some enemies of the Cornell University--a hostility due either to supposed
conflict of interests or sectarian jealousy--to stigmatize the institution,
but it failed instantly and utterly. Indeed, General Leggett, of the
Patent-office in Washington, the father of the unfortunate youth, at once
wrote a very noble and touching letter to shield the university and the
companions of his son from blame or responsibility. He would not allow his
grief to keep him silent when a word could avert injustice, and his modest
magnanimity won for his sorrow the tender sympathy of all who read his
letter.

Every collegian knows that there is no secrecy whatever in what is called
a secret society. Everybody knows, not in particular, but in general,
that its object is really "good-fellowship," with the charm of mystery
added. Everybody knows--for the details of such societies in all countries
are essentially the same--that there are certain practical jokes of
initiation--tossings in blankets, layings in coffins, dippings in cold
water, stringent catechisms, moral exhortations, with darkness and sudden
light and mysterious voices from forms invisible, and then mystic signs
and clasps and mottoes, "the whole to conclude" with the best supper that
the treasury can afford. Literary brotherhood, philosophic fraternity,
intellectual emulation, these are the noble names by which the youth
deceive themselves and allure the Freshmen; but the real business of the
society is to keep the secret, and to get all the members possible from the
entering class.

Each society, of course, gets "the best fellows." Every touter informs the
callow Freshman that all men of character and talent hasten to join his
society, and impresses the fresh imagination with the names of the famous
honorary members. The Freshman, if he be acute--and he is more so every
year--naturally wonders how the youth, who are undeniably commonplace in