Charles ("Liz") Parmalee, as Phillips was to learn later, was a man of taste and sensitivity, but not much of this came through to his classes---at least in the fall of 1929. The first order of business was to send everyone to the board, where what passed for a French sentence was scrawled by each student. When this was finished, Liz would haul himself out of his chair, seize two or three pieces of new chalk, and advance on the undergraduate efforts spread out before him.

He usually started off making corrections in a weary, pained way, but before long, as he observed one grammatical horror after another, he would lose his temper and begin striking huge X marks on the sentences, scattering chalk in all directions, and uttering cries of "Piffle" "Pish" and the like. The class always enjoyed these performances immensely and Phillips had a suspicion that Liz did too. After the chalk dust had settled and Liz had lowered himself back into his chair with a sigh of relief, the class attacked Lettres de Mon Moulin, and soon succeeded in driving Liz to distraction again. The book was a delicate and whimsical one, and delicacy and whimsy were not favorite commodities to Andover students in 1929. Phillips remembered that the translations of a huge boy called Swede caused Liz particular anguish. Swede's approach to translation was simple and direct; he looked up all the words in the passage, wrote them in over the French text, and then, when asked to translate, bulldozed his way through the passage, giving the English in the order of the French, whether it made any sense or not. After one particularly gruesome performance, Liz said, "Swede, you have just finished murdering one of the most beautiful passages of French prose." Phillips was a conscientious student, and at the beginning of the course did his homework faithfully. But one day his morale received a shock. He had inadvertently left a book in Liz's classroom and had gone back to get it. As he entered the door, a few minutes after the class had ended, he saw Liz reach languidly over toward the pile of homework on the corner of the desk and gently push it off into the wastebasket.

After Liz came Cicero with Jackie Phillips. Phillips the student placed at the head of his list of blessings the fact that he had drawn Jackie for Latin and had escaped the Buchenwald of Poynter and the Dachau of Hinman. And it would be hard to find a greater contrast among teachers. Where Georgie Hinman would wrathfully eject a student and give him one thousand demerits, Jackie would say quietly---almost apologetically--- "I'm afraid that's not quite right." Yet Phillips could not remember anyone taking advantage of Jackie, and the soft-spoken statement "The translation was an extremely good one" made the day for anyone lucky enough to receive it.

Afternoons Phillips spent on the old campus playing soccer under the watchful eye of Jim Ryley. During the two years that he spent with Jim, Phillips was never able to fathom the mystery of Jim's success as a coach---yet it was there for all to see. The team had no regular drills, no calisthenics, no secret weapons. Most of the time they scrimmaged, with Jim admonishing, cajoling, exhorting. Jim's most fearful weapon, however, was the silent treatment. If a player goofed in some way, Jim simply wouldn't speak to him for several days. Phillips remembered a South American student who considered himself a finished player. When varsity uniforms were handed out to a chosen few, the South American was not among them. "Where's my uniform, Jim?" he wanted to know. Jim turned purple. "I'll tell you where your uniform is," he said, "there's a beautiful one waiting for you on the Saxon club team." And with that the Latin was cut to the clubs, in a manner hardly in keeping with the spirit of the Alliance for Progress. Jim was full of other surprises, too. Phillips remembered well a scrimmage in front of the goal where he had been knocked flat. The ball was rolling along the goal line in a tantalizing and frustrating manner. Since he couldn't kick it in, Phillips hit it in with his hand and then turned, horrified, to receive a blast from Jim. But Jim was grinning from ear to ear. "I know how it is," he said "and you did just right. Besides," he added, "you never know. Maybe the referee wouldn't have been looking."

After athletics Phillips paid for his relaxed mornings by having both a four and a five o'clock class. The four o'clock was English with Frankie O'Brien, and it was a tough time of day. Most of the inmates had been exercising vigorously for the past two hours and entered the classroom exuding excess animal spirits. The room was warm and Frankie never raised his voice. Phillips' friend Swede was in this class also, and he used to go bye bye regularly about ten minutes after the period had begun. Frankie believed in putting first things first. If he couldn't read your handwriting, he argued, there was no point in going any further until that was corrected. Accordingly, a couple of weeks after the term had started, Phillips was tapped by Frankie for a special group that had penmanship homework as well as English homework. "But Phillips," Frankie would say, "you have written 'said' with the dot over the "a" not the "i". Of course it's misspelled."

Frankie also believed that a book was not worth classroom study unless it had been proven by time. Thus the class read The Odyssey, Old Testament Narratives, and a book of essays, the most modern author in which was Charles Lamb. Phillips occasionally used to envy the Uppers in Al Blackmer's sections, who, it was reported, were studying the unexpurgated edition of Lady Chatterly's Lover. Still Phillips had to admit that life with Frankie was probably good for his soul, and there were occasional satisfactions to boot. One day Phillips was the only one in class who knew what Jephthah's curse was.

Phillips' last class of the day was in algebra with Guy H. Eaton, not to be confused with the legendary Pap Eaton, also of the Mathematics Department. Guy Eaton was unlike the rest of Phillips' teachers in dress, if in nothing else. Where the rest of the staff had the usual professional seediness about them, Guy was a dude. He had pince-nez on a long black ribbon, and fancied ornate vests, loud tweeds, white sport shoes, and flamboyant ties. The 1931 Pot Pourri printed a list of popular songs with supposedly appropriate faculty names alongside. For example, beside the name of Miss Alice Whitney, guardian of the "cut" list, was the title "Where Have You Been?" For Guy Eaton it was "Tiptoe Through the Tulips." Guy Eaton was not very strong on mathematics; it was rumored that when he got stuck with a problem in class, as happened occasionally, he used to hightail it over to Ozzie Tower to find out the answer. But he was a kind man and a good drill-master. His method was to rush through the book, finishing the course in March. Then every period in the spring term the class would be given old college boards to take. By the time the real boards came along, the Math exam was just another afternoon class with Guy.

Phillips' final appointment of the day came at eight o'clock sharp, when Zeus Benner checked up on Andover Cottage. Zeus didn't do any housemastering in the modern sense of the term; he checked up on his charges every night, bawled out various individuals for playing a phonograph in study hours, and occasionally broke up riots. But Phillips never saw the inside of Zeus's apartment during his whole year, and he missed the chance of getting to know a man whom the boys taking Greek were never tired of praising as one of the school's greatest teachers and personalities. Phillips used to hear stories of canoe trips on the Shawsheen, with Zeus, a sun-worshipper from way back, stripped to the waist in the stern and his favorite Greek student in the bow; of huge full-course dinners at neighboring inns; of invitations to spend summer weekends at the Benner farm in Waldoborough, Maine. Although Phillips could not give Zeus very high marks as a housemaster, he was always conscious of an aura of Olympian grandeur in Andover Cottage. All in all, life at Andover in the late 1920's was a good one. There were frustrations, disappointments, successes, satisfactions. And always enough surprises to keep the School interesting.

Dormitory life in the 1920's varied a good deal according to the Housemaster. There was always more or less of an adversary relationship between boys and masters, but it seldom became rigid or bitter, and both sides tended to respect the position of the other. Liz Parmalee ruled the roost in Bartlett South. One alumnus has these memories of him:

I never had him in French. I am told I didn't miss too much. But as resident master in Bartlet Hall he became my great friend. We thought he was so funny---as indeed he was. And he was certainly an old lady---fussy, peculiar. But he craved friendship---as who didn't---and it all worked with us. We all loved his Venetian palace of a sitting room---intricate gold mirrors, baroque furniture, agony paintings, rich objects everywhere, a crystal chandelier. There couldn't have been any place like it near Andover---it was the Paris flea market transported across the Atlantic. I can still hear his voice booming up to the third floor whenever there was too much loud talk or acrobatics. The racket would temporarily subside. Liz wasn't strict . . . . But he was a personality.

Another recalls Liz as follows:

Parmalee taught the language, but he also introduced us to the history and customs of the French people. (For example, he told us about sending out his laundry in a paper bag and having the same bag go back and forth all summer long.) Parmalee was fun, too. One day ... several of us tried to translate and display on the blackboard a then popular song: we wrote, "Oui, nous n'avons pas de bananes, nous n'avons pas de bananes aujourd'hui; nous avons haricots verts, etc." Well Liz thought this was great, congratulating us for our enterprise and correcting our mistakes.

