Higher Learning in Britain [Reprint 2020 ed.] 9780520345379

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H I G H E R L E A R N I N G IN BRITAIN

GEORGE F. KNELLER

HIGHER LEARNING IN

BRITAIN

U N I V E R S I T Y OF C A L I F O R N I A P R E S S B E R K E L E Y A N D LOS A N G E L E S

1955

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOCO*

UNIVERSITY

OF C A L I F O R N I A

B E R K E L E Y A N D LOS CAMBRIDGE

UNIVERSITY

LONDON,

PRESS,

ANGELES PRESS,

ENGLAND

Printed in Great Britain, at the University Press, Cambridge (Brooke Crutchley, University Printer)

With gratitude to PATRICIA LOCK who challenged me to do it

vii

P R E F A C E Nowhere in the world of the last decade have progress and change in higher learning been more marked than in Great Britain. Following World War II, Parliament instituted an extensive reform in the nation's elementary and secondary schools, the impact of which was immediately felt in the loftier spheres of higher education. T h e universities remained independent, as always, but all of them were forced to examine their behavior in the light of the grave national and cultural exigencies which faced the country as a result of war sacrifices. In the course of this examination, many publications appeared and numerous conferences were held in an effort to provide reliable foundations on which progress could continue in the light of new conditions. Most of the publications were of a private, specialized nature, advocating a particular type of educational practice. Conferences, too, dealt with the part rather than the whole of educational life; their recommendations referred to select phases of method, content, or procedure. T h e absence, in at least ten years, of a comprehensive, objective presentation of British university education provided the stimulus for this study. Viewed by an outsider, who for a number of years had been introducing Americans to the British schools, and who for two years had been privileged to serve as a visiting professor at the University of London, the entire configuration, it was hoped, would be more clearly, more dispassionately, and more significantly interpreted. This inquiry is limited to higher learning in the universities. A l l other forms of education taking place after the compulsory school-leaving age and designated in Britain as 'further education', including adult education, are dealt with only incidentally.* T h e main purpose is to reveal the place of the universities in national life today and to describe existing educational theory, practice and ideals out of a background of social, economic, political, intellectual, religious and general cultural conditions. * Especially recommended in the area of further education is S. G. Raybould, The English Universities and Adult Education (London: Workers Educational Association, 1951).

viii

PREFACE

Authorities drawn upon are almost exclusively British. Critical comment, where made, originates in what seems to be inner inconsistency of expressed thought or activity, rather than in personal bias, although no claim can be made to absolute impartiality. With the exception of the final chapter, the approach is predominantly expository, descriptive and analytical. The historical material presented is designed more to provide the reader with necessary and pertinent background information than to elicit new facts. In the interest of fair and honest reporting, virtually all the living authorities quoted in the text were given an opportunity to comment on my use of their writings. In all instances replies were forthcoming which induced me to modify my interpretations and render them more faithful to original meanings. The exchange of letters was especially interesting, because in attempting to convey their intentions more precisely, authors in nearly every instance tended to be less dogmatic and more conciliatory than in their published work. Typical of such attitudes was that of Professor Arnold Nash, formerly chaplain to the British Student Christian Movement, and currently professor of religious education at the University of North Carolina. Professor Nash wrote in part: I am afraid that at many points I find myself in agreement with some of your strictures. The book was written in my early thirties, twelve years ago, and after five years' experience as chairman of a department of religion in a state university (North Carolina), I think I see where, at many points, the book was wrong and my arguments were confused.... Substantially I would not change my basic criticisms of the contemporary democratic university. It is simply that I think that I can see now much more clearly than I could twelve or thirteen years ago the relevance of a Christian critique.

From Professor Bonamy Dobrde, department of English, University of Leeds, came the rueful comment: 'I would say it differently today; but alas, what one has said one has said.' In nearly every case it has been possible to incorporate the revised attitudes. This interchange of correspondence incidentally could not fail to create many vital personal relationships which have become a cherished memory. The work was read critically from beginning to end by L. Arnaud Reid, professor of the philosophy of education at the University of London; W. H. Cowley, professor of higher

PREFACE

IX

education at Stanford University; Joseph A. Lauwerys, professor of comparative education, University of London; Flaud G. Wooton, professor of the history of education, University of California (Los Angeles); and Stanley J. Curtis, senior lecturer in education, University of Leeds. Individual chapters were given careful, critical readings by W. H. G. Armytage, professor of education, University of Sheffield; Sir Walter Moberly, formerly chairman of the University Grants Committee; W. R. Niblett, director of the Institute of Education, University of Leeds; and Sir Hector Hetherington, principal of the University of Glasgow. Geoffrey Barnard, lecturer in English at the University of London, grappled valiantly with the style and expression of the author. Frequent and mutually entertaining discussions served to bring out differences between American and British methods of expression and to produce a text whose technical language would be comprehensible on both sides of the Atlantic. The late Professor Sir Fred Clarke, formerly director of the Institute of Education at the University of London, guided production until a few days before he died. His seasoned comment and friendly counsel provided the necessary stimulus to dig deeply for more sound and reliable foundations. All these men, outstanding authorities in their respectivefields,generously gave to the manuscript the benefit of a lifetime of experience in their specialty. For their very personal and material efforts in supporting and forwarding the research I am especially indebted to G. B. Jeffery, director ofthe London University Institute of Education; Clyde M. Hill, chairman of the department of Education, Yale University; and the American Council of Learned Societies. The meticulous job of typing the manuscript in its various stages was expertly handled by Beatrice Coulter, of Boston, Barbara Shaw, of London, and Eleanor Roberts, of Los Angeles. Miss Roberts also composed the Index. Glenn Gosling and James Kubeck, of the University of California Press, carefully applied their editorial art to guide the manuscript to final publication. To all these persons and to countless other individuals and agencies contributing to the creation of this volume the author extends his eternal gratitude. Permission is gratefully acknowledged to quote from the following copyrighted publications: Arnold Nash, The Uni-

X

PREFACE

versity and the Modern World, Macmillan (copyright, S C M Press, 1945); F. R . Leavis, Education and the University, George W. Stewart (copyright, Chatto and Windus, 1943); Lord Lloyd of Dolobran, Leadership in Democracy, The Walker Trust, University of St Andrews (copyright, Oxford University Press, 1939); M. V . C. Jeffreys, Education—Christian or Pagan? (copyright, University of London, 1945); H. Rashdall, Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages (copyright, Clarendon Press, 1936); J. A . R. Marriott, Oxford, its Place in National History (copyright,Clarendon Press, 1933); A. Lowe, Universities in Transition (copyright, Sheldon, 1940); John Bernal, The Social Function of Science (copyright, Roudedge and Kegan Paul, 1939); Nicholas Hans, New Trends in Education (copyright, Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1951); S. C. Roberts, British Universities, Methuen (copyright, Collins, 1947); Bruce Truscot, Red Brick University (copyright, Faber and Faber, 1943); Brian Simon, A Student's View of the Universities, Henry Simon (copyright, Longmans Green, 1943); Lord Simon of Wythenshawe, The Development of British Universities, Henry Simon (copyright, Longmans Green, 1944); Dodds, Hacker and Rogers, Government Assistance to Universities in Great Britain (copyright, Columbia University Press, 1952); Richard Livingstone, Some Thoughts on University Education (copyright, Cambridge University Press, 1948); G. B. Jeffery, The Unity of Knowledge (copyright, Cambridge University Press, 1950); and selected passages from The Economist. I have received personal permission to quote from T . U. Matthew, Lessons in Productivity from the U.S.A. G. F. K . U N I V E R S I T Y OF LOS ANGELES,

CALIFORNIA CALIFORNIA

xi

TABLE OF CONTENTS I.

UNIVERSITY TRADITION

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

Corporations of Students and Masters Within These Hallowed Walls Early Studies and Criticism Centuries of Somnolence The Roots of Reform Fresh Winds of Intelligence

II. T H E A R C H I T E C T U R E LIFE

OF U N I V E R S I T Y

1. 2. 3. 4.

III.

IV.

page I

i 7 9 14 19 23 27

Panorama of a System The Framework of Government The Newer Organizations Thoughts on Organization and Administration 5. Corporate Life 6. Coeducation and Problems of Enrollment

27 33 38 41

U N I V E R S I T I E S A N D T H E P U B L I C PURSE

56

1. The State as Benefactor 2. The Problem of Control 3. Distribution of Funds

56 60 64

H I G H E R E D U C A T I O N IN N A T I O N A L SERVICE

71

1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6. 7.

71 75 80 83 88 93 96

Shortages and the Power of Knowledge Technological Education Agriculture and the Universities New Approaches to Statecraft Social Welfare and Teacher Preparation Medicine and Dentistry The Anatomy of Subject Matter

48 52

xii

V.

CONTENTS

T H E N A T U R E OF H I G H E R L E A R N I N G

page IOO

VI.

M O R A L MAN AND SOCIAL VALUES

153

VII.

SPECIALIZATION AND THE UNITY

185

OF VIII.

KNOWLEDGE

EDUCATION FOR DEMOCRATIC

211

LEADERSHIP IX.

SUMMARY AND CRITIQUE

223

NOTES

249

GLOSSARY

271

BIBLIOGRAPHY

277

INDEX

289

CHAPTER

I

UNIVERSITY TRADITION I.

CORPORATIONS

OF S T U D E N T S A N D

MASTERS

Who would not have compassion on these men who exile themselves through love of learning.. .and remain defenseless among persons who are sometimes of the vilest? Their science enlightens the whole world, and, thanks to it, subjects learn to live in obedience to God, and to the emperors, who are the ministers of God. FREDERICK BARBAROSSA Authentic Habita, 1158

Higher learning in Western Europe might be said to have come to life with the founding of the university at Bologna late in the eleventh century. At that time papacy and empire were on relatively good terms with each other. Towns and principalities throughout the Continent had instituted formal measures of security and control to guarantee profitable trading and safe travel, so that commerce thrived as never before. Learning followed closely on commercial prosperity. The Crusades had opened channels of communication with ancient knowledge and students from everywhere, desiring to train themselves in the art of acquiring the good things of life, flocked to whatever masters they could find. Masters in turn collected their fees and found it expedient to please their charges in order to be assured of a livelihood. Especially in Italy and southern France, the masters advertised their wares in a way that might well be compared to the claims of a modern business course—'short and practical, with no time wasted on outgrown classical authors, but everything fresh and snappy and up-to-date, ready to be applied the same day if need b e ! u The earliest European universities were in reality ' guilds' or 'free associations' of masters and students. They were so free, in fact, that they enjoyed little protection against the encroachments of public authorities and merited little place in the public scheme of things. At Bologna, for example, the law students, who were mostly foreign, lacked political status and were forced to band together against the depredations of hostile townsmen. Similarly, masters 'incorporated' to prevent the abuse of pro1

KLB

2

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prietary educational privileges. By accepting or refusing a new candidate, and by requiring a new master to obey the rules of their society as a requisite for admission, the masters practically controlled the award of a teaching license (licentia ubique docendi), a right formerly monopolized by the papacy and the cathedral chancellors. 2 Throughout this early period the universities gained most of their ends by pitting the papacy and the crown against each other and evading the relative claims of both of them. T h e former, ever zealous of enhancing its secular power, issued one bull after another extending attractive privileges to those universities which saw things the papal way. T h e Holy See assumed the sole right to declare the existence of a studium generate, as the university was called; by logical extension, it excommunicated the recalcitrants. T h e natural outcome was that the papacy secured a gratifying, if not always genuine, measure of moral support from the favored universities. 3 O n the temporal side, the ubiquitous and enterprising Frederick Barbarossa is credited with being the first to grant scholarly rights in 1158. T h e Authentic Habita provided that 'in any legal proceedings against a scholar, the defendant is to have the option of being cited before his own master or before the bishop'. Since at a later date Pope Alexander I I I finally accepted and applied the Habita, the right to teach and learn early enjoyed a bipartite guarantee. 4 T h e dual operation of spiritual and temporal authorities worked tremendously to the advantage of Britain's early universities. There was also a third court of appeal. Oxford benefited from the struggle for independence waged throughout the twelfth century by the university at Paris. In this feud the most effective weapon was a form of strike called 'cessation'. During periods of cessation no classes were held; and at Paris, where nearly every public or ecclesiastical authority was a member of the university, a cessation practically paralyzed the courts and pulpits of the region. If redress were not immediately forthcoming, cessation would be followed by 'dispersion', a process which removed thousands of consumers from the local markets. Cessation and dispersion were the most effective methods of dealing with local oppression. Constructively, they led in part to the founding of other scholarly centers in England, notably the one at Cambridge. 5

UNIVERSITY

3

TRADITION

The origins of the university at Oxford have been the subject of lengthy controversy, mostly partisan in nature. The more imaginative of historians attribute its beginnings to the wisdom of King Alfred; others consider it to be the outgrowth of cathedral schools. Since Oxford at that time was not a cathedral town, and since, in any case, British cathedrals were hardly noted for their promotion of higher education in secular realms, the second explanation is no more admissible than the first. It is most likely that the nationalist struggles of Henry II against Louis of France instigated the first large-scale movement of English scholars to the strategic location of Oxford. Henry's notorious quarrel with Thomas a Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1161-70, resulted in the monarch's recall of clergymen from the university at Paris to their English benefices. Louis retaliated in 1167 by expelling every English scholar in his realm. Whatever the origins ofschools and scholarship at Oxford, here, at least, was a bustling market town, reasonably accessible to the capital, yet far enough removed from the seat of the king's power and the bishop's center at Lincoln to permit the luxury of free debate.® Medieval universities as a whole enjoyed a brand of stability which hardly characterized their successors. Far from possessing the highly controlled organization of the modern university, the medieval institution resembled the fireweed which flaunts afield in a no-man's-land of warring factions. Oxford's traditional freedoms, gained in large measure through the Charter of 1214, originated in the very fortuitous quality of this warfare. This charter, or Legatine Ordinance, contained provisions which were to become extremely important in the history of academic freedom. Most of the concessions which Paris had gained by resorting to cessation and dispersion were readily granted to Oxford. For example: (1) the university was freed of all external jurisdiction for the first two centuries of its existence. (2) The tradition of autonomous, corporate life was guaranteed. (3) The chancellor, erstwhile scourge of the masters at Paris, became a beneficent mediator between the university and the Bishop of Lincoln. (In the fourteenth century the chancellor exercised both judicial and ecclesiastical power and was a much more important individual in the life of the university than he is today.) Other concessions included food and rent controls and in some instances total rent remissions for agreed periods of years. Thus, 1-2

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under the mild provisions of canon law, Oxford acquired for itself a set of privileges unique in the entire history of social institutions. So powerful did the university become that it actually usurped the prerogatives of the local civil government. In 1231, for example, Henry III addressed letters to the sheriffs of both Oxford and Cambridge directing that all clerks submit to the discipline of some master in the school. Harry Plowman describes the unfortunate consequences: It is said that the University found O x f o r d a very prosperous borough and reduced it to a cluster of lodging-houses.. .it so utterly crushed its freedom that the recovery of some of the commonest rights of self-government took centuries to bring about; the chancellor and the vice-chancellor simply usurped the far older authority of the mayor. 7

The strength of Oxford's autonomy lasted for two centuries, during which time both church and state sought in vain to establish control over the university. A papal bull demanding of the chancellor that he suppress Wyclifiites was treated with disdain; a mandate from the Archbishop of Canterbury requiring him publicly to condemn Wycliffe's theses was rejected. In 1411, however, a combination of royal and ecclesiastical power compelled the university to submit to the visitation of Archbishop Arundel. Pope John X X I I I then succeeded in revoking the exemption privileges of the institution and they were not restored till 1479, when it had become sufficiently evident that the spirit of revolt had been crushed. The suppression of Wycliffite heresy was a blow to vigorous and productive thought. The fifteenth century at Oxford, writes the historian Marriott, became a 'period of decadence and intellectual torpor... .Out of two hundred schools only twenty were in use in 1450.' Collegiate powers continued to increase but only at the expense of Oxford as a university. Rashdall writes sympathetically: Archbishop Arundel's triumph over the University in 1411 sounded the death-knell of Oxford's scholasticism. T h e great realist and nominalist debate lingered on for a century or more; b u t all the life had been taken out of it; all real, fresh, intellectual activity was beginning to divert itself into other c h a n n e l s . . . . So submissive had the university become to ecclesiastical tutelage that in 1479 she was allowed to obtain a bull from Sixtus I V legally restoring her proud exemption from all English ecclesiastical authority. 8

UNIVERSITY

TRADITION

5

Cambridge came into being partly as a result of the dispersal of students from Oxford and partly because scholars desired a new retreat away from Oxford's scholastic orthodoxy. There were no essential differences in practice between Oxford and Cambridge till after the Reformation. However, Cambridge was less fortunate as regards the time and place of its birth; hence it was slower to win autonomy. Up to the end of the thirteenth century the presiding bishop settled internal disputes and assumed the responsibility for approving the university's statutes. In 1374 the chancellor rebelled against taking the oath of canonical obedience; but it was not until the turn of the century that Cambridge was able to follow Oxford in ridding itself of the control of the bishop over internal affairs—a remarkable achievement in times which were becoming less and less favorable to academic freedom. Cambridge then took advantage of royal favor and boldly sought legal ground, factual and fictional, for the award of privileges which had been withdrawn from Oxford. Rashdall tells the fascinating tale: Accordingly, a Bull was forged, purporting to emanate from Pope Honorius I, in the year 624. In this audacious document the Pope is made to assert that he himself studied at Cambridge, and to confer upon the University the privilege of exemption from all episcopal and archiepiscopal authority. In the year 1430 the refusal of the chancellor-elect, John of Dunwich, to take the oath of obedience to the Bishop, led to a suit in the Roman Court. O n the strength of the Bull of 624 and other documents the papal delegates, sitting in the chapter house of Barnwell in 1432, solemnly decided in favour of the university's entire ecclesiastical independence. 9

Numerous factors contributed to the ascendancy of Cambridge and the decline of Oxford during the fifteenth century. For one thing, Oxford's rigid scholasticism had little meaning for nationalist monarchs and the new mercantile classes, who preferred the newer, more pertinent teachings at Cambridge. For another, the taint of heresy at Oxford became distasteful to the champions of ecclesiastical orthodoxy; consequently, Cambridge became a more desirable institution for conservative people. Paradoxically enough, the university which had come into being as a protest institution did not thrive for that reason. Cambridge managed in a very clever way to draw on the power of ecclesiastical conservatism and the opulence of commercial enterprise to grow big and prosperous in its own right. By the

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end of the fifteenth century it was as large as Oxford and every bit as flourishing. A similar attitude of autonomy and free choice prevailed in Scotland. As with most Scottish creations, however, there was embodied the endemic desire to do things independently from England. Again, the genius of Scotland, allowed free flow in the founding of its institutions of higher learning, ultimately grew to benefit higher learning everywhere. The Border Wars up to the Papal Schism in 1378 had induced Scottish students to seek their education across the Channel. Actually, the Papal Schism would have increased this migration, since the Scots supported the Avignon papacy, whereas England swore allegiance to Rome. When, however, Scottish and French politics diverged over the deposition of Benedict X I I I , the Scots began to realize that it would be more beneficial to establish universities at home. Thus it was that St Andrews in 1411, followed by Glasgow, 1450, and Aberdeen, 1494, adopted the continental rather than the English model. In organization and structure Paris and Bologna were imitated, but Orleans and Angers influenced behavior and practice. These two latter institutions had been heavily attended by Scottish students, who appreciated the progressive outlook of their instruction and the custom of student participation in university government. The collegiate system did not develop in Scotland as it had in Paris, Oxford and Cambridge. Endowments were meager in that austere land, and there was difficulty enough in raising funds to pay the teaching masters and maintain the universities, let alone provide for student residences. Throughout history Scottish universities have proved that poverty and the lack of material perquisites do not always inhibit the progress of higher learning. Rashdall observes with apparent relish that, ' Between the time of Hutcheson and that of J. S. Mill, a majority of the philosophers who wrote in the English language were professors, or at least alumni, of Scottish universities'. And A. I. Tillyard, quoting a foreign writer in the Edinburgh Review, 1808, writes: ' In Edinburgh the income of the professor depends upon his exertions; and in consequence, the reputation of that University is so high that Englishmen think it necessary to finish their education by passing a year there.' 10

UNIVERSITY

2.

7

TRADITION

W I T H I N THESE H A L L O W E D

WALLS

We highly approve of the education of youth in colleges, for in colleges there is not only a great emulation of youth among their equals, but the teachers have a venerable aspect and gravity, which greatly conduces toward insinuating a modest behavior. FRANCIS BACON The Advancement of Learning

We have seen that under generous papal and royal dispensations, arising in large part from redress against local injustices, students in time became a privileged class. They were so privileged, in fact, that they employed every opportunity to torment the hapless townsmen, who in the initial stages of university formation had indulged in rent-gouging and grocery profiteering, much as in modern eras of marked shortages and heavy demand. In the early days of unbounded freedom, when the tonsure was the mark of the scholar, many an irresponsible rascal, without benefit of Latin, shaved his scurvy head and safely practiced mayhem under benefit of clergy. Bona fide scholars were often confused with these unconscionable rogues through the mere fact of poverty, as Schachner graphically portrays: The poorest student.. .lived in a garret; in Paris he was called a 'martinet' and in Oxford a 'chamber deacon'. At first, these were honorable terms, but gradually every cutthroat, cut-purse, pimp, and roisterer adopted the name to give themselves the semblance and protective coloration of scholarity, until finally they became the worst terms of insult that one could hurl at one's enemy.11 At length, with the establishment of colleges all students were compelled to live within the confines of the university. The earliest colleges were hardly more than halls of residence or dormitories, organized by masters and students under the profit motive yet subject to university jurisdiction. At Oxford and Cambridge the College system operated gradually and systematically to usurp the powers and functions of the university. Such was the purpose, for example, behind the highly endowed Merton College, 1263-4. Subsequent foundations, with the probable exception of Exeter, conceived of the college as a society of masters who might become less and less dependent on university favor and regulation. Since the colleges were founded under different auspices and with different purposes in mind, it is difficult to determine which

8

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one may claim to be the oldest. Balliol had the first fixed locality; University College was the first to be endowed; Merton published the earliest statutes. Balliol College, 1261-82, was initially established on moneys exacted as a penalty from SirJohn Balliol for having insulted a bishop. After Sir John's death in 1282, Lady Balliol enlarged the gift in order that the prayers of grateful scholars for her beloved husband might be all the more numerous and fervent. University College was an example of an establishment which for a long time was hardly more than a slender and dwindling fund. Merton College began as a residence intended primarily for relatives of the founder, who went to great lengths to compose a set of statutes which were used as a precedent by later foundations. On the whole, the benefactors of the first two centuries were interested mostly in the spirit-quieting benefits of prayers in perpetuity. To this end they endowed scholarships primarily for poor students. Merton, however, preferred to cater for the more privileged classes. The later founders of colleges entertained more fastidious educational and religious preferences; they established largescale college foundations whose statutes they could formulate and over whose operations they might claim intimate powers of visitation. Less and less emphasis was placed upon financing poor scholars, especially if their minds tended to wander too far from prescribed learnings. New College, for example, whose charter dates from 1379, the year following Wycliffe's trial, was dedicated to the task of suppressing tendencies toward heresy.12 William of Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, founder of New College, and leader of Wycliffe's opposition, preached that the world would be better off if a succession of highly trained ecclesiastics were sent into it, rather than 'contemplative recluses'. Lincoln College was founded in 1429 by Richard Fleming for the everlasting benefit of the diocese whose name it bears and for the defense of the Catholic Church ' against the heresies from which the founder had so successfully emancipated himself'. All Souls, established by the Archbishop of Canterbury in 1438 for advanced students of theology and law, followed the model of New College with an even stronger ecclesiastical bias.13 The climax of the college movement at Oxford was reached with the establishment of Magdalen. Now a favorite mecca of tourists from everywhere, this model college owes its existence

UNIVERSITY

9

TRADITION

to the efforts of William of Waynflete, Bishop of Winchester, who devoted his life to the propagation of the Catholic faith. Here in 1448 was established a miniature university with forty to fifty fellows, thirty 'demies' or secondary scholars, and twenty 'gentlemen commoners' or paying students. The intellectual as well as physical enclosure of Magdalen College contrasted sharply, and not insignificantly, with the early days of unbounded university freedom. With the establishment of Brasenose, 1509, it was an accepted principle that the student need not go outside his college precincts for an education.14 Within a period of eighty years, then, Oxford University was captured by the college foundations. Removed from direct control by masters and students, it became part of an almost complete ecclesiastical monopoly. Well might the church in 1479 reinstate the university's former exemption from ecclesiastical visitation! There was, indeed, little remaining under the university's jurisdiction which might be visited. The power of that once proud authority was reduced to overseeing examinations and granting degrees. The chancellor was more and more 'away at Court', and the responsibility for corporate life was left to the colleges. The colleges in turn individually carried forward the torch of learning that very soon found its way into the poetry, sentiment, and song of every institution within the university.

3.

E A R L Y

STUDIES

AND

CRITICISM

There are also in this Islande two famous Universities, the one Oxforde, the other Cambridge; both for the profession of all sciences, for Divinitie, Phisicke, Lawe, and all kinds of Learning, excelling all the Universities in Christendom.

LYLY

(Euphues, Pt. n, 1580)

Throughout Western Europe medieval studies were essentially professional in purpose. They were designed especially to prepare candidates for preferment in church or state—' that there may never be wanting a supply of persons duly qualified to serve God both in church and in state', as the Oxford prayerbook admonishes. Grammar, logic and rhetoric were the principal subjects—the 'trivium', as they were called. The grammar was Latin, the universal language of the all-supreme church. Logic furnished a weapon for argument, as well as a handy avenue of

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escape into erudite obscurities. Rhetoric provided the foundation necessary for disputation and oratory in an era of the spoken word. Contrary to common impression, there were relatively few students of theology in medieval universities ; a prescribed theological training did not appear before the CounterReformation. The requirements for admission were severe; courses were unduly lengthy ; examinations were rigorous ; books were costly. Even more professional were the advanced courses leading to the degree of Master of Arts. They consisted of arithmetic, music, geometry and astronomy, studies which were needed for practical career purposes. Other components, namely, theology, law, medicine and, later, philosophy, were by nature even more professional. However, the professions, or vocations, of the medieval period were less pre-emptive than their modern counterparts. It was easily possible to reconcile a 'liberal' education with medicine or law, for example, since laboratory methods and experiential learning were of the essence of education. The printed word had not as then achieved its later omnipotence and textbooks were hard to come by. The cultivation of classical languages and literatures was a necessity if students were to glean the wisdom of the ancients pertinent to their major field. They were, however, the key to knowledge rather than the body of it. The utilitarian or pragmatic quality of university studies dates back to the very founding of the universities. During the first centuries of their existence students gathered in centers of learning primarily for the purpose of improving their professional status. Although there was also a considerable amount of ad hoc learning which enhanced the purely scholarly aspects of university life, such learning was not the essence of it and modern defenders of liberal education cannot justify their position by referring to the medieval period. The fact is, perhaps at no other time in history have universities, even in consideration of their autonomy, been more conscious of their obligation to the basic needs of mankind (as they understood them) and more closely tied to external political, cultural and religious ends than were the medieval educational corporations. This judgment does not exonerate the medieval universities for their peculiar exclusiveness and general disdain of those outside the fold, and certainly modern advocates of isolationism can find considerable

UNIVERSITY

TRADITION

II

historical precedence in that particular attribute, but it does mean that the roots of a great deal of contemporary educational idealism (as opposed to pragmatism) must be found not in the medieval university but in seventeenth- and eighteenth-century institutions. For it was then that the universities began to develop closed social groups with vested academic interests, a more restricted outlook, and a subsequent certainty as to what constituted university purpose. T h e full significance of the medieval curriculum cannot be understood without clarifying the profound difference in spirit between 'medieval' and ' m o d e r n ' thinking. In the medieval view, the natural world was regarded as teleologically subordinate to the salvation of man. Explanations in terms of cause and effect were very tightly drawn, especially by the scholastics. In epistemology there was only slight interest in how the human mind actually achieved knowledge. Indeed, the emphasis was on rational thought processes issuing from accepted hypotheses. 16 Essential to medieval education were three fundamental ideas: ( i ) the assumption that Christianity must embrace all life's thought and activity; (2) the concept that society was divinely organized into classes; and (3) the doctrine that economic and ethical principles were preordained. Preserved Smith asserts that the acceptance of some form of authority constituted the very foundation of all intellectual effort. H e reminds us that authority in the medieval period was vested in the fathers of the church; the schoolmen edited and added to Aristotle; R o m a n poets became the inspiration of the humanists; and the Bible furnished final proofs, even for the radical reformers of the sixteenth century. 16 With especial regard to material things, Professor R . H . T a w ney reveals that the fundamental assumptions of the medieval writers were twofold: (1) economic interests are subordinate to the real purpose of life, which is salvation; and (2) economic conduct is but one aspect of personal conduct, upon which the rules of morality are binding. H e comments rather boldly: T o found a science of society upon the assumption that the appetite for economic gain is to be accepted like other natural forces as an inevitable and self-evident datum would have appeared to the medieval thinking as hardly less irrational or less immoral than to make the premise of social philosophy the unrestrained operation of such necessary human attributes as pugnacity or the sexual interest.

