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OH, WEEP FOR ADONAIS ...

NO WRITER ATTRIBUTED

The sun has set on Yale. The golden decades of the past are gone, to return no more. There is no leisure, no intellectual freedom there. All her men are struck off the same mould, and there are no seekers after light and truth. She no seekers after light and truth. She is a college whose future lies in her past.

According to the Harkness Hoot, named in honor of the charitable Edward S. Harkness, Yale has but a short span of moagre years before her. The oldtime meditation and culture have fled the university cloisters and, in their stead, have come cynicism and sophistication. The mellow beer that mocked the hearts of the fathers has become bad gin for the raging sons. Things have come to a pretty pass.

These trenchant indictments are, to say the least, alarming, for Yale is one of the oldest and most revered institutions in the country. And with particular regret Harvard hears that the college to which she has been bound for so many years by sentimental ties, has come upon hard days. But the feeling of sorrow for Yale is mixed with admiration for those few of her sons who have had the wisdom and courage to bring before the world the fact that Yale is dying.

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