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fitted for his work. He possessed in a remarkable degree the power of teaching, that power so indefinable, yet so distinct from any of the teacher's other qualifications, and so necessary to the teacher's success. And the union in him of this power with wide and deep learning, exquisite taste, a love for his work, an attractive personality, and a contagious enthusiasm for all that is best and highest in literature, made his teaching wonderfully effective. Without effort, apparently unconsciously, but very surely, he communicated to his scholars some measure of his own fine taste, and his own love for the good things of literature. It sometimes seemed as if there was in his classes an almost daily growth of literary perception and interest. There are many men, some still in college, some now graduated, who attribute to the inspiration of his teaching most of what love and knowledge of literature they possess and who look back upon his teaching as a continual, never-to-be-forgotten revelation of beauties in literature hitherto unknown and thought of. Nor was his influence as a teacher bounded by the limitations of his class-room work. To the aspirants for success in writing who came to his attention, he was a helpful critic, frank to point out faults when they existed, generous with praise when it was deserved, always full of fellow-feeling and encouragement. And outside his work as a teacher he was constantly exerting an inspiring influence on those in the University who were lovers and students of literature, or tried writing on their own account, always ready to meet them with assistance and sympathy.

Those who knew him, as they at this time return to this place, where they were accustomed to meet him, which he loved and they love so well, find it almost impossible to realize that he is really gone from them, so pronounced was his individuality, and so strong the impression he made on all who came into contact with him. But constantly they meet with reminders of the sad reality that he is indeed no more with them, and constantly they feel the great sorrow and the great loss which his taking away thus in his early prime, before the time of the fullness of his

powers, is to them and the whole University. His death seems indeed an almost irreparable loss, for it has taken from the University one whose rare literary inspiration and whose intimacy with the men of Yale will hardly soon meet in another. But even though this is so, his loss should be to us who remain an admonition to keep his teachings in our hearts, and remembering them, to work with more earnestness for that which was his great aim in his teaching, the increase of the love and study of what is best in literature among the men of Yale.

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Another loss we are compelled to record and the University to mourn the death of Dr. W. Irving Hunt, recently tutor in Greek.

Dr. Hunt entered Yale in the class of 1886, at the beginning of the Junior year. During the two years of his course he devoted himself with distinguished success to the study of the classics, and he remained here for two years as a graduate student in the same department. In 1888 he was appointed tutor in Greek. A year later he was given leave of absence, and made Soldier's Memorial Fellow, being thus enabled to spend the next year in study at the American School at Athens. In 1890 he returned to his work of teaching at Yale, and for two years taught with great success and promise of greater, both as a teacher and scholar, but in July, 1892, lung troubles forced him to leave New Haven. He had in June of that year received the degree of Ph.D. from Yale. The next year he spent in attempts to regain his health, and seemed successful. He had declined a place in a New England college, but accepted the appointment of assistant professor of Latin at the University of California, and was preparing himself with confidence to take up his work. But on August 16th he suffered a severe hemorrhage, and on August 25th he died.

Dr. Hunt's achievements in his department of study were remarkable for so young a man. His scholarship was profound, accurate, and enlightened. But with his work as a scholar, except of course as it manifested itself

in his teaching, in broad and accurate knowledge, the undergraduates of Yale had little to do. His work as a teacher concerned them most, and this work was unusually useful. It was so useful not chiefly because of his accurate textual and philological knowledge, or his wide learning in history and antiquities, but because of his power to make what was being read a real and living thing to his classes, to show its relations to other writings more familiar, and to the whole history of human thought. To him a Greek play was not merely a text for discussions on shades of verbal meaning or etymology or grammatical minutiæ or scenic antiquities or metre, things all very good, but not of vital importance, but it was a work that once came "hot from the brain" of a great man, that expressed his living thoughts, and that was yet, if read aright, a living power in the world of thought. Such was to him everything he read, and such he made it to his classes. And for this reason those whom he taught, while they mourn his death as a loss to classical learning and learning in general, yet keep in their minds his teaching as a still surviving revelation of the power of Greek literature, and a permanent stimulus to higher thought.

