COMMENCEMENT 1920

In late June all roads, good and bad, lead to Hanover. At least they have come to do so for J. and me. We may, if God gives us length of days, live to see the time when you can drive in the motor from) home to Hanover without finding somewhere on the way about ten miles that are weariness and sorrow— in fact I confidently expect this will happen. I only pause to remark that the .time is not yet, and that if any one asks which is the best road, all you can indicate is which one is the least bad in the fewest spots.

J. and I have also made this discovery, which it is well should be spread about and widely shared—to wit, that it is almost more fun on the whole to go back to Commencement in the years when you have no set reunion than it is when your class is back for one of its regular assemblies. Of course reunions are agreeable and none of us would ever cut one voluntarily. But in the odd years there is a certain compensation in the fact that you see the old unfamiliar faces of men you never meet on regular reunion years. There are no set engagements to be kept. You are free from every thraldom. Classmates and their wives are not therei—or at least aren't numerously there. But all the world is on hand just the same; and there are the men who were freshmen when you were a sophomore; and the men who were out just a year ahead of your entry—men who bulked large in the traditions of your time. Some of these men you get your first glimpse of in the flesh and find them to be mere human beings—gray and bald at that.

J. and I have got past the day when the very greatest joy of all was to go back in term-time. Our old professors are almost all on the sidelines now—those who are spared. There's no incentive to go butting into class rooms, as we used to do a few years back, to be duly lionized by the grateful prof., or possibly made game of for the sport of undergraduates. That's all over. We must take our college experiences now on festal days in spring or fall, or at midwinter meets. But get me—this coming back to Commencement in your off-years is well worth trying on.

J. and I, being old enough now to crave rest at night, usually live in Lebanon and make shuttle trips over the road, to and from. This affords variety and insures nocturnal repose. We recognize that the College needs its dormitories for those hardy young things who have been only about 25 years out of college and who can get along with two or three hours of sleep a night, instead of the four or five that we manage to get between trains whistling under the eavespouts of the Hotel Rogers. Every fresh daily arrival in Hanover is like a new awakening to the undying beauties of the spot—and I put it to you that there is nothing much more soul satisfying than that first sight of the Hanover plain as you come coasting down the hill. It isn't the Hanover that we knew—say, 30 years ago. It is bigger, busier, better. I sometimes think that if it isn't too big already, it will be soon. Much as I revere Dr. Tucker and his wisdom, on which the new Dartmouth rests as on a foundation of living rock, I am distrustful of the slogan, "If you have a good thing, share it with all who want it." The danger is that it may thereby cease to be a good thing. An uncommon blessing made the five loaves and the two small fishes of Holy Writ suffice for so many as gathered to partake. God must be very good to us Dartmouth men, if, with our newfound bigness, the old traditions are not to fail. Besides we love our love with a B—not because she is big, but because she is beautiful.

The rector of St. Thomas' this year delivered the baccalaureate—an innovation and a good one, as they tell me who heard it. The College has for the moment no pastor. Presidential baccalaureates are no longer the fashion since presidents ceased to be clergymen and became corporation managers through the press of circumstance. I his is the one thing I regret in the changed order; for surely in all other ways it is better-the absence of the cleric from the presidential chair. Only once in a cycle does the rare combination of business sense and godly training that made Dr. Tucker the prophet of a new dawn reach full flower. Today we need the business man for the council board, and by rare good luck we have him, too. So long as we can summon such able pulpiteers to our assistance as the rector of St, Thomas' Church, we shall manage admirably.

It must be inspiring work—preaching a baccalaureate sermon to seniors. No preacher could ask a more intelligent, more receptive, more hopeful audience. In such a case inspiration must be mutual. Rev. John Dallas, the rector, chose for his text a singularly appropriate one —"Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it." It was, in effect, a sermon appealing to common sense, as against the "sentimentality which passes as religion and theology in our day," and it was a frank appeal to these young men, the thinkers and doers of tomorrow, to help save mankind from shallowness and falseness; "to see and to teach that our newer vision of usefulness, in men, in colleges and in nations, is the real law of God."

Probably no thinking man would deny in these days that to build the house without God is vain. The groping is for God—that the house may be built in his likeness, as we see it now. And how many and how varied have been men's ideas of what God is and what man is?

There was a meeting of the Alumni Council on Monday morning, with something like 20 representatives of regional groups present and with the president, C. B. Little 'Bl, in the chair. The following representatives were elected: Albion B. Wilson '95, New England states; Thomas W. Streeter '04, Middle and Southern States; John C. Wallace 07, Central states; John P. Wadham '03, Western states; James A. Townsend '94, Rocky Mountain states. Clarence C. Hills '05, of Indianapolis, was chosen a councillor for the term of three years the part of the body itself.

