was perfectly balanced, eminently respectable, and thoroughly mummified. As it was, so I taught it. Then came that little, determined, gray-eyed Welshman, and now I find myself teaching workmen's compensation, old-age pensions, labor exchanges, minimum wage, town planning, income and super-tax, graduated death duties, and unearned increment tax. It has made the course throb with living interest, to be sure, but really, can one touch so much radical pitch and not be defiled? Even worse and more unsettling influences emanate from the one-time right-little, tight-little isle. There are Wells and Shaw and Galsworthy and that most subversive conservative, Chesterton.
All these influences might have remained purely academic and exotic were it not for the national campaign of 1912. In that year, for the first time in my experience, American politics began to speak a living language, to bristle with real issues, to put human interests in the center of political striving. All over the country professors and students woke up. Many of us seized the opportunity to put before the public convictions that had been forming in our minds for years. To us this seemed a civic duty; to others, no doubt, it was rank partisanship, pernicious political activity, notoriety seeking, or plain office-hunting. I am aware that all this is essentially commonplace, the experience of thousands of Americans outside as well as inside college walls. Professors in the field of politics, economics and social science, however, are face to face with certain vital questions as a result of their new point of view and new activities. Particularly is this the case in those pioneer institutions of the Middle West which to the ideals of teaching and research have added the ideal of public service. First in this field, the University of Wisconsin is already under fire from the ranks both of practical politicians and of the interests which have been skulking under the glare of the academic searchlight of that great institution. To those familiar with Western universities it is apparent that this is only the beginning of a general conflict which must be fought out in the course of the next few years.
American colleges both public and private are governed by boards These boards are made up largely of men capable of commanding funds or influence, both of which, it must be admitted, they have given generously to the colleges. With few exceptions men of this type are conservative to the backbone. To most of them even the policies of the Wilson administration are dangerously radical and subversive of prosperity. Indeed, the word seems to have been passed about discreetly that of course no new endowments can be hoped for so long as the Democratic party is in power. Sincere and patriotic according to their lights, these men will neglect no means to get back to what they consider safe and sane conditions. It will be a miracle if the radicalism of our colleges, mild as most of it is, escapes their notice entirely.
It does not seem likely to me that there will be much heresy-hunting in the open. Small and backward institutions may attempt it; there are the recent cases of Professor Fisher at Connecticut Wesleyan, and of Professor Morse at Marietta College in Ohio. Large and established institutions are too well advised to go far in this direction. The recent conflict at the University of Pennsylvania is highly significant. What looked like a determined raid upon certain teachers in Wharton School of that institution collapsed almost instantly under a return fire of publicity.
Short of discharge, however, pressure of many sorts can be brought to bear. Appropriations for equipment or assistance may be cut down, thus throwing crushing burdens of routine work upon outspoken instructors; they may be deprived of various academic opportunities and honors; the "social chill" policy may be employed against them; promotions due in the ordinary course of events may be delayed or refused. Through many insidious channels the impression may be conveyed that they are "unsafe," "unsound," "unscientific." The great advantage of so stigmatizing a man is that it relieves one from the necessity of combatting with fact and argument his teachings—a task which might be considerably more difficult.
But what of the glorious tradition of academic freedom? Alas, it is a tradition only. Many men in the quieter reaches of college life believe that the last occasion warranting appeal to it was in the case of Galileo. They should want peace and endowments for research, above all things; that some of them should deplore all economic or political controversy likely to imperil these ends, is natural. But in the field of the social sciences new tendencies and new demands make imperative not only an appeal to the ideal of academic freedom, but a thoroughgoing definition of that appeal which will stand firm under criticism and direct assault.
Of course I am aware that, like all confessions, this is an ex parte statement. It will be repudiated, sincerely enough, by the elect company of the "safe and sane," who already "have all the freedom they want." It will be denied, from motives of policy and an ingrained habit of academic caution, by others who believe that private conferences and gentlemen's agreements are more effective than open discussion. But there the issue is, nevertheless And upon its settlement, I am convinced, depends very largely the further democratic development or the aristocratic atrophy of American colleges and universities.
