X.

DEAR JACK,- I find that I have an excellent opportunity to pass a few months in Europe; and as I never allow opportunities of this sort to slip by, I am going to sail next week. As this, then, is probably the last letter that I shall write to you for some time, I shall venture to devote it to a subject which may not be of immediate interest to you at this moment, but which certainly will occupy a great deal of your time when you have penetrated a little deeper into the mysteries of college life. I refer to college societies, clubs, et cetera.

Somebody or other once said that if a couple of Americans were shipwrecked on a desert island, they would at once proceed to organize a meeting. One would take the chair, the other would be secretary; and they would pass a series of formal resolutions, setting forth the dangers of their position, and the methods which they proposed to adopt to ward off starvation and death. There is a good deal of truth in this. We are so enamored of free institutions that we never like to do anything without the sanction of parliamentary forms. And when we find ourselves interested in any subject, instead of investigating it by ourselves, we look about for some kindred spirits, to gather together and vote that the subject is worth investigation. This is particularly noticeable in college. Independent action is altogether out of fashion, while organizations exist for the furtherance of almost every-object that the mind of man can devise. And of these organizations I mean to speak.

If you will excuse me for being so horribly methodical, I will divide them into four classes, of each of which I will speak separately. The first consists of societies which have some serious object in view, which may be roughly described as the pursuit of Cape Flyaway; the second of open societies, which are devoted to amusement; the third of clubs proper, where you can get wine and cigars and gossip of the most correct sort at the cheapest price; and the fourth of secret societies, of which the objects are unknown and the names are forbidden words.

The serious societies may be dismissed with a word. They are wretched, dead affairs, which are only held together by shingles and seals. If you join one, you will attend a meeting or two, find it stupid, and afterwards stay away. The treasurer will send you a bill or two, which you will forget to pay. Your name will be posted, but nobody will read it. And in the end you will resign, having gained no advantage except a certificate of membership. The truth is that French clubs and German clubs and chess clubs have no real reason for existence, and their life is consequently very artificial. A respectable literary society is sometimes worth joining. Other serious organizations I should advise you to avoid.

On the other hand, it is worth your while to be connected with the societies which are devoted to amusement. To be sure, as I remember them, they are not very amusing; but, at the same time, most of your friends will join them, and if you do not, you will feel as if you were out of the world, - which is not at all the same thing as feeling as if you were in heaven. In my time these societies were great political powers. When any class elections came, they would divide the various offices between themselves, and walk off with them, regardless of opposition. This fact gave them a reason for existence which made them, though they were not very entertaining, very popular indeed. I am told, however, that their days of power are numbered, - that the outsiders have mustered this year, and borne off in triumph the offices which the poor old societies thought were theirs by right. If this is true, it is possible that the popularity of the societies may follow their prestige. However, whether this occurs or not, you had better join one. If it does nothing more, it will serve as a bond of friendship between yourself and all the other members, past and present.

My letter is getting long, and I must hurry on. Clubs are - clubs; join one, if you can get in, but do not make a home of it. It is very jolly to have a place to lounge in, and all that sort of thing. The great objection to it is that all who have the entree are tempted to become professional loungers, - a class of people, as I have often told you, who are not appreciated upon this side of the Atlantic. Tant pis pour nous.

Last of all come the secret societies. Of these nobody knows anything, and the very mention of their name is an indiscretion which may produce the most direful results. In point of fact, I don't think that there are many of them, and I am sure that the members are not the deep-dyed villains which their enemies would have us to believe. But, at the same time, their achievements are not of a creditable sort. Bonfires, explosions, amateur burglary of private as well as of public property, and all that sort of thing, are not feats which I should call characteristic of gentlemen. To be sure, in nine cases out of ten this behavior is due to mere thoughtlessness, and I do not doubt that many a good fellow - in every sense of the word - has taken part in it. But I am sure that by such behavior a man gains neither in self-respect nor in caste, - for want of a better word; and if these societies make any overtures to you - as I cordially hope that they will not - I must beg of you to politely decline them. They can't help you, and they may hurt you; for membership involves a habit of constant prevarication, which is anything but salutary in its effects. At the same time these secret organizations have a certain amount of power; and as long as they do not interfere with you, you had better not interfere with them, - technical interference being the public mention of their existence. If they openly offend you, of course you must not calmly submit; but my experience of them is that they do not often attack unless they are attacked. And then they turn upon you all their batteries of petty malice. My advice on this matter is pretty much what it is on every other, - keep your own counsel. Be independent, but do not be fool enough to thrust your independence into people's faces.

I must close, and, as I have said, I shall not be able to write to you again. I hope that it has given you as much pleasure to receive my letters as it has given me to write them; and I sincerely hope that you have not found them utterly worthless. One or two friends who have looked over my shoulder while I have been writing have found great fault with me, and have called me worldly and cynical and snobbish. They may be right. Perhaps I am. But I do not think that I am a bad fellow at heart; and I do not think that my letters are bad at heart either. If you have read them as I wrote them, if you have taken satire for satire and seriousness for seriousness, I am quite sure that they cannot have done you any harm, and I think that it is possible that they may have done you a little good.

I have babbled on too long. Good by, Jack. God bless you. And, although you will not hear from me again, believe that you will not be forgotten by.

Your affectionate brother,

PHILIP.