In a special article written for the Williams Graphic, George Allen Mason Jr. 1L., a graduate of Williams in the class of 1924, has written of Harvard as he, in his sojourn of one year, has seen it.

It is indeed a far cry from the semi-cloistered life of Williams College to the urban, noisy existence of a student at Harvard University. Those of us who entered Harvard Law School last September were quickly made aware of the fact, and for several months we termed ourselves "Williams in China." Verily if we had gone to Joochow for a postgraduate course we should have found the methods of study no less unfamiliar than those to which we had to adapt ourselves here.

Even the ties of a common language were given some severe tests by the famous Harvard accent, but, in time, we became insensible to it and could almost treat certain of the students as Americans. But aside from considerations of speech, there are marked differences in the external and internal structures of the two institutions that I intend to touch upon somewhat hastily and informally in these pages. My remarks are not in the nature of an exhaustive research into the theory of education, but rather reflect some of the impressions we have gained during the seven months we have been here.

Yearning for Friendly Shopkeepers

You, curious reader (I use the singular advisedly), are thoroughly familiar with the external aspects of your college. With the exception of the Geology Museum there is no building on your campus into which the inquisitive Freshman has not poked his eager nose by the first of October. You know every hole in the sidewalks of Spring Street. You call the open-handed shopkeepers by their first names. You say, "Hi, Toughey!" to every one you pass on the street. You know all the professors at least by name. You have definite places to eat your meals, and you can run charge accounts at the restaurants. You are, moreover, as you have been frequently told, a "type". In short, you are a Williams student.

The Old Familiar Landmarks Unfamiliar

Were you suddenly to be transplanted to Cambridge, however, you would no longer fit into the above description, even were you to spend four years here. Every month or two we turn a strange corner and find some hitherto unnoticed building filling up half the block and what is more, no one can ever tell us what it is or why it is there. Some genii could drop a new building, possibly a "School for Making Better Piano Keys", into the midst of the scattered campus, and the Freshman of today would scarcely have learned of its existence by his Senior year.

That Symphonic Discord, Mass Avenue

Dormitories, recitation halls, libraries, banks, boathouses, subway stations, monuments and gymnasiums peer forth from behind tall brick chimneys and defy us to orient ourselves. The street cars thunder past every minute or two, and conversation on Massachusetts Avenue is impossible due to their flat-wheeled discord. The chance of meeting a violent death from automobiles every time we go to class has become common-place, and only a falling blimp or an earthquake can now thrill us. If the purpose of life be considered as a preparation for the hereafter, we are rapidly acquiring the proper nonchalance toward the transition.

Eating--A Habit or a Pleasure?

As for the desire to eat--that human frailty which is so universally toadied to we can but scantily satisfy it. Certain of the undergraduates have their eating clubs, but the great unwashed (meaning the postgraduates) wander hungrily from the "Splendid" to the "Georgian", or dissipate at "The Betty Day", and wonder why their appetites are not so good as formerly. Charge accounts are unknown: there are too many students for the proprietors to take any risk.

We do settle down, of course, into a more or less regular round of lunch rooms, with breakfast at "The Cheerful Chat", luncheon at "The Copper Kettle", and dinner at "The Washington Court", varied by excursions to "Janet's" or "The Cock Horse". Some have a favorite boarding house where they have a table reserved for them at definite hours each day, and though this would seem to be the better plan, it has its disadvantages in actual operation. The problem of where to eat is one of the first to be met in Cambridge, and must be solved by the individual according to his tastes. It is by no means so simple of solution as it is in Williamstown.

The Harvard "type" is famous, and is usually diagnosed as a complication of broad "a"s, horn-rimmed glasses, and aloofness. Such a generality is no truer than generalities ever are, this one included. We consider it scarcely fair to Williams to term it "a glorified country club", although we admit that the quantity of golf hose in the student laundry is prodigious. No more is it fair to say that your Harvard host permits you to sit in the corner until he finishes his chapter of Epicurus, and then yawns constantly during a difficult conversation.

Young men are the same at a university as they are at a small college; they have the same inclinations and desires, the same healthy ambitions, and the same feeling of "growing up." The difference is that at the university they mature, or seem to mature, more quickly, which is but natural because of the environment in which they move. Constant exposure to crowds and city life cannot help developing a young man's resourcefulness and social instincts more rapidly than does daily contact with tarred streets and flowered hillsides. (Oh, to be at Williams now that Spring is there!)

I should consider myself conservative in saying that the average Harvard Junior is as mature as the average Williams Senior at commencement time. That may account in some measure for the frequent inability of representatives from the two institutions to understand each other's viewpoints and attitudes toward life. But, as I said, healthy ambitions and ambitions to be healthy exist here.

No Spontaneity of Youth in Cambridge

Here I might say that to my mind the greatest disadvantage of a university is the stiffing effect it has on the individual in respect to his relations with his fellows. There is none of the spontaneity of youth in Cambridge, that is to be seen on all sides in Willianstown. A friendly slapping on the back is ground for an action of battery, and to walk arm in arm is almost immoral. The playful spirit in which you live on your Rousseauistic stage is here relegated to children below the age of 14 years, and any signs of horseplay are taken as evidence of a breach of the Volstead Act.

