Read Ebook: The Yale Literary Magazine (Vol. LXXXIX No. 1 1923) by Various

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The Yale Literary Magazine

WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR. LAIRD SHIELDS GOLDSBOROUGH DAVID GILLIS CARTER MORRIS TYLER NORMAN REGINALD JAFFRAY

GEORGE W. P. HEFFELFINGER WALTER CRAFTS

It would be difficult for even the most blindly ardent supporter of Yale to deny that the traditional four-year course for the degree of Bachelor of Arts no longer remains intact. There are probably fewer who realize that an ever increasing number are receiving that degree after completing a course that has had little or no relation to the field of learning to which, by its very title, it is closely related.

Disintegration of the long established College curriculum has been going on ever since the war. It began with the introduction of the old "Select Course" of the Scientific School into the Academic curriculum under the imposing title of Bachelor of Philosophy. This innovation was followed shortly by the institution of the Common Freshman Year. Furthermore, if a student now intends to become a lawyer, he may devote an entire year to the study of law--and yet graduate as a Bachelor of Arts. Likewise, if an undergraduate desires to devote his life to the practice of medicine, he may start as early as Sophomore year, spending most of his time in the laboratories on Prospect Hill scrutinizing the hidden mechanism of feline organs--and still graduate as a Bachelor of Arts. In other words, assuming that the Freshman year is not very different from what it was in ante-bellum days, which is not the case, one-third of every class in Yale College is now graduated as B.A. men without more than a three years' "exposure" to the subjects which, in the eyes of the world, are customarily associated with that educational label.

The reason for this state of affairs may be fairly stated in a single word--vocationalism. This utilitarian mania for taking the short-cut to one's life-work has been in recent years the ideal of a large portion of American college men, and has left its mark on almost every educational institution in this country, by forcing them to change their curricula to meet the demand. Harvard long ago yielded to the pressure of vocational demands in the matter of time, permitting graduation in three years. It was not long after that Columbia took still more drastic action by allowing admission to her graduate schools at the end of Junior Year. In so doing these institutions were unconsciously practicing the methods of the Correspondence Schools and the twenty-lessons-in-your-home concerns whose business it is to supply the needs of those who seek the short road to the payroll. The liberal colleges endeavoring to provide such short-cuts by making inroads on their liberal curricula are untrue to their genius and merely challenge impossible competition.

It may be argued that this desire for specialization at the earliest possible moment was the natural result of the ever increasing complexity of modern life and the bewildering ramifications of present-day knowledge which forced the bulk of undergraduates to accept isolation in a single subject. This may be quite true, yet there remains the question of whether or not it is the place of the college, and in particular Yale College, to offer that opportunity even in part.

The recognized place for specialization is the graduate school. The graduate student works presumably in a special atmosphere created by the common labors of a common group for a common end; the end being a particular degree desired because it has come to signify that the bearer of such a symbol has mastered the details of a recognized branch of learning. A graduate school is the most suitable medium for accomplishing the task in hand. It is the only reason we have post-graduate schools at all.

The existing situation in the college is exactly the reverse. Those who are working for the B.A. degree and nothing else are carrying on side by side with what are in reality pre-medical students and first-year lawyers. Out of this have sprung two separate points of view on the same campus. On the one hand there is a group which pursues its studies with the realization that upon the complete mastery of every detail depends in a large measure the success or failure of its life-work. On the other, there remain those who are still searching in their work for that particular field which to them will seem to be the one to which they wish to devote their future time and energy. The result is a repetition of the old story of the house divided against itself. It is just this condition, we believe, that has led to such restless, groping questionings as, "What is Yale for?" The definition of a university as being one body of which there are many members admirably illustrates the point. For the college to-day is in the anomalous position of attempting to perform the duties of two members where it formerly functioned as one. Such a state of affairs is not conducive to the health of any organization whatever.

The solution in the minds of many seems to lie in the abolishment of the old college course, following the law of the survival of the fittest. This issue of our present afflictions we believe would be a regretable blunder. There should always be a place for the study of the so-called liberal arts; for the contemplation of "all the best that has been thought and said and done in the world". Without such a background many a man cannot do his best work. What place is better fitted to continue this undertaking than Yale, established in this spirit, as attested by the words of the founder, "I give these books for the founding of a college"? Professor Mather in a recent address summed up the ideal of the college in these glowing terms:

"The college does its work alongside a dozen other equally worthy educational institutions, mostly vocational. It does not compete with them; it directly supplements them and incidentally aids them. It has its own aims, which are not immediately practical, vocational, or material.

"I should like to see inscribed over our college portals the following inscription:

"'Generous Youth! Enter at your peril. We may so quicken your imagination as to bring you loss as the world counts it. There may be a great inventor in you now, there may only be a poet in you when you leave us; the captain of industry in you may give place to some obscure pursuit of philosophy; you are literary, we shall leave you forever incapable of best sellers; you are philanthropic, we may develop the detached critic in you; you are politically shrewd and practical, we may bring out the Utopian visionary in you. For our values are not those of the world of work, with which we can only incidentally help you to make terms--our values are those of the world of thought. We shall make you contemporary of all ages, and since you must after all live in this age, such an extension of your interest and imagination may make you an exile in your own day and place. We offer you no material reward of any sort for your effort here, we may even diminish the rewards you would enjoy if you kept away from us. We offer you nothing but what we ourselves most treasure--the companionship of the great dreamers and thinkers. Enter if you dare. Should you enter, this college will be indeed to you Alma Mater. All that we have shall be yours.'"

