“I mean this,” said Brockhurst, speaking slowly in the effort to express a difficult thought. “I hope I can make it clear. What would be the natural thing? A man goes to college. He works as he wants to work, he plays as he wants to play, he exercises for the fun of the game, he makes friends where he wants to make them, he is held in by no fear of criticism above, for the class ahead of him has nothing to do with his standing in his own class. Everything he does has the one vital quality: it is spontaneous. That is the flame of youth itself. Now, what really exists?”
As he paused, Stover, unable to find an opening for dissent, observed with interest the attitudes of the listeners: Pike, his pipe forgotten in the hollow of his hand, was staring into the fire, his forehead drawn in difficult comprehension; Regan was puffing steady, methodical puffs, nodding his head from time to time. In the background Swazey’s earnest face was turned in their direction, and the cards, neglected, were moving in a lazy shuffle; Brown, the debater, man of words rather than ideas, was running his fingers nervously through his drooping hair, chafing for the chance to enter the fray; Lake, tilted back, his fat body exaggerated under the swollen rolls of his sweater, from which from time to time he dug out a chip, kept murmuring:
“Perfectly correct, sir; perfectly correct.”
Ricketts, without lifting his head, arranged and rearranged his pile of chips, listening with one ear cocked, deriving meanwhile all the profit which could be gained from his companions’ divided attention. Two things struck Stover particularly in the group—the rough, unhewn personal exteriors, and the quick, awakened light of enthusiasm on their faces while listening to the expounding of an idea. Brockhurst himself was transformed. All the excessive self-consciousness which irritated and repelled was lost in the fervor of the thinker. He spoke, not as one who discussed, but as one who, consciously superior to his audience, announced his conclusions; and at times, when most interested, he seemed to be addressing himself.
“Now, what is the actual condition here?” He rose, stretching himself against the mantel, lighting a match which died out, as did a half-dozen others, unnoticed on his pipe. “I say our colleges today are business colleges—Yale more so, perhaps, because it is more sensitively American. Let’s take up any side of our life here. Begin with athletics. What has become of the natural, spontaneous joy of contest? Instead you have one of the most perfectly organized business systems for achieving a required result—success. Football is driving, slavish work; there isn’t one man in twenty who gets any real pleasure out of it. Professional baseball is not more rigorously disciplined and driven than our ‘amateur’ teams. Add the crew and the track. Play, the fun of the thing itself, doesn’t exist; and why? Because we have made a business out of it all, and the college is scoured for material, just as drummers are sent out to bring in business.
“Take another case. A man has a knack at the banjo or guitar, or has a good voice. What is the spontaneous thing? To meet with other kindred spirits in informal gatherings in one another’s rooms or at the fence, according to the whim of the moment. Instead what happens? You have our university musical clubs, thoroughly professional organizations. If you are material, you must get out and begin to work for them—coach with a professional coach, make the Apollo clubs, and, working on, some day in junior year reach the varsity organization and go out on a professional tour. Again an organization conceived on business lines.
“The same is true with the competition for our papers: the struggle for existence outside in a business world is not one whit more intense than the struggle to win out in the News or Lit competition. We are like a beef trust, with every byproduct organized, down to the last possibility. You come to Yale—what is said to you? ‘Be natural, be spontaneous, revel in a certain freedom, enjoy a leisure you’ll never get again, browse around, give your imagination a chance, see everyone, rub wits with everyone, get to know yourself.’
“Is that what’s said? No. What are you told, instead? ‘Here are twenty great machines that need new bolts and wheels. Get out and work. Work harder than the next man, who is going to try to outwork you. And, in order to succeed, work at only one thing. You don’t count—everything for the college.’ Regan says the colleges don’t represent the nation; I say they don’t even represent the individual.”
“What would you do?” said Brown. “Abolish all organizations?”
“Absolutely,” said Brockhurst, who never recoiled.
“What! Do you mean to say that the college of 1870 was a bigger thing than the college of today?”
“My dear Brown, it isn’t even debatable,” said Brockhurst, with a little contempt, for he did not understand nor like the man of flowing words. “What have we today that is bigger? Is it this organization of external activities? We have more bricks and stones, but have we the great figures in the teaching staff? I grant you, this is purely an economic failure—but at the bottom of the whole thing compare the spirit inside the campus now and then. Who were the leaders then? The men of brains. Then the college did reflect the country; then it was a vital hotbed of political thought. Today everything that has been developed is outside the campus; and it’s so in every college. This is the tendency—development away from the campus at the expense of the campus. That’s why, when you ask me would I wipe out our business athletics