Discussion of financial dispositions relating to the Tucker fund and various other matters followed, the outcome being a general recommendation that Commencement periods would more conveniently close hereafter on Tuesdays; that a general catalogue or register should be issued; that a Dartmouth book be published; and that steps be taken to restrain the growth of the size of the undergraduate body until such time as the physical plant can be increased in adequacy. The minutes of the meeting will be found in the department of college news in this issue.

The veracious chronicle of the adventures of J. and me must begin when we arrived, somewhat breathless and besprent with mire, over the road on Monday, just in time to overtake the tail end of the fraternity receptions. Class day was over, a day which had the meagre fortune of being spared an actual deluge. The heavens had opened in the morning and had given promise of keeping on the job all day, thus making additional excuse for the great tent, which was spread on the lower end of the campus. I imagine that tent will be a fixture henceforth and forever; for, given the absence of rain, it is as the shadow of a mighty rock within a weary land to such as faint under the noontide heat, and Hanover Commencement is usually notable for its coincidence with a period of extreme torridity. As it turned out, however, the traditional pilgrimages of the senior class from point to point were permitted, the usual orations were made, the usual pictures were taken, the usual pipes were smoked, and the inevitable sadness was no doubt experienced at the growing consciousness that this was, indeed, the beginning of the end. I can feel to this day the qualm that I felt when I, a quarter century ago, threw my clay pipe against the stump of the old pine, and realized that my good old Governor had seen me smoking it, to his amazement and scandal!

But the fraternity houses were open and in them were men I hadn't seen for a score of years, nay, more. This was beginning to be balm. I think what impressed me most, and what heartened us both, was the spry and alert appearance of the class of 1870—50 years out—with an incredibly large proportion of them on hand and with a spring and elasticity about them that made me wonder if they could be a semi-centennial coterie at all. If my class turns up as chipper and alive when its turn comes to observe that anniversary, may I be there to see. And may good old J. be with me to share the trip.

Tuesday was a full day, starting with the ball game—a pretty good ball game—in which what we used to call "U. V. M." was duly humbled by superior prowess, to which were appended sideshows in the form of joint debates between Clyde Engel and Jeff Tesreau over groundrules, and also in the shape of amusing antics by the three-yearlings, the class of 1917, who disported as "Communists" and exalted Sam Gompers to the throne from which Capital had been displaced —a highly irreverent but amusing performance, during which the ball game proceeded to a 4-to-0 victory for the Green as if nothing else were happening.

Then shuttle back to Leb for lunch and fresh raiment, and back again to the alumni meeting in time to hear the 50-year men give account of their stewardship, hear the reports, and learn the latest slate of officers, all of which proceedings are published hereinafter.

I suppose it is hardly possible, owing to the interposition of so many engagements, but I always wish the formal meeting of the alumni body might be better attended The one class that is usually represented in great force is the 50-year class, which sits on the platform in Dartmouth Hall and basks in the admiration of them of low degree. This year it proved a notably active and alert class, as I think I said before. Professor Lemuel S. Hastings spoke for the class, and so did Judge Sanford H. Steele of the College trustees.

As for the nominations (accepted and elected as a matter of course) they included the following: President Charles G. DuBois '91; vice presidents, Hon. Channing Cox '01, Howard J. Chidley '06; secretary, Homer E. Keyes '00; treasurer, Perley R. Bugbee '90; statistical secretary, John M. Comstock '77; executive committee, E. K. Woodworth '97, chairman, with Otis E. Hovey '85, Ernest S. Gile '95,.George G. Clark '99, Henry D. Thrall '06, Warren C. Agry '11, and Edward A. Davis '13, as members; athletic council for three years, for the alumni, J. W. Gannon '99; for the faculty, R. D. Beetle '06. To succeed H. R. Heneage '07 (resigned) Richard Parkhurst '16 was chosen for the unexpired term of one year. Natt W. Emerson '00 was chosen alumni member of the Council on Student Organizations.

By this time, although it was our off year, even our class had mustered something like a dozen men, and in a body we paid our respects to President and Mrs. Hopkins on the lawn of their hospitable house, a very welcome alternative to being indoors, since the day was fine and the sun was at last beginning to tune up. And then more hobnobbing in nooks and corners, with men whose names you vaguely tried to capture from memory before you should give it away that you didn't really know them from Adam but felt ashamed not to. I cherish among the real memories of the day a chance meeting with President Hopkins that evening in the hotel lobby, whence for some reason all else had fled, probably to class dinners, while he discoursed on the problem imposed by a clamoring host of rising 3000 men, all anxious to enroll in our Dartmouth fellowship, yet necessarily denied because at the very outside we cannot house more than 600 in an entering class. Consider, if you please, what that means to men who knew a Dartmouth of only 400 men, all told, including the few and raucous medics.