In short, the duty of the college is to give its members their intellectual bearings. What the prospective lawyer really needs to broaden his horizon and prevent him from succumbing to the bondage of his shop, is letters, science, mathematics; what the future doctor needs is letters, art, history, and the unbiological sciences. This ought to be the function of the college. To continue along any other line is to destroy forever the Yale that has held such an enviable place in American life for over two centuries--to extinguish the light that has been a source of guidance and inspiration to its large and distinguished band of alumni.

MORRIS TYLER.

The pleasant hills in solemn silence sleeping Under a sunset of perpetual fire, Past summer's weeping, Shall know no more the vibrant melody Of thy sad songs, O lovely shepherd boy! The winds are free And chill November Sweeps thy reed music and thy lyric joy Away with all the things I would remember.

The wood-smoke on the silent autumn air, The disconsolate petals on the grass Symbol despair, And all the fragrance of divine Apollo Is fled from this incalculable loss Where none may follow. Is there no rest In the stark shadow of a naked cross In silhouette against the scarlet west?

Shall I forsake philosopher and sage Rebellious drawn From solemn cloister and scholastic page And get me gone. O shepherd of the slender fingers? Guide me above the mountain passes Through the lush grasses Where thy music lingers, Out of nocturnal anguish into dawn.

For I shall sing to thee of Mytelene And ancient things And paint with poppied words a twilight scene Where Lesbos flings Her stretch of Sapphic isle Over the sea. Ah, liquid interlude! We would intrude But for a little while Upon the rapture of ambrosial springs.

This then is all of the enchanted vision Far from the dusty passion of the streets? The world's derision, The inarticulate call Of ageless things in the awakened woods, Unhappy autumn moods And the wan summons of a grieving fate, Hastening through the twilight pall And beauties vanished, inarticulate?

Let no dim spectres haunt my darkened brain Like aspens whispering at eventide Of ancient pain So oft repeated. I shall flee far from the abysmal night, Not in impetuous flight, But, lingering by Lethe's tideless void Shall slumber undefeated In sunset woods, forever unannoyed.

LUCIUS BEEBE.

The swift and sharp-tongued flame of death Has touched our hearts. We love no more; No more for us to drink the breath Of life in one long kiss and store Its fragrance 'till we kiss again. All that is gone, and gone our dreams. Remember if you will. The stain Of rich red wine for me, it seems, Is better far than memories. And lest the ghostly perfume smell Too sweet, and life be drowned in seas Like this--I drink and say farewell.

EUGENE A. DAVIDSON.

BENEDICTION

You may not question why he chose you From so many more-- Why his tiny hands have fumbled At your door. To a land of fifty cross-roads He has come to-day, Placed his eager hands in yours, And asked his way.

He will follow where you lead him-- Bright and stormy skies; And at evening still beside you Close his eyes. Keep his trust, O You the Chosen-- Far shall be his way. Clasp him to your heart and bless him With all you may.

RECALL.

Dark was the hour you slipped away, Veiled in the shadowed light. Touched with a sleep the others lay Then as they do to-night. Come, my darling, oh, come to mother, Come for an hour and go; For the stars which gaze upon one another-- Only the stars shall know.

Fair was the spring you left behind, Born of a teeming womb; And now once more has a gentle wind Breathed, and the gardens bloom. Come, my darling, oh, come for an hour-- Quick e'er the night is done; And if you should ask for a single flower, How could they miss just one?

Those who played in the sun with you-- Sure, they are playing still; For Life is a spendthrift hand to woo, Led by a reckless will. Come, my darling, for treasured and deep Take of my love but this; And if once more to my arms you creep, Who would begrudge one kiss?

JUST TO-DAY

The shepherds slip into the fields Where Father's gone himself. The books I should be studying Are still upon the shelf. O Mother, let me close my sleepy eyes, And tell me where the fairy desert lies.

What makes you silent? Must you work Like Father every hour? Your hands are busy as two bees Which suck a honey flower. But, Mother, while the sunlight fills the skies, Tell me where the Tagra Desert lies.

At curfew Father will return, And I shall lose you then. I promise some day I shall learn As much as other men. So, Mother, just before the daylight flies Tell me where the Tagra Desert lies.

WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR.

D. G. CARTER.

Night, and vessels softly lifting From the surges of the sea, Arms to breezes ever shifting As they whisper low to me.

Silhouetted masts are weaving Circles wavering to lean Nearer waves in slumber heaving Far below a cold moon's sheen....

Clothed in glory, still and splendid, Starlight shimmers in her hair, And my lady's form is blended With the shadows, waiting there.

As in silence we are taken In the evening's soft embrace, Would I never could awaken From the wonder in her face.

R. P. CRENSHAW, JR.

Sail forth across the jade-green sea and view the glades our fathers trod, Their rolling lawns of deathless sod, their hoary castles dear to me.

Catch the pale vision of the past, the sound of stealthy slippered feet; Rest on the moss-grown garden seat and find a lover's shadow cast.

Creep into Catherine cubicle and sense her icy presence there; Her figure bent and drawn with care as Alchemist o'er crucible.

Look down the waving lane of trees that lines the speckled road's approach Where glides the flashing golden coach with gay plumes trembling in the breeze.

Gaze up at Longeais from the moat and feel the ages slip away Until its grey walls seem at bay before the host in armored coat.

Go to each ancient place above and bless it with your noiseless tread; Your presence there should stir the dead with tremulous warm thoughts of love.

Leave here for me your image fair, graven in crystal carved by time, Untarnished as a star sublime, unchanging as the love I bear.

God speed you under other skies, drink deep of Europe's scented charm, But keep the gesture of your arm, the wistful wonder in your eyes.

MORRIS TYLER.

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