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Tawney appropriately emphasizes that this type of thinking prevailed at a time when Europe was suffering under the greatest economic crisis that its motley populations had experienced since the fall of Rome. 17 Medieval curricular preoccupations were not without their responsible critics. John of Salisbury called logic a ' polite term for frivolous, subtile and sophistical disputation'. He appreciated the value of logic as an instrument of learning, but not when hypotheses were controlled by a theological bias. Roger Bacon likewise found no fault with logic as a tool of thought. He objected to its becoming the principal avenue to knowledge; logic tended to impede scientific inquiry because it relied on authoritarian reasoning. Bacon criticized his colleagues because they argued too much from the resources of ancient wisdom and too little from the evidence presented by their senses. (Bacon's ideas were not original. Ironically enough, as Bertrand Russell shows, Bacon supported his argument by documentation from such classical scholars as Seneca, Cicero, Avicenna, St Jerome, and others who warned against accepting any final or ultimate authority.18) Legislation enacted during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries was designed to establish Anglican control over university curricula and instruction. The Law of 1581 compelled students and teachers to subscribe to the Thirty-nine Articles and the Oath of Supremacy. In 1662 the Act of Uniformity extended these measures by requiring a loyalty oath of all college and university authorities. This oath, aspiring to separate 'all trew subjects' from 'false-hearted traitors', stipulated that masters and scholars should conform to the revised liturgy, abjure the Solemn League and Covenant, support the government of church and state, and refuse to take up arms against the king. Yet the Act unctuously asserted:' No man hath lost his life, no man hath endured the rack, no man hath suffered corporall punishment.. .merely or simply. ..for his conscience in the matter of religion.' With the Restoration, concludes Professor W. H. G. Armytage of the University of Sheffield, ' the universities became engines of social control, operated by the Established Church'. 19 Despite confiscations of clerical and monastic institutions, Henry V I I I was interested in preserving and advancing learning chiefly as an asset against any impending 'barbarous invasion'.

UNIVERSITY

TRADITION

13

' I tell you, sirs,' he proclaimed, 'that I judge no land in England better bestowed than that which is given to our universities.... For by their maintenance our realms shall be well governed when we be dead and rotten.' In 1530, Henry established professorships at both universities in divinity, civil law, physic (not physics), Hebrew and Greek. Later, however, when the universities objected to Henry's divorce from Katherine of Aragon, the monarch was not quite so sure of their educational value. 20 In the Edwardian 'spoliation' the universities were again under fire. Valuable historical and scholarly collections were lost with the demolition of chapels and libraries. Duke Humphrey's famous library at Oxford was stripped of its treasure. The destruction of stained-glass windows deprived posterity of precious works of art. The Wren Library at Cambridge was converted into a stable by the rebels under Oliver Cromwell, while Oxford was turned into an armed camp and her collegiate silver melted down to pay the Royalist forces.21 S. C. Roberts relates: Charles marched into Oxford (1643) and settled in Christ Church, and for the next four years the city was not only the headquarters of the Royalist army, but virtually the seat of the King's government. A contemporary undergraduate wrote: I did attend the armed troops of Mars, Instead of books, I sword, horse, and pistols bought, And on the field I for degrees then fought. In Cambridge, too, the King was received with loyal orations in 1641.. .and in the following year many of the colleges responded quickly to the King's appeal for extraordinary assistance. Some of the college plate got through to him, but more was intercepted by Cromwell, who committed the Heads of St John's, Queens', and Jesus to prison and placed a garrison in the town... .At Oxford, Balliol was used as a tavern by the Court and the soldiery; the tower and cloisters of New College became a magazine; and the fellows of All Souls had to make shift with one meal a day.22 Despite external interference and severe physical despoliation, the early English universities were distinguished far more than in a later period for what Huber calls their ' energy and variety of intellect'. The renowned German authority was convinced that later times did not 'produce a concentration of men eminent in all the learning and science of the age such as Oxford

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and Cambridge poured forth, mightily influencing the intellectual development of all Western Christendom'. 2 3 T h e great pride of the English in their accomplishment in higher learning was exemplified as early as 1580 by L y l y in his Euphues, Part 11: I was myself in either of the Universities and like them both so well that I meane not in the way of controversie to preferre any for the better in Englande, but both for the best in the World, saving this that Colledges in Oxenford are much more stately for the building, and Cambridge much more sumptuous for the houses in the towne, but the learning neyther lyeth in the free stones of the one, nor the fine streates of the other, for out of them both do dayly proceede men of great wisdome, to rule in the common wealth, of learning to instruct the common people, of all singular kinde of professions to do good to all. And let this suffice not to enquire, which of them is the superiour but that neyther of them have their equall, neither to ask which of them is the most auncient, but whether any other bee so famous.24 A t a later period, John Hall grudgingly admitted: ' 'Tis true that our universities for outward magnificence, and a large, if not luxurious, liberality, are equal, if not superior, to any of those that are yet known in the lettered part of the world.' 2 6 However, a transvaluation of the objectives of human society, once recognized, outmoded the purpose and method of higher education, and hence its content. Later generations found the theoretical assumptions of divine inspiration also in earthly activity, in the glorification o f ' n a t u r a l m a n ' , and in the concept of society as the summation of diverse individual motivations. In the breakdown of medievalism hardly a university reformer could be found advocating any such ethical or social reorientation. 26

4.

CENTURIES

OF

SOMNOLENCE

The waves became hushed, stagnation followed, and a long ebb took place in intellectual progress.... Torpor prevailed in the universities as they vegetated toward wealth. v. A. HUBER, 1843

T h e year 1600 was almost a terminus post quern of free inquiry. T h e church gradually succumbed to state domination and the universities acquired another master. O v e r all the busy ferment of new knowledge and education there stood the Elizabethan

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15

statesman, mindful of the need for political emancipation yet resolved to insure the continuance of social discipline. Licenses for schoolmasters became obligatory; diocesan visitations were reinstituted to ferret out possible heretics; pulpits were supplied with state homilies; and textbooks were inspected for possible aberrations from accepted moral virtues. T h e patterns which had been created to train the generations following the dissolution of the monasteries lost their elasticity and hardened. A new secular authoritarianism began to make itself felt. 27 T h e capitulation of the universities to external control meant that the masters for the most part became timid and fussy critics of inherited knowledge rather than bold innovators of ideas. T h e y refused to acknowledge the plausibility of the ethics which were being hammered out daily in the courts of justice and halls of trade. Hobbes's declaration that the universities should be carefully supervised in the interest of state security afforded the necessary philosophic apologia for existing academic behavior, and recalcitrant faculty members were dealt with appropriately. T h e active participation in intellectual life which had characterized the period preceding the seventeenth century contrasted sharply with the peaceful fog that enveloped higher learning from the end of the seventeenth century to the middle of the nineteenth. Oxford's contribution to the sixteenth-century humanistic revival had been a high level of scholarship which had made possible authentic translations of the Bible. In the seventeenth century Cambridge could harbor a Newton, that 'marble index of a mind forever voyaging through strange seas of thought alone', and hence become the outstanding center for the study of mathematics in the world. When, however, the tide of early scientific enlightenment receded, the universities settled down to enjoy the fruits of learning rather than to plant its seeds. W . H. G. Armytage, always alert to elicit hidden facts in history, concludes that higher scientific learning was largely confined to the protest academies. Approvingly he cites the verdict of Augustine Birrell, Hazlitt's biographer, that Hackney College in 1793 was a better studium generate than either Oxford or Cambridge. T h e latter actually seemed 'insulated' against any attempt at scientific investigation: ' When Richard Watson was elected to the chair of "chimistry" in Cambridge in 1764, it was no false modesty that led him to confess that he had never read a syllable on the subject nor seen a single experiment.' 28

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Even at Glasgow, educational practices became 'palsied' rather than progressive. J. D. Mackie reports that academic life in the eighteenth century was ' marred by the evils of nepotism, by petty jealousies which vex a small society, and by unworthy attempts to secure power which so often declare themselves in closed corporations'.29 Unfortunate changes also took place in the composition of student bodies. Before the Reformation, the universities had not been attended to any great extent by the sons of the gentry. After the Reformation, they began to usurp the places set aside for the poor and absorb many of their scholarships. Also, the commercial class sought a means of securing prestige for their sons in realms other than those of the business world. They found an investment in university education to be admirably suited for this purpose, so that after the Tudor period residence at one of the ancient universities became the hallmark of social distinction. However, the religious and political disturbances of the seventeenth century tended to unsettle the minds of youth. The universities were increasingly deserted by young men of spirit and enterprise, because they found the risks and adventures of the commercial world to be far more attractive. Their places were taken by innocuous young men of' good connections', almost regardless of intellectual qualifications. The eighteenthcentury gentlemanly conduct and maturity of scholarly behavior were so conspicuously absent from the universities that many parents preferred either to hire private tutors or to send their sons abroad. It was not long before Oxford and Cambridge became known, not entirely deservedly, as playgrounds of the wealthy and habitations of a timid, repressed educational orthodoxy. Oxford in particular, termed a 'hotbed of Toryism and Jacobitism', became a favorite target of Whigs, non-Conformists, Benthamite radicals, and scholarly liberals. Even the most loyal graduate found it difficult to defend his Alma Mater against the critical shafts of Gibbon, Shelley, Gladstone, Arnold and others. Arnold's mildest criticism was that ' Oxford is a seat of learning which sits very comfortably as in an easy chair, and sleeps so soundly that none can wake her'. 30 Even in modern times, Charles C. Gillespie, historian of Princeton University, doubts that Oxford and Cambridge gave rise to any 'real ideas' about a university, at least until 1850.

UNIVERSITY

n

TRADITION

Their product was less one of education than one of a 'sort of molding process which finished what the public school had begun'. As for scholarship and the advancement of learning, Gillespie states perhaps too categorically: 'There was no notion that these pursuits were the business of the university.' Research scholars were lamentably few in number: 'So far as Oxford and Cambridge were dedicated to anything, it was to the perpetuation of themselves and of the type of graduate formed by their peculiar social environment....' Life at Oxford and Cambridge could not help but affect the attitudes and behavior of the upper classes; and it must be concluded, writes Gillespie, that both universities reflected rather than led the major movements of opinion: Until fairly late in the century, the important figures in English intellectual history were for the most part outside the academic fold (with the exception of the leaders of the Oxford Movement), and, although the universities were intimately tied up with the life of the society of which they formed a part, the connection was less simple than in countries where they were government controlled. In their relationship to the state, the English universities stood midway between continental universities of the nineteenth century and private universities in the United States.31 Representing the opposite point of view, Nicholas Hans, reader in comparative education at the University of London, asks the question: ' C a n we believe that after such a brilliant start (referring to the achievement of the seventeenth century) this country was at a standstill for a century?' Claiming to have found sufficient evidence to refute the general consensus, Hans states conclusively: ' T h e eighteenth century was perhaps the most interesting period of English education; it was not only a period of as brilliant schemes and philosophic works as the seventeenth century, it was also a period of actual realization of modern education.' Conceding that the great leaders of the eighteenth century were condemnatory of educational progress at Oxford and Cambridge, he nevertheless seeks to show that the two ancient universities 'were not so moribund as general opinion affirms'. By analyzing statistics of student personnel he demonstrates that the aristocratic student did not actually displace the poor student; the displacement was only 'partial'. Citing C. E. Mallet (History of Oxford, hi, 65), he states that 'the serious study of the majority (of students) passed unnoticed', 2

KLB

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and observes that at least up to 1760 Oxford employed able lecturers on scientific subjects. Cambridge did not lag behind: 'it had the great tradition of Newton to live up to.' Publications were many; audiences were large; scientific subjects were well represented in the courses of study; 34 per cent of all English pioneers of science were trained at Oxford and Cambridge. For Hans, the eighteenth century was a period of germination and propagation of ideas of tolerance and political freedom, the realization of which came later. However, as his book progresses, Hans does not seem quite so convinced. He finally admits that only the most outstanding eminent educators and learned men achieved their goal after considerable deprivation and humiliation. Confessing that there was ' a n appalling wastage of talent in the eighteenth century', he states that this condition was the inevitable result of Britain's aristocratic social system. In his ' General Conclusion' Hans submits: The eighteenth century had its limitations and the comparatively low standard of scientific methods and the facilities of research was one of them... .The society of the eighteenth century was not ideal, morality was not of a very high standard, and politics were definitely corrupted by intrigues and bribery.... Classical education received a new lease of life, and, divorced from science, became simply a sign of social privilege. Scientific education, narrowed down to technical skill, lost its broader emancipating appeal and was avoided by cultured families.32 In sum, it must be granted that much of the new attitude toward education, involving international aspects, the unity of science, the relation of the practical to the theoretical, and the effects of the Industrial Revolution, all of which led to the reforms of education in the nineteenth century, is traceable not so much to developments at Oxford and Cambridge as to the accomplishments of the various types of denominational institutes and private academies. P. M. S. Blackett, of the University of Manchester, deplores the reluctance of both the church and the ancient universities to advance the boundaries of learning. He is convinced that the vast majority of the pioneers of modern thought were 'either entirely detached from the universities or but loosely connected with them'. He reminds his readers that Young, Davy, Faraday, Dalton, and Joule never held university appointments. Furthermore, states

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19

Blackett, Oxford and Cambridge had litde to do with the great changes brought about by the Industrial Revolution. The rise of Christian Methodism, the growth of utilitarianism, the development of agnosticism in its sublimer forms, the demand for educational reform, the founding of new seats of higher learning, the enactment of progressive social and political legislation, all occurred outside the realm of conservative university interest and in fact were violently opposed by the majority of leaders in higher education. Even more critical is Sir Charles Grant Robertson, formerly vice-chancellor of the University of Birmingham : It was not difficult to prove that, in 1820, the old universities were not satisfying, and could not satisfy, the increasing needs of the new a g e . . .postgraduate work was u n k n o w n . . . natural science and modern subjects were not recognized... the universities' contribution to research was negligible.. .teaching was conventional and students were ill-prepared and i d l e . . . . In a word, Oxford and Cambridge had come to be the endowed preserve of a c l a s s . . . they were not in the main stream of national life.. .and counted for little in national development. 33

Characteristic of the attitude of many dons of the period, Huber's translator and editor, F. W. Newman, professor of English literature, writing in 1843, found it necessary to observe : 'England needs her universities to assume a place of intellectual, moral, and spiritual superiority, such as shall lift them entirely above the dense clouds of Party Life. They should move in a higher sphere, unaffected by its storms.'84

5.

THE

ROOTS

OF

REFORM

The truth is, sir, that the institutions of men grow old like men themselves, and, like women, are last to perceive their own decay. Edinburgh Review, ix (1808), 378

The great movement for university reform occurred during the latter half of the nineteenth century as a logical consequence of the political reforms of the 1830's. University reform was, however, not something imposed upon establishments of higher learning exclusively from the outside. It is true that lay criticism stirred public authorities to action, but due credit must be 2-2

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accorded the universities themselves for efforts at reform from within and for their willingness to entertain inspection and recommendations from lay sources. Profound changes were taking place in the attitude of many of the dons toward the purpose of higher education; they were convinced long before governmental recommendations were forthcoming that the universities existed as much for the sake of the students as for the teaching staff and the subject matter, and that the universities had greater responsibilities than those of self-perpetuation. The reformers were in a minority but they gathered strength as they were supported by lay critics and the nation at large. Perhaps the soundest proof of internal reform lay in subjectmatter changes. Regarding scientific studies, for example, Charles E. Mallet observes that Oxford 'had at last accepted beyond question the need of something more than theory in the training of medical men'; by 1886, 'science had asserted her right to a place beside philosophy'. W. H. G. Armytage cites the pioneer work of Henry Cavendish, 'experimental philosopher' and wealthy benefactor, whose life and fortune were devoted to experimentation and teaching in the natural sciences. Fifty years later, the Cavendish laboratories were founded by William Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire. Gillespie, too, concedes progressive advances in the curriculum, evidenced by the existence in 1900 of eight honors schools at Oxford and twelve triposes at Cambridge, embracing natural sciences, social sciences, modern literatures and modern languages, in addition to the traditional subjects. Nevertheless, as Bernal and others are compelled to observe, science still had to make itself respectable among other subjects in the curriculum, and scientific teaching was too theoretical in nature and too far removed from the laboratory of experience. It was not until after 1880, when scientific naturalists came into their own, that new orientations led to modern practice.35 Simultaneously, the nation's legislators turned a more proprietary eye toward the ancient universities, in the deepening conviction that their autonomy did not preclude certain welldefined obligations to the nation at large. The Royal Commissions of 1850, 1872 and 1919 reported on conditions in Oxford and Cambridge, as did other commissions in the case of other universities. The reports of these commissions may be compared to the more sound and worthwhile of America's school and

UNIVERSITY

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21

college surveys and in themselves constitute documentary evidence of the principal historical factors which contributed to university growth. The 1850 report advocated 'the restoration in its integrity of the ancient supervision of the university over the studies of its members'. It advised the 'opening of avenues for acquiring academical honors in many new and distinct branches of knowledge' and recommended far-reaching changes in methods of awarding scholarships and fellowships. In consequence, the Hebdomadal Board at Oxford and the Caput at Cambridge were replaced by elective councils consisting of representatives of the heads of houses, of professors, and of resident masters of arts. The Commission of 1872 led to the Oxford and Cambridge Act of 1882, which provided, in part, that a married fellow of a college might retain his fellowship. T h e effect of this decision upon the social life of the colleges was naturally profound. Administrative changes fostered increased intercollegiate activity and a greater uniformity among the colleges in such procedures as entrance requirements. T h e Commission of 1919, leading to new statutes in 1926, increased the educational authority of the universities over the colleges; all lectures became university lectures; state aid was formally accepted. Largely as a result of the findings of the Royal Commissions, all the universities for perhaps the first time in their history were forced to come to some functional definition of university education as different from other types of education; they had to take a firmer stand on vocational and professional education; the matter of examinations had to be clarified; the place of research had to be more sharply determined. For perhaps the first time, too, the universities came to acknowledge their indissoluble tie with national politics and their growing dependence upon the decisions of the elected representatives of the people. T h e way had been paved, of course, by such works as those of Cardinal Newman (Idea of a University, 1852) and Mark Pattison {Memoirs, 1885), and by campaigns waged in print and on the platform by Matthew Arnold and Thomas Huxley. Sir John Seeley, the poet Thomas Campbell, the Benthamites, such critics as Brougham, Hume, Grote, and a special group headed by Sir William Hamilton contributing to the Edinburgh Review around 1830, all converged in the demand for reform. Though in the minds of many university people such commissions and

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ensuing regulations constituted undue interference with university behavior, there is no doubt that the recommendations from lay officials proved to be the catalyst which stirred the universities to action. Sir Charles Robertson concludes : The universities as we know them today are the result of state action by ordinance, legislation, and Royal Charter, guided and inspired by those who knew best, and cared most for, what the universities ought to be and could become. Both method and result are singularly British.36 Despite their infirmities, despite public criticism, and despite the progress made by rival institutions, Britain's two ancient universities actually gathered prestige as the years rolled by. Enrollments at both institutions increased from 1100 students (750 at Oxford and 350 at Cambridge) in 1800 to well over 5000 in 1900. However poor or inadequate the instruction was in subjects necessary for one's chosen profession, attendance at Oxford or Cambridge fulfilled one of the highest ideals a candidate could set for himself, so that still today, with few exceptions, both students and teachers will elect Oxford or Cambridge as their first choice. And if by chance a student has obtained his undergraduate degree at 'Redbrick', the hope is still cherished that his postgraduate work can be done at 'Oxbridge'. Bruce Truscot contrasts the happy lot of the student at Oxbridge with the more unfortunate aspects of life at Redbrick in 'Drabtown' : Poor Bill Jones! No Hall and Chapel and oak-sporting for him; no hilarious bump suppers or moonlight strolls in romantic quadrangles; no all-night sittings with a congenial group round his own —his very own—fireplace. No. Bill goes off five mornings a week to Redbrick exactly as he went to Back Street Council School and Drabtown Municipal Secondary School—and he goes on his bicycle to save the twopenny fare Who can blame a boy if, while still at school, he decides that only at Oxford and Cambridge is there such a thing as true university education? That Truscot is carried away by his own descriptive powers one would readily grant; there are, indeed, many exceptions to the characterizations he so graphically portrays ; but the essence of his distinctions is the essence of reality. 87

UNIVERSITY 6.

FRESH WINDS

TRADITION OF

23

INTELLIGENCE

Willy-nilly, a university must serve in the dust and heat; and there is dust enough (if not always heat) in the great cities of northern and central England to invite abundant service. SIR E R N E S T B A R K E R , 1948

A study of the early history of both Oxford and Cambridge demonstrates how educational institutions can forge ahead when the shackles of preferment and control are removed from corporate intellectual life. Despite the fate of Wycliffe, both critics and masters of the scholastic method from Roger Bacon on were safe in heresies for which men in other lands were burned at the stake. The principles of autonomy and academic freedom which were so firmly established in both institutions received many a shock, and at times it seemed as though the schools would have to succumb completely to external authority; but the spirit of independence and self-reliance was too deeply ingrained to yield. Not that the earlier masters were especially generous in allowing each other unbounded freedom of activity. Haskins concedes that to a remarkable degree the universities were selfgoverning and self-respecting. They thus 'escaped some of the abuses of a system which occasionally allows trustees or regents to speak of professors as hired men'. But he expresses doubt as to whether in general the old masters were as free as historians tend to portray them; for the corporation of masters was apt to exercise a rather close control over action if not opinion, and ' the tyranny of one's colleagues is a form of tyranny of one's next door neighbor'. 38 Oxford and Cambridge remained relatively unchallenged in England and Wales for more than 500 years. Within that time four universities were established in Scotland and one in Dublin. It was not until 1 8 1 5 that solid foundations were laid to provide England with a system of higher education different from Oxford and Cambridge. The chief reason for the monopoly was that Britain had no system of national education until 1870. Also, two universities sufficed, quantitatively, at least, for a country with only ten million inhabitants.39 An equally valid reason lay in the unflagging resolution on the part of both universities to let debate openly prevail and argument lead to where it may. Not that such academic behavior bore any special application to national life; actually, the concept of implementing learnings for social progress was never highly regarded. Nevertheless, it

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was out of the scholarly power freely generated in five centuries that Oxford and Cambridge were able to serve their country with a brilliance that outshone all rivalry at home and abroad. Yet the historical exclusiveness, intolerance and complacence of Oxford and Cambridge could have no other outcome than one of forcing the rebellious to Seek their education elsewhere. The non-Conformists founded colleges on their own, where they might be free to investigate unorthodox social doctrines, pursue new types of scientific investigation, and prove to the world that free trade was possible in ideas as well as in goods and services. Among the institutions thus founded were Mason College, now the University of Birmingham; Owens College, which later became the University of Manchester; and the nonsectarian University College, which is now a part of the University of London. Outlining their development, H. C. Dent writes: Their typical history is: the foundation, through the generosity of one or more private benefactors, of a college designed to teach chiefly scientific and technical subjects to the people of a great industrial town; the expansion of this into a university college by the addition of 'faculties' in the humane subjects and a department for the training of teachers; and finally the securing of a Royal Charter.40 There were other reasons, of course, for the rise of new universities. In the late nineteenth century, legislative reforms put an end to Anglican oaths, provided for the admission of noncollegiate students, and instigated a trend toward the return of power from constituent colleges to the parent university. 41 The requirements of a society that was becoming highly differentiated made themselves felt at all educational levels. The extension of higher education, like the extension of the vote, was found to be essentially a matter of national expediency and social necessity, rather than one of pure altruism. As the tide of material prosperity continued to rise, the new universities foresaw that educational ideals and accomplishments would have to progress in similar measure; and the universities already in existence in England would be physically, if not ideologically, incapable of handling the growth. Not to be underestimated, either, was the powerful role played by local community leaders, who were aware of the prestige value of a university. Supporters of the newer universities were confident that if they were founded with 'noble, worthy, and dis-

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25

interested a i m s t h e y would in time take their place along with those already established by tradition. The newer foundations would from the outset exert a powerful moral and cultural influence upon the life of a large and rapidly growing community which was necessarily occupied primarily with material matters. For its proper expansion and democratization, however, higher education had to wait upon the development of the lower schools. It was not until 1870, when a system of national public education was finally adopted, that England began to take seriously her obligation to prepare a sufficient number of candidates for university training. 42 At the beginning of the nineteenth century there were only seven universities in the British Isles; in 1952 there were twenty universities and three university colleges, exclusive of Eire. 43 Reviewing the tradition of the British university, Sir Charles Grant Robertson emphasizes three elements which have characterized it: (1) The university was the product of the Renaissance and of the cultural milieu in which it grew. (2) It contained within itself a capacity of adaptation without losing its intrinsic characteristics. (3) Its structure and function depended upon the society it had to serve. The emphasis throughout this chapter has been on these and related elements: the common life of learning, the preservation of autonomy, the devotion to academic freedom, the dangers of uncritical obeisance. The glory of the medieval university resided in its dedication to learning, no matter how in the modern sense that learning was constricted, and the modern spirit of investigation is traceable to the conduct of those intrepid souls who ventured beyond the boundaries of the known. Nothing in the history of the university suggests that it is the sole agent for forging first principles or for even interpreting them. Yet no other institution so appropriately possesses the capacity to blend the new with the old. University tradition stretches unbroken for a thousand years and makes the modern student a brother in spirit to the first wandering scholar who sought a teacher. Today the essential purpose of this tradition remains the same. The role of the university consists of analyzing and evaluating conflicting principles. The university relates and brings into closer focus all the real and complex problems that confront this generation of men—problems which demand the

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most intensive intellectual application if they are to be even comprehended, let alone resolved.44 But concepts of the central task of higher learning are valid only in the measure that the university is permitted to maintain the freedom and the autonomy that were responsible for its birth and early growth. In appraising the course of British university history, Sir Frederick Ogilvie, late principal of Jesus College, Oxford, admits that there have been some 'grey patches... shoddy work occasionally, incapacity for self-reform, abuse of privilege, religious intolerance, and inhospitality to women'. Yet for all these blemishes and deficiencies, they have a ' shining record of standards and achievementsWhen Ogilvie states, 'A university should always find room for freaks and bores, provided they are really able intellectually', he knows that the delicate life of genius and creativity will be quickly snuffed out if social and political pressures, enforced allegiances, and rigid conformity are allowed to fetter the mind.45

27

CHAPTER

II

THE A R C H I T E C T U R E OF U N I V E R S I T Y LIFE I.