The Dean tells me, and he like the President is a man of truth, that the next year's freshman class will be between 500 and 600 men; that 1000 actual applicant's have been turned away; that only the shutting off of further applicants prevented the number of refusals from being twice as large; and that he doesn't know what the Dickens we are coming to. We have evidently been discovered, but "Hoppy" very modestly says he doesn't know what has brought it to pass all at once in this wholesale fashion. It's happened, that's all. The entering class for year-after-next will be completely filled, so far as can be known, by next September; and while arrangements may be made to give preference to the sons of Dartmouth men, I would advise you, if you have a son expectant of a college career within the next four or five years, to register him now with Dean Laycock and get him an early choice of rooms. One is safer so.

Commencement Day is always a baffling performance. You always wonder whether, starting somewhat aimlessly, it will ever gather form and emerge from Webster Hall with all the degrees conferred and all the eloquence uncorked by noon. Somehow it always does. The alumni gather slowly but surely. The seniors, heavy with the weight of an important day, line up early. The band plays compelling airs. One by one the older classes fall into groups, and you discover that you really are a year older, in very truth. Only yesterday, as it seems, I wondered how it would feel to be away up toward the head of the line, and glory be, we're getting on. We're somewhat worse than half way toward the end, where one vanishes and. comes to Hanover no more. But cheer up. Why heed the rumble of a distant drum? Old Omar and Horace agree on that, and so do J. and I. Are not '70, and '75, and '80, and '85, and '90 still ahead of us? Did I not see a living graduate of '57. I think so. Why, we even sent a telegram to Dr. Josiah Barstow of the class of 1846.

Well, the procession forms. The seniors march gravely by, and so do the faculty, and so do the trustees escorting such potentates as Mr. Hoover, and Gen. Goethals, and Stephen Leacock who, you now discover, are to be given the honorary degrees which they so richly merit. And pretty soon you are all on the way to Webster to witness the actual emergence of the latest brood of Dartmouth alumni. Can it be 26 years ago this day, or thereabouts, that J. and I got our sheepskins? And were they really sheepskins ? And could I ever translate that imposing farandole about "Omnibus adquos hae litterae pervenerint"—I quote from a failing memory, and subject to the kindly reproving eye of Johnny K.—which adorned the sacred parchment ? But here we are, and the old familiar hymn is being sung—"Let

us therefore chorus forth His high majesty and worth"—

Commencement, in fine is at last commencing.

J. and I listened with becoming sobriety to some very good advice about handling labor problems and about the proper conduct of newspapers, from well-assured young men of the senior class, who doubtless knew whereof they spoke. It really is rather cruel to make young men speak fit Commencement, especially if they are to retain the manuscript of their addresses to be reread after 25 years, in the light of experience. As a newspaper man I gathered from the final speaker that I was a pretty bad lot; that I ought to sign all I wrote; that I ought to mold public opinion, rather than follow it; and that in general the journalistic millenium was a long way off. J., who holds in his hand the destinies of a large army of employees, got some excellent advice about making them, all partners in his end of the office. It appeared that labor unrest could be stopped in five minutes if we only did thus and so. All right, let's go to it. The seniors are out now, and naught hinders! Besides I can remember when we stood where they do now, and when we, too, ached to get a strangle-hold on a reactionary world, which somehow acted incomprehensibly when it was all so clear what ought to be done. How wise we are when we are seniors. And how foolish when we grow old.

I feel every year somewhat the same thrill over the honorary degrees that I used to feel over the Christmas stocking, it is so interesting to see what the professor will pull out of the hat next. J. and I had spotted Mr. Hoover down in Lebanon the day before and shrewdly suspected he was going up to be LL.D.'d again, a process with which he must be reasonably familiar. But the others no one had a hint of until they emerged on the platform and the program announced what was going to happen.

It is a happy choice which makes Professor Bartlett, I cannot in these formal circumstances refer to him by his endearing diminutive, the introducer of august gentlemen to the president as candidates for the honorary degree. Bubby (there, it slipped out!) has a perfect genius for brief epigraphy. He can describe a man and his works in two lines, with all the vividness of a chemical reaction. He even succeeded in condensing Mr. Hoover as "Follower and almoner of divine Providence in distributing blessings to the just and to the unjust"—which to my journalistic sense was almost the best line of the day. But he succeeded almost as well with the others—Burton Scales '95, shedding the soul of music among the people; Lucius Teter, banker and organizer, to whom human beings are of more value than gold; George Brigham Young (of Vermont) a strong man among the sturdy and upright lawyers in the state beyond the river. All these for Master of Arts.

Rev. James L. Barton was described no less aptly than Mr. Hoover—as the "honored ambassador of the one great power which gives us hope of lasting peace on earth and good will toward men"—the sole candidate for the D.D.