Another amusing episode:

Parmalee was the Proctor at Bartlett Hall and decided one spring that it would add a little color to the old building if each boy placed a pot of flowers on the window sill of his room. The boys got together and decided to buy every commode or chamberpot in town and fill them with dandelions. The pots were placed on the sills before they retired and the next morning the ceremony was held of inspecting the decorations. Naturally Liz Parmalee was dumb-founded at what he saw but took the joke in his usual good-natured way and seemed to enjoy the prank as much as the boys.

Dormitory life was often hard for younger boys:

I was small and timid and had never really been away from home before, so had little idea of how to mix with many of the boys in Taylor Hall. This held a broad cross section of new and old boys from all backgrounds including some who had just been discharged from the Service after World War I. They were grown men and I was a little boy. I was afraid of them and must have been obnoxious the way I shut myself in my room, which luckily was single. There were others like me, but we had a hard time getting together at first. Gradually, however, things changed---I'm not sure why .... A few were never able to adjust, however, and how well I remember one down the hall who became the butt of every joke or prank that took place. He was miserable and had no one to turn to, so finally left school .... He should probably never have entered Andover until he was older, much less assigned to Taylor Hall, where gory fist fights were not uncommon, particularly on Saturday night after the movies and after our housemaster Freddie Boyce had made his casual room check. Usually all Hell broke loose then.

The School was well aware of the problems that really young boys had at Andover and in 1907 had moved to meet them with the acquisition of Williams Hall. Here was a large, comfortable house that seemed more like a home than a formal dormitory. A separate dining hall was installed, and generally the boys were more restricted than the older ones on the main campuses. For many years John L. ("Jackie") Phillips and his wife ran this establishment with a friendly gentility that was just what a lonely little boy needed. The difficulty was that there were not enough rooms to house all the juniors who might profit from such an environment. In 1923 a wing was added, increasing the spaces from 27 to 42, and in the 1930's, Junior House was remodeled for another 9 students. In 1929 the supervision of Williams Hall was entrusted to Frederic and Ruth Stott, a perfect pair for the job. Fred Stott was serious about this work and saw to it that the rules were faithfully obeyed. Ruth Stott, with a heart as big as a whale, was like a mother for countless boys over the years, as the many former Williams Hall boys who came back to see her and her husband could have testified. Still, the Williams Hall facilities would never be able to handle more than about half the junior class, and it was not until the construction of Rockwell House, in 1935, that the problem of dealing with little boys was finally met.

The undergraduates in the 1920's were subjected to a large number of rules and regulations covering a variety of matters. Yet compared to most other schools the regimen was relatively free. The basic principle of the Academy system was that a boy had certain appointments to keep and for the rest of the time he was on his own. He was to attend chapel, classes, and athletics, and was expected to be in his room by eight o'clock at night A premium was placed on a good scholastic record. A boy with two or more failures was placed on the "No-Excuse" list, which meant that he could not leave town or play on a varsity team. More serious academic problems could result in Probation; if a boy's record had not improved after a term of Probation, he was likely to be dismissed. One of the worst sins was skipping out at night, usually to visit the fleshpots of Lawrence. If caught on one of these escapades, dismissal was the invariable result. The Faculty viewed boy-girl relationships with a jaundiced eye. If a boy were to talk to a girl on the street, he risked a severe penalty. In addition to these regulations, the rule book has a charming section entitled "Customs and Points for New Men." Here are some samples:

Remember that you are an Andover man from now on.

Watch the old men and pattern your conduct after them . . . it is not yet time for you to start new modes and customs.

Always speak to an Andover man on the street, whether you know him or not.

You are responsible for the reputation of Andover from now on wherever you may be. This is no light responsibility.

All cheering is under the direction of the cheer leaders. Individual cheering is not allowable.

New men are expected to have the songs and cheers perfectly learned by the end of the first two weeks.

In leaving chapel ... students go out by pews, the foremost pew first and the next following in order till the end. This is very important.

In all Fall term elections only old men are privileged to vote.

Do not read or study in chapel.

It is not good form to cut or mark school furniture.

Try to keep enlarging the number of your acquaintances, but be slow to make intimate friends.(32)

One of the most famous disciplinary cases of this period concerns Humphrey Bogart.(33) According to a widely accepted story, Bogart was fired from Andover for helping to throw the manager of the Phillips Inn into Rabbit Pond. A variation of this story is that it was a Faculty member who got thrown in. This legend has undoubtedly been strengthened by the fact that a group of undergraduates did throw the manager of the Inn into Rabbit Pond. The only trouble is that the event occurred over ten years before Bogart arrived on the scene. Other variations of the legend are that Bogart got fired for being insolent to a Faculty member or that he was expelled for getting caught drinking Scotch from a teacup. The presumption is strong that in later life Bogart liked to boast about his Andover exploits and appropriated some that he knew about and applied them to his own case. The actual record is much less glamorous. In 1917 Dr. Belmont DeForest Bogart, a prominent New York City physician and an Andover graduate wrote Dr. Stearns that he would like to send his son Humphrey to Phillips Academy the following year.(34) The boy took six months to fill out the application that was sent him, indicating, perhaps, something less than perfervid enthusiasm to come to Andover. His application was not improved when he failed almost all his subjects at Trinity School, which he had been attending in New York. Nonetheless, the following September Bogart arrived on the Hill, only to find that because of his poor record he was classified as a Lower Middler rather than as a Senior, as he had expected. He was given a small single room in Taylor Hall, under Freddie Boyce, the physics teacher. As soon as classes started it became clear that Humphrey did not like school work in general or Andover work in particular. One teacher spoke of him as "entirely uninterested in his work"(35) and a fellow classmate remembers how sullen and spoiled he was. "When things didn't go his way he didn't like it a bit."(36) By Christmas time he had failed three out of five courses, and since his record did not improve, in February he was placed on Probation. The parents were furious with their son. "The harder the screws are put on the better it will for my son," wrote Dr. Bogart.(37) Though there was some slight improvement for a month or so, in May Dr. Stearns wrote the family that the boy had not met the terms of his Probation and would be required to withdraw. Humphrey Bogart left Andover not in the debonair way he later remembered but simply because he refused to work. Since World War I was still in progress when he left, he was able to enlist in Naval Aviation, a move that Al Stearns applauded. Yet despite his miserable record at Phillips Academy, he always remembered his school days pleasantly and helped to create the legend that has always been associated with him and Andover.

Though there were many martinets on the Faculty, some of the sternest had the milk of human kindness in their veins. Here is an episode involving Archibald ("Bitch") Freeman:

Well into the spring term of his senior year one boy found himself on Probation because of poor mid-term grades, which, of course, meant no out-of-town excuses. His housemaster was Mr. Freeman, who well knew that this boy was grounded. The boy was desperately in love and just had to go to Boston to see his girl, so one fine beautiful Wednesday afternoon he took off. Who would ever know that he was away for a few hours? Imagine his consternation when he ran smack into Mr. Freeman on the return train trip. They greeted each other and that was that, but the poor boy knew the recognized penalty was expulsion, and he waited for a week for the axe to fall. It never did and he never heard another word, so maybe Mr. Freeman did not really deserve to be known as "Bitch."

And another example:

Another bizarre experience I am reminded of was my first weekend away in my first term. I had lived for this 24-hour privilege-so much so that it became a total reality with all permissions granted weeks before I left. I just took off on the train to Boston. On my return I realized with horror that I had to report in and hadn't reported out. Somehow Al Healy sternly accepted my apology and appeared to believe my forgetfulness. My punishment was "No Comment" until the end of the term. I suffered agonies of fear as to what they would do. Nothing, of course, because I think Healy sensed my awe at what I had not done as punishment enough.

But the more normal procedure for handling cases of boys off bounds without permission is to be seen in the following account of what happened to a descendant of one of the School's most illustrious graduates:

As was his custom on Wednesday, a free afternoon without classes, he put on his bowler and Chesterfield and took the train to Boston, where he had a girl, or girls. This day he had the misfortune to be seen by a master boarding the train. When he got back to his room, there was a note summoning him to the Headmaster. We waited his return with interest, hoping he would be able to talk his way out of it. He returned, flung himself on the bed, and said: 'Nothing doing. He wouldn't listen. Just bawled me out and said he wanted me out of town by nine in the morning.'

