The Vision Splendid - William MacLeod Raine

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life. Think of what this college might mean, how it might stand for democracy It ought to pour out into the state hundreds of specialists on the problems of the country. Instead, it is only a reflection of the caste system that is growing up in America.”

      James shrugged his broad shoulders. “I've been through all that. It's a phase we pass. You'll get over it. You've got to if you are going to succeed.”

      A quizzical grin wrinkled Jeff's lean face. “What is success?”

      “It's setting a high goal and reaching it. It's taking the world by the throat and shaking from it whatever you want.” James leaned across the table, his eyes shining. “It's the journey's end for the strong, that's what it is. I don't care whether a man is gathering gilt or fame, he's got to pound away with his eye right on it. And he's got to trample down the things that get in his way.”

      Jeff's eye fell upon a book on the table. “Ever hear of a chap called Goldsmith?”

      “Of course. He wrote 'The School for Scandal.' What's he got to do with it?”

      Jeff smiled, without correcting his cousin. “I've been reading about him. Seems to have been a poor hack writer 'who threw away his life in handfuls.' He wrote the finest poem, the best novel, the most charming comedy of his day. He knew how to give, but he didn't know how to take. So he died alone in a garret. He was a failure.”

      “Probably his own fault.”

      “And on the day of his funeral the stairway was crowded with poor people he had helped. All of them were in tears.”

      “What good did that do him? He was inefficient. He might have saved his money and helped them then.”

      “Perhaps. I don't know. It might have been too late then. He chose to give his life as he was living it.”

      “Another reason for his poverty, wasn't there?”

      Jeff flushed. “He drank.”

      “Thought so.” James rose triumphantly and put on his overcoat. “Well, think over what I've said.”

      “I will. And tell the chancellor I'm much obliged to him for sending you.”

      For once the Senior was taken aback. “Eh, what—what?”

      “You may tell him it won't be your fault that I'll never be a credit to Verden University.”

      As he walked across the campus to his fraternity house James did not feel that his call had been wholly successful. With him he carried a picture of his cousin's thin satiric face in which big expressive eyes mocked his arguments. But he let none of this sense of futility get into the report given next day to the Chancellor.

      “Jeff's rather light-minded, I'm afraid, sir. He wanted to branch off to side lines. But I insisted on a serious talk. Before I left him he promised to think over what I had said.”

      “Let us hope he may.”

      “He said it wouldn't be my fault if he wasn't a credit to the University.”

      “We can all agree with him there, Farnum.”

      “Thank you, sir. I'm not very hopeful about him. He has other things to contend with.”

      “I'm not sure I quite know what you mean.”

      “I can't explain more fully without violating a confidence.”

      “Well, we'll hope for the best, and remember him in our prayers.”

      “Yes, sir,” James agreed.

       Table of Contents

      “I met a hundred men on the road to Delhi, and they were all

       my brothers.”—Old Proverb.

      THE REBEL FLUNKS IN A COURSE ON HOW TO GET ON IN LIFE

       Table of Contents

      It would be easy to overemphasize Jeff's intellectual difficulties at the expense of the deep delight he found in many phases of his student life. The daily routine of the library, the tennis courts, and the jolly table talk brought out the boy in him that had been submerged.

      There developed in him a vagabond streak that took him into the woods and the hills for days at a time. About the middle of his Sophomore year he discovered Whitman. While camping alone at night under the stars he used to shout out,

      “Strong and content, I travel the open road,” or

      “Allons! The road is before us!

      “It is safe—I have tried it—my own feet have tried it well.”

      Through Stevenson's essay on Whitman Jeff came to know the Scotch writer, and from the first paragraph of him was a sealed follower of R. L. S. In different ways both of these poets ministered to a certain love of freedom, of beauty, of outdoor spaces that was ineradicably a part of his nature. The essence of vagabondage is the spirit of romance. One may tour every corner of the earth and still be a respectable Pharisee. One may never move a dozen miles from the village of his birth and yet be of the happy company of romantics. Jeff could find in a sunset, in a stretch of windswept plain, in the sight of water through leafless trees, something that filled his heart with emotion.

      Perhaps the very freedom of these vacation excursions helped to feed his growing discontent. The yeast of rebellion was forever stirring in him. He wanted to come to life with open mind. He was possessed of an insatiable curiosity about it. This took him to the slums of Verden, to the redlight district, to Socialist meetings, to a striking coal camp near the city where he narrowly escaped being killed as a scab. He knew that something was wrong with our social life. Inextricably blended with success and happiness he saw everywhere pain, defeat, and confusion. Why must such things be? Why poverty at all?

      But when he flung his questions at Pearson, who had charge of the work in sociology, the explanations of the professor seemed to him pitifully weak.

      In the ethics class he met the same experience. A chance reference to Drummond's “Natural Law in the Spiritual world” introduced him to that stimulating book. All one night he sat up and read it—drank it in with every fiber of his thirsty being.

      The fire in his stove went out. He slipped into his overcoat. Gray morning found him still reading. He walked out with dazed eyes into a world that had been baptized anew during the night to a miraculous rebirth.

      But when he took his discovery to the lecture room Dawson was not only cold but hostile. Drummond was not sound. There was about him a specious charm very likely to attract young minds. Better let such books alone for the present. In the meantime the class would take up with him the discussion of predeterminism as outlined in Tuesday's work.

      There were members of the faculty big enough to have understood the boy and tolerant enough to have sympathized with his crude revolt, but Jeff was diffident and never came in touch with them.

      His connection with the college ended abruptly during the Spring term of his Sophomore year.

      A celebrated revivalist was imported to quicken the spiritual life of the University. Under his exhortations the institution underwent a religious ferment. An extraordinary excitement was astir on the campus. Class prayer meetings were held every afternoon, and at midday smaller groups met for devotional exercises. At these latter those who had made no profession of religion were petitioned for by name. James Farnum was swept into the movement and distinguished himself by his zeal. It was understood that he desired the prayers of friends for that

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