The readers of the College papers are told every week that Harvard College is not a university: some writers say that she is fast becoming one; others, that, at her present rate of progress, she will never reach the standard signified by that mystifying word. I say mystifying, for I think that the Harvard students have very cloudy notions as to what is meant by a university. Far be it from me to insinuate that those who use the term do not know what they are talking about; but they take it for granted too easily that the rest of the College are as well informed as themselves.

Being, therefore, much puzzled by the constant repetition of this word, I have taken some pains to discover what the average Harvard man thinks a university is, and I find his idea of it to be pretty much as follows: Strictly voluntary attendance at all college exercises is the most prominent feature. The morning is spent in sleep and in breakfasting luxuriously in one's room, after which the real business of the day begins. This is either rowing on the river, or a long excursion into the country with a tandem, returning in time for dinner, which, dressed by a French chef, and washed down with the choicest wines, is eaten at the rooms of some hospitable friend. After an evening spent playing billiards or in other diversions the undergraduate goes to bed when the small hours are beginning to grow large.

While in the University, knowledge is imbibed with the air one breathes, a mode of study that requires no very great labor. Vacations, which are supposed to last the greater part of the year, are spent in improving the mind by foreign travel. Dignity is given to the place by a set of men called Fellows, who, living at the expense of the College, spend the day walking about arm in arm, looking immensley important, and occupy the evening in telling stories and drinking immense quantities of Port wine. To gain a fellowship is the aim of every undergraduate.

After three years spent in rowing, riding, and travelling, there comes an examination, which requires a week or two of preparation; and then, having taken his degree, the student leaves the classic shades with a better education than the most unremitting toil would have obtained for him here. Whether this is the view which the writers in our papers take or not, I heartily join with them in the wish that Harvard may be able soon to call itself a true University.

Reprinted from the Harvard Crimson, February 9, 1877.