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your “personality,” as you persist

      in calling it; at fifteen you had the radiance of early morning,

      at twenty you will begin to have the melancholy brilliance of

      the moon, and when you are my age you will give out, as I do,

      the genial golden warmth of 4 P.M.

      If you write me letters, please let them be natural ones. Your

      last, that dissertation on architecture, was perfectly awful —

      so “highbrow” that I picture you living in an intellectual and

      emotional vacuum; and beware of trying to classify people too

      definitely into types; you will find that all through their youth

      they will persist annoyingly in jumping from class to class, and

      by pasting a supercilious label on every one you meet you are

      merely packing a Jack-in-the-box that will spring up and leer at

      you when you begin to come into really antagonistic contact with

      the world. An idealization of some such a man as Leonardo da

      Vinci would be a more valuable beacon to you at present.

      You are bound to go up and down, just as I did in my youth, but

      do keep your clarity of mind, and if fools or sages dare to

      criticise don’t blame yourself too much.

      You say that convention is all that really keeps you straight in

      this “woman proposition”; but it’s more than that, Amory; it’s

      the fear that what you begin you can’t stop; you would run amuck,

      and I know whereof I speak; it’s that half-miraculous sixth sense

      by which you detect evil, it’s the half-realized fear of God in

      your heart.

      Whatever your metier proves to be — religion, architecture,

      literature — I’m sure you would be much safer anchored to the

      Church, but I won’t risk my influence by arguing with you even

      though I am secretly sure that the “black chasm of Romanism”

      yawns beneath you. Do write me soon.

      With affectionate regards, THAYER DARCY.

       Even Amory’s reading paled during this period; he delved further into the misty side streets of literature: Huysmans, Walter Pater, Theophile Gautier, and the racier sections of Rabelais, Boccaccio, Petronius, and Suetonius. One week, through general curiosity, he inspected the private libraries of his classmates and found Sloane’s as typical as any: sets of Kipling, O. Henry, John Fox, Jr., and Richard Harding Davis; “What Every Middle-Aged Woman Ought to Know,” “The Spell of the Yukon”; a “gift” copy of James Whitcomb Riley, an assortment of battered, annotated schoolbooks, and, finally, to his surprise, one of his own late discoveries, the collected poems of Rupert Brooke.

      Together with Tom D’Invilliers, he sought among the lights of Princeton for some one who might found the Great American Poetic Tradition.

      The undergraduate body itself was rather more interesting that year than had been the entirely Philistine Princeton of two years before. Things had livened surprisingly, though at the sacrifice of much of the spontaneous charm of freshman year. In the old Princeton they would never have discovered Tanaduke Wylie. Tanaduke was a sophomore, with tremendous ears and a way of saying, “The earth swirls down through the ominous moons of preconsidered generations!” that made them vaguely wonder why it did not sound quite clear, but never question that it was the utterance of a supersoul. At least so Tom and Amory took him. They told him in all earnestness that he had a mind like Shelley’s, and featured his ultrafree free verse and prose poetry in the Nassau Literary Magazine. But Tanaduke’s genius absorbed the many colors of the age, and he took to the Bohemian life, to their great disappointment. He talked of Greenwich Village now instead of “noon-swirled moons,” and met winter muses, unacademic, and cloistered by Forty-second Street and Broadway, instead of the Shelleyan dream-children with whom he had regaled their expectant appreciation. So they surrendered Tanaduke to the futurists, deciding that he and his flaming ties would do better there. Tom gave him the final advice that he should stop writing for two years and read the complete works of Alexander Pope four times, but on Amory’s suggestion that Pope for Tanaduke was like foot-ease for stomach trouble, they withdrew in laughter, and called it a coin’s toss whether this genius was too big or too petty for them.

      Amory rather scornfully avoided the popular professors who dispensed easy epigrams and thimblefuls of Chartreuse to groups of admirers every night. He was disappointed, too, at the air of general uncertainty on every subject that seemed linked with the pedantic temperament; his opinions took shape in a miniature satire called “In a Lecture-Room,” which he persuaded Tom to print in the Nassau Lit.

      “Good-morning, Fool…

      Three times a week

      You hold us helpless while you speak,

      Teasing our thirsty souls with the

      Sleek ‘yeas’ of your philosophy…

      Well, here we are, your hundred sheep,

      Tune up, play on, pour forth… we sleep…

      You are a student, so they say;

      You hammered out the other day

      A syllabus, from what we know

      Of some forgotten folio;

      You’d sniffled through an era’s must,

      Filling your nostrils up with dust,

      And then, arising from your knees,

      Published, in one gigantic sneeze…

      But here’s a neighbor on my right,

      An Eager Ass, considered bright;

      Asker of questions…. How he’ll stand,

      With earnest air and fidgy hand,

      After this hour, telling you

      He sat all night and burrowed through

      Your book…. Oh, you’ll be coy and he

      Will simulate precosity,

      And pedants both, you’ll smile and smirk,

      And leer, and hasten back to work….

      ’Twas this day week, sir, you returned

      A theme of mine, from which I learned

      (Through various comment on the side

      Which you had scrawled) that I defied

      The highest rules of criticism

      For cheap and careless witticism….

      ‘Are you quite sure that this could be?’

      And

      ‘Shaw is no authority!’

      But Eager Ass, with what he’s sent,

      Plays havoc with your best per cent.

      Still — still I meet you here and there…

      When Shakespeare’s played you hold a chair,

      And some defunct, moth-eaten star

      Enchants the mental prig you are…

      A radical comes down and shocks

      The

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