of the influence of drapery on the treatment of the nude, of the Lemnian Athena (with the note) are contributions to the archeological side of the subject. The book constantly gives evidence of a first-hand knowledge of the subject; direct acquaintance with the authorities and the statues, as giving it a right to speak with authority in the ultimate estimate of their bearing on the spirit and principles of the entire art. It is refreshing to find here and there some commonplace of the archeologist brushed aside, as, for instance, the "archaic smile"; and still better, to come upon passages where a deeper interpretation of the art as a whole gives a satisfactory explanation to matters which the archeologist has failed to grasp, as the so-called “principle of elimination," and the valuation of the art subsequent to the fourth century.

Perhaps one of the best things about Dr. von Mach's book is the fact that it was written not by a practicing artist or a professional critic, but by one who is primarily a teacher, and that it is a book primarily useful for teaching. The literary work of teachers is too often of the guide book species. It points the way through a subject and builds a framework more or less valuable, but it might do more. We remember the saying of Mr. Ruskin that our distinction between the fine and useful arts is a false one, and the very distinction is proof of our lack of the spirit of art. Well, so in a measure is our distinction between books and text-books proof of our lack of the best ideal of scholarship. One need not expect heroics of a text-book to require that it use the subject matter for larger purposes than the mere conveying of information. A text-book ought to be more than a disguised laboratory report. The number of textbooks conceived in a larger spirit is happily increasing, and among them I should class Dr. von Mach's Greek Sculpture. It is really a text-book, though I have not called it such because the term would be misunderstood, and would do injustice to the breadth of view and the truly literary spirit in which it is conceived and written.

George C. Hirst.

SAMSON TO DELILAH.

"Three times hast thou deceived me," thou hast said, "Therefore thou lov'st me not"-Nay, but the secret Is life, and pride, and conquest, being hid, But death, and shame, and bondage, being known; How shall I dare to trust it from my lips?

I have known many women in my time,
But they were tasteless, I grew sick of them;
All dainties had turned nauseous in my mouth.
Then I saw thee, and all that I had been,
And seen, and done, became an empty smoke,
And all the pith and fibre of my life

Was passion for the lure of thy fierce eyes,

Thy bosom's firm majestic rise and fall,

And all the fire and richness of thy body.

The joy of these is like the joy I knew

When in the brakes of Timnath, with bare hands,
I tore the lion open, jowl to maw.

Man glories in his manhood for thy sake!
Great God, can such a noble thing be false?

What do I care? Must Samson then be safe,
Content with less than all that he desires?
Better for me to be all thine and die,
Than hold one tittle back and not have lived-
Know thou the secret.

C. T. R.

VANITAS.

With apologies to The Harvard Lampoon.

The social life at Harvard is peculiar; no one knows everything about it; a few know something about it; many know nothing about it at all. There are clubs and fraternities and conferences and associations; wheels within wheels, diamonds that cut diamonds. There are organizations with a purpose, organizations with ostensible purposes and organizations with no purpose that has yet been discovered or made manifest. To pick out one of these as typical of Harvard were to say that a Hoosier farmer is a characteristic inhabitant of these United States; it depends on the point of view. One cannot say that this or that is the most remarkable feature of life at Harvardat least, one does not say so, if one be a Harvard man; Harvard men seldom refer to anything as "most remarkable." It might, however, be permitted a stranger to say that some one feature of Harvard life is remarkable to him; the statement seems sufficiently qualified to furnish loop-holes for retraction. One must always be prepared for retraction in issuing decisions on Harvard; experience is a great teacher, and here, too, much depends upon the point of view.

With this preliminary apology, one may at least feel himself safe in selecting a single feature of the University and dilating on it at length. What one says will, of course, be criticised (by those who are thoroughly familiar with the subject treated) as having been written without familiarity. But as it might not be considered the best taste for men thoroughly familiar with such a subject themselves to write frankly of it, the world must languish in ignorance unless some bold spirit jot down what he knows, as he knows it, timorously, fearfully, conscious of his own incompetence.

I am that bold spirit.

The uninformed must first of all be told that the various boards of editors

in control of the various University publications are (with some exceptions) quasi-social bodies. Men who are uncongenial are somehow or other unable to write enough acceptable material for any one paper to demand the recognition of an election to the board. This may be regarded as an evidence of the hand of divine Providence in sowing the seeds of genius. It may also be regarded in other lights. For the sake, perhaps, of widening the somewhat limited field of admitted Providencial influence in Harvard, the fact may as well be considered due to that agency. Such a consideration of the matter will, at any rate, avoid controversy.

When it has become clear to the observer that the literary boards are indeed social organizations, he cannot but speculate on the attractions they offer as such. These are three: the associations there from gained; a convenient and comfortable loafing-place secured; an opportunity for occasionally meeting other literary lights of the University, past, present and future, and sometimes even for meeting the remaining members of the board to which a man has been elected. No order of importance has been observed in this enumeration. The associations gained by election to a paper are obvious to the rest of the University through the publication, on the editorial page or in some equally inconspicuous place, of the names of the editors among which that of the newly-elected member may be found. If it be not promptly so found, he has the alternative of sending marked copies of the paper to his friends. This means of securing for himself the desired association may be regarded by a member of any literary board as fairly sure; curiosity, if not politeness, should impel the recipient to endeavor to discover the identity of his unknown benefactor.

The benefits accruing from the possession of a convenient loafing-place are, of course, obvious; in the sanctum of his chosen paper, the literary man may while away many an otherwise weary hour. He may read the papers of other colleges and universities-always at least a comforting employment ci no mean educational value. He may also peruse the back files of his own periodical-a pursuit which may be both inspiring and, at times, amusing.

This latter is sometimes true of the confessedly humorous papers. Here, too, the successful literary man may meet and badger the humble aspirants to his lofty position; by judicious employment of the opportunity thus afforded he may greatly extend his influence and reputation among his schoolmates; he may even widen the range of his acquaintanceship, though at Harvard this does not necessarily follow and is a matter of choice with the editor. The line of familiarity must, of course, be drawn somewhere.

It is in the purely social gatherings held under the auspices of the paper that the greatest advantages may be offered to the members of an editorial staff. Not only do they rejoice in crackers, cheese and sometimes even punch or beer (at the expense of the business management), but they may even become acquainted with their coadjutors and often with other guests of honor. Just what opportunities for examining and observing a fellow Harvard man may be given an editor of a paper at a "punch night" will best be seen from a description of such a social function.

The occasion of a "punch night" is usually the initiation of some new members of the board. The initiation continues until the punch is almost exhausted and then the invited guests are made welcome. By this time, the sanctum of, let us say, The Weekly, presents a peculiarly disordered appearance. The room is low-ceiled and blue with smoke. About two sides of it runs the bench-like divan and the walls are covered with framed relics, significant of some epoch in the past history of The Weekly. In one corner is a piano and along the center of the apartment a table stretches, garnished with glasses, and steins which have been taken from their places on the rafters above, grouped together in disorganized confusion; in the middle of the table, the now-depleted punch-bowl stands, eloquent of the thirst-engendering exercises which have previously been the order of the day. By common consent, ceremony is waived though not, of course, forgotten.

Here and there among the occupants of the room an individual is rendered conspicuous by a circlet of ribbons hung about the neck, to which adornment, in each case, is attached a medal. The ribbons are the colors of