Meantime of course the revered President of the College is never idle in such circumstances. He always has a telling come-back of a similarly complimentary nature in the case of each candidate—and it is one of the functions of the college presidency which I always, envy. In fact the only one. President Eliot, that master of epigrammatic English, set the fashion many years ago and in the candidates of the current year there was abundant material for the inspiration of President Hopkins. I venture to quote a few of his depictions of men whom I believe to have been exceptionally worthy of the distinction conferred—a mutual distinction, by the way, in which the college is honored by those whom it honors:

JAMES LEVI BARTON, (D.D.)—Arch-representative of those men of religious consecration, the missionary statesmen whose outgoings have carried to oppressed peoples the spirit of helpful service and whose home-comings have contributed largely to breaking down the spirit of futile provincialism.

STEPHEN BUTLER LEACOCK, (Litt. D.)—Admirable and admired representative of the wide range of interest, typical of the professorial guild; fascinating commentator on the foibles of humanity individually and collectively; careful scholar in the realm of science which studies the causes which govern group action.

JUSTIN HARVEY SMITH, (Litt.D.) —Student indefatigable in research; revealer of truth through painstaking recovery and lucid presentation of obscure or forgotten fact; gentleman of culture and scholar of distinction; long a respected member of our fellowship.

GEORGE WASHINGTON GOETHALS, (LL.D.)—At whose door opportunity repeatedly knocks and is admitted ; genius extraordinary in the execution of major undertakings and notable for the life-long availability of your talents for application to whatsoever needs of the Nation have been most insistent ; effective contributor to the desperate exigencies of one of the greatest crises of the war; instigator, accelerator, and accomplisher of the greatest supply program the country has ever known.

HERBERT HOOVER, (LL.D)_Eloquent spokesman of a great nation's better self, and exponent to stricken peoples of its practical idealism; keen in insight and ample in talent for the analysis of domestic problems; translator of great personal opportunity into terms of invaluable public service.

And then, last act of all, the alumni luncheon in the big Gym. It's fine to have a room, big enough for this gathering at last—and fine to sit there and hear the great ones of the land, the newest alumni and the oldest and or course the presidential account of tangible benefits received. Here at last the president of the alumni body justifies his existence—for he presides, as the rector bibendi. This year the task fell to W. T. Abbott, '90, and his ministering hand spread before the assembled host a notable array of attractions'. Herman W. Newell '20 voiced the advent of a new and capable addition to the graduates of the college a fine body of young men who had been alumni only about half an hour. Guy A. Ham, '00, always eloquent, followed. Irving W. Drew spoke for that virile and interesting class of '70—fifty years young as members of this assemblage.

General Goethals, Herbert Hoover and Professor Leacock also spoke, as most recent additions to the Dartmouth fellowship briefly, instructively, and entertainingly. Dr. Leacock devoted most of his time to humorous references to his difficulties in reaching Hanover and the sacrifices he had to make in leaving his farm during the potato-bug season; but he emphasized his special pleasure in holding a diploma from Dartmouth. He stressed the fact that in these days of rising costs and profiteering, when the man on a salary is taking his furniture to the pawn shop stick by stick, he would never sell his Dartmouth diploma, but that it would always be among his most cherished possessions.

It appeared, from a careful tabulation, that the class of 1900 had (I think for the third time) won the cup offered by my own class ('94) for the largest attendance at a reunion of the living members. This class with its remarkable record showed a presence of 86 out of a possible 107, plus 12 non-graduate members. Fifty-one wives and 55 children were likewise on the ground. Eighty per cent is a pretty good record. It was approached, but not nearly equalled, by the 50-year men, who had present 11 of their 16 survivors, and proved to be the nearest competitors. I speak of this cup with intention—for it is meant to be an extra incentive to reunion attendance. Our class insituted it something over a decade ago and we don't want it to lose its efficacy. Of course we can't offer to fill it for you—but if you are holding a formal reunion next year, why not start now and try to get the number of your class engraved on the silver urn? You don't want 1900 to do it all—but the way that class is going it bids fair to get its numerals on the cup once in five years until there's nobody left.

Thus ends another year—our 151st. We square away for another century with every promise of the fairest hopes. God send that we be worthy, and that those who assemble here for the second centenary of Dartmouth College may even be prouder, if possible, than we are now of the record made!

I cannot close, however, without a single mention of the memorial stela, set up near the Alumni Oval by Mr. Tuck of Paris to the memory of Richard Nelville Hall—our first sacrifice in the war. Unsatisfactorily placed as it is in its temporary environment, it has a majesty and a worthiness recalling the glory that was Greece. A noble young man is thus nobly honored—and through him the general type, for which we hope our college may ever stand. I carry away with m,e as perhaps the most vivid of my Commencement memories that telling monument which I like to believe is at once a testimony to an individual and to a type—the exponents of those who, around the world, keep alive for the old mother the old chivalric faith.