e is quite as likely
to be a quickening force in the somewhat remote and mysterious power of
the teacher who devotes himself to amassing treasures of scholarship,
or to patiently working out the best methods of teaching; who standing
somewhat apart, still remains an ideal of the Christian scholar, the
just, the courteous man or woman. To come under the influence of one
such teacher is enough to make college life worthwhile. A young man
who came to Harvard with eighty cents in his pocket, and worked his way
through, never a high scholar, and now in a business which looks very
commonplace, told me the other day that he would not care to be alive
if he had not gone to college. His face flushed as he explained how
different his days would have been if he had not known two of his
professors. "Do you use your college studies in your business?" I
asked. "Oh, no!" he answered. "But I am another man in doing the
business; and when the day's work is done I live another life because
of my college experiences. The business and I are both the better for
it every day." How many a young girl has had her whole horizon
extended by the changed ideals she gained in college! Yet this is
largely because the associations and studies there are likely to give
her permanent interests--the fifth and perhaps the greatest gift of
college life of which I shall speak.

The old fairy story which charmed us in childhood ended with--"And they
were married and lived happy ever after." It conducted to the altar,
having brought the happy pair through innumerable difficulties, and
left us with the contented sense that all the mistakes and problems
would now vanish and life be one long day of unclouded bliss. I have
seen devoted and intelligent mothers arrange their young daughters'
education and companionships precisely on this basis. They planned as
if these pretty and charming girls were going to live only twenty or
twenty-five years at the utmost, and had consequently no need of the
wealthy interests that should round out the full-grown woman's stature,
making her younger in feeling at forty than at twenty, and more lovely
and admired at eighty than at either.

Emerson in writing of beauty declares that "the secret of ugliness
consists not in irregular outline, but in being uninteresting. We love
any forms, however ugly, from which great qualities shine. If command,
eloquence, art, or invention exists in the most deformed person, all
the a