PANORAMA

OF A

SYSTEM

The universities have gone a long way, since Jowett, -without in fact losing their pedigree. How far dare they go in the changed conditions of today? SIR C H A R L E S

MORRIS

Vice-Chancellor, University of Leeds

It has been shown that the newer universities were founded on principles markedly different from those which gave birth to Oxford and Cambridge; they likewise developed in their own peculiar way. In the first place, they had to be constructed in localities which were most convenient for the students. That meant that buildings had to be erected, or allocated, mostly in busy central areas and often in the midst of a city's slums. Generous appropriations for construction were granted, but funds were of necessity insufficient; growth was so rapid that long-range planning was almost futile. Truscot aptly describes some of the more unfortunate circumstances surrounding early physical development: For the most part the material used in them was a light stone which the coal dust of the city quickly turned to a dismal and depressing grey, or a hideously cheerful red brick suggestive of something between a super council-school and a holiday-home for children. Within, harsh, ugly blue or yellow tiles lined halls and passages which led up interminable staircases to corridor upon corridor, out of which opened lecture rooms, all of precisely similar pattern. For dances and receptions guests would have a choice of clearing lecture rooms 'perfumed with sulphuretted hydrogen' or 'sitting down to tea in the physics laboratory, the gymnasium, or the library'.1 Although government grants have replaced many grimy old structures with strikingly beautiful buildings—among the best, by the way, anywhere in the university world—much

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still remains of the architectural monstrosity of the Victorian era to cramp operations and spoil recent aesthetic acquisitions. Among the newer universities, London stands by itself for complexity of organization. In fact, Flexner terms it 'not really a university but a line drawn about a number of institutions of heterogeneous quality and purpose'. The present organization developed from University College, first opened in 1828. When chartered as a university in 1836, London was hardly more than an examining board. Its privileges were extended in 1858, when it was allowed to examine for a degree any student who presented himself, especially if he were a candidate from a university college. London's early unique position is best described by Sir Charles Grant Robertson: The new university, in short, apart from its colleges, had no educational work pf its own; its sole function was to test educational work carried out elsewhere, and, as it subsequently proved, hundreds or even thousands of miles away, that it could not control the educational policy or development of the institutions from which its examinees came; it could not appeal to the public of a great capital for funds to supply an educational need that it did not meet and did not represent; it only required an office in which to do the work of examining; and to the citizens of London the university was simply a syllabus, a board of examiners and an examination, the expenses of which could be balanced by the fees of the examinees.2 A series of commissions tackled the problem of organization in an effort to bind the various colleges, schools and institutes into a more corporate unit, but perhaps the construction of the huge, modernistic Senate House in Bloomsbury in the 1930's did more to provide the university with an administrative focus than did legislative action. The establishment of the University of London is historically important because it reveals an allegiance to three principles: (1) students and teachers must work in constant association with their colleagues and with each other; (2) university studies have greater purposes than those limited to professional or practical ends; and (3) there must be a close connection between undergraduates and postgraduate work and between teachers of early and advanced study. These principles have not been completely realized by any means. For one thing, the university enrollment has grown to such an extent as to interfere seriously with student-teacher relations. For another, the advancement of knowledge has tended to divide

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rather than unite its teachers. Finally, social and economic changes have caused students to look more to practical and professional ends than the early founders would have desired. Of all British universities London is the most cosmopolitan. Because of its program of external degrees the university wields considerable power throughout the entire Commonwealth. In fact, the large number of foreign and colonial students makes the institution one of the most outstanding international educational settlements in the world. However, London University remains basically civic and regional; it has all the aspects of a large metropolitan university with an overwhelmingly large number of students who commute. Durham University dates its origins to Oliver Cromwell in 1657, but it was not established as a university until 1832. Up to 1950 Durham was the only completely collegiate university outside of Oxford and Cambridge. Consisting of two divisions, the larger of which is located in Newcastle upon Tyne, Durham is principally a religious foundation intimately associated with the Anglican Church. King's College, Newcastle, like most civic universities, stresses scientific and social studies in keeping with the industrial and commercial area it serves. It maintains its own faculties and professorial staffs, but many teachers serve at both establishments. Durham is an example of a successful, well-integrated university, a fact corroborated by recent efforts further to unify the two branches, calling them the University of Durham and Newcastle.3 Responding to more immediate demands which gave them birth, the newer universities at first tended to concentrate on certain specialties appropriate to their location, such as theology at Durham, commerce and social science at Birmingham, science and engineering at Manchester, agriculture at Reading, and textiles at Leeds. Not in all cases, however, have these specialties become as fully developed as other fields of learning. In most instances strong programs in arts and sciences have been cultivated. At Manchester, for example, social studies and the natural sciences, especially physics, are currently more outstanding than engineering, the College of Technology assuming greater responsibility for instruction in the latter field. At Leeds, fuel and agriculture are important studies. The University of Liverpool is somewhat exceptional in its offerings. Architecture and tropical medicine are among the leading specialties,

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though its achievement in social science is demonstrable. Oceanography is a strong subject, while the Tidal Institute responds to the demands of Merseyside commerce and shipping. Both Leeds and Liverpool have enrollments of about 3000 students, of whom one-third are women. But Liverpool's innate conservatism and rather carefully measured attitude at what constitutes university education contrast with a more liberal policy at the University of Leeds, where ears are more sensitive to voices from the community. Aside from emphases on social and natural sciences, the University of Manchester features medical and dental schools that are among the most up-to-date in the world. The departments of physics and chemistry are notable. Of special interest is the department of American studies, the first to be established in any British university. Manchester's building program, as vigorous as that of Leeds, has spelled the doom of many a grimy, hideous block of workers' houses. In both cases, however, as with Liverpool and other universities, the spanking new structures simply accentuate the squalor of their surroundings. At Birmingham, new buildings are being located on the outskirts of the city, much in the manner of suburban university development in other countries.4 The University of Glasgow, larger than Manchester, is perhaps the most 'civic' of all regional universities. Its enrollment is drawn preponderantly from Glasgow and immediate surroundings. Large classes, inadequate facilities, and the lack ofsufficient teacher-student contact, characteristic of large enrollments, over 75 per cent of whom live at home, are all in evidence at Glasgow. Here, students are apt to be more vociferous in their criticism of university practices than elsewhere, though there is no lack of good spirit and loyalty. Glasgow still excels in classics and philosophy, observes J. D. Mackie laconically, ' but is splitting the atom now'. 5 The University of Wales, created by Royal Charter in 1893, arose as the expression of a strong national movement, which, states Robertson, for at least one, if not two, generations 'had fought the double battle of satisfying Welsh national sentiments and the demand for higher education through a national and independent university'. The geography and demography of Wales rendered impractical a single central university; instead, four constituencies were established: Aberystwyth, Bangor, Cardiff and Swansea. The organization of the University of

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Wales was influenced more by Scottish than by English practice, the academic senate having in general larger responsibilities and more functional administrative powers than in English universities. Wales improved on Scotland, however, in the matter of establishing residential colleges, joining Oxford and Cambridge, Durham and Reading, in favoring that particular element of their growth. The University of Belfast, in Northern Ireland, formerly Queen's College and dependent on the National University of Ireland in Dublin, was accorded its present status in 1921. Belfast conforms broadly to the characteristics of a British provincial university.6 The University of North Staffordshire, Britain's youngest institution of higher learning, was created in 1949 as a result of local public demand and the feeling on the part of many educational leaders that Britain ought to have an experimental university of this type. A minimum of four years of study is prescribed in place of the usual three at other universities. The first year consists of a compulsory course of lectures in the foundation studies (humanities, social studies and physical sciences), together with tutorials in the student's major field. During the last three years the student gravitates increasingly toward his specialty. At no time, however, does he so concentrate his efforts as to exclude related subject matter. The entire student body and faculty are in residence, housing consisting mostly of army huts. The institution is important because it is Britain's first full-fledged, fully government-supported experiment in higher education. Sponsored by the universities of Manchester, Birmingham and Oxford, Staffordshire is the proud product of the co-operative efforts of several local communities, which have agreed to underwrite one-fourth of the recurrent expenditures; and it is a monument to the personal devotion of one man. The late Lord Lindsay's experience at two such contrasting institutions as Glasgow University and Balliol College did much to insure an intensely interesting and meritorious cross-fertilization of the more commendable features of residence, foundation studies, high academic standards, and educational experimentalism.7 The unique characteristic much in its newness as in its fact that for the most part mediate surroundings. Far

of the civic university lies not so peculiar urban quality and in the enrollments are drawn from imtoo many educational leaders in

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civic universities are, however, oblivious of these peculiar controlling factors and expend a great deal of energy trying to imitate Oxford and Cambridge. Since Britain's civic universities have more in common with large publicly supported universities in other parts of the world, such, for example, as Paris, Berlin and Rome, it would seem that their behavior ought to be guided by a more sympathetic appreciation of their unique function and potentiality. D. W . Brogan upbraids civic university dons who look with longing on the green and pleasant amenities of Oxbridge: ' In fishing for the moon in the bucket of nostalgia for Oxbridge, the real needs and the real possibilities of Redbrick may be ignored.' Neither Oxford nor Cambridge can, of course, claim a monopoly on cultural achievement, either within the university walls or within the confines of the cities proper. The metropolis of Manchester, for example, may very well be among the ugliest of Britain's communities, understandably so because of its industrial prowess; but such achievements as the Manchester Guardian, the Hallé Orchestra, and the Rylands Library are a match for anything that the cities or universities of Oxford or Cambridge can boast. T h e civic university has the special advantage of being located near the city's reference libraries, theaters, concert halls, cinemas, pubs, art galleries and great community churches. T h e y are likewise not without their benefactors: John Owens, for example, who gave £ 100,000 to the University of Manchester; the Wills family of Bristol; the Boots of Nottingham. Brogan concludes: It would be well, therefore, for the civic universities to cultivate their own garden by seeking out further foundations, endowments, and civic support for the realization of their own intrinsic purposes. They might well concentrate on improving student unions, so as to bring the university community closer together. They might establish modest programmes of residence. Certainly they should more firmly cement ties with those cultural institutions which have already matured within their community. The civic universities have their own road to hoe and it lies on fertile ground. 8 In brief, then, the British university system may be said to comprise: (1) two ancient collegiate universities similar in aims and functions; (2) two modern universities (London and Durham) sharply different from each other in general orientation;

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(3) ten civic universities, mainly nonresidential and hardly a century old; (4) three university colleges, whose history as degree-granting universities has yet to be made; and (5) four Scottish universities, the federated University of Wales and the University of Belfast (Northern Ireland). Although tradition furnishes the cement of their peculiar classification, the necessities of adaptation to national life have not been the exclusive concern of one group.9 All universities, young and old, private and public, have been compelled to face similar problems of organization, finance, curricular expansion, residence facilities, the function of scholarship, and other special situations where change must take place in faithful accordance with national cultural determinants and the course of higher learning in other parts of the civilized world.

2.

THE

FRAMEWORK

OF

GOVERNMENT

There is no person or body in Oxford competent to déclare what the functions of the University a r e . . . . Oxford has never felt the necessity of declaring its purpose.... Indeed, the government of Oxford is admirably fitted to preserve existing institutions and ideas; it is less well fitted to introduce new ones. The Government of Oxford, 1931

In the matter of organization and administration British universities are quite different from those of other countries. In the United States the university president and a board of trustees usually constitute the governing body; they rely only to a limited degree upon faculty recommendation and representation. In other countries most of the universities are dependent upon central ministries of education. With few exceptions, they are a part of the national educational system. Britain, it might be said, has come closer to achieving democratic practices than most university systems. We have seen how, despite outside interference, the original autonomous character of Oxford and Cambridge was retained through the years. Administrative power early rested in the hands of'congregations', of which there were three: (1) the Black Congregation of Regents, or teaching masters, which had the sole right to initiate legislation; (2) the Lesser Congregation of Regents, which administered both business and scholarly matters, including the awarding of degrees; and (3) the Full or 3

KLB

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Great Congregation (later called Convocation) of Regents and non-Regents. Corresponding somewhat to an alumni organization, Convocation was the only agency permitted to formulate permanent statutes. Characteristic of this larger body was the weight of faculty influence and, pertinently enough, a broad, democratic representation. Up to the fifteenth century the chancellor at Oxford was as much a judiciary as an administrative officer. Elected by the teaching masters from their own ranks, he was endowed by the accidents of political history with ecclesiastical powers which were of considerable advantage in furthering the cause of the university in national affairs. As a matter of fact, the chancellor's court adjudicated many civil as well as academic disputes, appeals from which were taken to congregations. Here, indeed, was a curious incidence of educational authorities sitting in judgment over civilians. With the growth of royal courts, however, the power of congregations diminished, so that by the nineteenth century the last vestiges of the chancellor's judiciary powers disappeared. The internal organization of Oxford was founded on Archbishop Laud's statutes, finally enacted in 1636. These statutes (1) confirmed the supremacy of the colleges over the university; (2) vested the control of the university in an Hebdomadal Board, consisting of the heads of the colleges and the proctors; (3) legalized the annual appointment by the chancellor of the vice-chancellor from among the heads of the colleges, subject to approval by convocation; (4) established procedures for the election of proctors; and (5) regulated the conduct of public examinations. In grateful acknowledgment of the loyalty of the universities to matters temporal as well as spiritual, James I permitted them to elect representatives to the House of Commons, a privilege which, temporarily suspended in the Cromwell period, they enjoyed up to 1948.10 Today, the government of Oxford and Cambridge consists of three bodies, which reflect their origin in name and function: (1) Convocation at Oxford, or Senate at Cambridge; (2) Congregation at Oxford, or House of Regents at Cambridge; (3) Hebdomadal Council at Oxford, or Council of the Senate at Cambridge. Essentially, the forms of organization of the two universities are the same, except that at Cambridge the greater power of the professoriate somewhat lessens the power of the

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council of the senate in favor of what is called the General Board of Faculties. 11 Convocation is at once the largest body and the ultimate legal and controlling constituency of the Oxford government. Its membership includes masters of arts and doctors of divinity, medicine or civil law who have paid their dues and kept their names on their college books. Convocation is empowered to elect the chancellor and to cast the deciding vote on important issues. Otherwise, its operations are strictly limited by statute and by the difficulty of assembling its scattered membership. Congregation, composed largely of the teaching faculty, ratifies high-level policy and personnel selection; legislation may be initiated on petition of one hundred members. Congregation also elects the Hebdomadal Council, or executive committee of the university, which in turn functions as a cabinet in the initiation of legislation before congregation. Council may legally contain lay membership, but the opportunity for implementing the idea has been carefully avoided. Explaining the underlying reason for this, the special committee issuing its report on The Government of Oxford states: Oxford and Cambridge have n o . . . local connexion (comparable to the modern universities). They are national, indeed international institutions, and are faced with the problem of keeping in touch with a widely scattered constituency. Reformers have so far been baffled by the difficulty of getting business men or civil servants to attend frequent meetings in Oxford, and in the past the only means whereby general outside opinion has been able to influence Oxford have been periodical Royal Commissions, whose reforms can never be so satisfactory as those autonomously agreed upon as and when they become necessary. The success, however, of the system of outside representation upon the Appointments Board and the Extra-Mural Delegacy indicates that if the need for close co-operation with the outside world is realized a method can be found for satisfying it.12 The chancellorship at both universities is honorary and is occupied by a distinguished national figure, elected by the combined vote of faculty members and recognized alumni. The chief executive is the vice-chancellor. A member or head of one of the constituent colleges, he is nominated by the chancellor (at Oxford) and elected by the heads of the colleges. Seniority, though counting heavily, is not always decisive. At Oxford the chancellor may not visit the university on invitation of the vice3-2

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chancellor, even though by statute the latter must be appointed or approved annually by his superior officer. The vice-chancellor holds his office usually for three years and is not re-elected. At Cambridge the vice-chancellor is elected for a two-year term from two candidates nominated by the council of the senate. At neither institution is the vice-chancellor given power to intervene directly in the affairs of the university, save through his 'speakership' in council and his membership on committees. He tends to be an instrument of administration, rather than an instigator of it, but his executive functions are none the less enfeebled thereby.13 Discipline is in charge of two proctors elected annually by the colleges in rotation. Wearing black velvet gowns, proctors have the right of entry to any tavern, meeting place or lodginghouse, and may inquire of a suspect if he is a member of the university. Sir Ernest Barker, himself a former proctor, supports this method of discipline and sees 'nothing undemocratic in a system which marries a modest and sensible discipline to the surging liberty ofyouth'. In fact, Sir Ernest made some ' cherished friendships' with undergraduates whom he' caught' on his perambulations.14 Finally, faculty committees, appointed by the vice-chancellor, are responsible for internal policy, affecting chiefly the courses of study and general academic behavior. In 1950 the following colleges were in existence at Oxford and Cambridge: 15 Oxford University College Balliol Merton St Edmund Hall* Exeter Oriel Queen's New College Lincoln All Souls Magdalen Brasenose Corpus Christi Christ Church Trinity St John's Jesus Wadham Pembroke

Founded 1249-80 1263-68 j263-4 1269 1314-16 1326 '34° '379 1427 '438 1458 '509 1517 1546 '554 '555 1571 1612 1624

Cambridge Peterhouse Clare Pembroke Gonville and Caius Trinity Hall Corpus Christi King's Queens' St Catharine's Jesus Christ's St John's Magdalene Trinity Emmanuel Sidney Sussex Downing Fitzwilliam House j Girton (F.)i

Founded 1284 1326 '347 1348-9 '35° '352 '44' 1448 '473-5 1496 1506 1511 '542 1546 1584 1596 1800 1869 1869

THE ARCHITECTURE Oxford Worcester Hertford St Catherine's Society! Keble Lady Margaret (F.)J St Anne's Society (F.)f Somerville (F.)} St Hugh's (F.)i St Hilda's (F.)J St Peter'st Nuffield St Anthony's!

Founded 1714 1740 1868 1870 1878

OF U N I V E R S I T Y Cambridge

LIFE

37 Founded

Newnham (F.)J

1871

Selwyn

1882

1879 1879 1886 1893 1928

1937

1950

* Not a collegiate institution. f Nonresidential societies for independent students. J Women's colleges admitted to full university status by Oxford, 1920-30; by Cambridge, 1948.

In response to organizational and administrative structure, all colleges are an inseparable part of the university to which they belong, but each one has its own property, its own government, and its own organization and administration. In very highly individualistic ways they exercise functions over which the university has traditionally little jurisdiction. They are thus at variance with the system at Harvard and Yale, for example, where the colleges are integral parts of centralized organizations and are directly subject thereto. At Oxford and Cambridge a student is enrolled not in the university but in a college. His preference is dependent on such factors as family connection with the college, the desire to study with a particular tutor or supervisor resident in the college, the subject matter specialty, certain characteristics and attributes which the college has acquired throughout its history, and, especially in recent years, by the availability of space. Degrees are awarded by the university, but the student is 'sent down' (expelled) only by the college. The supervision of a student's individual work falls within the jurisdiction of the college, but the course of study and the arrangement of lectures, laboratory work and examinations are the responsibility of the university. Although colleges are obliged to pay taxes to the university, they may not receive grants directly from the government. All colleges have their private libraries, most of which tend to be antiquarian in nature; the university maintains the central library and the principal museums, laboratories, administrative offices, gardens and other properties acquired in its name.

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The cloistered atmosphere of the colleges is intensified by high stone walls surmounted by iron spikes and heavy gates barring the entrances. However, educational isolation is preserved more in its physical than its spiritual aspects. Students are still required to be within the precincts at a respectable hour, and their activities about town are subject to university supervision. Yet perennial generations of youth keep the colleges in the present tense. Social emancipation and the workaday world have affected college behavior at its very heart. One cannot keep out the noise of traffic, the trades unions to which university workers belong, the ration cards, and the very tangible effects of national austerity. As in other realms of government, the greater need for over-all control, management and supervision has led to increased centralization. The colleges have had to sacrifice much of their power, their peculiar identity and a certain amount of their precious historic individuality in favor of service to the university body corporate.16

3.

THE

NEWER

ORGANIZATIONS

But the newer universities cannot repeat the history of the old; they must trace out their own way boldly but surely with reference to the wants, real or supposed, of an emergent society, especially in their region, so that they may constantly suffuse it with fresh thought, thought relative, not to a departed order of things, but to life as it is lived here and now. BONAMY

DOBR&E,

1943

The newer universities are subject to a dual lay and academic control through a court of governors, a council, and an academic senate. The court ofgovernors consists ofrepresentative graduates of the university and other important individuals who have a special interest in university policy. The council is the practical governing agency. Its membership is made up of (i) the administrative heads of the university; (2) members of the faculty, nominated by the academic senate; (3) lay representatives appointed by the court of governors; and (4) members at large. Chosen by the court of governors, the council functions in a somewhat similar fashion to an American board of trustees. The senate, composed entirely of faculty members, is concerned chiefly with academic affairs; it also advises the council. Faculty boards, which are exclusively internal bodies, handle a mass of

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academic detail and assist in directing the corporate life of the university. Pertinently enough, the system of government at the old universities has been termed a 'direct democracy', whereas at the newer universities it has been called a ' combination of an oligarchy and a representative democracy'.17 Certain unique features characterize Scottish university organization. In formal command is the Scottish Universities Committee of the Royal Privy Council, whose function it is to advise the crown on such matters as the affiliation of colleges, the establishment of professorial chairs, and the disposition of legislation. Otherwise, the committee has little real influence. Instead, the individual university court is in general control of government and administration; while the academic senate, consisting of the principal (vice-chancellor) and representative professors, supervises teaching and learning. (At Glasgow the court consists of fourteen persons: four representatives of the senate, four graduates, four at large, the rector, and the principal.) Originally the control of Scottish universities was almost entirely academic. Over the years, however, there has developed a trend toward lay participation which contrasts with developments in Britain, where lay control over civic universities has given way to increased academic representation. The chief officers of a Scottish university are the chancellor, the principal, and the rector, who serves as president of the court. Regarding the peculiar position of the rector, H. C. Dent observes: Preserving one of the most ancient traditions of university government, the election of the Rector is made every three years by the matriculated students. The post is regarded as a very high honor, elections are often keenly contested, and the most distinguished statesmen and men of letters are proud to be nominated. It is part of the Rector's duty to watch over the interest of the student body. 18

It has already been noted that on the governing councils of the modern universities there is a wide representation of community interests, including members of the local educational authorities (the L.E.A.'s), who work with the national Ministry of Education in behalf of the lower schools. Weighted with lay representation, the new universities tend to grant little voice to academic members in matters of administration, the extent and continuity of which is assured chiefly by a quasi-permanent vice-chancellor.

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Vice-chancellors are not chosen especially for their administrative competence or money-raising ability but because of their demonstrated leadership among men of their own profession. Unfortunately, this means that they must spend a great deal of time learning administrative duties while in office. Cambridge University elects men under sixty years of age and confines their term of appointment to two years. The age limit at Oxford is more flexible but the term of office is equally brief. Short appointments are perilous from many points of view, since incumbents are unable to win administrative bodies to the support of long-term policies. It is for this very reason that the civic universities elect vice-chancellors for longer periods in office. On the other hand, there is value in restricting any process which would enable one man to accumulate arbitrary power. Perhaps, as Ogilvie suggests, a solution can be found in establishing a dual leadership, whereby the vice-chancellor would handle major matters of policy and a president or principal would handle day-to-day administration on a long-term or even permanent basis. In these days of growing enrollments and increased complexity of administration it is wise to reconstruct university organization out of a practical understanding of the determinants, rather than in accordance with inherited preference. A dual leadership would tend to solve the perennial question as to whether intellectual attainment, professional distinction, or administrative prowess should be the leading factor in making appointments. Although in the course of history a number of vice-chancellors have been thrice blessed, it is doubtful that their number will be increased in an age of specialization.19 The relation of the teaching staff to the university administration is more intimate at Oxford and Cambridge than in the civic universities. The administrative bodies of the teaching staffs, namely, congregation at Oxford and house of regents at Cambridge, actually elect the governing councils. At Cambridge, all alumni and faculty members may legally participate in administration. At both universities the administrators are members of, and are responsible to, the entire teaching body. In theory, at least, no system could be founded more on the rights and dignity of the teacher, but it must be acknowledged that the consequent diffusion of power and responsibility tends to restrain action. On the credit side, it must be granted that

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measures once adopted are likely to be of more significance and more permanence. This attribute pertains more to the older, autonomous universities because they are by nature in a better position to sacrifice immediacy for their own concept of what constitutes higher educational progress. They tend in any case to take the long view in establishing procedures. Although the civic universities would be the first to deny that their practices are momentary and undervalue the position of the teacher in administration, their greater proximity to the forces of national development spells a greater necessity for more rapid decisions and for an administrative structure best able to carry them out. Interesting as an intermediate position is the system at the University of London, where the administration of finances is strongly influenced by the university senate, which controls educational policy. The court is the supreme financial authority but the senate has dominant representation. The functions of these two bodies are mutually exclusive, but their overlapping membership is important in wedding the instructional end of university practice with the means whereby it may be carried on. Further comment on this and related matters must, however, be reserved for the next section.

4.

THOUGHTS

ON

ORGANIZATION

AND

ADMINISTRATION Nowhere can one find anything approaching the sense of responsibility and the personal interest in university policy which marks the modern universities of G r e a t Britain.

