"Those are the orders, ma'am."
"I'm not responsible, ma'am."
"No, ma'am, no one allowed inside the ropes."
"Sit there? Those seats are reserved for the mothers, ma'am."
"But we are the mothers," cried one good dame to the stony official. And as the guard turned to ward off some new intruder, one could but laugh at the adroitness with which she slipped in behind his back, to be again ordered out. At last come dignitaries in such very full feather that the crowd stands back and becomes a trifle more modest. The hands on the clock move on, cadets who were wandering about with mothers and friends leave them and go off to barracks. Men for the platform come leisurely along, sure of a good place; the upper ten for the seats below make more speed, seeking the best. Then the superintendent, the adjutant, and all the glittering people in train of the Board of Visitors, mount the platform, and make it a study of sheen and colour. Drums sound in the distance, then nearer, and the whole battalion comes marching down. They halt at the back of the crowd, stack arms, and the graduating class file in and take their seats.
There is a short prayer from the chaplain, "Hail, Columbia!" from the band, and then the address—or, maybe two. From the president of the board generally, followed often by words from some high ranking officer, or some notability in civil life. Addresses sometimes wise, sometimes more—otherwise—than one could wish; very seldom vivid and instinct with fire. The country figures, of course, and "this Institution," and the flag, with the service, in a mild sort of way. All eyes are fixed upon this particular class, and the army welcomes it with open arms. And the cadets have done well, and the professors have done their best. On the whole, the sort of speeches to which you would like to apply a match and bring them to either a blaze or to ashes. How rarely—Oh, how rarely!—have these veterans in camp or council one word of real cheer, wisdom, and fire, for these "youngsters," these smooth-faced new recruits.
Perhaps it makes less difference than I think to the grave young men waiting there, bare-headed and absorbed; they have been at such high pressure, and have so much else to think of. They listen, and applaud, from time to time, and generally in the right place. Once in a while you may notice that just there the Southern hands are silent.
More music follows, and then the adjutant with his stack of diplomas comes to the front and stands behind the Superintendent, or whoever is to give them out: in the old days, it was often General Sherman. One by one he takes the parchment from the adjutant, and the names are called off in order of standing.
"Harvey Linton!"
A tall, dark-haired young fellow rises from the grey mass, comes to the foot of the platform, and with a low bow takes the credentials for which he has toiled so bravely.