Among the more exuberant customs on Andover Hill was the "All Out":

Every year, in the spring, there was an 'all out' night. On a warm evening, after eight, when we were supposed to be in our own dormitories, some restless students would leave theirs and cry 'All Out' under the windows. When all were out there, they moved on to the next dorm, shouting 'All Out' again. Soon a yelling mob was formed, which snaked around the campus until all six hundred boys were out. Then, before it came to harm, the mob always gravitated, as if drawn by a magnet, toward the Headmaster's big yellow house on Main Street, blocking all traffic. On the high stoop, he would appear. His great voice would roll out, calming the crowd, telling us we had had our fun, and that it was time to go home. We went.

On 1 May 1930 some of the undergraduate body staged a splendid riot in the Town of Andover. The occasion was the annual May breakfast served in the Town Hall under the auspices of the General William F. Bartlett Woman's Relief Corps, 127, a branch of the Ladies' Auxiliary of the Grand Army of the Republic. For a modest sum anyone who so wished could purchase a breakfast of oranges, rolls, doughnuts, coffee, and other comestibles. The Phillips Academy contingent arrived about 6:30 and, having soon finished their breakfast, amused themselves by pelting other guests with half-oranges, rolls, and doughnuts. When the ladies running the breakfast remonstrated, the boys simply stuffed their pockets with more ammunition, went outside, and began pelting the guests as they came out. Tiring of this sport, they moved out to Main Street, where they found two new ways of amusing themselves. When the trolley came through town, they pulled the pole off the wire, causing it to stop. The motorman would then get out, replace the pole, and proceed a few feet until the pole was again disengaged. It was also found that if several boys jumped on the rubber pads that controlled the traffic lights, the light could be kept red for through traffic almost indefinitely. At this point the strong arm of the law appeared in the person of Officer Frank McBride, who ordered the students to cease and desist. Unfortunately for him, the students had discovered some sacks of potatoes in front of the A & P and they proceeded to bombard the luckless officer with spuds until he was driven from the field. That was the boys' last triumph. Soon a large black car bearing a very grim Alfred E. Stearns appeared on the scene, and the rioters scattered like chaff. Everyone expected that Al would blast the School at Chapel that morning, but he surprised them. He said he wanted apologies made to the town officials and the potatoes paid for, and that was all. Unfortunately for Al, the story got on the AP wire, and for the next few days he had plenty to do explaining the outrage to interested parties.(38)

An important feature of the 1920's at Phillips Academy was the presence and influence of the scholarship boys. There are no records of precisely how many students were getting financial assistance at any given time, partly because many boys earned money from jobs over which the school exercised no control. There were a relatively small number of cash scholarships to cover tuition. Winning and holding these were dependent on having a strong academic record. Most of the scholarship boys were able to get free board by waiting on table, either at the "Beanery" (the dining hall) or at one of several private boarding houses. Another way of earning money was to work for pay in one of the offices or at the library. The School determined the arrangements for these jobs, which usually averaged an hour a day. But some of the most lucrative positions were concessions for firms outside the School. One boy might have a cleaning and pressing concession for Burns or Langrock, the town's two leading clothing stores. Another might have a laundry concession for a town laundry. Still another might handle subscriptions for one of the Boston newspapers. And substantial sums could be made selling ice-cream at athletic contests. Some of the more enterprising undergraduates were able not only to cover their school expenses but to salt away savings as well. An outsider, unfamiliar with Andover, might think that the scholarship boys were second-class citizens, but nothing could be further from the truth. If anything, the boys formed an elite within the School; they held many positions of leadership and often were outstanding athletes. One former scholarship boy has this to say about his status:

The most outstanding characteristic of the student body . . . was their genuinely democratic outlook. No one seemed to care where you came from or what kind of pedigree you had. As a scholarship boy working in the Commons or at Jim Ryley's Grill for my board, I never heard anyone, in the two years I spent at Andover, make mention of the fact as a reflection or as a means of harassment. Indeed, the opposite seemed to me to be the case; the surest way for a boy to be unpopular with his fellows was to flaunt his money.

During the decade of the 1920's extracurricular activities flourished. Many had had long histories in the life of the School, as we have seen, but nearly all became more active during this period. In the musical area the Glee Club was booming. In 1928 it counted eighty members. Dr. Carl Friedrich Pfatteicher directed this outfit and tried his utmost to make everyone a lover of Bach, but even he knew that he would have to compromise with his singers and throw in some sea chanties to lighten the fare. One reason for the Glee Club's popularity was that it had concerts with girls' schools, particularly Bradford Academy and Rogers Hall, and that these concerts were followed by dances. There was still a Mandolin Club of sixteen in existence, but it was not long for this world. In 1930 it disappeared, partly, perhaps, because of the organization of a School band. Phillips Academy also boasted a small orchestra during these years. The difficulty of recruiting orchestras in secondary schools is borne out by the fact that there were only three first violins; and the presence of three saxophones suggests that the repertoire was not strictly classical. Indeed, the Andover undergraduate of the 1920's had little interest in classical music, and a boy who played it on his phonograph was suspected of being a "fruit." The School had a Dramatic Club of sorts, with a checkered history. Various members of the Faculty had tried their hand at coaching the Club, only to abandon the project because of lack of interest. In 1928 it had revived under the direction of Allen Healy and was putting on such plays as A. A. Milne's "Mr. Pim Passes By" and Booth Tarkington's "Clarence." Since there were no girls available to play the feminine parts---Headmistress Bertha Bailey of Abbot would have turned purple at the idea of her girls participating---the boys played them, and there was much amusement in the audience when they forgot and sat with their legs wide apart. Though the Dramatic Club put on some entertaining performances, it was a far cry from the productions of Shakespeare that would start in the late 1940's. The Philomathean Society, which had been founded back in 1824, continued healthy. The Society was divided into two groups for purposes of competition, and in 1928 it debated such subjects as the Cancellation of War Debts, Coeducation, and Mussolini. Forty-six members participated in the debates. For boys interested in religious and moral questions there was still the Society of Inquiry, founded in 1833. The old emphasis on theological discussion had been abandoned, to be replaced by informal discussion groups on modern social and ethical problems. The Society also conducted a fund drive that, in 1928, realized over $1400.(39)

School publications met with mixed success during the 1920's. The Phillipian flourished, while the Mirror, the literary magazine, ceased publication in 1924 and was not revived until 1929. The Phillipian was a truly ambitious undertaking, coming out twice a week and conducted with generally high editorial standards. The proudest boast that the newspaper could make was that it was published without any prior faculty censorship whatsoever. This gave the editorial board a kind of responsibility that few other boys in School had. If the paper stepped out of line, the Faculty or Headmaster was sure to move in promptly after the sin had been committed, but for the most part there was little need of adult supervision. The Phillipian of this decade was heavily oriented toward athletics; many of the lead stories on the front page were concerned with athletic contests, and many of the editorials were pleas for support for one team or another. There were attempts occasionally to include some news of events outside the School---developments in Europe, for example---but there was little coverage of domestic political affairs except at election time. One reason why the Faculty could be content with their no-censorship policy was that the paper invariably supported praiseworthy causes---good attendance at concerts, no coughing in chapel, the Red Cross, not walking on the grass, and the like. The paper also put in a plug regularly for the support of its advertisers. Occasionally it would criticize in a gentle way some School policy that the board disagreed with. When Al Stearns put a ban on all dancing at Phillips Academy, which lasted two years, the Phillipian insisted that modern dancing was not nearly so bad as the older generation thought.(40) It complained about unsanitary conditions in the Beanery, where, it was reported, rats, roaches, and various kinds of bugs abounded in the food areas.(41) It thought that Al Stearns was on the road too much, making it impossible for the students to know him.(42) It complained that playing the chimes every quarter hour was "nerve-wracking. "(43) When the new Dining Hall was opened, the Phillipian opposed the attempt to have it called the "Commons," preferring, apparently, to keep the old name, "Beanery."(44) Finally, the paper expressed pleasure that anti-prohibition forces were active on college campuses.(45) There were in School at the time a rather unsavory group of boys who spent most of their free time in the Grill smoking and playing cards. These "Grill Hounds" the Phillipian thought were a very bad lot indeed.(46) The paper tended to remark on the passing of important people. When Woodrow Wilson died, they spoke of the "loss of a friend,"(47) and, strangely enough, they reported the death of Joseph Conrad and Anatole France.(48) They also wrote a story on the tragedy of Floyd Collins, trapped in a cave in Kentucky.(49) Occasionally they could have some fun, as when they reported that Al Stearns had forgotten his tuxedo on a trip to New York and had had it sent to him there by airmail.(50) Overall, when one considers the amount of writing and printing that got done over those ten years, the record is an impressive one.