BRUCE TRUSCOT, 1945

On the matter of university organization and administration there is a wide spectrum of opinion. All university practices are of course a reflection of the university's collective philosophy of education. In Britain as elsewhere much of the controversy on educational administration is hardly more than an extension of the general argument on university purposes. Perhaps the most vital issue originates in the theory of the separation of the university and society. To what extent, in other words, does intellectual detachment, legally guaranteed, imply social detachment? Is scholarly detachment an academic good in itself? The late Professor Laski held that the older universities were too oblivious of their social responsibilities. He deprecated the practice of self-government at Oxford and Cambridge, calling

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it 'virtually complete' and a type o f ' syndicalism tempered by the recommendations and investigations of a Royal Commission every thirty or forty years'. Admitting that the larger issues of policy usually arise out of recommendations of members of the teaching staffs, Laski wanted greater lay participation in both legislation and administrative control. Governing bodies should consist of representatives of all segments of society.20 In similar vein, Bonamy Dobree, professor of English literature at the University of Leeds, recommends that the universities accept lay representation as one of the virtues of social integration; he urges that the action be reciprocal. 21 Likewise, according to Sir Raymond Priestley, vice-chancellor of the University of Birmingham, lay representation is endemic to the very existence of the civic university. The policy of university administration should be in keeping with the nation's needs. Convinced that 'like Antaeus, we gain new strength from contact with the earth', Sir Raymond's pronouncements are derived from personal experience; he ruefully remembers the 'academic isolation' which he and his colleagues experienced at Cambridge. 22 Bruce Truscot, on the other hand, is convinced that lay representation usurps the proper prerogatives of the university. The powers of the council, he finds, are 'tremendous'. Conceding the fact that the council can take no action without consulting the senate, he nevertheless submits that the procedure is a mere formality, since the statutes contain nothing to prevent the council from rejecting any or all of the senate's representations. He condemns what he calls ' unnecessary and wasteful formality' in even the most routine procedures, and maintains that it must be attributed to the 'depressingfact' that in the civic universities the various bodies do not trust each other and for some reason which does not exist at Oxford,' more people have to be consulted'. 23 Ail even more bitter critic, representative of a sizable body of opinion, derides what in his conception is the artificial and dubious manner in which 'redbrick' universities first came into being, a circumstance which cannot help being reflected in contemporary administrative practices: For these modern universities date from an age when our cities boasted of their prosperity rather than of their bomb damage. In the hurry not to be outdone, the mayors and the aldermen had no

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time to ask each other what a university is; nor would the reply, had they done so, have been helpful. The object was to draft some statutes, secure a charter, and ensure financial control by or for the rate-payers. For a university to belong to any one kingdom (aside from that of truth) is undesirable even if sometimes necessary. But what if it belongs to a county borough?24 Truscot also has little use for the court of governors, which, though technically the university's supreme governing body, is probably 'best dispensed with'. It is 'truly an enormous corporation, running into several hundreds, but even more remarkable than the number of members is the variety of the sources from which they are drawn'. Truscot is explicit in the case of Bristol, which has a court of about 360 members, the mere listing of whom takes fourteen pages in the university Calendar. Fortunately, this gigantic body does not meet as a whole; otherwise, observes Truscot, the havoc wrought if views on university policy were openly discussed would be 'intolerable'. Instead, a quorum is 'scraped together once or twice yearly'. The council is in some respects a valuable agency, admits Truscot, because it includes the many interests which have a stake in the university. These interests are given an opportunity to express themselves and a responsibility to assume; but they do not take their duties sufficiently to heart. Truscot is acid in his criticism that the council caters to the vanity and selfimportance of a few persons who are regarded as possible benefactors of the university; it may also be dismissed as a 'harmless institution.. .merely decorative.. .and without important influence'. Any move to simplify university administration must sweep away this 'vast accumulation of doubtful functionaries' and replace them with a more active council or convocation. Artfully Truscot suggests: ' T h e only persons really to suffer would be those who had recently subscribed the "thousand pounds and upwards " in exchange for the privilege of becoming "governors". No doubt, however, an honorary degree each would placate them.' 25 We are not competent at this point, or even willing, to refute Truscot, however much his mild acerbity tends to weaken him as an opponent. It would seem, however, that the check he uses on his own recommendations is far more basic to constructive reform than he allows. It is probably an axiom that the wider the representation becomes in a debate on any issue, the

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more firm and acceptable is the result. A university gathers its power from, and is responsible to, agencies of every kind in a democratic society. These agencies will tend to react more interestedly, and more surely, to administrative problems which they have been duly elected to share. Truscot sees no value in assembling the whole group at one time because of the chaos of discussion that would ensue. Just how different such an assembly would be in point of merit from a political town meeting is difficult to detect; tempers rise high at times in both instances; but that does not preclude constructive activity. Perhaps a three-day conference attended annually would result in recommendations that might be of considerable value to the university. Even if, in the opinion of some, such recommendations were impractical, the universities would at least become more aware of external opinion; and they could equip themselves more effectively to tackle the opposition. Constructively, more clearly defined distinctions could be made regarding what is and what is not proper subject matter for discussion in open sessions, what is considered policy and what is judged to be operational detail, and what is to be kept secret. In this way, the sphere of operations of the court would tend to be limited to the tasks which its members are best able to perform. Without further laboring the point, it is submitted that the probable best solution is not to eliminate the court at this juncture, even if such drastic action were physically possible, but rather to bend every effort toward strengthening it in such a way as to be of greater service to the university. In these days of financial need and spiritual insecurity the more hands there are to call upon for help the more enduring the resulting product is likely to be. In a more conciliatory vein, Sir Frederick Ogilvie grants that the dual system of administration in the modern universities has its moments of friction, but it at least ' ensures that the educational essentials are the responsibility of the academic staff alone.... It can enlist administrative experts who know their business and can save the professors for theirs'.26 Finally, regarding the power of the council, the vice-chancellor of the University of Manchester, Sir John Stopford, differs with Truscot, stating that 'today Council has confidence in the judgment of Senate and leaves the most important task of selection to Senate'.27 Nevertheless, there appear to be two serious defects in the

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45

organization and administration of modern universities. One is that the majority of faculty members below the grade of professor (ofwhom there is usually only one to a department) have no legal avenue of direct participation in university government; they thus derive only an imperfect knowledge of what transpires in star chamber sessions and can little influence what is discussed there. The other is that the lay representatives may be unsuited to the task of supervising higher learning; also, they are too often subject to pressures of a nonacademic nature. In consideration of British university tradition, the first defect is a serious one. History clearly demonstrates the value of direct participation in university legislation by those responsible for its execution. Since the vast majority of the teachers in British universities are below the rank of professor, it follows that the bulk of the faculty must become the obedient servants of a prescribed order, rather than the molders of it. Advocating increased teacher participation in government, or 'home rule for provincial authoritiesparticularly in matters of internal organization, the London Times editorializes : Lecturers should feel themselves as part of the university, not men and women it has hired to do its teaching. The corporate pride of a college whose members share a common life, the balance of its own rights and freedoms against those of the university of which it is a part, are proved elements of health in university constitutions as they have developed traditionally in England.28 In similar vein, the University Grants Committee deplores the principle of keeping a large body of the faculty ignorant of university affairs, or of giving them no administrative responsibility whatever. The problem becomes all the more serious when one considers the large proportionate increase which has taken place recently in the number of lecturers as compared with those in higher posts.29 , Concerning the second defect, namely the inclusion of laymen on boards of control, an article in The Times gives sharpest expression to the argument of the opposition, averring that the growth of the corporate spirit, which should infuse a university, is actually stunted by lay control: The institution which cannot free itself from lay control in 20 years will never free itself at all. The danger of an oligarchy is not so much that its decisions may be unwise as that its serfs are allowed no sense

46

H I G H E R L E A R N I N G IN

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of partnership. Redbrick may belong to the city in which it stands. It may belong to the Ministry of Education. But it does not belong to its graduates and still less does it belong to its staff.30 Bruce Truscot, dependable critic of the new order, finds that the legal, let alone financial, powers of the council, supposedly confined to external administration, cannot fail to permeate the very heart of the academic domain. Since the council, and not the senate, is finally empowered with such academic matters as selecting faculty members and promoting research (as at Bristol), with no greater restriction than that of the 'vague necessity of consultation with the senate', there can be no assurance that matters even of a strictly educational nature are the sole responsibility of the faculties. Only if and when the senate is assured of its proper rights can it promote the needs of the lower ranks of teachers. In a more intimate way he observes: The first question one asks about a newly appointed Vice-Chancellor is generally:' Will hebeaCouncil man or a Senate man ?' That remark reveals the weakness of the dual-government system more vividly than many pages of argument. It will be a fortunate day for the modern universities when their financial position is sufficiently assured to enable the Senate to be master in its own house.31 What Truscot and his supporters refer to, of course, is the tendency of community control to vitiate the strength of pure scholarship and traditional university teaching by a natural but overzealous desire to satisfy community needs. The university is then called to service, not for the more sublime and enduring ends of learning, but for tasks more appropriate, perhaps, to a technical or training college. Notwithstanding the happy fact that business and industrial leaders demand of university graduates the ability to deal effectively with values and broad relationships, too many council members favor specialized subject matter; they allot money for studies which tend to fragment the curriculum; they grant finances and favors to a particular specialty rather than to the whole of university education. Sir Walter Moberly, formerly head of the Grants Committee, sees this danger: 'The layman, employing criteria which he can understand, will seek to satisfy the felt need of the moment', and 'will impair or destroy the university's most precious but intangible assets. He will use a razor to sharpen a pencil'. Also, observes Moberly, this practice is basically

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LIFE

47

unethical, since it cripples the total development of youthful personalities, who are too young or too naïve to realize that they had better be prepared for more than the techniques and economics of making a living. Again, the concentration of power in the hands of laymen, administrators, and senior academic personnel blocks efforts to promote corporate life among students and teachers. Unless imbued with a passion for the education of persons, administrators prefer to concentrate on the more visible and tangible elements of university growth; they are by nature interested in administrative procedures per sey in techniques of good management, and in concrete evidence of things achieved. With this type of bias, more money is apt to be allotted for office equipment, bureaucratic gadgets, outward show, and other relatively extraneous appurtenances, rather than for adequate lodgings, junior common rooms, private offices for teacherstudent consultations and other necessary educational equipment at present sadly lacking in most redbrick universities. Physical limitations of themselves obstruct corporate life; faculty members have to live off the grounds and students are housed in whatever diggings they can find. Such limitations have contributed to what Moberly calls an 'unfortunate estrangement' of faculty and students, who, when they do manage to come together, consort only with those in the same specialty. Even the administrators have become 'members of a separate profession'. 32 The argument could, of course, continue, involving other elements which enter into the sphere of university organization and administration. Invariably, however, the issues would all be related to concepts of the fundamental aims and practices of the university, a fuller description of which is reserved for later chapters. For present purposes, it is clear from the above that there is considerable disagreement among British university leaders as to what shall constitute the ideal pattern of organization and administration. Although disagreement and freedom of opinion may in many cases lead to sounder practices, once harmony is achieved, the universities have perhaps reached the stage where in certain very important areas constructive action can no longer be delayed. This section has exposed some of these areas. Inhibited corporate growth, administrative isolationism, overspecialized procedures, inade-

48

H I G H E R L E A R N I N G IN

BRITAIN

quate faculty representation, lay control—all need attention. For it is certain that unless remedies are found, present plans for university growth will simply perpetuate existing evils.

5.

CORPORATE

LIFE

If I had to choose between a university which dispensed with residence... and a university which merely brought a number of young men together for three or four hours.. .1 have no hesitance in] giving preference to that university which did nothing. CARDINAL NEWMAN

The dire need for new halls of residence is of particular concern to British university authorities because of the intimate way in which corporate life within the two ancient universities has persistently contributed to the essential character and personality of their graduates. The traditional ideals and behavior of academic life, forged in the colleges during the period of free association, became so strong with every passing year that they became a model for national behavior; indeed, the fate of the nation, discussed intimately within college confines, was later determined by those student groups which had frequently sat together with tutor and lecturer over the tea table. Sir Ernest Barker, himself a product of the college system, fondly portrays what he experienced: Residence in a common college throws men of all types together. . .the poor and the rich; the native and the foreigner; the scholar and the athlete. Under such conditions there is an inevitable give and take, and a mutual cross-fertilization: men will go on discussing all subjects under heaven in their rooms, till two or three in the morning; and friendships may be formed which will endure through life, and affect all life.88 The benefits of the collegiate system are roundly publicized and openly advocated, not only by the defenders of the ancient universities but also by those desirous of preserving the more humanizing influences of higher education. A Times editorial, for example, judges that it would be 'sound borrowing from the past' if the newer universities constructed their halls of residence in the manner of the old constituent colleges.34 Manchester University's Professor Blackett, with his customary forthrightness, advises university administrations to 'concentrate on changing the material background of students' lives, rather than

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LIFE

49

preaching at them or at university staffs'. The new halls of residence, he continues,' should have been built during the interwar years and especially during the great slump of the 1930's'. 36 Even under the most favorable conditions, however, it would be extremely difficult to provide civic universities with the type of accommodation existing at Oxford and Cambridge. T h e Murray Report estimated that the capital cost of building an ideal hall of residence would be 'on the order of £1500 to £1800 [roughly $5000] for each student place'. Britain's contemporary economic position would hardly sustain, or even sanction, the expenditure of millions of pounds on the construction of exemplary halls of residence. Makeshifts have been introduced, of course, as at Hull, where a former army camp consisting mainly of Nissen huts has been adapted, and at Durham, where a Norman castle (Lumley) serves as a student hall. Also, a number of private residences donated to universities have been converted. But even where halls of residence exist, so objective a group as the University Grants Committee cannot refrain from contrasting them with the colleges at Oxford and Cambridge:' The difference is palpable. They are organized in faculties, not colleges, and have no tutorial system.' For in actual fact the new halls of residence at Leeds, Liverpool and Manchester, among others, resemble dormitories at American universities, rather than the colleges best known to British devotees of higher education. 36 Aside from tradition, sentimentality and inherited concepts of the proper type of corporate life, educators agree with Barker and Blackett that the educational experience of five o'clock scholars is nowhere near so rich as that obtained in halls of residence, where students learn from each other and gain contacts which are often more stimulating and profitable than those secured in the lecture halls. Sir Frederick Ogilvie elaborates on the more informal aspects: The value of the residential system is no longer in dispute, provided that it does not dragoon or coddle and that it allows students to spend part of their career, if they want to, in lonely lodgings with a box of books, cold herring for supper, and the occasional visit of a friend. One of its most important intellectual benefits is to give students a change from home, the stimulus of new surroundings, a change from dear Mum and Dad's conversation, Johnnie's wireless, and Emily's friends.37 4

KLB

50

HIGHER

LEARNING

IN

BRITAIN

Students living off university grounds go to school as they would to work; they handle their courses as they would items of piecework, and do their studying in hermit fashion, without the stimulus of a collegiate atmosphere. The social aspects of a home environment under ideal conditions have certain advantages; but it is questionable that even the best home can provide the depth and variety of social experience and intellectual challenge to match what may be obtained from one's university contemporaries. Throughout the United Kingdom the proportion of students housed in hostels (dormitories) or colleges is far smaller than is considered healthful. In England and Scotland the proportion of men living in university residences is slightly under 20 per cent, whereas that for women is about 36 per cent. In the Scottish universities the figures are much lower; only 6 per cent of the men and 15 per cent of the women live in university housing. The men's colleges of the University of Wales are largely nonresidential, but about half the women are in residence. O f the total number of full-time students throughout the country, about 40 per cent live in lodgings and about 38 per cent live at home. At Manchester, 55 per cent of the students live at home, 33 per cent live in lodgings, and 12 per cent are accommodated in the halls. 38 In the face of overcrowded conditions even Oxford and Cambridge have had to sacrifice many a blessing of collegiate life. Bulging at the seams, and compelled to accept more students from a wider cross-section of society, both universities have become what Moberly calls ' a curious mixture of splendour and squalor'. The number of 'externals', that is, those living outside university residences, has become so great that the old universities unhappily have taken on the aspect of urban commercial institutions. Something like the attrition of students at Redbrick but unrelieved by the warmth of hearth and home has invaded the dignified precincts of former opulence and leisure, as Moberly observes: If it has something of Capua, it has also a good deal of Sparta, particularly for the older men. Many of the teaching staff are not Fellows, and have no college rooms in which to see pupils. With the large number of undergraduates a larger proportion must live in lodgings and both dons and undergraduates must go further afield to find accommodations.3®

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51

Strangely enough, though Oxford and Cambridge are classed as residential universities, Durham, Exeter, Reading and Hull have a greater proportion of residents. At Oxford there were in 1948 over 200 more men living in lodgings than in the colleges. The balance at Cambridge was only slightly in favor of the residents. A tabulation of figures for the predominantly residential universities shows how greatly the situation has changed from that prevailing before the war, when few British scholars lived outside of supervised halls and colleges. Residential status of students*0 C o l l e g e s I

a n d A

hostels t

L o d g i n g s A

A t t

h o m e A

M e n

W o m e n

M e n

W o m e n

O x f o r d

3 0 3 8

6 3 8

3 8 9 9

4 4 6

C a m b r i d g e

3 5 1 7

5 2 2

2 9 7 7

8 8

D u r h a m

4 3 8

1 5 7

9 6

4 9

7 4

6

E x e t e r

2 4 5

2 3 2

1 2 8

9 1

1 0 5

2 9

\

M e n

W o m e n

—

2 0

3 ° 5

2 3

During the academic year 1950—i the number of full-time students residing in colleges and dormitories was about 25 per cent of the total; in lodgings, about 40 per cent; and at home about 35 per cent. The proportion of men in residence was about 20 per cent, and of women about 40 per cent. These figures represent a negligible rise of about 2 per cent in the number of students in residence over a one-year period.41 For the immediate future, at least, the construction of halls of residence on any sizable scale remains in the land of heart's desire. War damage, as yet far from being repaired, international uncertainties and the general expansion under way in the lower schools have combined to impose a severe strain upon British economy. The exception, of course, is the college or university of the future. The University College of North Staffordshire, for example, which in 1950 opened its doors to 150 students, is completely residential even though army huts constitute the bulk of the residences. Despite the warm feeling of her people for constituent colleges, Britain has educational troubles of far greater proportion than inadequate residence halls.42

4-2

52

H I G H E R L E A R N I N G IN B R I T A I N 6.

COEDUCATION AND OF

PROBLEMS

ENROLLMENT

Inherent in all discussions of halls of residence, as well as in higher education in general, is the matter of coeducation. The joint education of women and men is now accepted in all universities, though the college system at Oxford and Gambridge and such arrangements as the college division at Durham operate to keep the sexes apart. In 1933 Marriott was able to write that Oxford had gone much further than Cambridge in granting women complete equality in educational status, including the awarding of degrees and a share in the government of the university. It was not until 1948 that such liberality was in evidence at Cambridge. In the Scottish universities women gained the right of admission late in the nineteenth century and today rank equally with men. London University has four semisegregated colleges for women: Bedford, Westfield, King's College of Household and Social Sciences, and Royal Holloway.43 The ratio of men to women is still high. At Cambridge there are ten times as many men as women, and at Oxford over five times as many. In Scotland men outnumber women three to one. The proportion has changed little over the last decade. In 1938 women constituted about 23 per cent of the total; in 1948 the proportion rose slightly to 25 per cent, over half of whom, pertinently enough, were enrolled in arts, fine arts and education courses. In 1950, however, the percentage again fell to the level of 1938.44 Full-time university enrollment of men and women Year 1939-40 1948-49 1 950-5i

Total enrollment

Men

Women

50,002

38,368 59.065 65,831

11,634

78,507 85.3I4

>9.442 19.483

Distribution of subject matter Men Arts Pure sciences Medicine Technology Dentistry Agriculture Veterinary science

24.509 13,862 ti.257 10,384 2.597 2,240 982

Percentage 37-0 21-0 17-0 16-o 4-o 3-5 i-5

Women

Percentage

12,279 3,306 2,944 207 288 366

63-0 17-0 15-0 i-o 1-5 2*0

93

0-5

Total

Percentage

36,788 17,168 14,201 10,591 2,885 2,606 1,075

43-0 20-0 17-0 13-0 3-0 3-0 i-o

THE ARCHITECTURE

OF UNIVERSITY

LIFE

53

There has been no important movement toward establishing a separate women's university capable of conferring its own degrees. In general, women take the same courses, attend the same lectures, and are awarded the same degrees as men. Barker wonders, however, whether in justice to women there should not be further provision for their special needs. Sir Ernest is aware that opinions may differ on whether women have special needs which differentiate them from men; ' but all will agree that the provision for the university education of women —whether along with men or in separate courses—is still imperfect.'46 Here again, in the matter of coeducation, if not the education of women, entertaining comparisons are often made with practice in American universities. ' Cambridge', says Texas University's popular Professor Frank Dobie, 'is not a super marriage market overrun by hordes of coeds out to find mates.' Dobie admits that men might make better husbands if they learned more about women and admitted them more freely into the hallowed halls of learning; nevertheless, he is convinced from personal experience as a visiting professor at Cambridge that the greater seriousness of purpose in British universities can tolerate no sentimental interference with the precious freedom to cultivate intellectual development. The colleges have their dances; the men have their dates; but they do not seem to have to rely on Girton and Newnham Colleges to provide the talent. They 'dance with far more young ladies invited from distant parts', and show no evidence of being stunted in their social growth. From a Jesus College undergraduate writing to the author comes the following contribution, quite in accord with the prevailing opinion of his fellow students: I'm jolly glad the place isn't overrun with women. It would ruin it completely. I for one would not like the room next to mine occupied by a woman, even if by chance she were pretty. I'd never get my work done. Actually, I work during the week and my girl friend comes down from London at the weekend, or I go there. Dobie grants, however, that 'a new college for women [at Cambridge] is especially needed'. The benefits and drawbacks of coeducation are argued in Britain as intensively as elsewhere. It may well be that the existing aversion to it at Oxford and Cambridge is derived

54

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L E A R N I N G IN

BRITAIN

mostly from prejudice and tradition, since it has no historical precedent and has not been given a fair trial. There are also manifold sociological and psychological implications arising from the inherited preference of many educational leaders for segregating the sexes during their schooling, a full and proper discussion of which is outside the scope of this presentation. In Britain, the difficulties of mere physical expansion are enough to impede developments in the area of coeducation, and these obstructions will have to be removed before problems of women's education can be effectively resolved. Britain is now convinced that university education should be free for all who attain the standard required for entrance, just as the lower levels of education have been made free for all. The University Grants Committee judged this trend to be worthy of cautious reference in their recent report: Clearly not all students who may in future be subsidized can be expected to get First or Second Class Honours. Further, when the great majority of students are subsidized, will it be possible to stop short, subject to a means test, of subsidising all? Whether such action is desirable or not, it will materially alter the universities and their relation to their students.47

Up to the present, the universities have established their own qualifications for entrance and have stipulated that all awards and scholarships, including those provided by the state, shall depend primarily on university recommendation. In this way the universities have been able to control both the enrollment and the academic standards of students accepted. This freedom is, however, becoming increasingly subject to external demands, which must ultimately effect changes in university admissions policies. For one thing, the character of school-leaving examinations has been altered; questions are beginning to reflect the ideals and purposes of secondary education, to the subordination of what is desired by the universities. For another, the state (including local authorities) has established definite policies regarding the types of students it will support and whom it hopes or expects that the university will enroll. Hitherto, most students planning to enter the universities have taken the School Certificate examination at about age fifteen and the Higher Certificate at about seventeen or eighteen. Students competing for university scholarships have normally elected to ' do' the sixth form of the secondary school after taking the

THE ARCHITECTURE

OF U N I V E R S I T Y L I F E

55

Higher Certificate examination so as to be in a better position to capture the most lucrative scholarships. More recently, however, state scholarships have been awarded on passing the General Certificate of Education examination. This and other reforms in the entrance examination and scholarship system carry implications for university behavior which are far-reaching. If the nation clamors for certain specialties and for an extended system of higher education, the nation will be served. University doors will have to be opened more and more to meritorious students of all types and inclinations, regardless of their economic background and social status.48 In addition, the universities will have to revise their attitudes concerning the ultimate purpose of education as the students themselves see it.* Bonamy Dobree elaborates: Just as our secondary education has come to be largely an education for status, a careerist education, so the overwhelming majority of y o u n g people come to us with the solid object of getting a j o b , one that will probably bring with it a more advantageous social position than they would otherwise occupy. T h e purpose of the student is primarily, w h e n not simply and solely, to get a degree which will entitle him or her to a better post than a student who has not got one. 4 9

In recompense, universities will look to state aid and to national encouragement in their effort to absorb greater numbers without diluting standards. They will have to articulate their work more and more with that of the secondary school, thus providing a more continuous and more significant educational experience for Britain's youth. Finally, the university will be forced to turn its attention increasingly to the common weal, as a source whence most of the blessings nowadays seem to flow.50 * In his letter of 1 April 1955 to the author, Stanley J . Curtis, senior lecturer in education at the University of Leeds, takes exception to James's position (see note 48, p. 257), stating that relations of his University with local grammar schools are on a ' v e r y friendly basis'. Consultations and conferences are held periodically and ' w e are always looking for ways and means of extending these personal contacts'. Further, 'most senior members of university staffs act as university representatives on school governors' and education committees . . . and this ensures that the university is not aloof but takes an active part in the educational and social work of other institutions'.

56

CHAPTER

III

U N I V E R S I T I E S AND THE PUBLIC PURSE I.

THE

STATE

AS

BENEFACTOR

Here we touch on a matter which is cardinal to British genius... the way of acting without the State yet expecting the State to help. It is curious; it is hardly logical; but it works.

SIR ERNEST BARKER, 1948

Reference has been made on a number of occasions to the problem of material support for the universities. The realm of mind, truth and reality cannot function without financial security, as William of Wykeham well knew when he endowed Oxford with the munificent New College foundation. John Hall as early as 1649 saw the need for popular support of higher education, and his call for a 'publick contribution' rings with a sincerity characteristic of modern parliamentarians who plead the case for state aid. England, we gather from Hall, had lived through other eras, earlier even than the seventeenth century, when her economic strength was on the wane. Here the petitioner calls upon the state to solicit funds from private persons, an idea on which modern administrators have perhaps not fully capitalized: It cannot be denied, but by the invaluable loss of Bloud and Treasure, the body of this Nation is become thin and leane, and therefore he were a Viper that would offer to gnaw or suck it any more.. .yet we onely beg that you will imploy this which you finde already left to your hands, and doe these things without any charge, and only lend us your Authority, to doe this longed-for work; and no doubt if you cannot, or will not, lend any fewell to you, God will stir up the hearts of many private persons, and inflame them with equall intentions, and make their hands bring it in in a full measure.1 In recent years, as laboratory experimentation, scientific investigation and experiential learning have become additional tools for seeking truth, costs have skyrocketed. The freedom of inquiry is a luxury that must be paid for, and those who underwrite the bills usually want to be sure that their money is invested wisely.

UNIVERSITIES AND THE

PUBLIC

PURSE

57

The financial history of universities is a faithful record of the shifting sands of social change. Financial support once came from fees paid by the sons of noblemen, artisans, yeomen and merchants. There then followed a long period of ecclesiastical support, lightly touched by royal funds. Subsequent financial aid came from private businessmen and corporations who ruled the nineteenth-century world. At present it is the state which holds the purse strings. The universities retain memories of good and evil from all their benefactors, most of whom have been devoted to the ideal of academic freedom in search of truth chiefly as they understood it and as it affected their own special interests. Except for the University of London, none of the new institutions has an endowment comparable to that of Oxford or Cambridge; but even these relatively wealthy universities are becoming more and more dependent upon government grants. The burdens imposed by postwar demands for expansion, rising costs and new facilities are more than their endowment can stand. At Oxford and Cambridge the colleges have had to seek additional sources of revenue to satisfy the most basic requirements; they have had to look to their central administrations for increased allotments. An examination of the growth of the teaching staff at Oxford, for example, gives some idea of the strain on the budget. In 1933 there were 160 members on the university teaching and research staff. In 1951 the total had grown to 371. The increases in fees and dividends have not been commensurate with the rise in the number of paychecks and the amount drawn on them.2 As private support declined government grants increased. This circumstance did not arise out of any particular socialistic scheme; it mirrored the shift in financial responsibility to the agency most able and willing to pay. The purpose of accepting the responsibility was the same as it had been throughout history: the state, in this case, was investing in its future and in a satisfactory justification of the ideals for which British democracy stood. Following World War I, Parliament dealt with the decline in private financing by enacting a number of laws which, though affecting the lower schools chiefly, nevertheless opened the way toward university financing through the appointment of the University Grants Committee. The purpose of this Committee

58

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L E A R N I N G IN

BRITAIN

was to 'enquire into the financial needs of university education . . . and to advise the Government as to the application of any grants that may be made (through the Treasury) towards meeting them'. 3 At first the Grants Committee concerned itself chiefly with the provincial universities, many of which were languishing from the failure of local financial support adequately to manifest itself. Oxford and Cambridge received their first grant in 1925, though aid from the Treasury had been obtained on a provisional basis for several years previously. Membership in the early stages of the Committee's life was barred to anyone receiving pay from the universities; hence, it contained mostly men who were past retirement age. With time, however, and in consequence of the heavier burdens which the Committee had to carry, younger men were summoned. Membership in the eighteen-man Committee is drawn from all the major subject-matter fields, though business and industrial leaders have been consulted frequently. Subcommittees have included several nonacademic participants, the shipbuilder Sir Alex Murray Stephen, for example, having joined in 1949. The Committee bases its recommendations upon reports from the universities themselves and upon an intimate knowledge of persons and activities within the various schools. Much of their information is secured informally and at first hand, but in recent years the universities have organized their own advisory committees which meet with the Grants Committee for purposes of general planning. The termination of World War II accentuated many problems: (1) It was apparent that a tremendous expansion would be required in most university specialties; to meet this need planning on a national scale was obligatory. (2) The need was recognized for a national body which might be responsible for the work of the universities as a whole. (3) It was felt that all realms of activity in higher learning should be investigated, as at the lower levels of education, and some sort of working arrangement achieved which would guarantee adequate attention to essential subject matter at a time when special fields were being favored. Lord Simon of Wythenshawe, the alert chairman of the council at Manchester University, pointed out that in some instances there was 'redundance', in others, a 'serious dearth' in the facilities for teaching and research in important subjects. Furthermore, he was convinced, ' There is often a delay of many

UNIVERSITIES

AND THE PUBLIC

PURSE

59

years between important new developments in the outer world and the time when they begin to be effectively studied in the universities'.4 As a result of this type of thinking, Parliament in 1946 expanded the function of the Grants Committee to include investigations on the need for research, planning and consultation. The order of the day read as follows: To enquire into the financial needs of university education in Great Britain; to advise the Government as to the application of any grants made by Parliament towards meeting them; to collect, examine, and make available information on matters relating to university education at home and abroad; and to assist, in consultation with the universities and other bodies concerned,the preparation and execution of such plans for the development of the universities as may from time to time be required in order to ensure that they are fully adequate to national needs. 5 Since 1947, grants to the universities have been made under three headings: (i) single block grants for revenue purposes, to be used at the university's discretion; (2) capital expenditure grants allocated to individual projects, for purposes mainly of construction, and subject to review by the Ministry of Works as to suitability and economy: and (3) earmarked grants for undertaking educational work recommended mostly by government departments in the interest of national rather than local welfare. The findings of such bodies as the Clapham Committee on Social Sciences, the Goodenough Committee on Medicine and the McNair Committee on Teaching have been implemented by financial aid in accordance with the provision for earmarked grants. The universities are free to reject these grants and to disregard the recommendations of national committees, but in no case have they done so. Summarizing the current position of the University Grants Committee in university life, Lord Simon of Wythenshawe comments : Foreign visitors find it hard to believe that this system, in which the Government provides the greater part of the income of the universities, and gives the universities 'gentle guidance' and yet leaves them completely free in all academic matters, can really exist. It seems too good to be true. It is indeed impressive evidence of the fundamental strength of British democracy; we may well be proud of it. 6

6o

HIGHER L E A R N I N G IN B R I T A I N 2.

