The Whirligig of Time

by Wayland Wells Williams

Harry himself was rather impressed by the long ceremony in which he found the qualities of dignity and simplicity nicely blended. He was impressed particularly by the giving of the honorary degrees; it seemed to him a very fine thing that these ten or fifteen people, all of them leaders in widely different spheres of activity, should make so much of receiving a bit of parchment from a university which most of them had not even attended, and equally fine of the university to do them honor; the whole giving proof of the triumph of the academic ideal in an age of materialism.

The same thought occurred to him even more vividly at the great alumni luncheon that followed; the last and in some ways the most impressive of all the Commencement ceremonies. The great Renaissance dining hall filled from end to end with graduates, upwards of a thousand strong, ranging between the hoary-headed veteran and the hour-old Bachelor, all of them gathered for the single purpose of doing honor to their alma mater, all of them thrilled by the same feeling of affection for her—all this awakened a responsive note in the mind of Harry, always ready to render honor where honor was due, or to show love when he felt it. It was pleasant to sit and eat among one's classmates and in the presence of those other, older, more exalted beings stretching away to the other end of the hall and think that they were all, in a way, on terms of equal footing—all graduates together.

At one end of the hall, on a great raised dais, sat the highest officers of the University, in company with the guests of honor of the day, the recipients of the honorary degrees. After the meal was over, certain of these were called upon to speak. Harry thought he had never heard such speeches. The men who made them were big men, foremost in the country's service and in the work of the world; one was a Cabinet minister, another a great explorer, another a scientist, another a missionary. The ultimate message of each one of them was the high mission of Yale, given in no spirit of boastful, flag-waving "almamatriotism," but with strong emphasis on the theme of service. One got from them the idea that Yale men, like all men of their station and responsibility the world over, were born to serve humanity. The mission of Yale in this scheme was one of preparation; she acted as a recruiting-station and clearing-house, developing the special powers of each of her sons, equipping them with knowledge of books, other men and themselves, and at last sending them into the field where they were calculated to make the best use of themselves. One revered and loved Yale, of course, for what she had given one; to her every man owed a full measure of gratitude and affection for what he had become. But one was never to forget where Yale stood in the scheme of things; one must always bear in mind that she was not an end in herself, but a means—one of many other means—to an infinitely greater end. Only by considering her in her place in the vast order of world-service could one do justice to her true power, her true greatness.

The impression ultimately conveyed was not that of a smaller Yale but of a larger world. Harry had never considered the relation between universe and university in this illuminating light. He suddenly realized that his idea of his college had been that of a particularly reputable and agreeable finishing-school for young men; a treasury of social knowledge and the home of sport. He had mistaken the side-shows for the main exhibition; he had admired and criticized them without regard to the whole of which they were but small parts. In a flash he looked back and realized the vanity and recklessness of his earlier revolt against college institutions and traditions. Who was he that he should criticize them? What had he to offer as substitute for them except an attitude of idle receptivity and irresponsible dalliance? He had recovered from that first foolishness, to be sure, and thank Heaven for that slight evidence of sanity; but what had he done since his recovery except sit back and watch the days slide by? Had he ever made the slightest attempt toward serious thinking, toward placing himself, his college and the world in their proper relations to each other? Had he succeeded in learning a single important lesson from the many that had been offered to him? Was it possible that he had completely wasted these four precious years of golden youth?

Suddenly he felt tears of humiliation and self-contempt burn behind his eyes. It would be absurd to shed them. He shifted his position and lit a cigarette. He inhaled the comforting smoke deeply and listened with meticulous attention to the speech from which his mind had wandered into introspection, trying not to think any more of himself. Gradually, however, there penetrated into his inner consciousness the comforting thought that he had been hysterical, had judged himself too harshly in his anxiety to be sufficiently hard on himself. Those years were not wholly wasted—he had learned something in them. He was ahead of where he was when he entered college, if only a little. The thought of James occurred to him; James would be an inspiration in the future as he had been a help in the past. No, there was yet hope for him, though he must be very careful how he acted in the future. He had been a fool, but he hoped now that he had been merely a young fool, and that his mistakes could be at least partly rectified by age and effort. He would try hard, at least; he would be receptive, industrious, thorough, tolerant, unbiased and humble—above all, humble. He glanced up at the speaker's table and reflected that the men who had the most reason to be proud were in fact the humblest.

The last speaker sat down amid a round of applause. The men on the floor of the hall stood up to sing before departing. Harry, looking at his watch, was surprised at the lateness of the hour; he had promised to see Aunt Cecilia and her daughters off at the station and must hurry away at once if he were to catch them.

He laboriously made his way through the ranks of singing graduates toward the door, listening to the familiar words of the song as he had never before listened.

Mother of men, grown strong in giving
Honor to them thy lights have led,

sang the men. Yes, thought Harry, there was plenty of honor to give. Would that he might ever be one of those to whom such honor was due, but that was not to be thought of. It was enough for him to be one of those who were led by those lights. Yes, that was the first step, steadfastly to follow the light that the grave Mother held above and before him; to keep his eyes constantly on it, never looking down or behind.

Rich in the toil of thousands living,
Proud of the deeds of thousands dead,