absolutely neglected. And, to crown all, it was found that even in the classics no satisfactory work was done. Few of the pupils could read even Latin with any ease, and none were ever asked to do so at sight. It would have been useless.[1]
Certainly no such state of affairs can be found in any American institution. But there are facts in plenty with the same bearing. Dissociate a body of men from their fellow-citizens, set up an independent caste by endowing it financially, and the consequences appear even in a country where public opinion is as omnipotent as here. The difficulty of forcing progressive action on our colleges is a sufficient illustration. We live in an age of unparalleled "passion, pulse, and power"—an age with gigantic problems suddenly laid on it; our civilization is chiefly industrial, and the railway, the factory, and labor organizations are the largest elements of our social life. Would any one believe a priori that under these circumstances our colleges "would be still haggling over the Greek and Latin question, and that only one of them in the entire country should give instruction on railway transportation, the most important subject now before the public, and the one also on which there is such vast ignorance?[2] This, however, is only one instance of the disgusting narrowness of the professorial intellect as "stimulated" by endowments. Everywhere we find a total want of connection between the colleges—especially those old and rich—and the life of the people. Go into a university library, and, after listening to the complaints of the librarian about the paltry sums at his disposal, you will find splendid and expensive editions of Percy's "Reliques," Scott's "Dryden," hundreds of volumes of pedantic discussion about Shakespeare, and you will look in vain probably for the great newspapers which so faithfully reflect the nation's life; and "Bradstreets," "The Railroad Gazette," and frequently even "The Century," "Harper's," "The Forum," and "The Popular Science Monthly" will also be wanting. Recent American literature is treated with similar disdain. The want of direct responsibility to the public is felt in all directions. When a railway corporation discovers that a man is incompetent, it discharges him; a newspaper takes care not to retain poor writers. But no incapacity is so great that a college position, once gained, need be lost. Go through any of our great institutions, and you will find that year after year the same complaints have been made by students regarding their instructors. These have produced no effect, because the stimulus of duty not re-enforced by interest is not sufficient. It is a disagreeable thing to discharge a man, and it is not done when the authorities have no personal interest in the matter. Thus college professorships in this country come to a pass
