Proud armies deathward at the trump of war!
And did'st thou die on lone Helena's isle?
And art thou nought but dust and ashes vile?
_Quarterly_, 1857.
LOOKING BACKWARD
WASHINGTON GLADDEN '59
From one who belonged in a remote antiquity to the fraternity of
college editors, a contribution to this centennial number[1] has been
solicited. Perhaps I can do no better than to recall a few impressions
of my own life in college. Every year, at the banquet, I observe that
I am pushed a little nearer to the border where the almond tree
flourishes, and I shall soon have a right to be reminiscent and
garrulous. At the next centennial I shall not be called on; this is my
last chance.
I came to college in the fall of 1856. My class had been in college
for a year, so that the vicissitudes of a freshman are no part of my
memory. I shall never forget that evening when I first entered
Williamstown, riding on the top of the North Adams stage. The
September rains had been abundant, and the meadows and slopes were at
their greenest; the atmosphere was as nearly transparent as we are apt
to see it; the sun was just sinking behind the Taconics, and the
shadows were creeping up the eastern slopes of Williams and Prospect;
as we paused on the little hill beyond Blackinton the outline of the
Saddle was defined against a sky as rich and deep as ever looked down
at sunset on Naples or Palermo.
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