Today for the third time in as many autumns the West Point Corps, 1200 grey-clad men, will march into the Stadium. The presence of America's future officers, if only for an afternoon, should serve a purpose, totally distinct from any display of well-drilled soldiers in time to martial music. Their quiet appearance is an excellent antidote to the ranting extremists so common in this country. The pacifist, alarmed at the rattle of sabres, and the jingoistic militarist, suffering under an acute attack of super-patriotism, both fade rather ridiculously into an obscure wave of asinine jabbering.
But today, the play's the thing. Cambridge this afternoon will be intrinsically a study in contrasts: a contrast in the grey uniforms "at case" against the Fall bronze of the Yard, and between the spontaneous, vivid motley of fifty thousand civilians with the rhythmic tread of soldiers on parade. And at the Stadium, the counter-point crashes into crescendo. Simplicity, incarnated in the Corps from the Hudson faces across the field unending Variety, personified by the men on the banks of the Charles. Harvard takes a cordial and somewhat selfish pleasure in bidding the Cadets welcome.