Hall and McGraw
Library, but not one brick would I add to "Old Main." There would be
the only condition of my gift of millions. They might suggest oriel
windows to relieve the bare facade, buttresses to break the flatness of
the wall and pinnacles to beautify the roof, but I would have "Old
Main" always as I saw it on that September afternoon, when I had
climbed the hill, paused, set down my bag and stood with arms akimbo
while I scanned the amazing length and height of the splendid pile. My
heart at each remove from home had become a heavier weight until I
seemed to carry within me a solid leaden load. Now it lightened
mysteriously. Face to face with a new life that had its symbol in this
noble breadth of wall, the cords which held me to the old snapped.
That very morning seemed the part of another age, and yesterday was
spent in another world. I was wide awake at last. The cheer which Mr.
Pound had taught me was on my lips, and I should have given it as a
paean of thanksgiving had I not been embarrassed by the scrutiny of a
group of young men who loitered on the steps before me. So I picked up
my bag, a feather-weight to my new energy, and went boldly on.

My impression of the splendor of college life was heightened by the
first acquaintance I made in my new environment. This was Boller of
'89, and today Boller of '89 holds in my mind as a true pattern of the
man of the world. His was the same stuff of which was made "the
perfect courtier." The difference lay solely in the degree of finish,
and justly considered, true value lies in the material, not in the
gloss. Boller, polished by the society of Harlansburg, appeared to my
eyes quite the most delightful person I had ever met. It was the
perfection of his clothes and the graciousness of his manner that awed
me and won my admiration. In those days wide trousers were the
fashion, and Boller was, above all, fashion's ardent devotee. His, I
think, exceeded by four inches the widest in the college. Recalling
him as he came forth from the group on the steps to greet me, I think
of him as potted in his trousers, like a plant, so slender rose his
body from his draped legs. His patent-leather shoes were almost
hidden, and from his broad base he seemed to converge into a gray derby
of the kind we called "the smoky city," the latest thing from
Pittsburgh. Looking at him, so wonderfully garbed, I became conscious
of my own rusticity, so old-fashioned did the st