The great majority of the students down here have already lost the art of relaxing; they can never forget themselves and their assumed dignity long enough to be natural with one another. Hence it is that in this one external characteristic, which in itself is of the greatest importance in judging any school or college, Harvard can no more to be compared with Williams than an elephant to a rose!

Eureka! the Harvard Types at Last

What then, is the Harvard type? Needless to say, the formula is complex, but perhaps the many elements do combine to form something tangible. There are, I might say, two types with a common characteristic. There is the club member who belongs to some socially prominent Boston, New York, or possibly Chicago family, and who continues to be damnably social for four years. And there is the high-school graduate who majors in Latin and spends most of his time in a quiet nook in the huge library. The socially correct element is the remnant of that Boston society of the last century that "sneezed whenever England took cold," although nowadays it is difficult to distinguish between the imitation and the real. The studious element speaks Americanese, is not ashamed of its local accent, and goes serious and unobtrusively about its business of obtaining a higher education.

The common characteristic is possession of a savoir faire that scarcely ever deserts its owner in the face of any situation and that enables him to act calmly in defiance of whatever visceral sensations he may be experiencing. The average American interprets this savoir faire as snobbery; in reality it is merely a thicker crust of sophistication than most of us posses. But if there is anything that can be said to be typical of Harvard it is this very attitude of refusing to be surprised at or by Life, of giving that impression that the boy has already lived everything possible, and that from now on he must endure this world as best he can.

These Hardened Law School Students

To come more specifically to a treatment of the Harvard Law School, however, we find a curious and astounding mixture of races and colors that defies amalgamation. The only unifying influence is the study of Law; outside of the classroom and the library there is no common interest to bind the students together. Nearly all colleges place their stamp upon their graduates; the men come here already hardened to the mould, and there is no change in them through the three-year course except that wrought by nature.

Social Intercourse a Matter of Option

Nor is there any effort made to effect a change. Social intercourse is entirely a matter of individual option, and the men who sit beside us in classes have no more idea of how we lead our lives than we have of how they live. Then, too, there are many older men, frequently married, who have turned to Law after a few years in business, the ministry, or what not. It must be apparent that such conditions are a radical change from the Williams environment.

In the first place, the entering class this year had about 500 men in it. I say "had" because nearly 100 have dropped out by the time of this writing. Two sections were formed alphabetically, seats were assigned in the lecture rooms, and we found ourselves reciting before an audience of 250 men, all of whom we were certain knew more about what we were discussing than we did. Needless to say, the first time one is called upon by a professor one passes through a disturbing few minutes. But one soon became accustomed to this form of mass instruction and the days of small classes seemed far away.

In time, even the personal element entered into what at first appeared to be an entirely impersonal matter, and now we know what to expect when certain classmates begin to talk. So do the professors, and many are the satirical and harsh comments that fall from their contemptuous lips. They lose no opportunity to inform us that only 250 of us will be allowed to return next September.

When we first saw our schedules and learned that we had three classes on but one day, and only two on the other five days, we thought we had fallen into an easy proposition. We quickly learned, however, that the three-class day was a great strain, and that two lectures were about all we could satisfactorily absorb. The lecture periods are fifty minutes long and filled for the most part by rapid taking of notes, with time out for the statement of a case by a student, with possible discussion and questions. There is not time for day dreaming, and frequently we must compare our notebooks after the hour in order to fill in blanks when we could not keep up with the lecturer.

Already we have taken from two to three hundred pages of notes in nearly every course. The notebooks are of a special construction, and the pages have a large margin for "annotations," which are our summaries (we do them in red ink) of the points of law involved in the cases. In the margins, also, we stick our obstracts. These abstracts are condensations of the facts and decisions of the cases that we make when we read them, and are on onion paper with a gummed edge. None of this procedure is required of us; it is merely a method that has been found by experience to be the best aid to a mastery of the subject, and its results are chiefly useful in reviewing.

So much for the machinery of our classroom work. With only two hours of the day accounted for, say from eleven to one o'clock, what do we do with the rest of our time? The morning may profitably be spent in studying; the afternoon the same, and the evening likewise. If a means of living without sleep could be invented, we should stand a better chance of passing the examinations, which come only in June and are on the whole year's work. Needless to say, we do sleep, and we do not spend every hour of the day in study, but there are boundless opportunities for work down here and we could be at it continuously without reaching the end.

But my function is not to write the University catalog, although you may begin to suspect so. The little matter of review, which I have already mentioned, is in itself sufficient to prevent my filling that office. As to what my function may be, I prefer to leave the reader in doubt. Mere impressions, such as I have recorded here, may possibly have some value. But the masterful words of the professor in Property come back to me, and I quote them in conclusion: "Gentlemen! Gentlemen! Mr. Doe is drooling. Kindly draw the sheet over him!