THE

PROBLEM

OF

CONTROL

T h e state does not take the j o b out of the hands of voluntary bodies, but comes in, in order that their work may be made more effective. T H E RT. HON. GEORGE

TOMLINSON

Minister of Education, 1950 Universities with public money cannot be wholly free. SIR F R E D E R I C K

OQILVIE,

1948

Originally the main function of the University Grants Committee was to allocate funds on the basis of need—modified, of course, by the extent to which institutions were able to draw on private or local support. This practice was adhered to rigidly previous to World War II, except in cases where new institutions failed to receive expected support from customary sources. In such instances the grant was made not so much for purposes of expansion but rather to facilitate previously planned progress within a stable budget. We have seen that postwar conditions altered this policy. A wave of reports from official and private agencies, which reached flood tide between 1944 and 1946, revealed the dire need for state support of certain activities in which the universities could not engage because of academic preference and limited resources. Faced with a probable dearth of talent and a lack of adequate preparation in certain strategic areas of study, the Grants Committee decided to assign funds directly to such specialties as medicine; dentistry; agriculture; veterinary science; social studies; oriental, African and Slavonic studies; education; and certain fields of science and technology. Such a procedure, the Committee was careful to point out, was not to be regarded either as permanent or as setting a precedent, since ' undoubtedly the earmarking of grants entails some impairment of the universities' freedom of action'. 7 In any case, earmarking applied only to new moneys, which the Treasury gave the Committee for specified purposes. Most pertinent in this respect is an intimate and valuable observation from a letter written in March 1952, by Sir Walter Moberly to the author: Earmarking has applied only to new money, which the Government would not have put at the Committee's disposal at all except for specific purposes. The Universities did not object to spending large sums on medicine or oriental languages, for example, or regard such expenditure as 'bad' for the universities but 'good' for the

UNIVERSITIES AND THE PUBLIC PURSE

6l

nation. They pointed out that, if left to themselves, they could not suddenly make a quite disproportionate increase in the allocation to particular faculties—for reasons of internal politics. Often, they quite approved of what was done, but asked for earmarking in order to enable it to be done. G . M . Trevelyan, Master of Trinity College, Cambridge, shows less concern about earmarked funds, reminding his readers that university and college authorities understand their own affairs more intimately than do state departments or legislators. So long as the state continues its policy of subsidizing universities and at the same time respecting their independence, all will be well. T o this view Professor M . L . Jacks of O x f o r d

University

subscribes:

It is the duty.. .of a university to produce expert and independent critics of public policy, to call in question, if need be, the actions of the very Government which supports it. T o do this, it must be free. So far, there are few signs that the universities are threatened by improper control of any external body, and the methods adopted by the Grants Committee in distributing the Treasury grant have been models of wisdom and broadmindedness.8 Perhaps the most significant statement on the relation of the universities to the government was issued in J u l y 1946, b y the Committee of Vice-Chancellors and Principals, further establishing the right and duty of the state to see to it that the universities shall function in the national interest. T h e

statement

deserves full quotation because it represents the official and spontaneous view of the representatives of the universities themselves.

It is not a governmental pronouncement:

The universities entirely accept the view that the government has not only the right, but the duty to satisfy itself that every field of study which in the national interest ought to be cultivated in Great Britain is in fact being adequately cultivated in the university system and that the resources which are placed at the disposal of the universities are being used with full regard both to efficiency and to economy. In the view of the vice-chancellors, therefore, the universities may properly be expected not only individually to make proper use of the resources entrusted to them, but collectively to devise and execute policies calculated to serve the national interest. And in that task, both individually and collectively, they will be glad to have a greater measure of guidance from the government than until quite recent days they have been accustomed to receive.

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Commenting on this view, Professor W. R. Niblett, himself a member of the Grants Committee, reveals that he is under no illusion about the power of the Committee to shape university policy. Certain governmental scientific and industrial agencies have financed schemes of research which they considered particularly useful to society and suitable for execution in university laboratories and clinics. But, one must observe, 'no governmental department offers comparable grants for advanced work in pure arts subjects'. The state cannot accept all the blame, for ' a large proportion of the money from private firms or individuals (for that matter) has also tended to be given for investigations in scientific, technical and medical fields'.9 Happily for higher learning in Britain, no group has expressed greater concern over the extraordinary power of financial control than the Grants Committee itself. They realized from the very beginning that the power of the purse was the power of life or death; on their modest actions would depend the continued integrity of the universities and thereby the educational fate of an enlightened people. The Committee therefore strove to obey Thomas Arnold's dictum that no one should lay hands on the university who did not love it. What Flexner observed in 1930 holds true today, namely, that the Committee has been a ' gentle, but powerful influence for good'. It has helped to achieve what is beneficial for the universities and quietly ignored all else.10 In the 1947 Report the attitude of the Committee regarding proper relation of the state and the universities was neatly defined as follows: Discharge of our task is immensely facilitated by the fact that the Government adheres, no less firmly than the universities themselves, to the fundamental principle of academic autonomy. Education and research in the universities of this country are not (and, we believe, are not likely to become) functions of the State; and the story which this Report relates is essentially one of a partnership between universities and the State, in which each partner has something to take and something to give. Nevertheless, acknowledging that 'the implications of the present financial position are far-reaching and of profound importance', the Committee warns that the greatly increased dependence of the universities on government grants ' may carry with it a threat to their continued existence as free institutions ' . u

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63

Extending these remarks, the former chairman, Sir Walter Moberly, compares university-government relations with those between artist and patron: Execution the patron must obviously leave to the artist. Choice of theme he need not so leave; he may entrust the artist with specific commissions. But the greatest achievements are likely to occur when the artist chooses his own subject and is not harassed by a demand for quick results. Government control means lay control.12

Such pronouncements may give cause for alarm. The late Sir Frederick Ogilvie in particular was very much aware of the danger of earmarking funds. He was convinced that the universities would feel morally bound to respect the views of the Grants Committee: To give particular grants for particular purposes, it is held, would impair the freedom of the Universities and might lead before long to State interference. There is some substance in this, but there is some humbug also. But Universities know quite well that if they use any part of their block grant for purposes which the University Grants Committee has not approved, they cannot expect further support for them. The Committee is paymaster, and paymasters, like leopards, keep their spots.13

It is almost axiomatic that financial support involves direct or indirect control. The real problem is one of mutual trust and responsibility in wielding authority. In this respect the state can hardly acknowledge a greater lack of responsibility in its desire to control than does the private benefactor. It may safely be argued that a national government, itself a representative, collective entity, is a more objective and responsible patron than a private individual, since history shows that in many cases private benefactors have earmarked funds in wilful or innocent violation of the best interests of higher learning. Despite the socialistic implications of John Bernal's analyses, there is considerable validity in his charge that private endowments very often 'unbalance the course of studies in a very irrational way, some of the departments being hypertrophied and others starved'. His indictment is rather scathing: Because of the relative meanness of wealthy Englishmen, the full evils of the endowment can best be seen in the United States, but it is not only there that there is no dollar without a string to it. Even in this country the atmosphere of patronage makes itself discreetly but

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effectively felt.. .the policy of the university is often controlled not so much by those who have given to it in the past as by those who may be expected to give to it in the future. The development of research in the university depends on the ability of its professors and department heads to extract money from local magnates, quite as much as it does on their scientific ability.14 The Committee, on its part, rightly maintains that under its aegis national financing, acknowledged as a necessary evil, will be directed as far as possible toward substituting responsible for irresponsible pressures. T o be fair in the matter, the Committee is on sound ground so long as it insists on preserving autonomy as a major principle of university behavior. Its financial responsibility is one with its attitude toward higher learning. Elected from the ablest of Britain's educational leaders, this body can also furnish to great universities like Oxford and Cambridge a channel of communication with the larger pattern of social change, a characteristic which has hitherto been sorrowfully lacking in their make-up. It can also do much to influence for the better the courses, the examination content and procedure, and general educational reorientation in line with developments throughout the nation. In any case, no law has yet been enacted to prevent a university from looking a gift horse in the mouth.

3.

D I S T R I B U T I O N

OF

FUNDS

W e have little hesitation in asserting that never has the government of any country given its universities such liberal grants and such complete freedom on essentials.... Editorial, Universities Quarterly (February, 1948)

Government grants to universities are awarded on a quinquennial basis. In thirty years these grants have multiplied twentyfold. In 1920 the Committee distributed 20 per cent of the total income of the schools involved. The proportion rose to 30 per cent in 1925, to 55 per cent in 1946, and to 60 per cent in 1948. In 1950-1, 64 per cent of the collective budgets of Britain's universities was underwritten by the government. It is estimated that over the next five-year period to 1957 the proportion will rise to 70 per cent. The income of the universities may be tabulated as follows:

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PURSE

Source of university income {in £)w Source of income Parliamentary grants Fees Endowments Grants from local authorities Donations and subscriptions Other income

Per1948-1949 centage 10,750,965 59-0 3>742>57° 2i-o 1,223,160 7-0 902,920 5-0 345,286 2-0 1,191,677 6-0

Percentage 65-0 16-5 5-5 4-0 2-0 7-0

1950-1951 15,767,002 4,022,459 1,329,916 1,040,037 431,022 1,677,687

The relative wealth of the universities is naturally a strong factor in determining the amount of government support necessary. The accompanying table shows the percentage of total income derived from government sources. Percentage of total income derived from government grants 16 Reading Southampton . . . . Wales . . . . . . Leicester . . . . . St Andrews . . . . . London Birmingham . . . . . Manchester . . . . . Aberdeen Hull Glasgow R.T.C Liverpool . . . . . Durham Nottingham . . . . . Exeter Glasgow . . . Sheffield Bristol Leeds . Oxford Edinburgh . . . . . Cambridge . . . . . Manchester College of Technology North Staffordshire

1947-48 76-0 68-0 66-o 64-0 63-0 62-0 62-0 6i-o 6i«o 6o-o 59-0 59'° 58-0 58-0 57-0 57-0 56-0 56-0 56-0 48-0 48-0 44-0 34-0 —

1949-50 84-0 71-0 67-0 65-0 69-0 69-0 69-0 70-0 . 70-0 62-0 67-0 66-0 66-0 57'° 63-0 65-0 63-0 63-0 65-0 56-0 6o-o 50-0 40-0 80-0

These statistics require interpretation: (1) The low percentage in the case of the Manchester College of Technology derives from the fact that much of its work is not of officially recognized university type; the college is also subsidized by the Ministry of Education. (2) The figures for Oxford and Cambridge are not comparable either to each other or to those of the 5

KLB

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other universities, since college endowments defray most of the instructional and residential hall costs. (3) The percentage of total income from national funds amounted to an average of 57-8 in 1947-8. This index should be revised upward to take into account such indirect grants as fees for students in specialized training courses (teacher-training, for example), and scholarship grants to many categories of students, including war veterans. (4) In 1948 the national average of income from student fees amounted to 21 -4 per cent of the total expenditures; this source of funds cannot be considered entirely of a private nature. (5) The general index of local support in 1948 was only 4-8 per cent, but it was substantially higher in such cases as the Manchester College of Technology (26-9 per cent), Exeter (16-4 per cent), Nottingham (13-3 per cent), Sheffield (12-6 per cent), Southampton (io-8 per cent), and Leicester (10-7 per cent). In the last decade all sources of income increased substantially, but not in proportion to expenditures. For example, endowments yielded £205,569 in 1948; but the ratio to total income fell from 15-4 to 7-6 per cent. Increases in donations, subscriptions, local contributions, tuition fees and other revenues during this same period were imposing, but they were outdistanced by Parliamentary grants. Increased funds have also been allotted for student assistance. The accompanying table reveals how this type of aid has grown over the last fifteen years. It is estimated that by 1957, at the end of the current financial quinquennium, over 80 per cent of Britain's university students will be subsidized by the government. 1Students receiving state aid

Oxford and Cambridge London University Other universities and dependencies The University of Wales The Scottish universities Approximate averages

'935-fi % /o 44-0 35-0 46-0 57"0 46-0 41-0

1950-1 % /o 800 67-0 8o-o 84-0 57'° 73-0

The amount of aid received by full-time students reaches a maximum of some £380 per year for a single person over twenty-one and £500 for a married man with one child. In consideration of the cost of living these grants are adequate and

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67

students need not seek outside employment to meet their expenses during the thirty-week school year. 1 7 T h e income received from students is lowest at Glasgow and Edinburgh. T h e apparent poverty of Scottish institutions is in part due to their location in depressed areas and in part to the fact that they serve a wider distribution of the population than do the English universities. In England the ratio in 1948 was one student per 650 inhabitants; in Scotland it was one in 300. 18 Indigence at the very source of funds demands greater sacrifices on the part of both faculty and students. But the Scots are accustomed to low income. H. C . Dent refers to the proud history of Scottish universities, which have had to thrive on meager resources: For centuries, if a lad had ability, no sacrifice was considered too great by parents, and no effort too much by teachers, to get him to one of the ancient and honoured seats of learning. The Scottish student, for his part, was prepared to put up with almost incredible privation in order to take and complete a university course. There are innumerable stories of undergraduates in the old days living through their terms in unheated garrets on a diet of oatmeal porridge, the sack or tub of oats having in many cases been carried (or rolled!) by the owner all the scores of miles separating his home from the university.19 Even with this commendable quality on the part of students, Scottish economy is hard pressed to find ways of spreading a small income over a large area. Finance is, indeed, a greater problem in Scotland than in England. Critical examination of the method of financing higher education in Britain was undertaken in 1951-2 by the American Commission on Financing Higher Education, and their report, Government Assistance to Universities in Great Britain, though hastily written and needlessly repetitive, contains some valuable and incisive commentary. Statistics, as given in reports of the Grants Committee, asserts Dean Louis M . Hacker of Columbia University, 'leave more unsaid than revealed'. None of the financial tables gives a full report of the university situation. There are no breakdowns of earmarked grants. (In fact, universities are most secretive about earmarked funds.) There is no detail given on the nature of nonrecurring grants. Thus, 'there is great power in the hands of the U . G . C . ' and the possible consequences must not be underplayed: 5-2

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The Grants Committee may permit unwarranted overexpansion of plant in particular areas or curb needed development. In any case, because no details are presented, no public discussion is feasible. One simply notes that there is private agreement between the U.G.C. and the individual universities on these matters; one wonders—with the large sums being involved—whether the interests of the outside community have not been excluded too much. In the case of earmarked grants, 'there is control', regardless of the fact that the universities are privileged to accept or reject grants, because once accepted, the moneys must be spent for stated purposes. Terming this procedure ' a somewhat curious kind of direction', Hacker reminds his reader that the power of public opinion and the extent of pressure from the outside force the universities to accept earmarked funds even though the consequences may not be fortunate. There are, writes Hacker, at least two difficulties connected with earmarking funds: (i) the potentially injurious effect on the total curriculum of earmarking funds for individual subjects; and (2) the net effect on total university financial policy when the institution finds itself committed to these programs; and when, in addition, staffs have been appointed, students accepted, and research begun. In the face of such faits accomplis, Hacker is sure that the older departments will find it more difficult to get hearings for their legitimate requests for expansion. Hacker admits that the universities are mindful of these weaknesses, but perhaps not sufficiently, since the generosity of the government is not viewed with enough critical apprehension. In one university, for example, the department of Russian was receiving four times as much money as any other modern-language department. It had relatively fewer students but had impressive sums for travel, books and scholarships. The heavy burdens on teachers in other modern-language departments were not relieved thereby. Dean Hacker concludes: Here is an interesting example of the error of the axiom that the whole is always equal to the sum of its parts. A university needs special studies, of course; but unless such studies fit into a general scheme—enriching the whole and cross-fertilizing the already existing ones—harm is likely to result rather than good. For there can be no end to special studies and the creation of new honors schools, with the consequent weakening of the fabric of general education which the British universities have so carefully and so successfully created over the past fifty years.

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Nevertheless: The conclusion emerges that thanks to government the sphere of usefulness of the British universities is constantly widening at the same time that their students are being relieved of financial worries. As the government grows—for the state steadily grows bigger in Great Britain—the closer is it being watched lest academic liberties be abridged.... Of equal importance is the ability of the British to arrive at agreement by informal discussion, negotiations, bargaining, ' consultation'; in consequence, lines are never sharply drawn in the open and conflict never emerges.20 Greater fears are expressed by President Dodds of Princeton University in the same report. The state now becomes the 'chief provider; no longer can significant importance be attributed to private benefactors'. No university can afford to break from the national pattern; and thus politics in the higher sense will play an increasing role. Though still in control of their destiny, the universities have been caught up in the current of events; they must share their direction and regulation with the states to a larger degree than heretofore and, I believe, in increasing measure in the years to come'. The universities will become more and more accountable to Parliament. 21 All these warnings, criticisms and strictures are, of course, vital and interesting; but no constructive suggestions are forthcoming as to where the universities are to get the support they need if not from the state. University leaders will probably have to accept the principle that in so far as the public is the source of financial support, the public will be served. This does not mean that the British are interested in financing only those researches which improve the country's material position; as a matter of fact, a large body of the population is outspoken in defending what they consider to be the more traditional or spiritual purposes of the university. It does mean, however, that where universities are in a unique position to assist in the national emergency, they will be supported by the nation to whatever extent is necessary. Unfortunately, many endeavors assigned to the universities must frankly be opportunistic; they are measures of the moment; and the Grants Committee or the Ministry of Education must often make the awkward decision of having to support an operation which may not be so good for the university as it is for the nation. For example, the Foreign Office, plagued with Russian and Far Eastern problems, must

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have Slavonic and Far Eastern experts in a hurry. Will a grant be earmarked for that purpose? 22 Or must the Foreign Office wait till the universities get around to revising their academic preferences and producing the experts with their own limited resources? Again, the Ministry of Education brings up the matter of scholarships and with the best of educational and political intentions appoints a working committee, in which university representation may be outnumbered by secondary school people and laymen combined. Is the minister trying to usurp the right of the universities to determine who and what shall be taught within their walls? The Board of Trade wants a special research project done which does not accord with any particular activity already in progress; the best man for the job is on a university staff with a full laboratory schedule. Will the university accept a grant to permit the professor to concentrate on government research and thereby lose his valued services, even temporarily? No attempt will be made here to provide answers to questions which the British themselves cannot solve. This much is certain, however: universities throughout the world are being called up for national service. Even if a university were financially capable of supporting itself, it would have to acknowledge that it can be only so strong as the nation which supports and protects it. Happily, a free people will never stifle free inquiry. They will tax themselves to the utmost to preserve it.

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CHAPTER

IV

H I G H E R E D U C A T I O N IN NATIONAL SERVICE I.

SHORTAGES

AND

THE

POWER

OF

KNOWLEDGE

Here, with the heaviest responsibilities and in the strategically most exposed situation, are fifty million people crowded together on a small island whose native resources could not support half that number. That population has accumulated in complacent unawareness of the fact that the world economic conditions which allowed its growth have been progressively transformed to its disadvantage over a generation or more. T H E R T . H O N . L* S. A M E R Y , C . H . ,

1948

Britain's economic difficulties are known to every schoolboy. Her grievous lack of natural resources compared to density of population is a routine fact. As the traveler journeys through this 'green and pleasant land', he is impressed by the lovely gardens, the thick foliage, the bright-hued flowers, the rich verdure of the meadows. Such beauty veils the truth. Acre after acre is barren of trees; hills are shorn of their cover; livestock graze on stubs of grass. Mines that once produced rich ores are fast becoming exhausted; and none to take their place. Britain has been prodigal in expending her resources; until recently, programs of conservation and reforestation have been considered purposeless. Now, nothing must be consumed without something produced.1 Within three centuries Britain was transformed from a tiny peripheral nation into the greatest empire the world has ever known. With the empire grew the population. For a time, the Industrial Revolution made possible the relatively comfortable existence of a people who otherwise could never have survived a continued agrarian life. But World War I gave warning that colonialism and the power of London were passing, that Britain's former servitors were founding technologies of their own, and that the accumulated wealth of empire was being expended in foreign commitments and obligations everywhere. By 1940 an economic sword hovered over the head of every British subject who clung to his beloved land.

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In contrast to the mother country, the wealth of the British Commonwealth is seemingly limitless ; its resources are reputed to be greater than those of the United States and the Soviet Union combined. 2 National leaders recognized that in order to develop and utilize such tremendous human and material wealth, the task of reconstructing national attitudes toward empire was deeply involved I f new life were to be instilled into the vital complex of Britain's economic relations with the Commonwealth, and hence with the world, a broadly liberalized vocational and technical education would become indispensable. A t home, two Armageddons, either one of which would have administered the coup de grâce to a lesser breed, threw a once politically conservative and economically prosperous nation into elaborate austerity programs and types of social planning which made her suspect in the eyes of the laissez-faire economists. But British economic and social measures were in large part requisites for survival, rather than wayward peccadillos of a peculiar socialistic ideology. When starvation threatens, one's taste for 'isms' becomes straitened, as Walter C . Richardson well understands: T o the average analyst the development of British socialism appears to be either a Utopian experiment or an attack upon the entire system of free enterprise. It has been variously praised or condemned according to the preconceived beliefs of the examiner. It is an attempted compromise, characteristically English, and a national co-operative effort to combine prosperity with social justice within the traditions of evolutionary democracy as opposed to the more alien revolutionary isms of the past. 3

Public choice went to that party which gave promise of doing better those things which the majority agreed had to be done in order to guarantee personal security, social justice and national welfare. T o the government in power following World W a r I I individual planning looked like muddling through to certain disaster. Production had to be co-ordinated on a national scale. Citizens had to be prepared for new types of occupations in agriculture and industry, in civil affairs, and in the professions. If Britain was to attain her aim of limited recovery by 1952, then the accumulated shortages of skill would have to be overcome by efficient training programs. Perhaps more than any other country, Britain realized that the breath of civilized existence

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could be sustained only through the power of knowledge. The education bills which Parliament subsequently enacted were called revolutionary by many, but from the broader point of view they simply concentrated into a few short years the many adjustments and reorganizations which would have been carried out in any case over a longer period. Among other areas designated for special attention were natural resources; industry and commerce; science and technology; and agriculture. Simultaneously, social and political problems were marked for treatment in such areas as British democracy; leadership and welfare management; the civil service; social work; teaching; medicine and dentistry. Finally, throughout all realms of education, ethical and religious matters were to be of paramount importance. Each one of these areas will be discussed in turn. A hundred years ago Britain began the race for industrial supremacy with great advantages in the quality and utilization of her natural resources. The proximity to industry of coal and iron deposits minimized transportation charges and speeded production. After 1918, however, the production of coal, England's greatest source of wealth, began to decline, partly because the most accessible veins had already been worked, and partly because equipment and techniques had become outmoded. In 1913 exports amounted to 73 million tons; in 1940 the total was 40 million. 4 Following World War II, deficiencies in coal production were aggravated by labor shortages; too few young men were willing to devote their lives to coal mining. In a determined effort to save the industry the government undertook to man the controls. The nationalization of the coal mines, still under grave suspicion as a fitting and proper expedient, finally restored coal to a more advantageous position on the export list. Nevertheless, American coal was liberally carried to Newcastle during the winters of 1950 and 1951. 5 The manufacture of steel was nationalized early in 1951. In the government's opinion, management persisted unjustifiably in retaining production habits which dated back to the time when small plants operated in wooded areas and in scattered localities. With the change from wood to coal-coking, the steel mills were moved nearer to the coal fields. Logically the next step would have been one of integration on a large scale; but this did not take place. Rather, when the industry ran into difficulties late in the nineteenth century, and was forced to

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consolidate, the resulting combines emphasized monopoly and price control rather than increased efficiency and greater output. Carefully corrected indices show that American iron and steel production per man-year in the period from 1935 to 1939 was 173 per cent more than that of the British, while in other types of industry the figure was as high as 235 per cent.6 In the area of production, no matter how the question was debated, whether in terms of small versus large units or specialty versus general markets, the government ultimately had to face the same ineluctable fact: Britain's manufactured products, sterling enough in quality, were losing their traditional appeal in foreign markets because they could not meet price competition. Before World War II, Britain's heavy credit balance had contributed in no small measure to managerial inertia; also, British industry had little to fear from mass-produced articles, since they could not compare with domestic, made-to-order products. After the war, foreign merchandise consistently demonstrated that quality could be combined with quantity. This the British manufacturer was slow to acknowledge. Production deficiencies were not due solely to unimaginative, conservative management. Entrenched for a hundred years in political and economic positions of power, trades unions tended to oppose labor-saving devices, because, in their view, they made machines of men and enriched selfish capitalists at the expense of the working classes. The unions became recalcitrant and temperamental when it came to increasing output or revising techniques. Labor, no less than management, was peculiarly reluctant to solicit or accept recommendations from technical experts abroad. In industry as elsewhere, the devil became habit, and he was helped by shortsighted selfishness in many places. 7 The only remedy for uncritical habit, leaders recognized, was education. Prejudices had to be exposed and broken down. Both labor and management as a whole were traditionally suspicious of preparing people for work through formal education, and too many professors frowned on the idea of combining education with the banal task of earning a living. According to the industrialists, theory could be learned on the job; formal education interfered with practice; and in any case, the cooperation of industry and higher education had little historical precedent—a factor always of great importance in Britain.

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Evidence of a change of heart came when the Federation of British Industries invited representatives of the universities to meet with an equal number of industrialists. Warm in their praise of the proceedings, the editors of Universities Quarterly reported that the ' main interest of the conference proved to be in [general] education and only secondarily in [specialized] research... what was wanted by industry was a well-trained scientist or a well-trained engineer; it did not matter what sort of scientist or engineer'. This conference was especially significant for higher learning because it gave first-hand evidence of a new co-operation between dons and industrialists. It acknowledged the need and value of general studies preparatory to specialized occupations. The ground for further constructive activity had at last been broken. 8

2.

