In his 43 years at Princeton, thousands of students had come to know George McLean Harperand hundreds never forgot him. They had listened to his dry, earnest voice over a classroom lectern, or heard him read aloud a favorite poet in his sun-patched garden. They knew him as an erect and kindly man who loved all that was good in men & books. Sometimes, over milk and cakes in his garden, he would begin a quiet discussion of Milton or Sainte-Beuve, and would soon become so excited by a point that his chair would...
To continue reading:
or
Log-In
