college presidents did it for years—is to keep himself constantly informed, in a general way, of every investigation that is going on in his institution, and to encourage those who are doing this work, publicly and privately. This sort of encouragement costs but little, but, coming from him whose position and whose judgment command his highest respect, is of incalculable help to the weary, sensitive investigator. He needs to be cheered on by the knowledge that what he is doing is meeting, not indifference, but active encouragement by those to whom he is most responsible for what he does. The writer has known capable men to be timidly engaged on investigations about which it was almost impossible to get them to say anything at all. They acted as though nature was a huge bungle for which they were responsible and of which they therefore were heartily ashamed, or as if they were on the point of making some wonderful discovery which if suddenly revealed in its perfected form would startle the civilized world.
This frame of mind, harmful alike to the man himself and to his associates, is most unwholesome, and one from which the president, more than any one else, can help to free him, since it often originates in the real or supposed isolation of the victim in his work; a condition, as every scholar knows, inimical to creative activity, whether it be the isolation of positive loneliness, or that worse form, the isolation of uncongenial surroundings. And in this connection it should be remembered that because of the intensity and exhausting nature of his work, the research man needs pleasant surroundings and frequent diversions; conditions over which the president unfortunately has but little control, and which therefore should be given all the more careful consideration, if possible, in the original selection of the institution's location. The faculty of an isolated institution is itself in great measure isolated, and commonly the creative work one does in a desert, under the oppression of ennui, bears but little relation to what he can do when agreeably situated and surrounded by things intellectually stimulating. The investigator, imaginative like the poet, nervous and often overwrought, is sensitive, and, while easily elated, just as easily depressed; and therefore when no one takes an obvious interest in what he is doing, and there are no ready means of diversion, he tends to become morose, and keeps his thoughts to himself, where they are likely to find anything but cheerful company.
However, under all conditions let the investigator be encouraged to talk, let him join with his colleagues in the formation of a local science club for the free exchange of ideas, and there let him talk often and talk freely. It will aid greatly to clear up his own ideas—this explaining of things to others—and will help to keep him enthusiastic. In this way his light will not be hid under a bushel, but shine, as it were, from a hilltop where it will be of the greatest help to his neighbors. Because of this sort of encouragement and this sort of united effort and material