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Essays in competition for the LIT. medal will be due, as usual, on the first of December. We repeat what has been said annually on this subject, but will bear repetition -that the essay winning this prize is supposed to be not only the best that the writer as an individual can do in this line, but also the best that the University can do, and that those who write must therefore strive to do honor to Yale, as well as to themselves.



A softening radiance bathes the earth to-night,

'Neath whose transforming touch, stream, crag and glade
Melt in dream pictures dim. Each arbored shade
Beneath old Storm King's darkly frowning height
Becomes a goblin grot where lurks a sprite

On mischief bent, but wary and afraid
Lest, by some moonbeam's telltale glance betrayed,
All his dark elf-pranks lie unveiled in light.

On the hushed river's gently heaving breast

The silvery moonlight, pure and lovely, sleeps,
While somewhere toward the mountain's wooded crest
A night-hawk sails on poisèd wing, and keeps
His lonely vigil. Now, by night winds caressed,
A sweet, far strain of music hither creeps.

A. R. T.

Old New Haven, a contradictory name and a queer little place, was founded many generations ago. Like its American namesake, its builders were strangers in the land; but there the resemblance ceases, for these Norse fisher folk are as distinct from their neighbors in custom, dress and language as their fathers were the day they set foot on Scotch soil. Whether they were driven from their old home by oppression or want, or rather by that love of change and adventure that covered every sea with Viking sails, the time. has long since passed to discover. Indeed they have themselves forgotten, or record it only in legends and ancient runes droned at the cradle side.

But, be that as it may,-to-day their single street winds for perhaps half a mile along the shore of the wide Firth of Forth, and their houses stand close crowded one against another, striving, it would seem, which can bring its red tiled roof closest to the ground in front, and carry it to the sharpest ridge pole behind. Through the open door of one of them we catch a glimpse of a single low room with strings of dried fish hanging to the great oaken rafters, and a clay floor trodden hard and smooth as stone. In one corner a ladder shows the way to the garret above, while round the walls extend narrow bunks in true fo'castle style. And through the twilight the

open doorway and tiny window are insufficient to dispel, gleams a little fire of driftwood that rises and falls fitfully in the cavernous chimney place.

Down on the shore the men of the village are at work, their boats hauled high above the reach of the tide. Some are unloading barrels of salted fish, the well earned rewards of the last cruise, others mending their nets or getting ready to sail with the next favorable breeze. Close by is the Peacock Inn, famous for fish dinners. Here, in years long gone by, perhaps, some old tar, who wandering further than his fellows, had in the distant East seen that strange and gorgeous bird, determined with his earnings to build a tavern with the "Peacock" as his sign. So close on the beach where one wave larger than the others may ripple against its wall before it slides back beneath its successor, he founded his Inn. Then of a winter's evening he would sit by his fireside with the other oracles of the village gathered round him, and each in his turn would spin his yarn, balancing his "pint of bitter" on his knee meanwhile.

To-day the fishermen have deserted the Peacock for other resorts, leaving it for those few strangers who wandering down unfrequented paths come on this quaint spot. Yet the village is unchanged.

Y. H.

-America is distinctively a non-military nation. This does not mean that we have not had great generals or that we could not have them if we needed them. History shows pretty conclusively that the descendants of the Puritans and the Cavaliers have not forgotten how to fight. But though we are proud of our new Navy and the West Point Cadets, we take a greater pride in the fact that we have no quarrels with the transatlantic kingdoms, and that we can, in the words of Mr. Woodberry, bid

"Peace to the world from ports without a gun."

It is not strange, then, that the American abroad is instantly attracted by the military side of foreign life, for wherever we go we hear the drum and catch sight of the bright coat.

Of the many regiments that have won fame for England, none are better than those of the Scottish Highlanders. They have been tried on many a hard fought field, and have inherited the courage and endurance of their marauding ancestors.

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