TECHNOLOGICAL

EDUCATION

Universities to be integrated ift the community must be sensitive to what is going on in the realm of business and industry, as well as in the realm of speculative thought and abstract research, just as the outer world must be aware of what is being taught in universities, and attentive to what is being said there. BONAMY DOBR£E

Educational leaders were mindful of the deficiencies in higher education in commerce and industry long before the emergency after World War II, but aside from adding a few courses to university curricula, no sizable progress had been made. 9 In 1945 the Cambridge University Appointments Board reported with consternation that the demand for its graduates from commercial and industrial interests had been 'of such proportions as to suggest an actual social c h a n g e T h e Nuffield College study commented that trends in Britain should be more and more in the direction of activity in the United States, where about 40 per cent of graduates entered the business world. In Britain, of a total of just over 9000 honors degrees awarded in 1947-8, thirty were in accounting and banking, sixty-nine in commercial subjects, 398 in economics and related fields, and twenty-eight in statistics. That meant that only 5-6 per cent of graduates received honors degrees in business sciences, with a heavy accent on economics. The Nuffield group estimated that in order to satisfy the requirements of business, the number of

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graduates would have to be twice that of existing levels. Specifically, some 2000 students would have to enter commercial and industrial branches of the arts curriculum.10 Equally urgent was the need for additional provisions in scientific and technical studies. The numerous technological divisions in the regional universities owed their foundation in most instances to the desire for a more fundamental understanding of the principles underlying activity in local industries. In general, these divisions, with the exception of Manchester and Glasgow, were integrated within university systems, either as sections of faculties of science or as independent faculties of technology. After 1949, multiple government commissions and private agencies made cogent demands upon higher training facilities in all technological areas. At the national conference of the Committee for the Extension of Higher Education, for example, in October 1947, four resolutions were adopted, which may be summarized as follows: (1) In view of the nation's critical need to make the most of its resources... the best minds should receive the best training in far greater numbers than hitherto. To achieve this, universities and technical colleges should be greatly expanded. (2) The required expansion would be achieved only if government help were forthcoming on a generous scale.. .. The highest priorities should be given for the man-power and materials required for building university and technological education. (3) University and technological education should be developed together, with certain colleges of technology raised to a higher status. (4) The conditions of service of the staffs of universities and colleges of technology should be improved in such a way as to attract competent personnel.11 The increased demand for technological graduates was evident in 1949 when, for example, out of seventy honors physicists from Manchester University well over half entered directly into industry or into government industrial service.12 The Barlow Committee on Scientific Manpower in May 1946 reported that the estimated minimum demand for scientific workers and teachers in Great Britain and the colonies would require twice the existing output of science graduates, to yield approximately 5000 new scientists every year.13 The Parliamentary and Scientific Committee warned that 'even more energetic steps than those recommended by the Barlow Committee will be needed if

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the national effort of post-War Britain is to receive the help which it so vitally requires from pure and applied science'. The First Annual Report of the Government Advisory Council on Scientific Policy (1947-8) concluded that 'the effective application of the results of scientific research by suitably qualified technologists and engineers is an even more urgent need than the furtherance of research itself, and would bring much quicker results'.14 According to the Nuffield College report, places for students of pure science had to be increased by 75 per cent over the prewar yield to a total of some 15,500. (The enrollment in 1948 was about a thousand under this estimate.) Architecture, classified as an arts study, was allotted 1020 enrollments, an increase of 320 over prewar totals. Technology, including engineering studies, was estimated to require an enrollment of 6850, a figure which was actually exceeded in 1948 by 3290.15 The problem of expanding higher technical education was not only one of increasing the size of existing institutions, but of defining more precisely their purpose and function. The Percy Committee on Higher Technological Education (1944) was convinced that,' If men and women of ability are to be attracted to the courses in technology in the colleges of technology, the status of those colleges must be similar to that of the universities, and they must be developed into responsible institutions performing a national function.' The Report added that part of the failure to apply technological studies as fully as possible to industry had to be ascribed to deficiencies in scientific education in general; it recommended the construction of new colleges of technology.16 Constructive activity began in 1946 when the Ministry of Education divided the country into ten regions, establishing in each of them a Regional Advisory Council for Further Education, together with Regional Academic Boards. The former were composed of local authorities, trades unions and business interests; the latter, of teaching representatives of the university and technical colleges of the region. A National Advisory Council on Education for Industry and Commerce was also created, consisting largely of representatives drawn from regional councils and academic boards. The purpose of these agencies was to advise the minister of education on the national aspects of the technological education policy of the regions involved, so that remedial measures might be adopted.

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O f significance in the controversy was the report of the Council of the Association of University Teachers, May 1950. This document, commendable for its thoroughness and sincerity, winds its way carefully and deliberately through the history, philosophy and present practice of technical education, not only in England, but abroad, to reach seven conclusions, which may be summarized as follows: (1) Industry requires two distinct types of man—the technologist and the technician; they have different functions and need different types of training. (2) The production of technicians is the natural function of the technical colleges; their number should be expanded. (3) The production of technologists is the business of the universities; no branch of technology should be excluded from the universities, and all branches should be fully integrated with other studies. (4) Technology were better expanded within existing universities rather than in separate institutes of technology. (5) There should be closer collaboration among universities, research associations, and industrial laboratories. (6) Universities should attract to their staffs teachers from industry; research fellowships should be established to enable men in industry to spend time in academic research. (7) Research may well be influenced by industry, but nothing must interfere with the freedom of the university research worker to develop his specialty in his own way. 1 7 For its part, the National Advisory Council on Education for Commerce and Industry later in 1950 took the universities to task for their insistence on separating technical and technological education, claiming that even if such a divorce were educationally desirable, it would be impractical: On educational grounds alone we believe that it would be most unwise to interfere with the excellent traditions already established by attempting to limit the provision of technological training to one type of institution. The country needs hands and brains trained in different ways to fill the varied technological posts in the spheres of production, invention, design, research, and management. There is no single road leading to the highest technological positions in any industry, and if industry were to select for these posts only those individuals trained in one type of institution, there is no guarantee that such selection would secure the best technologists from the whole field available. The Council added that the technical college by the very nature of its evolution was a 'distinctly British' institution; in its

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approach to scientific principles it was 'less academic' than the university. Without necessarily trying to rival the work done in universities, the colleges should broaden their programs, the report recommended, especially in the area of scientific foundations and fundamental education. This was all the more important when one realized that many young people enter the colleges as early as fifteen years of age and in most cases spend only part of their time as students. Concentrating its attention on the upward extension of technological education, the Council submitted five recommendations for general future development: (i) higher technological studies should be centered in improved technical colleges, so as to make these colleges 'comparable' in academic standards to the universities; (2) a Technological Grants Committee for technical colleges should be established, similar to the University Grants Committee; (3) an Association of Professional Institutions should be organized for the purpose of setting educational standards; (4) a Technical University should be founded consisting of an association of colleges and departments of technology; and (5) a Royal Society, Institute, or College of Technology should be established which would be concerned with the question of awards and courses at the graduate level. 18 Control of the colleges would be in the hands of local authorities, supervised by the Ministry of Education, a feature which could not fail to meet opposition. The Times, for example, expressed doubts as to the outcome: ' The best technological teachers will continue to prefer work in the independence that a university can offer.' The answer, according to The Times, lay in establishing independent colleges or founding a free and autonomous technical university. 19 This recommendation was seconded by R . A. Butler, former minister of education, who, in addition, called on industry to provide material support for technical colleges in return for the representation they enjoyed in their governing bodies. There were, however, highly important components of such an arrangement which had to be acknowledged in advance: An institution devoting itself to higher technical studies must have complete academic freedom; it must have first-class staff and equipment, and real facilities must exist for teaching to be carried out in an atmosphere of research. At the moment it is only in our universities that these conditions are fulfilled.20

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Accomplishment in practical studies naturally affects progress in other areas. One of Britain's greatest assets has been a high standard of basic research which has yielded fruitful returns. What has been 'less good' has been the lag between pure research and its direct application. In 1944, Lord Simon of Wythenshawe observed that in the Lancashire cotton industry there were few university men in important positions. This was one reason that most firms were incapable of utilizing the results of the excellent research work of the Cotton Research Association.21 This deficiency was recognized specifically in the report of the Department of Scientific and Industrial Research, 1947-8, which asserted that the need to solve the economic and industrial problems of the country as speedily as possible had led to a 'deflection of effort' away from extensive programs of basic research. The National Research Development Corporation was formed in part to remedy the situation, but, as The Economist observed, 'the problem is fundamentally one of economic incentives and will be solved only when industry becomes more competitive and more anxious to draw on new ideas'.22 By 1950 there was evidence of an increased appreciation of university education throughout the entire realm of business and industry. The demand for trained graduates drained the secondary schools of science and mathematics teachers. For their part, the universities manned the breach by increasing their quotas of candidates for industrial and technological research. The struggle still continues, however, as the country's need for technicians remains unsatiated. The evidence is incontrovertible that technological education will continue to present formidable problems of expansion and method as the modern age inexorably progresses toward bigger and better technologies.

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UNIVERSITIES

The farm is a business as well as a factory, and its management, therefore, demands commercial and technical ability. NIGEL H A R V E Y , 1950

In the eighteenth century, British rural landowners led the way in a type of agricultural accomplishment which became the envy of the world. Their pioneer work ushered in a golden era in British agriculture—a period of lush production and high prosperity. Since the 1870's, however, three tendencies operated

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to the detriment of agricultural development: (i) the abundance of food which could be imported at low prices; (2) governmental indifference toward the needs of landowners; and (3) the preference for an economy geared to industrialism.23 For almost a century British farming has consistently produced less than half the food requirements of the nation. 24 With the outbreak of war, however, shortages in shipping necessitated a revised attitude toward domestic agricultural output, whereby all production not directly for human consumption was curtailed. The consequent decreases in the amount of fodder crops and grazing land meant a diminution in the amount of livestock.25 By the end of the war, farm animal stocks, with the exception of cattle, had been depleted to levels approximately 25-50 per cent below those of 1939.26 Postwar agricultural policy was dictated by the need to save dollars; it featured increased production through intensified mechanization, the object of which was to raise home production by 1952 to a level 20 per cent above that of 1946-7, or approximately 50 per cent above prewar totals. More than half this increase was planned in animal husbandry. 27 In addition, government subsidies as high as 100 per cent on butter, 50 per cent on bread and flour, 20 per cent on potatoes, and others to encourage the production of meat, dairy products, animal feeds and fertilizers amounted to approximately £500 million ($1400 million) for the period 1949-50. To protect the nation against farmers who would take advantage of these subsidies, the law provided that: Where an owner or occupier of agricultural land is not complying with his responsibilities under the rules of good estate management or the rules of good husbandry respectively, the Minister will have power to place him under supervision. Where the owner or occupier has been placed under supervision and fails, after twelve months, to show satisfactory improvement in his standard of management or husbandry, the Minister is given powers to dispossess him, by means of compulsory purchase, or by termination of tenancy.28 The intensification of preferred types of farming required highly developed skills in agricultural, commercial and technical fields. Consequently, numerous agencies, both governmental and private, were established to provide the farmer with up-to-date information and advice. The National Agricultural Research Council was created to promote basic research; the 6

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Agricultural Improvement Council was responsible for practical applications (though it has produced some excellent research of its own on soils and climate); and the National Agricultural Advisory Service disseminated information on special problems. In addition to national agencies, county authorities were responsible for local advisory work and pertinent forms of education. University graduates in greater numbers were required to staff these agencies and to meet the demands of expansion in the field. Figures based on the Loveday and Alness Reports indicated the need for 1400 places in agriculture at the universities, an increase of 550 over the prewar total. The number of places for students of veterinary medicine was set at 3000, an increase of 140.29 As in commerce and industry, so in agriculture trends have been toward intensifying programs of research, particularly in such areas as plant productivity, soil chemistry and animal nutrition. By 1950 it was felt that efforts to supply technical graduates had yielded satisfactory results, and more intensive effort should be directed toward instruction and research in the basic sciences: The problems of applied plant physiology (for one) are extremely complex, and whole teams of workers will be required to elucidate some of them. Trained investigators, however, are few both in the academic and applied fields. With the recent expansion of university facilities and the development of new research stations there is ample opportunity for advanced training and research in most branches of agricultural science. There is need, however, for further university instruction in genetics, animal physiology, biochemistry, and soil microbiology.30 It is recognized that specialized training in the agricultural sciences should be a degree course in the appropriate pure science, followed by postgraduate training in straight agricultural applications of the sciences.31 In this way agricultural deficiencies would become less traceable to lack of know-how, and education would be used to make the very best out of natural resources. Simultaneously, every attention would have to be paid toward producing well-trained agricultural technicians prepared to work and teach on location.

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STATECRAFT

Types of governments correspond to the types of human nature. States are made, not from rocks and trees, but from the character of their citizens.... PLATO

More nearly a debtor nation now, with resources gravely depleted, Britain is attempting at the same time both to restore and re-equip her economy and to proceed from political on to social democracy.. .it is assumed that she will be able to do all this with no loss of freedom. SIR FRED CLARKE

New approaches to industrial, commercial, technological and agricultural organization engendered new approaches to statecraft. While in great measure Britain's economic and social reorganization was dictated by a political government in control, the government necessarily responded to pressures exerted by the various elements of the nation at work. The ensuing economic and social changes were not particularly revolutionary. For more than a hundred years Britain had been abandoning the historic principles expounded by the classical school of economics. Sir Fred Clarke, sympathetic with the Labor government's program for education, comments on a 'peculiar technique' of his countrymen which involves finding in tradition 'the resources for cultural response while subjecting its deliverances to the criterion of rational principles'. He concludes : ' It is tempting to suggest that even much of what is called socialism in Britain today is really no more than this recessive, rational character coming into action at a time when it has serious work to do.' 32 The concept that the least possible government does the least possible harm began losing its appeal long before the Laborites came into power. It remained only for a great national economic and social crisis to accelerate government controls, so that by 1950 scarcely any private interest had succeeded in forestalling intervention from London. Through it all, however, both government and constituents clung to the conviction that the fundamental principle of social cohesion had to allow wide latitude for free association. Under this concept British officialdom pursued a policy of waiting for private initiative to prove itself before venturing to interfere, even at the risk of lending support to the impression abroad that Britain still persisted in muddling through her economic difficulties. New approaches to statecraft were the result of revised concepts on the efficacy of the government as a managerial body. 6

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It has been an essential characteristic of democracy that political leadership, once elected, has acknowledged little obligation to serve as a comprehensive intelligence agency of the body corporate; it has preferred to permit the people to follow lay leadership in all but strictly political and governmental matters. Special interests have therefore been left free to exploit, propagandize, or educate the populace for good or ill. As an arbitrating agency in disputes of a private nature democratic governments have been slow to come into their own. As leaders not only of the political but of the total life of the nation they are still in the experimental stage. The logical extension of government control over the processes of national life leads to state ownership, state management, policy dictation, and hence, ultimately, to socialism.33 The British are fully aware of the dangers of governmental control, and every movement in the direction of state ownership has been bitterly contested. But many Britons feel that the policy of economic and political expediency, dictated for the most part by special interests, had much to do with the country's humiliating compromise at Munich and the subsequent loss of prestige in international affairs. They are painfully aware that at home and in the colonies capitalism sought profits without adequate thought of ultimate political and economic consequences. They also know that labor demanded security without personal sacrifice or improvement in work habits, and that types of monopoly in restraint of trade existed also in trades unions. In international matters, then, in economic affairs, and in management and labor relations, unrestrained private predilection seemed to spell anarchy rather than progress. In the succession of postwar crises the majority of voters relied upon their government to restore and consolidate what remained of the country's pristine strength.34 As with all marked changes in social and political life, there were excesses in abundance during the early years of the Labor government. Elements of the majority party greeted their political assignment with doctrinaire statements on the nature of planning which time and experience soon proved to be pathetically impractical. It was only as a result of hard-won compromise between political extremes that real progress was made. 35 Arbitrary planning eventually gave way to more scientific methods of determining national needs, the first

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requirement of which was to assess the possibilities of every ramification of the country's total economy. The power of individual initiative, neglected for a time, again came into its own in the realization that without personal satisfactions accomplishment would remain at a point of low returns. British planning thus attempted to co-ordinate and unify the nation's major forces without sacrificing the values of individual initiative. 36 It was precisely with this attitude in mind that the government established the Central Economic Planning Board in 1947. Appropriately enough, this Board had no executive functions. Its purpose was to confer with management and labor and make recommendations to the minister of economic affairs. Such agencies as the Planning Board afforded strong proof of the government's desire to share the responsibility for production rather than to order it. Defeated in October 1 9 5 1 , British socialism in its more wholesome forms reflected the remarkable capacity of the people to demand and absorb changes which actually spelled the end of many cherished institutions.37 Grumbling there was, and a great deal of hostility to the Labor party. But fair play in Britain is more than a stereotype. Even in an age of freak faiths and spurious propaganda this quality remains a part of the stable capital of a sensible people, supported by sound constitutional foundations. Contributing to this view is the good political sense of Professor A . L . Goodhart of Oxford University: It is probable that most Englishmen do not want to go back to life as it was before the war—they recognize that this would be impossible even if they wanted to do so—but on the other hand they feel that it will be possible to make the necessary alterations without destroying the foundations on which the strength and greatness of Britain have been based. The history of a thousand years cannot be destroyed in a day. 88 This essay cannot be responsible for arguing the pros and cons of socialistic and laissez-faire governments. The information provided above has been necessary for a fundamental understanding of reasons that new types of education had to be provided if suitable national leadership was to emerge. The fact remains, however, that social welfare and other more wholesome benefits of socialism became synonymous with British life, and the Conservative party put the stamp of permanence on the more basic accomplishments.39 The concept of government as an agency more of co-ordinated

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intelligence than of direct control is not new, but many of the scientific services implied are only in their early stages of growth. These services require not only a high level of intellectual achievement but also mature judgment, a strong sense of personal responsibility, and considerable emotional balance on the part ofindividuals who come into possession of powerful controls. As J. B. Priestley put it,' Bureaucracy in Britain has to be tactful and intuitive.' Britain's managerial revolution demands a corps of experts who are expected to know how the machine works and what its potentialities are. Essentially, scientific government depends upon the ability of its leaders to see life in the round. This means that the cultivation of qualities of leadership can scarcely be left to chance or isolated experience, as has largely been the case with private men of power. The universities, which in the past have demonstrated their capacity to promote the basic skills of statesmanship, are now called upon to produce what is aptly termed the 'executive' as well as the 'administrative' class of the British civil service. There is also a need for more university research into problems of public administration, such as the Chatham House studies, and into the field of domestic administration, exemplified by the Gwilym Gibbon Trust Fellowship at Nuffield College. The fact that in 1949 there were no less than one and a half million employees in national and local public administration gives some indication of the scope and potentiality of this phase of educational activity.40 Since the inauguration of the Indian Civil Service in 1858, the universities have provided nearly all the candidates for public service at the administrative level. Under Gladstone a reformed civil service actually insured that the British Empire would be governed exclusively by graduates of Oxford and Cambridge. Likewise, from the first, recognized professors were consulted by the commissioners concerning the conduct of examinations, and were invited to sit on the interviewing boards. Civil service examinations throughout their history have been adapted more to men of acceptable character and general educational background than to specialists. According to A. P. Waterfield, 'The advocates of the principle of open competition in the United Kingdom have always insisted that the test shall be related to the best and most liberal education which the country can afford; that it shall be general, not specialized; and that it shall follow, not seek to lead, educational

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policy.' Training beyond the university arts degree was not considered of primary importance, since it was found that candidates tended to indulge in a study of pure subject matter at the expense of practical human values.41 Recent examinations stress written English and current affairs, with a free choice of one or more of the following branches of study: (1) languages; (2) history, economics, politics, law and philosophy; (3) mathematics and science. After 1948 a personality test was substituted for the optional subjects in the case of students with second class honors or better.42 The concept of men of 'acceptable character' underwent a radical change in the forties. From 1925 to 1937 some 426 graduates had entered the administrative class through the civil service, of whom 332 had been educated at Oxford and Cambridge. This preponderance of candidates from such a restricted source led to public criticism and ridicule. Jibes about the 'old school tie', common enough throughout history in liberal circles, reached a point of international notoriety when the Labor party began to command the majorities. As late as 1938 Professor John Hilton of Cambridge, himself of workingclass origin, was able to issue the taunting challenge that, 'Laugh as one may', the old school tie 'carries its wearer into positions for which a man with the wrong tie stands about as much chance as a man without a shirt'. Such claims were adroitly met by educators of the calibre of Alfred Badger, whose professional judgment capably represented the frame of mind of the opposition. The system could not endure, wrote Badger, because it produced artificially 'superior' young men, too easily typed and not universally popular. Terming the practice of restricting appointments to public school graduates 'an anachronism and completely out of sympathy with the present temper and present trends', Badger elaborated: It is not only grossly untrue but manifestly unfair to perpetuate the fiction that the products of this system are braver, more tolerant, and more courageous, or better administrators than the rest of the community. It would be a national as well as an international misfortune if this specious form of propaganda on behalf of a system which serves a very small section of the community (3 per cent of the nation's young people)—a section rendered almost alien to the majority by its curious system of taboos—should result in the continuance of the system in its present form.43

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Expansion in public services after the war raised the demand for recruitments to 230 per year with an additional fifty candidates to be enrolled annually. The total number of students was finally set at 900. Numbers alone, however, give little conception of the actual scope of the training of these new policymakers—a training which involved such broad and varied fields as health, public education, social insurance, old age pensions, compensation payments, family allowances, state subsidies, national housing and extension services in agriculture. So vast and all-pervasive were the problems merely in the area of organizing and administering the machinery of operations and control that little room was left for assessing results. This much was evident, however: it was upon the ability and talent of the new civil service to function wisely and productively that the whole future of social planning depended. The new personnel had to be trained effectively and expeditiously. And in the process the universities inherited the gravest responsibility.44

5.

SOCIAL

WELFARE

AND

TEACHER

PREPARATION Dredge the community for the real teachers and for the thousands required, tens will be found. Can any training in technique convert masses of at best smoldering coke into perpetually incandescent coals from off the altars of the human spirit? SIR CHARLES GRANT ROBERTSON, 1944

Although social welfare is central to British planning, its needs are served by an education confined to two undergraduate years and leading to a certificate or a diploma at a university or special training institute. A few courses extend to three years, some students obtaining training for one year at the graduate level after basic preparation in arts courses. The Clapham Committee reported in 1946 that existing demands were far out of proportion to training facilities. The Committee recommended that much larger grants be allowed with a view toward strengthening research into economic and social questions.45 To achieve this end, the University Grants Committee actually apportioned more money than the Clapham Committee had proposed. Although in almost every university in the United Kingdom a school exists for the training of social workers, the schools are

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regarded as 'poor relations, possibly worthy but certainly not respectable, to be accommodated on the premises with mixed feelings of patronage, sympathy and guilt'. T . W. Silcock concludes that a single four-year course is unavoidable, with entrance qualifications similar to those of any respectable academic subject: ' The analogy of nursing training is perhaps relevant' to the, education and character requisites of social workers. Training may take place outside the universities, without necessarily severing university connections, 'after the manner of Institutes of Education'. 46 Recognizing the difficulties of education in social welfare, the Nuffield College group suggested that the better positions should be restricted to candidates possessing graduate qualifications. The group estimated the number of places needed at 2000 or an expansion of 400 per cent over prewar totals.47 Fundamentally the same problems faced the education of teachers. Perhaps no other profession was so profoundly affected by postwar emergencies as that of teaching. Raising the schoolleaving age in 1945 aggravated personnel shortages and uncovered deficiencies in preparation. The Education Act of 1944 itself radically revised attitudes regarding the essential nature of teacher education. From time immemorial the teacher has been peculiarly regarded as someone outside the common run of people. In Greek and Roman days teachers were slaves; in the early Christian era they were celibates; in medieval England they occupied a position about equal to that of a stable boy; they were servants of the state in Napoleon's time. In the nineteenth century the universities practically closed their doors on teacher training, and special institutes had to be established to provide enough teachers for 'children of the laboring poor'. Sir Fred Clarke tells the melancholy tale: It was inconceivable in early Victorian England that educated persons should be thought necessary for this humble function, or indeed procurable at the rates offered. Instead, promising pupils from the elementary schools were selected and apprenticed at an early age as pupil-teachers. Following apprenticeship they would enter a training college, if accommodation was available, where they received some measure of further education. But most of all they were 'conditioned' morally, socially, and emotionally to the humble office in life which was to be theirs.48

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It is not too clear why the universities are so reluctant to accept their inherited responsibility for the preparation of teachers, especially in consideration of the strategic position which teachers hold in educating candidates for university entrance. Professor R. A. C. Oliver, of the University of Manchester, wisely points out that one reason for the attitude of the universities is that ' Teaching is probably the only profession which is so unexacting about what its neophytes should learn or what standards they should reach'. It is not a question of 'slackness or incuriousnessOliver suggests, but is the 'inescapable reaction to educational theories of pragmatism and naturalism'. 49 Nevertheless, as a former chairman of the National Foundation for Educational Research, Sir Fred Clarke stresses the great advantages which flow from a close university connection. He reminds the universities that they originated in the need to provide qualified teachers, fitted to hold a general commission—the ius ubique docendi of a studium generate: A university is hardly entitled to prepare students for any profession unless within its walls the problems of that profession are being systematically studied. The condition is reasonably well fulfilled in the case of such professions as medicine and engineering. It has hardly begun to be fulfilled in that of teaching.60 Also E. L. Herbert, of the University of Manchester, calls attention to this neglected phase of university practice and emphasizes the kinship of all professions: It is time that the' adventure' value of teaching should be realized. It is every bit as exciting and could certainly be as scientific as, say, medicine. But, like medicine, it is an art, and knowledge of one subject is not enough. However, outside of training institutions, research in educational psychology is often regarded with suspicion.51 The McNair Committee on Teaching agreed that teacher training should be organized under university leadership, but they could not agree on the precise nature of that leadership. Although many universities soon established schools or institutes of education under their aegis, practice actually reverted to type; so that teacher education in Britain, as in nearly every other country, still remains on the periphery of university preferential lists. The university is a ' benevolent patron', assuming no final responsibility for the education of teachers and certainly permitting few changes in organization to effect it. Even such

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an optimist as Professor Oliver confesses that there still exists a 'certain amount of tension' between universities and institutes of education. The Ministry of Education ' wisely did not try to decide between the merits of rival schemes [proposed by the McNair Report] but left the decision and the initiative to the people in the area'. This 'willingness to sacrifice a tidy uniformity for a more creative if untidy variety is one more example of an excellent British tradition'. The result is that new energies have been released in the teacher-training colleges and, with the creation of new institutes of education,' a welcome spirit of adventure has been introduced'.62 In 1947 there were in Britain some 187,000 teachers. Basing its calculations on the McNair Report, the Nuffield Study estimated that approximately 17,000 candidates would be required annually, of whom 15,000 would be placed in publicly supported schools. At least 20 per cent of this number would be needed in scientific fields. These figures represented an increase of about 300 per cent over the prewar yield. By 1954, about 229,000 teachers would be needed.63 The great responsibility for the preparation of these teachers was lodged in university institutes of education, which were to supervise the work of the training colleges. In 1944 the Ministry of Education allotted special funds for teacher education and for the establishment of fifty-five emergency training colleges, which were entrusted with accelerating the preparation of some 13,300 men and women annually until the desired quotas were reached. The need for some sort of training in teaching methods and educational psychology is, of course, not limited to elementary and secondary school practice, but applies equally to university staff members. Bruce Truscot allows future teachers to ask, ' Why do we have to spend a year after taking our degrees in obtaining a diploma testifying that we have studied and practised the technique of teaching, whereas if we were going to take up the equally difficult work of university lecturing... we could get posts without having had any training whatsoever?' It seems to be assumed, submits Truscot, that anyone with a firstclass honors degree and an inquiring mind is capable of lecturing and teaching—to say nothing of researching—without any sort of technical preparation. He refers to other professions, such as the ministry and medicine, where internship and previous practice are obligatory, and is at a loss to find an explanation of

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university attitude toward the teaching professions,' except that the universities are amateurish bodies which have never faced up to certain elementary f a c t s . . . ' . Mercilessly inveighing against inaudible lectures, lax preparation, aimless mumbling from ill-written scripts, and the failure of so many lecturers to kindle any spark of intellectual interest in the minds of students, he grants that most professors 'know their stuff' but have little interest in 'putting it across'. The average don's attitude is that 'the undergraduate must take him as he finds him and be thankful'. Truscot quips that today there may be 'more personality but certainly less method'. The only effective remedy is to subject lecturers to a year's training after the manner of the teacher education program currently in practice. He sees many related values: Quite apart from the efficiency of such a course, the break of a year between graduation and one's first post gives valuable time for mental recuperation and an adjustment of thought after a period of intense specialization, while the study of such new subjects as psychology, method, and history of education broadens the outlook in a way from which no specialist can fail to benefit. The course could be compressed within the long summer vacations, but the essential thing would be the practical examination at the close: ' No candidate ought to be accepted for any but a temporary post in a university until he had passed it.' 54 Thus in England, as in the United States, faint murmurings are becoming loud voices, which university authorities can afford no longer to ignore. One of the most scandalous anomalies about a learned society of intellectuals in which the art of teaching is supposed to be a recognized achievement is that the science of it has merited so little respect. And some of the worst offenders, incredibly enough, are teachers of the scientific method. Despite commendable progress and enthusiastic public support, the shortage of teaching personnel, especially among women elementary school teachers, remains acute. Salaries are admittedly low. But the problem becomes further aggravated when industry, commerce and government seize much of the teaching talent. Eric James, distinguished high master of the Manchester Grammar School, aptly observes that every circumstance of modern society imposes greater burdens upon the trained intelligence of the people; and the schools are not

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sufficiently rewarding to attract and hold the talented: ' Industry today absorbs every well-qualified graduate in science, particularly in chemistry, that it can attract. If it were possible before the war to complain that British industry did not fully understand the importance of the scientist in research and administration, that is no longer remotely true.' 55 The desire is especially keen to obtain graduate or university-prepared teachers, and the assault in this field has been severe. In 1931, for example, Scotland boasted a proportion of three graduate teachers to one nongraduate. In 1950 the ratio was almost reversed: there were three graduates for every five nongraduates. (This change is in part due to the feeling that university academic courses are not necessarily suitable as preparation for elementary school teaching.) Worse still, there were over 900 unqualified teachers employed. In the face of this type of deterioration in the teaching profession, school officials demanded action to prevent a further withdrawal of teachers from the schools—a measure, which, countered The Times, would be feasible only under conditions of absolute emergency. 58 The teaching profession best gains recognition and prestige from public acknowledgment that they are of indispensable service to society both inside and outside the classroom. It would seem that as a consequence leaders in the other fields would do well to accept a greater responsibility for high standards in the profession of teaching, lest the unfortunate results of poor preparation adversely affect their own professional positions. University professors, too, would do well to protect and improve the welfare of their fellow-teachers, no matter on what level they toil, since inferior standards are reflected in the performance of the very students they must later instruct. Meantime, until this phase of British educational life becomes relieved, well might the harassed headmaster echo the familiar Churchillism, 'Never have so many owed so much to so few!'