In 1929, after a five-year hibernation, the Mirror began to appear again. With Alan R. Blackmer of the English Department as Faculty adviser, the publication soon achieved distinction by the high quality of its writing. Several of the contributors became prominent in various fields later on. In the first issue, for example, there were pieces by Ring W. Lardner, Jr., son of the famous author, who later was to make a name for himself as one of the Hollywood Ten; a piece modeled on John Galsworthy by Henry Ehrlich, later an editor of Look; entitled "Soames Buys a Picture"; and an article on disarmament by Max F. Millikan, son of the famous scientist and later a distinguished scholar in his own right at M.I.T. There were well-written poems by Edward M. Barnet, some striking graphics by Martin H. Donahoe, and, for relief, humorous sketches on such subjects as how to fly an airplane. The high quality of the writing suggested that it was perhaps a good thing for a literary magazine to lie fallow for a number of years.(51)

The third major publication was the Pot Pourri, the yearbook. These volumes were handsomely bound in leather and contained detailed records of the school year. At the start came individual pictures of the entire Senior Class, complete with nicknames---"Tubby ," "Spike," and the like---and with their intended colleges. Underneath the names were lists of activities that the individual had engaged in while at Andover, and it was easy to identify the Big Men on the Campus. Several students might have over two inches of double-column listings. There were always a few who refused to list anything, in protest against the ostentation connoted by "BMOC." Then followed the Senior polls of the class for the "Handsomest," "Most Eccentric," "Laziest," "Windiest," and the like. This was followed by a similar poll for the Faculty---"Hardest Subject," "Best Teacher," and "Easiest to Bluff." There followed well illustrated sections on all the School's organizations and athletic teams, the closing section entitled "Quips and Cranks," in which the editors could have fun with various aspects of school life. In one part quotations were applied to Andover institutions: the Dining Hall was "This muddy vesture of decay"; the orchestra was "All discord, harmony not understood"; while the Tower bells were "Like sweet bells jangled, out of tune and harsh." Then there was a take-off on Samuel Pepys' Diary, a list of members of a Fat Man's Club, and a list of "Fem-Sem (Abbot Academy) Chasers."(52) Taken as a whole the Pot Pourri volumes did an admirable job of reflecting the spirit of the School in the 1920's and provided an extremely useful permanent record of each class.

Phillips Academy undergraduates in the 1920's were offered an extraordinarily rich program of lectures and concerts, particularly after Thomas Cochran established the Stearns Lectureship and the Sawyer Concert with endowments of $10,000 each. In those days the income on $10,000 was sufficient to get the very best, and the School had other funds available for this purpose. For example, in a little over a month, in 1928, an Andover boy could have heard the Flonzaley Quartet, Sergei Rachmaninoff, and Pablo Casals. Nor was this an exception. In the next few years Fritz Kreisler, Jascha Heifitz, and Jose Iturbi all appeared in George Washington Hall. The programs were not always as long-haired: the Hampton Quartet was a perennial favorite, as were the English Singers. For lecturers the School was treated to Rear-Admiral Byrd; Count Felix von Luckner, commander of the German Seeadler in World War I; Roy Chapman Andrews speaking on "The Gobi Desert"; Robert Millikan lecturing on "Fire"; and Marie, Grand Duchess of Russia. To provide variety there were plays by the Ben Greet players, Tony Sarg's marionettes, and Bruce Bairnsfather, the World War I cartoonist who created "The Better 'Ole." The lectures tended to concentrate on exploration, nature, and outdoor activities. Two home-grown performers who appeared regularly were Lawrence V. Roth, who lectured on historical subjects, and Carl F. Pfatteicher, who, one year, did a series on almost all of Wagner's operas.(53) And of course there were movies on Saturday nights. In 1929 the School invested in a talkie machine and then very unwisely chose as the first talkie Eddie Cantor's "Whoopee." The high point of this movie came when a procession of long-stemmed chorus girls descended a staircase and threw back their arms revealing some very scantily clad female figures. Naturally, the School went wild, and the Faculty seriously considered junking the new talkie machine.

But the best story about Andover lectures is one told by Jack Fuess about the visit to Andover of a famous arctic explorer who shall be nameless. Jack, who was in charge of entertainments at the time, went down to the station to meet this gentleman. At first he thought he was not on the train, but then there was a kind of commotion at the end of one car, and soon he saw several trainmen and conductors carrying out a huge bear of a man who was clearly "bemused with drink." Jack got him into his car and drove to the Inn. After a shower and hot coffee, the lecturer seemed to be in good shape. The title of the lecture was "The Land of the Midnight Sun," and it was to be illustrated with slides. The explorer suggested that he omit his introductory remarks and start right off with the slides. Jack, thinking that a great idea, introduced the speaker, had the lights turned off, and supposed he had it made. The first slide showed an expanse of open ocean with a small bright ball over the horizon. The lecturer began as follows: "This is a talk on the Land of the Midnight Sun. You see that li'l ball there. That's the Midnight Sun." There was a long pause, after which he added, "Or is it the god-damned moon?"

What chance did the Phillips Academy undergraduate of the 1920's have to meet with girls? The answer is, very little chance indeed. The most natural place for a boy to turn if he wanted to see a girl was Abbot Academy, where several hundred young ladies were living, a mere stone's throw from the School. But Abbot was ruled at this period by the iron hand of Headmistress Bertha Bailey, who was sure that no good at all could come from any contact between Phillips and Abbot.(54) In earlier years there had been some contact---Abbot used to come to the Phillips Vesper Service, for example--but gradually a high wall of exclusion was erected around Abbot. Miss Bailey was reported as censoring all letters to Abbot girls if they bore an Andover postmark, and she was determined that no uncouth masculine influence should threaten her charges. In this, for the most part, she was joined by Al Stearns, who thought of Phillips Academy as a solidly unisex school. He was so dismayed by the style of postwar dancing that he banned all school dances for two years. Despite these two redoubtable champions of the separation of the sexes, there were some occasions when Andover boys could see girls. Abbot allowed Phillips students to visit girls, under heavily chaperoned conditions, on Friday nights, as previously noted. But there had to be a lot of preliminary paper work-permission from the girl's parents, permission from Phillips Academy, and the like. Some of the seats in the visiting area were around the corner from where the chaperone sat, and boys used to go down very early and stand in line, so as to get one of these coveted positions. Toward the end of the decade Abbot girls were allowed to come to Phillips tea dances and proms, again under stringent chaperonage. Bradford Academy and Rogers Hall were generally more relaxed than Abbot, probably because they were farther away, and girls from those two institutions were frequent visitors at Andover dances.(55) The School had a lot more trouble controlling the relations of the boys with Faculty daughters and girls in the town, both of whom were more readily available. Despite all the puritanical restrictions, the chances are good that there were many unrecorded assignations between Phillips boys and girls. The Abbot girls, particularly in winter, took walks in pairs for their exercise, and though the routes were carefully drawn, it was quite possible to meet the young ladies. Several boys were expelled for taking Abbot girls into school fraternity houses (the Abbot girls were, too), and there were probably a large number who never got caught. When viewed in the light of today's coeducational school, the repressive policy in this area seems harder and harder to understand.

In one sense the climax of the Golden Twenties came with the celebration of the 150th Anniversary of the School on 18 and 19 May 1928. The undertaking was the most ambitious that any secondary school had ever attempted in the history of the country, and when it had been successfully completed, the name of the school had been spread far and wide and all the members of the Andover family had renewed pride in their institution. The main reason for the wide publicity given the event was the visit of President Calvin Coolidge to Andover and the speech he gave. This was the second time in the School's history that a President had visited the school while in office, the first being the visit of President George Washington in 1789.(56) In short the Sesquicentennial was a succès fou from start to finish.

