For the fourteen months succeeding the time my brother was first stricken, I was greatly harassed with fear; but not until later did my nerves really conquer me.  I remember distinctly when the break came.  It happened in November, 1895, during a recitation in German.  That hour in the class room was one of the most disagreeable I ever experienced.  It seemed as if my nerves had snapped, like so many minute bands of rubber stretched beyond their elastic limit.  Had I had the courage to leave the room, I should have done so; but I sat as if paralyzed until the class was dismissed.

That term I did not again attend recitations.  Continuing my studies at home, I passed satisfactory examinations, which enabled me to resume my place in the class room the following January.  During the remainder of my college years I seldom entered a recitation room with any other feeling than that of dread, though the absolute assurance that I should not be called upon to recite did somewhat relieve my anxiety in some classes.  The professors, whom I had told about my state of health and the cause of it, invariably treated me with consideration; but, though I believe they never doubted the genuineness of my excuse, it was easy matter to keep them convinced for almost two-thirds of my college course.  My inability to recite was not due usually to any lack of preparation.  However well prepared I might be, the moment I was called upon, a mingling of a thousand disconcerting sensations, and the distinct thought that at last the dread attack was at hand, would suddenly intervene and deprive me of all but the power to say, “Not prepared.”  Weeks would pass without any other record being placed opposite my name than a zero, or a blank indicating that I had not been called upon at all.  Occasionally, however, a professor, in justice to himself and to the other students, would insist that I recite, and at such times I managed to make enough of a recitation to hold my place in the class.

When I entered Yale, I had four definite ambitions:  first, to secure an election to a coveted secret society; second, to become one of the editors of the Yale Record, an illustrated humorous bi-weekly; third (granting that I should succeed in this latter ambition), to convince my associates that I should have the position of business manager—­an office which I sought, not for the honor, but because I believed it would enable me to earn an amount of money at least equal to the cost of tuition for my years at Yale; fourth (and this was my chief ambition), to win my diploma within the prescribed time.  These four ambitions I fortunately achieved.

A man’s college days, collectively, are usually his happiest.  Most of mine were not happy.  Yet I look back upon them with great satisfaction, for I feel that I was fortunate enough to absorb some of that intangible, but very real, element known as the “Yale spirit.”  This has helped to keep Hope alive within me during my most discouraged moments, and has ever since made the accomplishment of my purposes seem easy and sure.