6.

MEDICINE

AND

DENTISTRY

At no time has Britain enjoyed an oversupply of physicians and dentists. Both professions have been notably lax in providing enough candidates of the proper calibre. In 1944 the Goodenough Committee estimated that the proportion of doctors to

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the total population was something like one in a thousand, a perilously low ratio and one dangerously inadequate for the national health program. Since none of the remedial measures recommended by the investigating committees could have affected the supply of doctors in less than five years, heroic work had to be performed by the thin, tired ranks of the medical and dental professions during the early phases of socialized medicine. 57 The Goodenough Committee found medical education lacking in more than mere numbers. Accentuating Professor Bernal's observations of a previous decade, the Committee agreed that the basic course was overspecialized and ridden with memoriter work. 68 Clinical facilities were ill staffed, underequipped, and backward in their methods. Coeducation was far too exceptional. Advanced research, excellent where it existed, was altogether too little to support the needs of an expanding profession. The Committee was convinced that a medical student needed more than a mere technical training. He required a type of university education which would extend his outlook beyond the confines of an examination syllabus, and enable him to enter the medical profession with a 'well-disciplined mind, with human interests, and an intelligence able to move with the progress of human knowledge'. 69 The total bill for bringing the medical profession up to strength was estimated at £2,500,000 per year, with an initial grant of about £5,000,000. When one compares these appropriations with the total amount of university grants for 1947-8 of some £ 9 million, the extent of the Committee's budgetary recommendations becomes formidable indeed. 60 Dentistry also needed something like a treble expansion, • to cost between £150,000 and £300,000 a year in terms of national grants alone. In dentistry it was stated that the reason for the paucity of candidates arose from the fact that many of the competitors were not qualified and did not understand professional standards.81 The Nuffield College study estimated that the medical and dental programs would necessitate increases in student places from a prewar total of 11,500 to 13,500 in the case of medicine and from 1490 to 3825 in the case of dentistry. In 1947-8 medical and dental students totalled 15,907 or 1418 below the desired figure.62 The opposition to ' nationalizing the medical profession' was

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bitter. Citing the fact that 'medicine has evolved in its own unique half-way house' under nationalization, The Economist, conservative intelligence of Britain, found cause for alarm when governmental and financial pressures interfered with progress in private medical and dental practice. This interference should be a matter for 'genuine concern' in a democratic society: It is unquestionable that the maintenance of high standards of competence and conduct depend upon the fee-earning practitioner, endorsed by a corporate professional body. If the private practitioner were to lose his foothold among the shifting economic forces of the future, the community would lose that unique combination of independence and integrity which his calling evokes—an independence which relates not only to professional standards, but which represents one of the strongest safeguards of genuine political and intellectual freedom.83 There is no sign, however, that socialized medicine will ever be abandoned in Britain, though the program is constantly being revised with a view toward reducing enormous costs and eliminating abuses. We have now seen how the solution of one problem in national recovery tended to create others. The rapid expansion of professional services raised problems of maintaining university ideals and standards. Efforts to rehabilitate the nation in industry, education and health led to a proportionate sacrifice of individual initiative. The problem of training an adequate number of teachers raised doubts as to the quality of the product. The medical and dental professions, seemingly unable to solve their difficulties under their own power, succumbed to government interference in their training and practice. Yet through it all, despite obstructions and criticism, the grand purpose remained firm: to enlist the combined intelligence of all elements of British society in an effort to compete favorably on the international scene, yet without sacrificing intrinsic British character and traditional intellectual character of the university. Through it all, the essential mission of the university was to remain educational in its finest sense.64

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MATTER

We are all familiar with the process by which the curriculum develops. A subject, long neglected, establishes a position, and then pushes from its base to seize as much of the country as finance and its rivals and public opinion allow. SIR R I C H A R D

LIVINGSTONE,

1948

Except on rare occasions when a young and vigorous professor manages to acquire an important chair, the curriculum of any subject changes by an unfortunate process of accretion and compression. JOHN B E R N A L , 1938

It has been shown that the impetus toward establishing new institutions originated in a desire to adapt higher education to national needs. It was thought that a complete devotion to humane studies ignored the broader responsibilities of the university; it did not adequately acknowledge a need to cope with existing emergencies, chief among which were shortages in the service professions and in technological areas. From all these determinants one might well have expected revolutionary changes in curricular organization. With few exceptions this did not take place. An imposing array of new subject matter presented itself in the postwar era, but, as Harold Shearman observes, it was easier to work to an old traditional curriculum that to educate for life in a rapidly changing world. 65 When one combines a seemingly inevitable academic inertia with a traditional preference for arts studies, one gains a better understanding of subject-matter tendencies in Britain today. In 1950 only five universities enrolled more full-time students in curricula other than the arts, as the accompanying table indicates: Specialties in selected universities, 1950 Pure science 526

Technology

481

724

278

301

177

362

166

—

1113

605

587 5657

34° 1065

4190

'444

Arts Durham and Newcastle Liverpool London, Queen Mary Reading Birmingham Sheffield Oxford Cambridge

743 897

762

699 43° 98 —

AgriculMedicine- turedentistry forestry 810 —

58 —

595 344 356 579

183 — —

437 — —

'95 421

Enrollment figures for 1950 at all British universities revealed that arts students outnumbered two to one their nearest competitors, students of medicine and pure science. At Oxford and

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Cambridge the proportion was much greater. It is important to note, however, that the arts course is much more comprehensive than in the past; it now includes such innovations as education, psychology, sociology, human relations, industrial relations and fine arts. Also, subject matter overlaps. Veterinary training, for example, involves studies in pure science, medicine and agriculture. Classifying the universities in accordance with their offerings produces three groups: (1) those institutions which offer a large number of new subjects : Sheffield, Nottingham, Glasgow, M a n chester, Reading, Birmingham and Leeds; (2) a middle-of-theroad group, composed of London, Durham, Wales and Edinburgh; and (3) a group which has resisted change in the basic curriculum however much they may have adopted other modes of community service: Oxford, Cambridge, Liverpool and St Andrews. (Older institutions tend to place new services under research foundations.) 66 A n inspection of their courses of study reveals the individuality of the various universities. Degrees in accounting and commerce are awarded at all universities except Oxford, Cambridge, Reading, Wales and St Andrews. Oxford and Cambridge, however, offer 'estate management', which is graced by the Bachelor of Arts degree at Cambridge and a certificate of proficiency at Oxford. Manchester is an example of a university offering a variety of courses as spectacular as that of a large American university. T a k e for example, the following alphabetical sampling: accounting, Arabic, banking, biology, biochemistry, brewing, building, child health, Chinese, commerce, comparative religion, engineering, Egyptology, fuel technology, horticulture, hygiene, industrial administration, medieval history, psychology, Slavonic studies, statistics, Syriac, textiles and theology. T r u l y a twentieth-century studium generate of humane, professional, aesthetic and technical studies ! Nottingham, among the newest of the universities, features specialties not elsewhere easily available. Possessing a strong arts curriculum, this institution also grants degrees and diplomas in such areas as agriculture, dairying, drama, fuel technology, horticulture, mining and mining engineering, pharmacy, poultry, public administration, transportation, and youth service. A t Hull University College a somewhat similar course of study includes agriculture, industrial administration, marine biology, 7

KLB

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pharmacy, Scandinavian languages and veterinary science. Sheffield University's variants include foundrywork and glass technology, the latter an honors degree subject. Brewing is taught at Birmingham. Textile engineering, reasonably enough, is featured at Leeds, Manchester and Glasgow; marine biology by the same token is studied at Durham, Wales, Aberdeen and Glasgow. Fuel technology is available at seven universities, mining engineering at ten, marine engineering at six. Agriculture and forestry are offered at all the universities and university colleges except Birmingham, Liverpool, Sheffield, St Andrews, Exeter and Southampton. This brief curricular exposition, based on university catalogs published in 1950, clearly demonstrates that the older universities have clung to a more traditional nucleus, whereas the newer universities have expanded their offerings out of consideration for national needs and local vocational exigencies. The obvious conclusion is that all studies under the sun are available at British universities. A clinical examination of these curricula would be a study in itself, involving, as it should, the types and scope of the syllabuses, the nature and intensity of the content, the distribution of subjects and students studying them, and the possibility of combining certain specialties, the whole with a view toward increasing educational efficiency and reducing the overhead. 67 From first-hand observation the author was impressed by the large amount of repetition that takes place in individual courses, and the fact that in some universities certain courses are in too slight demand or are poorly attended, while others are badly overcrowded. Higher educational reform in France, adopted in 1948, includes a program for removing certain specialties from those universities in which the interest is slight, and consolidating these specialties in fewer centers. With the nation's talent assembled in fewer places, and with facilities pertaining to the speciality more concentrated, the French expect that better results will be attained. While Britain's system of higher education is more diffuse, less co-ordinated, and not legally dependent on a central ministry, it would nevertheless seem that earnest attention might be given to the possibilities of a similar reform at home. Lord Simon of Wythenshawe brings to bear his formidable experience in university administration, industry, and public relations to ask:

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How can redundancy be avoided ? How far should each university attempt to cover the whole field? Should each of our civic universities be encouraged and helped to develop three or four subjects outstandingly well? For instance, there are eight schools of mining, not a single one on a really adequate scale, turning out between them twenty graduates annually. There were recently six university forestry departments producing between them not more than 25 graduates a year. There are many gaps. For instance, it is widely held that our two or three leading university technical institutions should be on a scale comparable to those in America or Germany. Aeronautical engineering has been almost entirely neglected by the universities.68 A t any rate, enough has been said regarding the more concrete needs of, and demands upon, British university education as they arise from cultural, social, economic and political exigencies to enable us to turn now to the thoughts and ideals of those leaders and commentators upon whom rests the ultimate responsibility for the progress of higher learning.

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V

T H E N A T U R E OF H I G H E R L E A R N I N G Somewhere in higher education it is essential to find the roots of modern logic, assumptions rife among us, expose them, and examine their systematic interrelations.

ORTEOA

Y

GASSET

The Mission of the University Universities are fortresses for the defence of the standards of civilization, and of those cardinal rules of taste and truth which are the law of the life of the mind.

SIR E R N E S T B A R K E R ,

1948

Nowhere in British intellectual life is more soul-searching taking place than within the confines of the universities. Hardly a century ago the purpose of university education was clear, easily comprehended, and well-nigh unquestioned. Learning for learning's sake, disciplining the mind, cultivating the art of conversation and good manners, with ready facility for making classical allusions, were among the simple and easily recognizable attributes that operated comfortably enough, even within the grand objectives of Cardinal Newman's ideal. University authorities were not much disturbed over Newman's utilitarian preferences. T h e dons were quite confident of their scholarly responsibility; they knew that success in their finals was the best guarantee of success in life. Within the last generation a series of seismic shocks from the outside world has rocked the very foundations of university thought. Learned men have found themselves perplexed and bewildered by the plague of social and ideational perturbations which has invaded the sanctity of their academic life. ' T h e universities are key-points not only in the educational system but in our entire social structure', proclaimed the newly formed National Union of Students, ' and it should be their function to help make a reality of the social potentialities of the present time.' Embodied in Brian Simon's A Student's View of the Universities (Longmans, 1943), the more extreme criticism of the universities was epitomized by such pronouncements as : The culture of the modern era which should pervade the universities is a scientific culture, in every way different from, even the

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opposite of, the old ' classical ' culture which has for so long dominated our educational thinking... .This [type of] culture takes little or no account of the vital factors which condition the development of society at the present day... .The educational system in this country is essentially a class system.... It is in accord with the morality of a capitalistic society that position can be bought with money and without reference to comparative merit and ability.... The crisis and bankruptcy of modern thought, reflected in university thinking, becomes apparent... [in the fact that] social studies play scarcely any role at all in the universities.... There appears to be little conception of the potentialities of co-ordinated research toward clearly defined social e n d s . . . . The new society will find its own morality and will not need to borrow one ready-made from a civilization long since dead and g o n e . . . . The ideal is a student community representative of the people and actively concerned with the social, political, and cultural issues of the t i m e . . . Against such criticism many have revolted. They will have nothing to do with the social, the momentary, or the material. Others have welcomed the intrusion; they consider that the criterion of proper university behavior is total individual and social progress, redefinable as men become increasingly aware of nature's scientific secrets. And between the extremes extends a panoply of opinion as broad and complex as all men's minds. The university is a place of great principles, all agree, and indeed the home of abstract generalization. What shall be these principles? What nature shall these abstractions assume? In the mêlée of modern argument it is convenient to designate the leading protagonists somewhat as follows: (i) the literary humanists, who feel that a great university tradition has not been allowed to fulfill its promise; (2) the scientific humanists, who draw their strength from the natural sciences; (3) the Christian partisans, orthodox and liberal, who find man's salvation in following the way ofJesus Christ; (4) the agnostics, who tend to consider man's salvation to be dependent primarily on his own good works; (5) the social thinkers, who believe that education should be geared to good citizenship, social progress, and life's more immediate needs; and (6) the professional educational or pedagogical critics, who confine their theories to education in general and the purpose of higher learning in particular (specialization versus general education, for example).

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There is considerable philosophic overlapping, of course, among these groups. Even an orthodox Christian partisan would provide a university training partly in harmony with man's material needs; and many a professional educator is at the same time an orthodox Christian. Indeed, all commentators would agree at some point with certain views expressed by the others. The purpose of the following sections is to describe the essential ideas of these various groups and to comment on them in the light of their inner consistency. If, however, in the exposition of this thought the author seems to draw arbitrary lines of demarcation among the ideas expressed, the object will be one of clarifying them and capturing their peculiar essence, rather than of arbitrarily classifying their exponents. On the literary side, there was never a more sincere and heartfelt spokesman for the classical tradition than Sir Richard Livingstone, president of Corpus Christi College, former vicechancellor of Oxford University, and champion par excellence of conservative literary humanists everywhere. The supreme purpose of the university, according to Livingstone, is to reveal the truth: 'The god worshipped in the university's shrine is neither utility, nor success, nor social progress, nor even goodness, but truth.' Resurrecting the renowned command of Socrates, 'to follow the argument where it leads', and the demand of Ajax for 'Light though I perish in the light', Sir Richard warns against the sacrifice of truth to 'edification'. Classical humanists may be losing ground in their plea for the moral and disciplinary values of Latin and Greek, but Sir Richard bolsters their faith by extolling what he calls the 'Greek spirit' as the lustrous example for modern living. He pleads for the return of education to Greek thought and Christianity, 'which created the soul of Western civilization, formed its mind, and are the vitamins of its life-blood'. Commanding the university 'to build up in every man and woman a solid core of spiritual life, which will resist the attrition of everyday existence in our mechanized world', he cautions against accepting the spirit of criticism as the spirit of truth. 'Teach us not to criticize', he quotes Jowett, 'but to admire.' Criticism is nothing more than a 'preliminary.. .a clearing of the ground for the palace of truth'. Approvingly he cites Ruskin on Venetian architecture: 'Analysis is an abominable business. I am quite sure that people who work out subjects thoroughly

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are disagreeable wretches.' 2 More important, more profound even, than analysis or criticism, Livingstone contends, is 'impact '; people should not miss the impact of great literature or any kind of greatness'. 3 Yet only through the critical spirit, exemplified by Plato, can the gold be separated from the dross of human experience. A critical study of literature, history, religion and politics (but not social science) will acquaint the student with all that is good and all that is base in human nature: The real problem is to humanize man, to show him the spiritual ideals without which neither happiness nor success are genuine or permanent, to produce beings who will know not merely how to split atoms but how to use their powers for good. Such knowledge is not to be had from the social or the physical sciences. Training in logic will confront us with our own absurdities. 'A definition a day will keep charlatans a w a y . . . . But my last prescription for veracity is to live with people who tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.' As Matthew Arnold sang.

Rigorous teachers seized my youth, And purged its faith and trimmed its fire, Showed me the high white star of Truth, There bade me gaze and there aspire.

And in respect to truth, ' W h o stands higher than the Greek thinkers?' It was Greece, says Livingstone, that created philosophy and science. The love of truth is no less intense in the modern than in the ancient, but holding to truth is more a matter of custom than of principle. 4 In 1852 Cardinal Newman wrote:' If a practical end must be assigned to a university course, then I say it is training good members of society.' Livingstone finds much to commend in this view, provided one does not interpret the meaning of society narrowly, and he severely criticizes the university for failing to implement Newman's ideal. If we are to ride the storms of social and intellectual change, the universities must train men to become what Plato called 'spectators of all time and all existence'. There has been too much thought about administrative and organizational detail, asserts Sir Richard, and too little attention paid to the quality of education undergraduates should receive. ' It [university education] has simply grown up in the casual English way. It has never been viewed

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or planned as a w h o l e . . . . Its development has been determined by a combination of vis inertiae, the pressure of circumstances, and a struggle of individual subjects for a place in the sun.' T h e universities provide the tools for social progress but give no guidance for their use; ultimate ends are neglected: We have the spectacle of democratic countries, conscious of deep detestation of philosophies of race and power, clinging to the traditions and memories of a nobler view of life and to values which they dimly discern but cannot formulate into a clear rational ideal. The universities do not help them. If it is too much to expect the universities to formulate an ideal, they might at least have sent out men who would have done it, given the guidance for which the world is looking, and led it not only in economics and sociology, in physics and chemistry, but in even more important things. They have not done so. ..... . . . . Achilles ponders in his tent; The kings of modern thought are dumb; Silent they sit and not content, And wait to see the future come. T h e pursuit of knowledge is in itself the ' child and parent of moral q u a l i t i e s a n d it should foster the virtues and values of industry, perseverance, disinterestedness, faith and, above all, truth. 6 There is no doubt in Sir Richard's mind concerning the importance of the university: ' I f you wished to destroy modern civilization, the most effective way to do it would be to abolish universities.' T h e reason is that universities 'create knowledge' and ' t r a i n the m i n d ' . Confidently he asserts that universities ' a d d nothing to the amount of natural intelligence existing, b u t they refine and perfect what exists, and fit it to serve purposes and take stresses which in its raw form it could not m e e t ' . T h e influence of the university is 'almost as g r e a t ' as that of the medieval church, and ' i n m a n y ways it is a similar influence'. I n recent times, however, the power of universities has become ' disappointingly l i m i t e d . . . due to their being too little concerned with ends, with h u m a n values, and with a philosophy of life'. T o remedy the defect, Sir Richard recommends that religion or philosophy, or both, become compulsory studies: By religion I mean of study of what we should think of the meaning and ultimate nature of the universe; how in the light of the view we

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form, we should live: the different answers which have been given to these questions by great religious thinkers. Philosophy treats the problems of religion from a more detached and general point of view.* The reader is doubtless ready to challenge Sir Richard on facts and definitions, if not on ideas. One might query him on what he means precisely by the ' Greek' critical spirit, especially since the winds of spirit blew from all directions in that turbulent little peninsula. In his discussions on science he quotes Socrates and Aristotle, and in the works cited allows little place, as Murray, Farrington, Zimmern and other moderns do, to the Ionian school. 'Time', he states, 'antiquates all scientific discovery, and Greek science for us has only an historic interest.' It is not clear why Greek science has only historic interest while Greek philosophy is eternal. It is also problematic as to just how man can properly be educated,' humanized', by indiscriminately uniting different brands of historical knowledge. Livingstone draws his points almost oblivious of total context, as, for example, in citing Matthew Arnold on truth, or Ruskin on education, both of whom are fundamentally at odds with Livingstone's educational thought. Regarding Thomas Arnold, ' the greatest figure in English education', Sir Richard makes the following ambiguous pronouncement: ' He created an ideal, a type, and a method which have profoundly influenced the nation and still persist.' How profoundly good or bad was his influence? Surely the spirit of learning of the modern university and the character of the contemporary student are not expected to be modeled after a personality of the temperament and ideology of Thomas Arnold. 7 Even more perplexing are Livingstone's ideas on truth. Modestly sidestepping a definition of truth: 'Not being a philosopher, I shall not attempt such a task,' he nevertheless essays an explanation which would hardly be accepted by a literarist, much less a semanticist: I mean by it that veracity which does its best to tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth; [that veracity] which is candid and frank, takes no unfair advantage in argument, is careful not to misrepresent an opponent or to ignore the strength of his case and the weakness of its own.8 He assumes that the' purpose ofeducation is to develop veracity'. He also advocates the cultivation of a critical mind (but not the

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'over-critical attitude, which watches for crumbling idols and the skeletons in the cupboard'). What happens to his concept of veracity-truth under the 'impact' of criticism? Does he not in reality want his 'truth' to be accepted, 'admired', rather than criticized? 'Teach us not to criticize but to admire', Jowett urged Matthew Arnold. What one must admire in Livingstone is his facile pen, his disarming literary manner. He implies in his gentlemanly way that moderns do not and cannot know the truth, at least not so well as the 'Greeks' knew it. But he does not make clear just how his cherished literary, nonscientific approach, characteristic of the early nineteenth century, can serve modern society even to the same extent as it did then, especially in consideration of the fact that it was the very inadequacies of university education in that period which actually gave birth to modern reforms. Sir Richard is not challenged for his educational preferences but rather for his proofs and documentary evidence, which are almost uniformly vulnerable. Homage is due him for his desire to get at truth, by which he seems to mean essentially ' truthfulness ', but not for the methods he uses to demonstrate the nature of truth. In a personal letter to the author, however, his position becomes somewhat less dogmatic. Regarding the study of social sciences, for example, he states: ' Of course, there must be a study of them—hard, exact study—as there must be a study of science. But I think that this study of social science should be normally post-graduate, certainly not the basis of school education.' He then seeks to dispel any idea that students who restrict their study to pure history or philosophy will be uninterested or incompetent when the time comes to study the social sciences. 'Could people like T . H. Green, Graham Wallas, L. T . Hobhouse in the nineteenth century, or A. D. Lindsay, Gilbert Murray, Alfred Zimmern, G. D. H. Cole in my generation be so described? These were all educated on the classics, not on social science.' (Sir Richard forgets that most of the above scholars revolted against their academic preparation.) Also, he confesses, there is really 'no element in the social sciences essentially hostile to religion.. .. All good teachers know that there is a kinship between different subjects.' Regardless of such emendations, however, the essential teaching of Sir Richard Livingstone differs little from the sort of educational practice which a century ago led to open revolt

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against both schools and universities. Modern doctrines and practices are, of course, derived from an unbroken tradition of great thinking and great practical examples. Nevertheless, as A. N. Whitehead so well demonstrates, the whole of this tradition is 'warped' by the easy assumption on the part of influential persons that each generation can live amid the conditions that governed the lives of ancestors centuries removed and will transmit these conditions to mold with equal force the lives of its children.9 It would seem, then, that Sir Richard's contribution would be enhanced if he were to recognize more realistically the fundamental importance of modern social and cultural problems as well as those of the more traditionally literary or classical type. A capable defender of classical humanism and one likely to be taken seriously by his opponents is Professor J . F. Lockwood, who puts his finger on what is probably the most fundamental weakness in the classical tradition, namely, that of pedantry in instruction, which has done its utmost to kill interest in the classics. 'Many students climb Mount Parnassus in a fog', writes Lockwood resignedly. The spread of education and the addition to the curriculum of so many new subjects have adversely affected the status of Latin and Greek; this development is natural and readily understood. Not so the insistence on maintaining archaic examination systems which have ' wrought havoc' on traditional studies in general. Insisting that Homer and Herodotus are indispensable to a proper understanding of history, and that the humility of Socrates and the humanity of Cicero are keys to a knowledge of human relations, Lockwood cites the need for emphasizing the unity and interaction of European civilization rather than its isolated accomplishments. Classical values cannot be omitted from a total comprehension of Western civilization, but syllabuses for classical studies reveal an emptiness of purpose; they are sterile, fragmentary and abortive.10 Sir Richard Livingstone's pronouncements on analysis and truth find support in Professor W. R. Niblett, director of the Institute of Education at the University of Leeds. Advancing slightly more plausible reasons for his convictions, Professor Niblett concerns himselfwith establishing unity in university thought and behavior. What he writes on analysis and truth are in defense of his desire for increased unity in learning. He takes

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his text from his former superior officer, Lord Eustace Percy of Durham University: We are communities of scholars, working together to find truth. Our danger is that we may care much for professional truth, but little for whole truth. Our best product has been the sensitive professional conscience, trained to work accurately in one chosen field. That is much; but it is much less than scholarship. The scholar is pledged to prove all things, to measure his every word and act by the most exact standard of truth he can find for it... .When he finds, as he does, that the methods of proof he has mastered in laboratory and lecture room prove little outside his professional studies, he must not conclude that he can outlaw life. He must not fall into the world's habit of assuming that public policies or private morals are outside the domain of truth. He must believe, in spite of the world's example, that there is no field of thought or action where a man is not on his honour. What is the nature of this truth? For one thing, writes Professor Niblett, truth is not achieved solely through analysis. All too often the analyst assumes that when he is in possession of the pieces he can establish the truth of the thing in its entirety.' He assumes that the petals plus the stamens plus the stem are the flower, and that Milton's poetry is an almost inevitable product of a particular set of religious beliefs, plus Puritan theory regarding women, plus a knowledge of Virgil and Dante and Tasso.' Neutrality and detachment are not the sole components of scholarly endeavor. University people are bound to submit themselves to evidence and allow themselves to be carried freely where truth takes them, Niblett admits, but ' neutrality, any more than freedom, can never be an end in itself'. Science has been concerned, Niblett observes, with advancing 'true propositions about the world', when the fact is, 'much truth cannot be explained in propositions at all'. Relatively little attention has been paid to types of knowledge other than the purely intellectual; but, asks Niblett, what sort of knowledge does music expound? With what sort of truth does religion deal? What is the nature of culture, or conviction, or purpose, and whence do such intangible elements spring? Sometimes, Niblett suggests, ' truth simply happens; there is a place for silence and [for] a waiting, expectant passiveness in the university'. If the university is concerned with discovering truth, it must learn the premise of every avenue to it: 'The university must stand for