Some of the Academy's Trustees as early as 1924 were considering what should be done to celebrate the Anniversary. At a meeting in January 1925 the Board accepted informal memoranda on the subject. Among other things, it was agreed that apart from the celebration itself, the School should use the occasion to conduct a drive to improve Faculty salaries, enlarge and improve the plant, revise the curriculum, and increase the financial strength of the institution.(57) At this time informal committees were appointed, and there was preliminary planning in the course of the next two years. It was not until April 1927, however, that more formal action was taken, when a committee was appointed consisting of Alfred Ripley, President of the Board, Headmaster Stearns, and Charles Forbes and Claude Fuess of the Faculty. At that same meeting Thomas Cochran announced that he had the acceptance of Calvin Coolidge to attend the celebration, thereby making good on a promise he had made to the Trustees to produce the President at the appointed time.(58) Coolidge announced that May 19 would be the best date for him, and thus the time of the celebration was determined. At the Trustees' meeting the following June, further steps were taken. The April Committee, now designated the Executive Committee, was authorized to make specific plans, calling for expenditures of not more than $25,000. The Trustees insisted that all athletic contests held during the celebration be with Exeter, and also authorized Claude Fuess to prepare a book of sketches of famous graduates, to be entitled Men of Andover.(59) From then on, the work of planning the celebration devolved upon the Executive Committee. Indeed, there is no further mention of the coming event in the minutes of the Trustees. An Honorary Committee of distinguished alumni, chaired by Henry L. Stimson, was formed, as well as a number of local committees made up for the most part of Faculty and townspeople, to deal with such specific problems as invitations, procession, alumni luncheon, decorations, publicity, housing, music, and finance.(60) It was now a matter of sheer hard work, and all the committees performed magnificently. There were invitations to be sent out after the invitees had been chosen. There were programs to be printed, housing forms to be prepared, tickets to the various events to be produced. It was estimated that nearly 100,000 different pieces of paper of one kind or another were mailed out during the winter and spring of 1928.(61)

The most important guest, of course, was President Coolidge, and he gave the Committee some bad times before he finally showed up. In October, apparently, the President thought that he might go to his son's graduation at Amherst and could not make two trips. Later that month Al Stearns wrote Ted Clark, Coolidge's Secretary, that he was surprised that there was any doubt about the President's coming; he thought it was all sewed up.(62) The Headmaster also took a special trip to New York to talk to Frank Stearns, Coolidge's confidant, on the matter .(63) Thomas Cochran protested strongly that the President should not be let off the hook because of his son's Commencement.(64) Apparently Coolidge's indecision about coming to Andover was overcome, and matters proceeded smoothly until the following April. At that point a new monkey wrench was thrown into the machinery when it was suggested by Ted Clark that Coolidge come on the 18th rather than the 19th. This obviously necessitated changing programs, plans for publicity, and the like.(65) Again Al Stearns took to the road, traveling to Washington to see what the problem was .(66) It soon became apparent that Congress might adjourn on the 19th, in which case the President could not leave Washington. Al learned shortly after that the President could not come on the 18th either, if Congress were about to adjourn. This news must have been met with dismay by the Andover Committee, but eventually it was decided to go ahead and plan for the 19th and hope for the best. Why not bribe some long-winded Senators to filibuster, Al Stearns suggested.(67)

From then on it was a matter of arranging the myriad details. The President wanted an amplifier, he wanted a desk, he wanted to speak first, he wanted to be sure that he and his wife would be in the same car and that they would not come in to the luncheon until all the other guests were seated.(68) All these requests Al Stearns agreed to honor, but he had some questions of his own. Could guests sit on the platform with the President, or did security reasons forbid that? How many extra police were needed? When would Colonel Starling, Head of the Secret Service, arrive to check things out?(69) These questions were eventually answered, and Colonel Starling appeared two days ahead of time to make the necessary arrangements for the President's security. At the same time, the Headmaster received a telegram from Ted Clark announcing that the President would be accompanied by three army officers, seven Secret Service men, seven newsmen, five photographers, and one messenger. He also approved the order of the march for the procession.(70) So it was right down to the wire before the Sesquicentennial planners could breathe easily about the President's visit.

In the meantime there were a host of other details to attend to. Charles Evans Hughes was invited but declined. Laps and gowns for Faculty, Trustees, and guests had to be rented from the Harvard Cooperative.(71) W. K. Dugan wrote Thomas Cochran that Boston and Maine train 183 left Andover at 1:15 and thus the Coolidge Special would have to leave a few minutes earlier.(72) Thomas B. Rines and some friends wrote the Committee to get permission to fly over the parade on Saturday morning. Rines said he had a cabin monoplane and an army biplane available and would only be around for about ten minutes. On Rines's letter there is written the single word, "No.'(73) Shortly before the event Al Stearns wrote an apologetic letter to all the Phillips Academy parents telling them how sorry he was that none of them could be invited. The Alumni had first crack, he said.(74) He also wrote Henry Ford asking for the loan of a stagecoach from the Wayside Inn, a request that Ford graciously granted.(75) An attempt had been made to get Sir Edward Grey, Chancellor of Oxford, to represent the British nation at the celebration, but Sir Edward was in poor health and could not accept.(76) Then it was suggested that Edward Lyttleton, former Headmaster of Eton, be invited, but he, too, was unavailable. Finally Frederick Malim, Master of Wellington College, accepted the invitation. The School wanted an historian for the occasion and after two false starts chose President Arthur Stanley Pease of Amherst College. When it came to choosing the poet, the Committee had more trouble. Walter Prichard Eaton, a graduate and a poet, was approached but tried to decline by suggesting James Gould Fletcher. Fletcher had been living in England for some time, and the Committee much preferred Eaton. Finally Eaton wrote, "You have closed the loop hole through which I hoped to escape, and I guess it's up to me to buy a rhyming dictionary. You have spoiled my winter.(77) There were many other distinguished guests---for example, the Presidents of Harvard, Yale, Princeton, Dartmouth, Amherst, and Cornell. Nicholas Murray Butler of Columbia could not come. A long roster of headmasters, not to mention hundreds of eminent alumni, attest to those who could. It was to be quite a show. Strangely---at least from the vantage point of the 1970's---no public school representatives were invited.

At long last the great days approached. A few nights beforehand the School was festooned with over four thousand colored lights, and powerful floodlights were turned on the main buildings. The result was a fairyland of light, and the spectacle attracted the attention of all who passed by. On Thursday night, alumni and visitors began arriving, each receiving a packet of directions, tickets, room assignments, and a map of the School. By Friday noon more than a thousand had come, in time for lunch in the Academy Cage. Promptly at two o'clock the first exercises began in the Great Quadrangle before Samuel Phillips Hall. A platform had been constructed jutting out from the portico of the building with an awning over it to protect the speakers. An amplifying system stood at the top of a tall tower erected for that purpose, and Radio Station WEEI of Boston had provided equipment to broadcast the proceedings to some unable to attend in person. Four bands were stationed at various parts of the campus to provide musical interludes. The only thing that was not admirably arranged for was the weather. A mist had begun to fall, and many in the audience had already put up umbrellas.(78) It was decided to go ahead as planned, however, and soon the assembly was being treated to a rather sentimental address of welcome from Headmaster Stearns. The first reply was given by President James R. Angell of Yale, who made use of material Al Stearns had dug up for him to show the close ties between the two institutions.(79) He closed by claiming that the independent secondary schools were much better fitted than the public schools to make the experiments that were necessary if secondary education generally were to do its job. The next speaker was President John G. Hibben of Princeton, who elaborated on the desire of youth to find the truth about the world they lived in. President Hibben was the last speaker to make it out of doors. As he finished, the Heavens opened and the rains came, and the exercises had to be moved into George Washington Hall. Because of the foresightedness of the Committee in providing the guests with rain checks, this maneuver was accomplished with much less confusion than might have been expected. President Ernest M. Hopkins of Dartmouth, a Trustee of the Academy and one of Al Stearns's dearest friends, spoke next. He amused the audience with a story of a tour bus in the north of England. The guide said at one point, "We are now passing the oldest tavern in England," which led a tourist in the back to ask, "Why?" Hopkins went on to stress the great debt that American colleges owed schools like Phillips Academy for preparing their students so effectively. Next came President Arthur Stanley Pease of Amherst, himself a graduate of the Academy, whose father had been a Professor at the Theological Seminary. President Pease was a scholar and had done his homework; the result was a lucid examination of the early history of the School.(80) Finally came the sesquicentennial poet, Walter Pritchard Eaton, who read a nostalgic poem in which he compared the past of the School to its present, more or less after the manner of Oliver Wendell Holmes at the Centennial. Eaton closed:

Great is our school, and greater yet shall be
When you and I will not be here to see. . .
                                     No more
The old boy need postpone his tears
He'll not see Phillips reach two hundred years.
Nor will there be anyone to care!
The old boy ceases---and resumes his chair.(81)

After the speeches came an organ recital by Dr. Carl F. Pfatteicher, for those who wished to stay, and later the School undertook the task of feeding the guests. Class reunions were held in the Cage and other places, while the ladies were dined in Borden Gymnasium. The rain that continued to fall did not seem to dampen the enthusiasm of anyone.

