masterpieces. "What shall we do?" Uncle Ezra came back into the room, his face a trifle grayer and more worn. "Capital fellow, that Watkins," he said, "so firm and frank." "Uncle," I ventured at random, "I met Flügel the other day in the street. You know Flügel's new book on the Renais sance. He's the coming young critic in art, has made a wonderful reputation the last three years, is on the Beaux Arts staff, and really knows. He is living out at Frascati. I could telegraph and have him here this afternoon, perhaps." "Well, I don't know; his tone, however, said "Yes." I don't care much for expert advice-for specialists. But it wouldn't do any harm to hear what he has to say. And Maud and Painter have made up their minds that Maud's is a Titian." So I ran out and sent off the dispatch. My wife took Uncle Ezra down to the Forum and attempted to console him with the ugliness of genuine antiquity, while I waited for Flügel. He came in a tremendous hurry, his little, muddy eyes winking hard behind gold spectacles. But "Ah, yes," he began to paw the pictures over as if they were live stock, “that was bought for a Bonifazio," he had picked up Maud's ruby-colored prize. "Of course, of course, it's a copy, an old copy, of Titian's picture, No. 3,405, in the National Gallery at London. There is a replica in the Villa Ludovisi here at Rome. It's a stupid copy, some alterations, all for the bad-worthless-well, not to the antichità, for it must be 1550, I should say. worthless for us and in bad condition. I wouldn't give cinque lire for it." And the Bissola ?" I said. that was done in the seventeenth century— it would make good kindling. But this," he turned away from Painter's picture with a gesture of contempt, "this is Domenico Tintoretto fast enough, at least what hasn't been stippled over and painted out. St. Agnes's leg here is entire, and that tree in the background is original. A damned bad man, but there are traces of his slop work. Perhaps the hair is by him, too. Well, good-by, old fellow, I must be off to dinner." Oh, That was slight consolation: a leg, a tree, and some wisps of hair in a picture three feet six by four feet eight. Our dinner that evening was labored. The next morning Uncle Ezra packed his three treasures tenderly, putting in cotton-wool at the edges, my wife helping him to make them comfortable. We urged him to stay over with us for a few days; we would all go on later to Venice. But Uncle Ezra seemed |