CAN any one direct me to a quiet house in Cambridge where I can pass my last two years at the Law School in peace? I don't want to go more than three miles away; I will not go where there is a musical instrument (masculine, feminine, or neuter), and the rules of the house must prohibit duns, pedlers, subscription agents, editors, and, in short, everybody. I don't think I exact too much; at least my instructors (to whom I refer) never thought me much too exact at recitations.

I was n't such a cynic or recluse when I entered college; on the contrary, I was full of love and sympathy for my fellow-man. It is only the constant persecution of my brother-students that has brought me so low. Why, I even envy President Eliot's immunity from contact with the students, and think Adam must have had a jolly time until Mrs. Adam (his Eve-il genius) put in an appearance.

I give you only one experience, but it was enough to make me turn cynic.

As a Freshman I drew a middle entry ground-floor room facing the south, and, spite of the pitying accents and sympathetic glances of my friends, thought myself very well off. I was warned that there were two societies in the entry, but as one was aesthetic and the other anti-atheistic, I concluded I could stand it if they could. I did n't know the vast resources of the human mind when musical.

For a week all went well. I began to think the world less hollow than I had supposed, and my visions of the monastery began to fade. Suddenly one evening, a "sound of revelry by night" came stealing into my room from the Heart Club, (where they preserve the diamonds and spades found at Mycenae by Dr. Sly Boots). "Only once a week," I thought, and made arrangements to be absent every Thursday evening.

The next Monday I was waked up (8.30 A. M.) by the lively reunion of two cats, as I supposed, but it turned out to be only the exultant crowing of cocks, trying some new and wholly original combinations of sounds. They were a success, I fancy, for I retired, after a hasty toilet, leaving the victorious rooster to camp on a deserted field. Whenever I entered my room, morning or afternoon, this piteous moaning continued, and I found out that it was a melodeon. So much information was gained, but the momentous question arose, "How often is it taken sick in this way?" Actual observation showed me that its disease had become chronic, the most violent attacks coming morning and afternoon (9 to 12 A. M. and 1 to 5 P. M.). Its agony during these spasms was heart-rending. I was obliged to leave my room in the possession of the goodies and the sound. I now led a luxurious life for a while, as I could spend every evening except Thursday in my room.

Such unnatural happiness could not thrive long, At last the blow came that was to cut me off from all hope of a quiet life in that neighborhood.

I went home from dinner one evening contented with myself and at peace with all mankind - except Bartlett, Sever, and my washerwoman. I lit my pipe, took up the last Crimson, and prepared for a quiet evening when the suffering melodeon claimed and got as usual my undivided attention. The continued unhappiness of the poor creature touched my heart, and I was about to remonstrate with its heartless master when a new symptom of its disease appeared. The spasms of wheezing and coughing were interrupted by a buzzing, droning sound.

By attentive listening I found this to be the lamentation of a select body of young men (being all spoiled children, they call themselves the S. Poils Society) over the shortcomings of their fellow-men (cribbing, cutting, etc.). This was getting too depressing to stand. I was not a pessimist then, and had no sympathy with this idea of total degeneration. I endeavored to cheer up by warbling "Landlord, fill the flowing bowl," but, as I don't sing, the result was n't encouraging. Without a word of remonstrance I left the room.

I have had other experiences, but this was my worst.