That night the undergraduates had their share in the celebration with a mammoth parade. The newspapermen present were enthusiastic about this operation, as was reflected in their writing. Here is one account:(82)

With a wild and wooly torchlight parade featured by colorful costumes and weird lighting effects, the Phillips Academy boys tonight put the crowning touch to the biggest day of celebration the school has ever seen.

The afternoon portion of this sesquicentennial observance was rather heavy, being freighted with endless speeches from great dignitaries in the world of education. The evening, however, gave to thousands of persons one of the most spectacular shows in the history of education.

A steady drizzle of rain failed to halt the proceedings. The heavy mist rather added to the effect of the dancing torches, the red lights and the white flares of the movie men. The costumes and the various antique conveyances in the line, too, were set off to perfect advantage by the glowing banks of pink mist.

There was noise galore. Half a dozen blaring bands, screeching motor horns, applause from the masses of spectators, shrill whistles from squads of State Troopers and whoops and cheers from the boys in line made a first-class good-natured pandemonium.

As a feature of a howling big celebration the parade was a wow. The paraders and the spectators began to gather hours before 8:30, the scheduled time for starting. The boys, resplendent in costumes of red, blue, white and combinations, formed on the grass beside Main St. in front of Bishop Hall.

Each had a kerosene torch on the end of a stick except for some who had sticks of red fire. The boys cheered every car that passed, and their yelling sounded like that for four touchdowns.

As the time for the start drew near the traffic grew thicker and the crowd began to line the streets on both sides for hundreds of yards. The State Troopers handled them well, but they made a trying problem.

As 8:30 sounded from the carillon a handsome chestnut horse, high strung and skittish, stepped into the highway. Riding him was a boy in Colonial costume.(83)

At this point there was a great deal of confusion, caused by motor horns, lights, whistles and yells from the crowd. The horse, obviously frightened, began to prance dangerously close to the massed ranks of the spectators. Then, to add to the uproar, a motor ambulance roared past. But the rider succeeded in calming his mount.

A great feature of the parade was a lumbering old stagecoach loaned to the academy for the occasion by Earl J. Boyer, manager of Henry Ford's Wayside Inn. It was driven by a coachman, a footman and a trumpeter, all in Colonial costumes, and it was filled to the brim with juvenile academy students, also attired in silk breeches, silk stockings and brown wigs.(84)

One fellow who got a big laugh was pushing a high-wheeled bicycle as he trudged along in the costume of 1885. Close behind him was "The Baseball Team of 1860." These boys wore a rudimentary costume, featured in some cases by trousers which looked like, and in fact were, the legs of white flannel underwear.

Somewhere in the line was the old Phillips Academy handtub [fire engine]. It was drawn by big platoons of boys in black derbies, black raincoats and artificial black mustaches.

One big division of boys wore orange gowns and four-cornered orange hats, like flopping mortar boards. Another group wore blue and white pyjama suits, one leg white, one leg blue, half the coat blue and the other half white. Another outfit wore blue coats and white trousers. Here and there was a nifty white trench coat.

The parade lasted about an hour in and around the campus and the adjacent streets.(85)

Then at 9:30 followed another scene even more spectacular. On the steps of Samuel Phillips Hall, on the side of a huge, illuminated quadrangle, group singing had been scheduled. The boys marched there, and they Were followed by a crowd which may have numbered 10,000.

From the crowded portico of the hall as far as one could see, for at least 100 yards into the murky distance, the campus was covered with faces. Here and there in the crowd was a kerosene torch. Strung in lines were endless rows of colored electric lights. A quarter mile away, on the highway, motor lights blinked intermittently.

This entire vast chorus seemed to be hiding. It was under the direction of Frank H. Simmons, Andover, A brass band followed him, the boys followed the band and the crowd followed the boys. They sang old songs like "The Good Old Summer Time", "Two Little Girls in Blue", "My Old Kentucky Home" and others of the same vintage. Ordinary "group singing" is usually pretty pale fun, but this was spontaneous, and, like the parade, a wow.

According to residents, there never was a bigger crowd or more traffic in town at once in the history of Andover. All the surrounding cities poured out their inhabitants to see the show, and all who got within sight of the gorgeously-illuminated grounds got their trouble's worth. Great batteries of powerful searchlights played on the tall carillon tower and whitened the face of Phillips Hall. It was a marvelous show.

If the powers that be wanted to have a real celebration as part of the Sesquicentennial, it is clear that the boys stole the show.

The next day the rain, providentially, stopped. While there were still clouds in the sky, they did not appear threatening, and as it turned out, the day's proceedings, except at the very end, were uninterrupted by the weather. Right on schedule, the Presidential Special arrived in the Andover station at 9:00, to be met by Headmaster Stearns, President of the Board Ripley, Thomas Cochran, James Sawyer, and Judge Elias Bishop as representatives of the School. A troop of sixteen cavalry officers from the National Guard was also on hand to greet the President. In an effort to impress the Chief Magistrate they performed some kind of elaborate equestrian maneuver that caused two of them to fall off their horses. The President's comment on this mishap was characteristically laconic: "Not very good horsemanship here." But the troop recovered and, together with a band, conducted the President and his wife, the Reception Committee, and the President's staff to the Headmaster's house on Chapel Avenue, where another distinguished group of guests, headed by Alvin T. Fuller, Governor of the Commonwealth, was waiting to greet him. As the members of the Presidential party entered the house, they were cheered by the Phillips Academy undergraduate body. Coolidge's first utterance on Andover Hill, after meeting the guests, was a question to Jack Fuess: "Where's the toilet?"

While the President and Mrs. Coolidge were at the Headmaster's house, he took occasion to present them with two gold Sesquicentennial medals, which they both wore for the rest of the day. In a short time the assemblage moved over to the Headmaster's Office in George Washington Hall, which was closer to where the President would speak. While there, Coolidge smoked one of his little cigars, the kind that had a cigar holder of its own. When he had finished, the butt was seized upon and placed in an envelope, where it still reposes in the Phillips Academy Archives.(86)

At ten o'clock the academic procession started from the Memorial Tower, led by a color guard from the Andover Post of the American Legion and followed by Trustees, distinguished guests (mainly college presidents and headmasters), the Faculty of Phillips Academy, and a long line of alumni. As the procession marched up the vista, they were joined at the entrance to the Great Quadrangle by the President, accompanied by Al Stearns; Mrs. Coolidge, accompanied by Mr. Ripley; Secretary of Labor Davis, accompanied by Judge Bishop; Governor Fuller, accompanied by Thomas Cochran; Mrs. Fuller, accompanied by James Sawyer; and Frederic Malim, the English visitor, accompanied by President Hopkins of Dartmouth.(87) There was a minor foul-up as the guests took their seats on the platform; Secretary of Labor Davis got in the front row, while Governor Fuller was further back. Coolidge motioned to Jack Fuess, who was in charge of all this, and said, "Governor should be in front row," and the exchange was quickly made.(88) It had been learned that Mrs. Coolidge was very fond of the "Mercersburg Hymn" and so the Glee Club and a band were asked to sing and play it, almost without rehearsal. To Al Stearns it looked as if the band were starting off on one foot and the singers on the other, and he tried to stop the performance and get them straightened out. But all went well, and Mrs. Coolidge joined in singing with the rest.

Some of those present who were familiar with President Coolidge's speeches in the past may have looked forward to his address with apprehension, but it soon became clear that they need have no fears, for the Chief Executive had done his homework. His friend Frank Stearns later wrote Al Stearns that the President had worked harder on this speech than on any other he could remember, spending about one hundred hours on it.(89) Coolidge first spoke of Samuel Phillips and particularly of his part in drawing up the Massachusetts Constitution, which the President thought a superlative document. He suggested that the principles of that Constitution were translated by Phillips to the educational sphere and had a profound influence on the Constitution of Phillips Academy. The President praised the democratic character of the School:

Our country and its government belongs to all the people. It ought not to be under the domination of any one element or any one section. For it to fall under the entire control of the people of wealth or people of poverty, or people who are employers or people who are wage earners, would be contrary to our declared principles.

