Tommy Remington's Battle

by Burton Egbert Stevenson

It was a pleasant three-mile walk, that cool October morning, along the level road, shaded on either side by stately elms. The old post-road it used to be, a century and a half before, running from New York to Philadelphia, a gay place echoing to the coachman’s horn, and later, during the Revolution, to the tramp of armies. Only the memory of its former glory now remains, but its beauty is unchanged. They passed a row of old colonial residences, well back from the road, half hidden amid groves of trees and rows of formal hedge. Then into Nassau Street they turned, and so to the college campus.

“That’s Nassau Hall—‘Old North,’ they call it here,” said Reeves, pointing to a long three-storied gray stone building, half covered with ivy, stretching across the front campus. “It is so old that it was the largest building in America when it was built. During the Revolution, after Washington won the battle of Princeton, just below here, some of the British took refuge in the building; but Washington’s cannon soon brought them out. There was a picture of George III. inside in the big hall, and they say that Washington’s first cannon-ball went through the picture and cut off the head. They put a picture of Washington in the frame afterward.”

Tommy looked with respect at the old building, as solid and substantial now as it was the day it was erected. Back of it he caught a glimpse of many other buildings, but Reeves turned in at the first one.

“These are all dormitories,” he said. “This is Reunion Hall. Ralph’s room is up there on the second floor.”

They stumbled up the stairs, which were very dark, and presently Reeves knocked at a door. There was no response, and he tried the knob. The door opened.

“Come on,” said Reeves. “It’s not locked. Come in and have a look at his den.”

And for the first time Tommy caught a glimpse of a college room. Orange and black, the college colors, were everywhere. The walls were covered by signs, secured in divers places, and by means that would not bear too close scrutiny—all sorts of signs: “For Rent,” “Keep Off the Grass,” “Danger,” “Beware the Dog,” “This Way to the Menagerie,” “Monkey House,” and so on. A banjo and guitar stood in one corner. Above the fireplace were two crossed lacrosse-sticks, a set of boxing-gloves, and a pair of foils with masks. Everywhere there were embroidered sofa-cushions—the work of devoted and ill-rewarded feminine fingers—and photographs and books and a great miscellany of trash such as only a college boy knows how to gather together.

“Well, he’s not here,” said Reeves, after a glance around. “It’s no use to wait for him. Maybe we’ll meet him out on the campus. We’ll take a walk around, anyway.”

And take a walk around they did—past beautiful, many-arched Alexander Hall, where the commencement exercises are held; past the old gymnasium, with its bronze gladiator before it; past the observatory, with its great movable dome; past Blair Hall, with its lofty towers frowning down upon the little railway station; past Witherspoon Hall, the most luxurious of all the dormitories; past the two white marble buildings of the literary societies, Whig and Clio, with their high, many-columned, classic porticos. Reeves showed Tommy the cannon captured from the British, and planted, muzzle downward, in the center of the quadrangle, forming the hub about which the whole college world revolved, and where the class-day exercises were held at commencement. Then on they went to McCosh Walk, with its rows of stately elms; to Prospect, where the president lives; and back again past Marquand Chapel and the new library to the front campus, where they sat down under the elms in front of Old North to rest.

“It’s a great old building, isn’t it?” said Reeves. “See how covered with ivy it is. Every graduating class plants a piece at commencement; it’s one of the big exercises, with an oration and all that. The fellows here have great times, I tell you. We must come over some evening next spring and hear the senior singing; the whole class sits on the steps there, and sometimes the banjo and mandolin clubs come out too. Can you sing?”