For High School Graduates

Welcome to Cambridge, you who were first in your class in Minot, North Dakota, and you who worked your way through high school in south Chicago and you who wrote poems and edited your school paper. When the old Cambridge inhabitants welcome in the new, they mean it, as long, at least, as the words are on their lips. Everyone is full of friendly caveats. Take them; they will do you little harm in the short time they are of use.

For, like a supercooled solution, Harvard undergraduate society crystallizes with astonishing speed. By the end of the year, you, a particle accreted on that great shimmering crystal, may hear that particles with whom you earlier collided belong or will belong to Clubs (mysterious conches, which, held to the ear, merely roar). And there will be the silent, aquiline faces, each sandwiched between a taut tie and impeccable hair, that pass you ghostlike on the entry stairs, day after day after day.

They are the other half (they would say, if they ever thought about you: the upper half). Do not be afraid of them. Some of them, after all, went to prep school on scholarships; many of them are as bright and as willing to work as you; a few may even share your naive honesty. From others there is actually something to learn: that talking need not be a void and a sin; that grades and teachers' approval are not all-valuable; that polish can be pleasant. Do not be reluctant to learn from those who will teach you. As for the rest, forgive them, for they know not what they do.

For Prep School Graduates

Of course, we weren't really surprised that you made it In, but the Admissions Committee has been playing some nasty tricks on Our School, after all. Why, do you remember Reginald Eliot, whose brother was '56...But really, we are awfully glad to see you. Yes, we'll install you when the time comes; I hear the law firm you'll work for is doing quite well, by the way...But really, it is good to have you; there are lots of people here whom you know, both from School and from the Summer Place.

Oh, yes, there is also a terrific lot of boobs, about whom I must warn you. (The Admissions Committee, you know; and with all this scholarship money, there doesn't seem to be any end to it.) They are so frightfully earnest (I detest the word "wonkish," don't you?), and they simply insist upon taking over everything. Hardly a thing remains in Good Hands, you know....

But really, I forgot you're rather serious about your art history or some such nonsense yourself, aren't you? (Yes, I suppose there is nothing one can do about it.) There is one chap here--I admit he went to high school, but he seems like such a nice chap--you might rather like talking with him. Knows a bit about it himself. And of course, there are all sorts of Out types you'll have to put up with at the Society; wouldn't know how to hold a sherry if you glued one in their hands, but are willing to try. You could even like some of them, because they can learn to speak civilly. As for the others, after all, one must forgive them, for they know not what they do, you know.