In speaking of the early days of Phillips Academy under judge Phillips, he said:

He knew that unless correct habits of thought are formed at the very outset of life they are not formed at all. Two great tests in mental discipline are accuracy and honesty. It is far better to master a few subjects thoroughly than to have a mass of generalizations about many subjects. The world will have little use for those who are right only part of the time. Whatever may be the standards of the classroom, practical life will require something more than 60% or 70% for a passing mark. The standards of the world are not like those set by the faculty, but more closely resemble those set by the student body themselves. They are not at all content with a member of the musical organization who can strike only 90% of the notes. They do not tolerate the man on the diamond who catches only 80% of the balls. The standards which the student body set are high. They want accuracy that is well nigh complete.

After suggesting that not enough attention had been paid to secondary education over the years, the President finished with this peroration:

The general advance made by our country is commensurate with the advance which has been made by Phillips Academy. As we behold it, our doubts ought to be removed, our faith ought to be replenished. Our determination to make such sacrifices as are necessary for the common good ought to be strengthened. We may be certain that our country is altogether worthy of us. It will be necessary to demonstrate that we are worthy of our country.(90)

The Presidential address was well received by the crowd, estimated as high as 15,000, and it received broad coverage in the press. Chief Justice Arthur Rugg of the Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court said to Frank Stearns that he thought it was the best speech that Coolidge had ever given.(91) It must be admitted that it is difficult to think of another Coolidge speech that might challenge that judgment. In the last analysis the President had certainly done what those in charge of the Sesquicentennial hoped he would do---come to Andover, make himself visible, and then give an acceptable speech. They could not ask for more from him.

At the conclusion of the President's speech the invited guests moved promptly to the Cage for luncheon, except for an unlucky overflow of about three hundred that wound up in Borden Gymnasium. The ladies, in the meantime, were being served in the basement of George Washington Hall. H. J. Seller Company of Boston did the catering and from all accounts did a more than satisfactory job. Shortly before one o'clock the Coolidges left for Washington amid the cheers of the crowd, and shortly thereafter the Senior Class arrived to sit on bleachers, from which they produced a lot of cheering. Once the ladies and those from Borden Gymnasium arrived, the program of speeches began, and before the afternoon was over the audience certainly had its fill.(92) In all there were nine speeches, and the whole program must have taken at least two hours. First came Governor Fuller of Massachusetts; then James J. Davis, Secretary of Labor; William Phillips, Minister to Canada and a direct descendant of the School's founder; Governor Spaulding of New Hampshire; President Lowell of Harvard; President Farrand of Cornell; Principal Lewis Perry of Exeter; Headmaster Malim of Wellington in England; and finally Al Stearns himself.(93) It was a distinguished company, and only President Lowell let the audience off with a short speech. Space precludes discussion of them; they were, for the most part, conventional statements of congratulation to Phillips Academy on her Anniversary. The two who stole the show were Lewis Perry and Frederic Malim. Perry, speaking from the point of view of Exeter, likened the celebration to the coming out party of the older sister, while Exeter remained a sub-debutante, and he proceeded to develop that theme in a witty and charming way. Malim spoke with deep feeling about education and closed his remarks with effective quotations from various psalms. Al Stearns had an unnerving time before his speech. Throughout the earlier addresses Thomas Cochran kept scribbling suggestions on small pieces of paper and passing them on to Al for use when his turn came. Al's speech had been written out and distributed to the press beforehand and it was obviously impossible to incorporate into it the last-minute suggestions of Cochran.(94) But the afternoon went off well, and certainly everyone got his money's worth. The guests were supposed to watch the Andover-Exeter track meet next, but had to abandon it when a heavy downpour intervened. The Andover boys beat their Exeter rivals decisively in what amounted to a millpond, but there was almost no one present to witness the victory.

That was about it. Some of the fraternities held reunions that night, and the boys had a very damp victory parade. By the next morning only wet remnants of decorations remained as testimony to the great things that had happened.

The Phillips Academy Sesquicentennial celebration had clearly been a great success. Largely because of the President's visit, the publicity the School received was both widespread and favorable. The affair put the School on the map as few other public relations campaigns might have done. It is impossible to say if this publicity was reflected in increased applications for admission, but that is possible. One of the Trustees' aims when the celebration was conceived was to improve teachers' salaries and thereby serve as an example for other independent schools. The teaching foundations that were established at the time of the Anniversary certainly went far to realize that aim, though it could be argued that Thomas Cochran would have established them with or without a Sesquicentennial. Another aim of the Trustees was the improvement of the Phillips Academy plant, and since the whole Cochran program was under way in 1928, that goal was well on the road to being realized. At a meeting of the Trustees the day before the celebration began, Cochran announced a gift of one million dollars for general endowment, in addition to grants for the Dining Hall, the Sanctuary, and other projects.(95) This in itself was enough to justify the Sesquicentennial. Another bit of fall-out from the drive was the collection of American art donated by Cochran for the yet-to-be-built Addison gallery. As is always the case with celebrations like this one, an important result was an increased interest in the School's past, with the result that additional archival material, art objects, and artifacts were acquired. Many of these accomplishments might well have been achieved without the Sesquicentennial, but it certainly added a new dimension to the School's energy, one that could last long after the event. Aside from these serious matters, there were a few loose ends to take care of after the show was over. Mrs. Frank Stearns had left her umbrella at Al Stearns's house but would drop by to pick it up sometime.(96) An alumnus wrote testily from New Haven that he had not been able to get in to the luncheon because the tickets had been taken out of his kit.(97) Secretary of Labor Davis was so impressed with the proceedings that he proposed to send 182 copies of his book The Iron Puddler for distribution to the Senior Class at graduation.(98) And Al Stearns was deluged with congratulatory letters and telegrams all praising the great show. Considering the work he had done to make the affair a success, these tributes were well deserved.

The Sesquicentennial was the high point of this era; the departure of Al Stearns from Andover marked its close. For almost thirty years he had served as Headmaster and in a very real sense had become the School. To have him no longer at Phillips Academy would leave a gaping void that anyone else would have difficulty in filling. Early in November 1931 Al was presiding over a Faculty meeting when suddenly he leaned forward and put his forehead on the table in front of him. For a few moments the Faculty thought he might simply be resting, but it soon became clear that he had fainted.(99) He was immediately taken to the School Infirmary and, when it became clear that specialists would be needed to diagnose his case, to a hospital in Boston. On 20 November he was operated on by Dr. Dellinger Barney for what proved to be a cyst of the kidney, the kidney itself being removed as well as the cyst.(100)

Al was miserable about the whole business. He wrote his friend Jim Sawyer: "I feel like a real quitter and don't know yet how to behave. I had thought that my innards would outwear my head. But it's my time, I guess, and so I have no kick coming. I do wish, though, that I had had a little advance warning and could therefore have kept my desk in better shape."(101) A month later he was able to return to "Archmeadow," the house in Danvers that he had purchased, even though his convalescence, according to his doctor, was "stormy and prolonged."(102) From then on, his recovery was steady, however, and by late January Jim Sawyer could write that he was on the "top of the wave."(103) Al was in a difficult situation financially as well, and his recovery may have been hastened when he learned that the Trustees had voted to assume all his medical and hospital expenses.(104) He was temperamentally anxious to get back in the saddle, and thus was of two minds about a Trustee vote that he take a leave of absence for the spring term. He did not want to dump the responsibilities of headmaster on Charlie Forbes, who had been acting in his place, he wrote Jim Sawyer; yet perhaps he should completely regain his strength. He was perfectly willing to have the School make use of his house in Andover, and if the Trustees wanted him to take the spring term off, he would agree, for 'They are the 'boss'---and I won't fight them."(105) In the meantime, there was some talk of his being chosen the new President of Amherst, and some evidence that the Trustees of Phillips Academy might favor his accepting the position, should it be offered to him.(106) In May Al was able to participate in the ceremonies dedicating the Cochran Chapel and generally seemed to be regaining his strength. As James Hardy Ropes, President of the Trustees, wrote in June, "He fully expects to come back in full vigor in September, and his doctor, with whom I had a full talk, expected him to be able to do so."(107)

But it was not to be. Though there is nothing in the record, something happened at the Trustee Meeting of 16 June to change Al Stearns's future completely. In the light of what happened later, it is clear that a decision was reached to demand his resignation. In spite of disclaimers by the Trustees, it also seems clear than an important influence on the Trustee decision was Al's relationship with Miss Grace Clemons. It will be remembered that Al's wife had been in an institution for some twenty years and that he had engaged Miss Clemons to bring up his children. Miss Clemons proved to be a difficult person to deal with---emotional, opinionated, and hypersensitive. Many of the Faculty believed that one's success at Andover could be determined by her, such was her influence over Al Stearns.(108) She was at the same time a woman of great cultivation and taste. Al's mother-in-law had made him swear never to remarry as long as his wife still lived,(109) but it is clear that he felt a moral obligation, if not a genuine desire, to marry Miss Clemons once he was free. None of this can be documented, but the presumption is strong that this was the case. Professor Ropes wrote to the contrary:

I told Stearns, I believe, that his household affairs had not been so much as mentioned in the Trustees' consultation about the matter, and I think it can be said with perfect truthfulness that they do not constitute an element in the present situation. Of course, they lie in the background of the thought of all of us, but are in no sense whatever an occasion of the present action of the Trustees or of myself .... Mrs. Stearns ... is as well as she was a year ago, and for ought I can see she may live twenty years more in her present pitiable condition.(110)

In any event, Professor Ropes went in July to give Al the hard word:

I first told him of the Trustees' plan to grant him $11,500 for his debts, and with some difficulty persuaded him to accept it. Then I gave him my advice to resign to take effect September 1, 1932, also telling him that his retiring allowance would in any case be $10,000 and that the Trustees earnestly desired it, if help from the alumni can be secured, to make it $15,000.

He was naturally a good deal shaken up by the conversation, but had himself well in hand, and our talk was a very friendly one.(111)

After consultation with Acting Headmaster Charlie Forbes, Ropes modified his original proposal. It was now suggested that Al take a year's leave of absence for 1932-33 and then resign in 1933. There is no question that the Trustee decision hit Al Stearns hard. Nor was his life made any easier by Grace Clemons' charge that by that decision they were branding her a "scarlet woman" and attacking Al's character.(112) Throughout the remainder of the summer Charlie Forbes was a constant visitor at Archmeadow and did a great deal to reconcile Al to the leave of absence. But Charlie became more and more disturbed at Al's state of mind; he was not sleeping well, was "mulling over the whole business in his mind," and appeared "upset and muddled."(113) And well he might be. President Hopkins of Dartmouth, a Trustee, wrote sympathetically about the hard life Al had had:

All in all, it seems to me difficult to imagine a worse fate than has been his. First of all, he was bred to such deference to his mother that he was compelled to marry one girl when all of his affection and desire were for another. Then he was obliged to live for years not only deprived of every solace and comfort of home life but in actual terror at times of the increasing mental unbalance of his wife lest it result in personal tragedy to her or in violence to the children.

Finally, he is bound by law to a being that is hardly a human being but simply an animate mass of matter while deprived of making any adjustment which would give him congenial companionship and offer him some of the peace and quiet of life which has never been his.(114)

On 27 July Al applied to Ropes for a year's leave of absence, but with no mention of his resignation a year later. Yet it was implied in a statement he made to the effect that the School could be administered successfully under Charlie Forbes and without him.(115) Shortly afterward the Trustee Committee on Exigencies met and granted Al's request for a sabbatical. They also voted to recommend to the full Board that Al be elected a Trustee to fill a then-existing vacancy. Ropes told Hopkins that he thought the idea basically bad, but he believed it would do much to heal any wounds that might be occasioned by Al's resignation, and he was sure that Al would not embarrass Charlie Forbes at meetings.(116) Hopkins wrote back that he hoped the matter could be deferred for the time being, and in fact Al's election as Trustee never did take place.(117) To make Al's life more difficult during this period a movement developed to get rid of his appointee Buell Trowbridge and his controversial course in Science and Modern Life. Part of the course was devoted to a study of Soviet Russia, in which Trowbridge had a keen interest, and the anti-Bolshevik forces in the Andover community wanted his scalp. But there was more to it than that; intelligent observers---particularly Charlie Forbes---did not have confidence in Trowbridge's ability as a teacher and scholar and believed he should go for these reasons; and he did go, the following year. This was a bitter blow for Al Stearns, who was sure that his protégé was performing a useful service for the boys, and he wrote Hopkins a long argumentative letter in his defense.(118)

Early in October James Ropes went to Archmeadow to visit Al. He was reassured to find him much like his old self, even though he was disturbed at reports from Charlie Forbes and Miss Clemons of Al's highly emotional state and his outbursts of temper.(119) Al was apparently able to get himself in hand, however, and on 14 October he, Miss Clemons, his daughter Marjorie, and a Mrs. Griffith sailed for Europe on the S.S. Minnewaska. He was never to hold an official position at Phillips Academy again.

The Stearns party traveled in Europe for the rest of the fall of 1932. New Year's 1933 found him in Nice, France, and it was from this beautiful resort that Al wrote his letter of resignation to the Trustees. After reviewing his thirty years as Headmaster, he said he had reached the conclusion that "the helm should be entrusted to younger hands." While he was feeling stronger, he was still "distrustful of the extent of my reserves" and thought that he should engage in less exacting work. Finally, he had great confidence in the men who were currently running the school and was sure that the future of the institution was in good hands.(120) Al's letter very nearly went astray; it was sent to Professor Ropes and apparently arrived just one day before Ropes's death. When Charlie Forbes went to Cambridge to look for Rope's notes for the coming Trustee Meeting, he found the letter and presented it to the Board. The Board accepted the resignation "with the deepest regret" and immediately and unanimously elected Al Headmaster Emeritus, They then passed a resolution expressing their affection for Al and their hopes for his increasing strength in the future. Finally, they voted that until further notice he was to receive the same salary that he had received as Headmaster. Thus the job was done.(121) The rest of the Al Stearns story is soon told. In March 1933 he and Miss Clemons returned to Danvers, where they were to live for the next ten years. In June of that year his wife finally died, and in September he and Miss Clemons were finally married. He maintained distant relations with the School. In June 1933 he spoke at the Alumni Luncheon; each year in September he preached in the Academy Chapel; he made speeches and generally lent a hand with the fund drive of the late 1930's. Aside from his contacts with Phillips Academy, he was in great demand as a speaker and preacher, and the Bulletin used to print accounts of his engagements regularly. But his major interest came to be Amherst College. It was somehow fitting that he should return to his birthplace and his alma mater in his last years. He had always been active in Amherst affairs; he was a Trustee and in his later years became President of the Board. In 1943 Grace Clemons Stearns died, and he sold the Danvers house and returned to Andover with his daughter Marjorie, purchasing a house on Locke Street. When John Mason Kemper became Headmaster in 1948, he invited Al to address the undergraduate body in George Washington Hall. Al thought the boys would be interested in some of the early student riots that had taken place in his first years as Headmaster and recounted the story of them with great gusto. Later that afternoon John Kemper called him up and said that as a result of his talk the present undergraduates were staging a similar riot out on the football field. Al was chastened, but Kemper was highly amused. The following year Al suffered a heart attack and was confined to his bed. His last days were made immeasurably brighter by a new invention---television---on which he could watch baseball games. He died in November 1949.

Al Stearns was indubitably a great Headmaster, as the many tributes to him at the time of his retirement and of his death bear testimony. He had served Phillips Academy longer than any Headmaster except Uncle Sam Taylor, and when the increased size of the School is considered, more boys sat at his feet than at any other Headmaster's in the School's history. He was no educational innovator; the curriculum when he left Andover had changed but little from what it was in 1903. Many thought that his moral precepts were products of a forgotten world and had little relevance in contemporary society. But he had a tremendous concern for the boys in his charge, and few of them ever forgot that. His capacity for sheer hard work was almost unbelievable; indeed one wonders how he ever did as much as he did for the students, the Faculty, the alumni, the parents, and people in the town. He was fortunate in being Headmaster at a time when there was great loyalty to the School among the alumni and when the alumni had the means of translating that loyalty into tangible improvements for the School. The growth of the Phillips Academy plant during his administration was little short of breathtaking. But his life was a hard one. His family difficulties alone would have been enough to break another man. Despite blows and disappointments along the way, he finished strong---as dedicated to the principles he had lived by as he had ever been.