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the enlargement and enlightenment of the mind, for the discovery of many-dimensioned truth, not a truth which is flat only and therefore definable.' 11 The leading avenue to multidimensional truth, states Professor Niblett, is the Christian religion. In this connection we shall have occasion below to elaborate on this phase of his thought. For the present, let it serve to comment that, like Livingstone, Niblett rarely indulges in definitions; he offers no firm explanation of what truth is. In a rather homiletic, metaphysical way, following Lord Eustace Percy, he associates truth with a scholar's sense of honor. But honor is not defined either, except vicariously in the Christian context, which in any case the reader is left to deduce for himself. Further, it is doubtful that any thoroughgoing scientist is exclusively concerned with advancing 'true propositions' about the universe. Scientists are usually made of humbler stuff. They are much more apt to establish tentative hypotheses, and to use their findings, 'propositions', as Niblett calls them, not as fixed truths but as additional hypotheses for further testing and discovery. It is likewise doubtful that modern social scientists have any particular obsession for neutrality, except as neutral analyses provide firm foundations for free human activity. Objectivity in research does not necessarily imply detachment in the use of one's findings. But all these observations seem elementary. Certainly in his search for illustrative material to buttress his theme, Professor Niblett tends to magnify the lesser evils of his opposition. Unity in university behavior cannot be established on unproved allegations regarding the hypothetical frailties of one's colleagues. On the contrary, it is wholly likely that, confronted with such charges, the very scientists, analysts, neutral thinkers and researchers 'with atomized minds' whom both Livingstone and Niblett want to captivate will continue all the more resolutely to pursue avenues of truth leading in wholly different directions. Another literary humanist with even greater isolationist leanings than Livingstone is F. R. Leavis, Fellow of Downing College, Cambridge. Dr Leavis is challenged to express his beliefs by the 'depressing considerations' of those who advocate a close partnership between the university and society. Though primarily concerned with the position of English and literature in higher learning, Leavis, a devotee of T. S. Eliot, extends his

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interests sufficiently to assert that all education should be concerned with 'countering certain characteristic tendencies of civilization'. Disdainfully claiming his social-minded opponents (like Robert A. Millikan) to be 'despondent' and 'completely pessimistic', he elaborates on university values as follows: Schools and colleges are, or should be, society trying to preserve and develop a continuity of consciousness and a mature directing sense of value.. .informed by a traditional wisdom... .The universities are recognized symbols of tradition.. .of cultural tradition still conceived as a directing force, representing a wisdom older than modern civilization and having an authority that should check and control the blind drive onward of material and mechanical development, with its human consequences. The ancient universities... may fairly be called foci of such a force, capable by reason of their prestige and their part in the life of the country of exercising an enormous influence.12 Although Leavis's purposes are fairly clear, his method of defending and implementing them is unfortunately shrouded in a type of phraseological obscurity that is surprising for a professor of English literature. Two examples, not the worst, indeed, of his verbal prolixity will illustrate: It seems to me better to point to English literature (as illustrative of the 'humane tradition'), which is unquestionably and producibly 'there', and to suggest that the 'literary tradition' that this unquestionable existence justifies us in speaking of might also be called a vague concept. And: The business at the moment is to suggest in what way a serious effort in education must be conceived as the effort of a cultural tradition at maintaining continuity—or in what way such an effort is conceived to be so in these pages. That is, the kind of effort of an actual driving tradition to bring itself into a focus, and would see itself—or feel itself—in terms of the carrying-on of a going concern.18 Plainly put, Leavis maintains that the (ancient) universities should again become the center of contemporary civilization, a position recently abandoned to the 'disintegrating' forces of modern society. Betraying his academic introversion, Leavis wants an 'enormous effort' at a synthesis, so that we can come substantially closer to realizing his ' I d e a of a University'. This

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' i d e a ' involves methods of producing the 'educated m a n ' , defined as 'the man of humane culture who is equipped to be intelligent and responsible about the problems of contemporary civilization'. Contemplation of this ' i d e a ' does not, however, 'conduce to satisfaction with the actual', observes Leavis, who then expresses his fundamental desire: to create a 'real centre' in a school of humanities, without which the university will remain 'calamitously remote from the " i d e a " ' . In support of this conviction he quotes himself as follows : It was more than ever the raison d'être of a university to be, amid the material pressures and dehumanizing complications of the modern world, a focus of humane consciousness, a centre where, faced with the specializations and distractions in which human ends lose themselves, intelligence, bringing to bear a mature sense of values, should apply itself to the problems of civilization. 14 Scientific humanism is interpreted with powerful social and political implications by London University's John D . Bernai in his monumental work, The Social Function of Science. T h e purpose of this exhaustive document is to show how far scientists are responsible for social and economic development and to suggest what steps might be taken which would lead to a more fruitful and less destructive utilization of science and the scientific method. His thesis is that science must work with those social forces which understand its functions and which march to the same ends. T h e immediate excuse for writing the work is laid to the surge of anti-intellectualism which engulfed society toward the end of the nineteenth century, finding expression in the preferences of men like Sorel and Bergson for intuition, instinct, antireason and mysticism. 15 Prefacing his remarks, Bernai establishes two characterizations of science, namely, the ' i d e a l ' and the ' r e a l ' . ' I d e a l ' science appears concerned chiefly with the discovery and contemplation of truth; its function is to build a world picture that reflects the facts of experience. ' R e a l ' science stresses utility; truth appears as a means for determining useful action and can be tested only by such action. There are variations from these views, of course, and in some ways they overlap. But in the most attenuated variant of the idealist view, 'science is considered to be simply an integral part of intellectual culture, a knowledge of contemporary science being as much a requisite for polite society as that of contemporary literature'. T h e fact

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that in England, at least, such a stage is far from actually having been achieved is irrelevant at the moment; nevertheless, 'educationalists often seek to justify science on these grounds alone and thus to assimilate science in general humanism'. But if the contemplation of the universe for its own sake were the only function of science,' then science as we know it now would never have existed.... The history of science shows that both the drive which led to scientific discoveries and the means by which those discoveries were made were material needs and material instruments.'16 Because science has plainly acquired a social importance transcending that of mere intellectual activity, the second, or 'real', point of view is the one to be stressed, as Bernal's inquiry becomes, in his terms, more social or economic in nature than purely philosophical. In fact, an investigation of science might well be limited, within reason, to its own organization, life and outlook, since science has now become, like literature, the Church, or the law, an institution in its own right. But in order to survive, science must inevitably be linked with industry, agriculture, health and the forces of production and wealth. For, whether we like it or not, if government subsidies should cease, 'science would sink at once to a level at least as low as that which it occupied in the Middle Ages'.17 Again, since science depends upon the fruit of material production for its very life, it must serve production, or, in logical extension, it must, serve the society that produces. In this regard, what can history teach? Under Bernal's scrutiny 'Greek science' takes on an aspect quite different from that described by most classical humanists. A ' good start' toward modern concepts was made by the early Ionian Greeks who, 'themselves pirates turned merchants', blended practical interest and natural curiosity in an effort to seek some explanation of the nature of the universe, so that they could, by fair means or foul, acquire techniques necessary for greater material success in a world of competitive trade. For this purpose they 'borrowed', predatory fashion, whatever scientific information they could from the Babylonians and Egyptians. Later, however, Greek scientific genius lost the patronage of men of power and influence; instead, politics became the prevailing obsession, and mastery of words and ideas prevailed, rather than mastery of things. ' The very idea

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of using intellect to further change was abhorrent to Socrates and Plato.' Greek genius at its height was contemplative. It sought only to understand and admire a world of eternal truths. Greek philosophers of the Platonic period, viewing with alarm the social revolutions under way in other city-states and deploring the destructive rivalries attendant upon new ideas of worldly gain, were resolved that Athenian class structure and social morale were not to be undermined but rather solidified. A reaction occurred under Hellenism because the monarchs of that period were interested in military engineering. Philosophical ('ideal') science was replaced by practical ('real') science; the work of Archimedes in statics proves what a ' great military artificer' he was. The importance of the Hellenistic revival lies in the fact that science for the first time was ' not only organized, but organized by the state'. Scientists became pensioners. When, however, the state and the princes lost interest in foreign matters and became content within their principalities, 'the most promising features of the Hellenistic science disappeared. Only literary culture, philosophy, and a certain amount of astronomy survived.'18 The course of Islamic science allegedly further proves Bernal's case, since 'Islamic religion had a much more material bent than Greek philosophy'. The Arabs were especially intrigued by the work of druggists and metal workers, and 'alchemy proved as powerful a stimulus to chemistry as astrology had been to the Babylonian astronomy'. However, medieval society by its very static quality made scientific advances inconclusive and unstable, and it was only as a result of trade and manufacture that Ionic and Hellenic science, partly conveyed by Islam, received further impetus. Perhaps at this point Bernal should be allowed to express himself fully and in his own way: The West of Europe [in the fifteenth century] was a relatively poor and depopulated region; its rulers were full of desire for riches but had few natural means of acquiring them. Mining for precious metals, war, and foreign trade, little distinguished from piracy, were the most easy means to hand, but in medieval Christendom the resources of the ancient empires in the way of man-power were sadly wanting.. .. It was at this point that ingenuity was at a premium. At first the ingenuity was the natural ingenuity of the craftsman or millwright. The small mining company wanted to raise ore and pump water without having to take any new partners or pay ruinous 8

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wages for hired miners and simply had to invent machines to do the work. But later, when feudal or merchant princes became the owners of the mines, foundries, and ships, they naturally turned to the educated men, to the artists and professors of mathematics for help; or rather the latter, seizing their chance, offered their services. Leonardo's letter to the Duke of Milan.. .is a classic example. Here he offers to construct a whole catalogue of new military machines, to manage drainage and civil engineering, and as a kind of afterthought he adds: 'I am able to execute statues in marble, bronze, and clay; in painting I can do as well as anyone else....' This in itself shows how close together had come the callings of courtier, scholar, soldier, and mechanic, a condition impossible in the Middle Ages, and hardly less so in Classical Antiquity.19 Entering the seventeenth century, continues Bernal, England was to become a nation of merchants and manufacturers rather than princes. The development of the sciences, particularly as they supported trade, could not be left entirely to patrons and to the universities; it would have to be the work of 'gentleman scientists', who, in the style of the early university corporations, would 'band together for mutual support and assistance'. Thus there arose in England the first 'invisible college', which after the Restoration became the Royal Society. The great work of the seventeenth century was to clear the way for the more professional aspects of science, specifically in physics and chemistry. Whereas the members of the Royal Society were mostly amateurs who joined the organization for profitable and informative entertainment, later scientists began to devote their entire lives to research and experimentation. As a matter of fact, the early impetus toward the Industrial Revolution of the eighteenth century was generated by men untutored in the usual university sense—men who had escaped the confines of Newtonian science to analyze or create things from the more immediately productive or industrial point of view. The need for power, 'raising water by fire', and for other useful applications of science meant that man had to penetrate deeper into nature to discover additional sources of strength. It was consequently in the larger industrial centers rather than at Oxford and Cambridge that science forged ahead under learned practitioners. The nineteenth century saw science and industry 'wedded till eternity', and it was in this wedlock, rather than in the universities, that science made its greatest strides. Nevertheless, in the nineteenth century:

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A scientific world appeared, consisting of professors, employees in industrial laboratories, and amateurs, but in contradistinction to the scientific world of the seventeenth century, it claimed as its function only the realm of fact and not the realm of action. The great controversies of the nineteenth century, such as that of evolution, were fought in the field of ideas. Scientists claimed no part in the direction of state or of industry. They were concerned with pure knowledge. Although certain elements of this relationship were satisfactory, the net result was unfavorable, as Bernal states: At the time when science should have been most obviously connected with the development of the machine stage, arose the idea of pure science; of the scientist's responsibility being limited to carrying out his own work, and leaving the results to an ideal economic system, ideal because natural and open to the free play of economic forces.. .. Little of this attitude fits the state of the present-day world.20 From his study of the history of science Bernal comes to the conclusion that in its more technological aspects, at least, the application of a scientific idea has usually occurred in a field of immediate profitability, which, he hastens to add, may or may not be the one in which it is ultimately the most valuable. At any rate, the demand for immediate profitability blocks the application of science at the very outset, where the greatest rate of development lies. (The example is given of electric power, in which hardly anything was done the first fifty years because there was no profitable use for electricity. ' If the effort and the money available for electric developments in 1880 and 1890 had been available earlier, something between a half and two-thirds of the time of this development might have been saved and the technical progress of industry correspondingly accelerated.') But history also shows that the advancement of science will be most wholesome and enduring only when production is made for public use instead of private profit. At present, he asserts, ' the natural demands of 95 per cent of the world's population for the barest biological necessities of food, clothing, and shelter are being held up by the economic system These external demands on science must be given a greater show. Until now, ' science has been concerned mainly with the analysis of the world as it existed prior to man and not with man's own work'. It should enable man to make those 8-2

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material and logical separations necessary to understand nature as it is; the world as made by man needs to be further studied and better controlled. As time goes on, the part of the universe determined by man will become relatively more and more important, but as this part will have been more rapidly constructed it will necessarily be less stable and will require a more thorough and careful understanding to prevent the crushing of man by his own creations. But it is possible to see beyond this: There is the world of nature to enjoy and by the increased facilities of travel, in fact and in thought, which science could bring, that would be available to far more people than it has been in the past. But there is also a new world which man himselfis constructing and this new world will offer opportunities for enjoyment and interest as great as the actual utility and safety that it will bring to humanity... .All these tendencies can be seen even at present in a spontaneous interest in motors, aeroplanes, and wireless, although they are held back by commercialized entertainment and by a snobbish imitation of obsolete aristocratic traditions.21 It has been necessary to elaborate on Bernal's configuration of the history of science in order to place his reasoning in proper perspective. It is precisely because modern educators entertain inadequate notions on the advance of science, Bernal asserts, that their ideals, aims and methods of scientific study are infirm. In the first place, science is more than an 'alternative way of acquiring a liberal education'. Secondly, it is overcompartmentalized. Thirdly, what is taught is too frequently inaccurate and out of date. Specifically, Bernal writes: In their mode of teaching the universities carry on a tradition little changed from that of their medieval predecessors. There was once some justification for the lecturer whose business was to expound a crabbed text of Aristotle or Galen to pupils who would certainly find difficulty in understanding it or who were very unlikely to possess books, and it needed considerable ingenuity on the part of the barber-surgeon-demonstrator to show how the actual facts of anatomy could be reconciled with the dogmatic statements of the classical authors. All this is past and gone, yet the method of teaching still survives.... Science subjects... are conceived as closed bodies of knowledge... .This results in a very considerable fossilization of the separate curricula, a process much assisted by the rigidity of the examination system.22

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So much for misconceptions and misbehavior in the teaching of science. The relation of science to the social order, writes Bernal, is likewise inadequately understood. This relation has a twofold aspect: (i) Since the current needs of society must in large part be satisfied by science, it follows that science criticizes old needs and supplies new ones; thus, it plays a formidable role not only in understanding but also in modifying society. (2) The failure on the part of so many people to understand this relation, this movement of science with society, leads to an external suppression of science's natural internal stimulation; the scientist cannot perform his task without 'meddling in p o l i t i c s d e s p i t e what most people expect: if he does, he perforce must ' abdicate to the forces of superstition and violence Bernal is certain that the progress of science depends ' not only on the realization of the conquest of poverty and disease but [on] all the means of significant change in human society'. Neither science nor society can afford to risk another demise, which history has shown is certain to occur if their interests are not united. 23 Science, which means scientific humanism, must increasingly permeate other spheres of general culture and national life. ' T h e present situation, where a highly developed science is allowed to remain isolated from a traditional culture, is altogether anomalous and cannot last', states Bernal. ' N o culture can stand indefinitely apart from the dominating practical ideas of the time, without degenerating into pedantic futility.' T o effect this union science must re-examine its foundations in the same way that literary tradition must test its proper roots: The dryness and austerity of science, which has led to its widespread rejection by those of literary culture and, among scientists themselves, to every kind of irrational and mystical addition, is something which must be removed before science can fully take its place as a common framework of life and thought.24 Bernal enters boldly into the realm of social science and the obligation of the university by asserting that solutions regarding the nature of social structure and control are to be derived from a far greater concentration of ability in areas of animal and human psychology than has hitherto been evident. The trouble is, modern society has 'no adequate motive for such studies'. Further, 'they cannot honestly be undertaken without under-

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mining the forms of society'. Writing in 1938, Bernal was convinced t h a t : ' Only in a socialized economy effectively concerned with providing maximal welfare can the full development of the social sciences be expected, for there they needs must become in practice and theory an integral part of the machinery of communal life.' T h e implications and extensions of such a concept are far-reaching: (1) Psychology will never attain an effective objectivity until it is freed of the metaphysical and religious ideas which now infest it. (2) Social, economic and psychological forms can be adequately studied only in relation to the origin of these forms. (3) ' T h e struggle for the development of the social sciences is at the same time the struggle for the transformation of society.' (4) ' This approach we owe primarily to Marx.' For lack of it [the Marxian approach] we have had the fatal split between highly abstract and conventional sciences assuming fixed categories—human nature, the psychic or the economic man—and a history that is either literary or didactic or merely pedantic chronicling. The line of development of the social sciences must be one which integrates them with history, and this in itself requires a general reorganization of science and the humanities. 25 Science will thus come to be recognized as the chief factor in all fundamental social change. A n d it will be the method of Marxism, rather than its creed or cosmogony, that will serve as the proper guide to action. T h e reason is clear: The relevance of Marxism to science is that it removes it from its imagined position of complete detachment and shows it as a part, but a critically important part, of economic and social development. . . . It is to Marxism that we owe the consciousness of the hitherto unanalysed driving force of scientific advance, and it will be through the practical achievements of Marxism that this consciousness can become embodied in the organization of science for the benefit of humanity. Science, therefore, 'is communism', because men have learned conscientiously to subordinate themselves to a common purpose without losing the individuality of their achievements. Collaboration is indispensable to the advancement of science and of individual scientists themselves. Men collaborate ' not because they are forced to by superior authority or because they blindly follow some chosen l e a d e r . . . . Facts cannot be forced to our

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desires... .Advice honestly and disinterestedly given.. .expresses as near as may be the inexorable logic of the material world.' 26 By communism it is obvious that Bernal understands the ideal Marxian state as early introduced in Russia and carried on with modifications to the beginnings of Stalinism. His aversion to fascism and all forms of totalitarianism which require subordination to the state is clearly expressed in many places. Arnold Nash, on the opposite bench from Bernal, pronounces The Social Function of Science ' undoubtedly the most important book in the field' even 'making allowances for the author's uncritical attitude toward Soviet Russia and the Stalinist view of Marxism'. 27 And Nash is sincere in this view because, as will be pointed out later, he believes in psychological and sociological approaches to knowledge, within a religious framework; he compliments Bernal for his social emphases. Nash also agrees with Bernal's teaching that science advanced best when it served practical ends, and quotes Lancelot Hogben (Dangerous Thoughts) in defense of his views: Great formulative periods in the record of science have occurred when scientific investigators have been interested in the social uses to which their discoveries are p u t . . . . If there is any lesson to be learnt from the history of modern science it is this. Professional exaltation of theory to the detriment of practice is the hallmark of cultural decay.28 Certainly, however, there are schools of thought which would deny Bernal. Flexner, for example, maintains that chemistry made no progress so long as men were concerned primarily with converting base metal into gold; and L. S. Amery is convinced that significant advances were made by ignoring political ends. 29 Also, Harvard's President Conant disclaims any notion of a single scientific method or interpretation, since scientists achieved their success by using many different types of approach. 30 There are also certain of Bernal's assumptions and conclusions regarding the totality of science and its connection with social progress that are open to even graver doubt. It is questionable whether scientists can work together easily in communistic fashion to produce more reliable and lasting results than if working competitively or in semi-isolation, since the prime and essential unity of science has never been finally proved. The fact is, there is hardly more unity among scientists than among philosophers, and one may talk of schools of

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science as of schools of philosophy. A n adequate portrayal and defense of this assertion would take a volume as long as Bernal's. Briefly, however, certain suggestive observations might be made: (i) Norbert Wiener in his recent Cybernetics (Wylie, 1948) claims that scientific subject matter has been broken down into such small segments that within the area of mathematics the invasion of one specialist into another specialist's realm would be termed an 'unwarrantable breach of privacy'. Is this development not natural rather than artificial, in view of the increased perplexity and profundity of scientific knowledge? (2) Einstein's unified field theory, proclaimed in 1935 and greeted as a 'key to the cosmos', was revised in 1949. Opposed to the quantum concept of atomic physicists, it cannot be tested by quantum principles, and must refer to its own presuppositions for its validity. If science must depend upon philosophy, would Bernai also advocate a unified philosophy or set of ideas and ideals for all cultures? 31 (3) T h e entire question of interdependence versus autonomy splits scientific research into at least two main camps. Doesn't the quantitative and qualitative extension of this major division make each scientist his own philosopher? 32 Just how would Bernai establish a scientific communal effort out of such mutually antagonistic philosopher-scientists as James Jeans, Lecomte du Notiy, Lancelot Whyte and Alexis Carrel? Classical science assumed that there was an objective reality that was everywhere the same and everywhere unchanging. Laplace incorrectly demonstrated that change was an illusion (Mécanique Céleste) and Prout falsely affirmed the essential sameness of things. If their conclusions were still valid, some support might be forthcoming for Bernal's case, since a unified effort could then be made to divulge further secrets of a constant reality. T o d a y , however, conclusions regarding the diversity of science and the scientific method are basic and inescapable. I f reliable progress is to be made toward the discovery of greater truth, it would seem that the community of men, or scientists, must be preserved in their essential diversity, as well as in their desirable unity. 33 It is, however, in Bernal's analysis of the social order required for his ideal of scientific progress that most demurrers arise. In stating that science should seek a new master other than big business, he lets the alternative rest in the state, or as Nash critically interprets it, in the 'bureaucrats of a regime under the

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dictatorship of the proletariat'. 34 Bernal's defense, we have noted, derives from the fact that collaboration is essential to scientific progress, and that individual progress in the field is negative without the help of one's colleagues. In one huge leap Bernal makes the transfer to communism as the ideal political milieu in which progress can take place, because, presumably, communism is the highest form of political collaboration and social co-operation, and the state is the wealthiest and most all-embracing agency in position to subsidize science. If left to big business, Bernal states, science will progress only in accordance with the demands of big business. Whether if left in the hands of the state science will progress along lines other than those determined by the state hardly enters Bernal's exposition; he assumes that since the state has the welfare of all its constituents at heart, progress would be total. This is a strange conclusion for Bernal to reach when his entire exposition has shown that science and culture have thrived best when state control has been weakest. Some amount of respect is due Bernal for his faith in communism as an altruistic political philosophy because ofits original Christian-like belief in the improvement of men everywhere through common ownership and mutual co-operation. In practice, however, the all-powerful communistic state rises from the proletariat to become an autocratic, dictatorial, self-perpetuating organ in itself, beyond direct criticism, and controlling the full cultural (and scientific) life of the nation. Either Bernal does not envisage the type of development that has led to the Soviet dictatorship of the 1950's or he sees in the political superstructure of Stalinism far greater freedoms than Western democracy has yet encountered. T o the Western democratic mind this would be a form of mysticism or self-delusion. Religious and spiritual issues are also inextricably involved. The power of Christianity, which Bernal refers to only tangentially, is lightly weighed in his scale of compelling moral forces. Will scientific humanism ever achieve the apocalyptic influence over the human race which Christianity has demonstrated since its foundation? Will scientific humanists ever achieve the total devotion and self-sacrifice of Christian martyrs, who gladly suffered persecution unto death for their cause? Can all men, by their very biological nature, be expected to respond as coldly, as rationally, and as intellectually to moral suasion and

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things of the spirit as do the scientific humanists? There is an old proverb, anonymous and not Christian in origin, which runs, ' If thou hast, of the world's goods, but two loaves of bread remaining, sell one and buy hyacinths to feed thy soul.' Bernal's text is a cogent presentation of human progress as animated by scientific discovery and material acquisition. But its author is swept along by carefully circumscribed revelations to the unconscionable conclusion that what has influenced a coterie of men in one branch of human knowledge must become a prime spiritual, mystic and religious force for all humankind, automatically displacing what has undoubtedly been the greatest driving force in Western civilization. No; Bernal won't do either. His spiritual attitudes are too narrowly intellectualized, too barren and infecund. His scientific humanism, as that of his adherents and followers, will have to undergo a considerable revision in its basic spiritual, social and political orientation before it may safely be applied to the advancement of higher education in contemporary British political democracy. The most extensive defense of a thoroughly Christian orientation is Arnold Nash's The University and the Modern World. Nash's thesis is that the scientific method and spirit are incomplete guides to the pursuit of knowledge, since science as such can have little sense of the intrinsic meaning of life or of history. A faith in nature or reason or democracy or capitalism, so characteristic of the culture of liberalism, must be subordinate to the one true faith propounded by Christianity (not defined) .3S All is not well in British universities, Nash laments, evidenced by 'the tendency to hit out at one's elders and at established customs, loyalties and practices, as illustrated by the famous Oxford " King and Country" resolution'. Students have a 'lack of conviction about the things that matter', resulting in part from the failure of older people to implant in youth faiths which their elders never questioned. The crisis in the university, states Nash dourly, is really a crisis in modern 'liberal-capitalist democracy', which has mixed up the social groups in uneasy fashion. The almost indiscriminate democratization of education, of providing a ladder straight from the primary school to the university, has resulted in an enforced neglect of religious and character training in favor of pure academics, the passing of examinations, and a mad rush for the material benefits which

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accrue to successful graduates. T h e lack of firm and secure beliefs, laments Nash, is shown by the political isolationism so characteristic of students in American colleges: The student's unconscious logic has been: why interfere in a struggle in Europe if I have no concern with struggles within my own nation? The late adolescent is always the simple logician; he has yet to learn that life is greater than logic. [He needs a] . . . knowledge of fundamental principles in terms of which the chance and changes of this fleeting life can clearly be interpreted and understood.34 Admitting that the universities have obligations to the social order, Nash is nevertheless certain, along with Flexner, that they should seek to make society aware of what society ought to want. Reviewing Julien Benda's Le Trahison des Clercs, Nash maintains that modern intellectuals have inherited 'more than their share' of the world's knowledge. However, instead of treating this inheritance as a right with a corresponding duty of inspiring cultural tradition, they have treated it as a privilege—as a right without its attendant duties; they have sold their skill and their knowledge in the market place, rather than used it to foster higher, more sublime values. In one of his bolder, more sentient, and enlightened passages, Nash exposes the deferent willingness of academicians to trade their teachings for political favor: Both rulers and ruled since the dawn of history have sought justification for their policies from prophets and priests, seers and sages. Thus Henry V I I I of England asked for the approval of the humanist philosopher, Sir Thomas More, upon his course of action just as King Ahab of Israel, centuries before, waited upon the verdict of the prophet Micaiah, the son of Imlah, before he went into w a r . . . . Men of power, whether monarchs or millionaires or Marxists, only allow criticism when it does not go so far as to threaten policies.... Thus Kaiser Wilhelm II allowed his court chaplain, Frederick Stoeker, to preach a somewhat paternalistic version of Christian socialism until it led to the birth of a political p a r t y . . . . Shrewd monarchs... employed foreigners in Voltaire and Diderot respectively to 'speak the truth before the k i n g ' . . . ,37 Nash, himself a former chemistry student, turns on science, the scientific method, and the 'fetish' of objectivity, stating that science has become a ' kind of established religion for the masses Clashing with Bernal, who pleads neglect of financial support for the sciences, Nash charges that 'rich men leave large sums

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in much the same spirit with which the medieval merchant endowed chantries', and science is thanked for increasing the happiness and well-being of mankind as if it were a 'benevolent deity'. So irascible is Nash at this point that he subjects his readers to the following ultra-compound-complex structure: In the whole domain of knowledge the predominant mode of thinking has been so deliberately modeled on the natural sciences that it is not an exaggeration to say that the scientist in the modern world receives a veneration which for human credulity can only be compared with the superstitious regard which the medieval peasant paid to his priest. The 'snakelike fascination for science' permeates the entire realm of human knowledge from literary criticism to theological speculation. Even the love of God, according to D. C. Macintosh, is more correctly understood, Nash interprets, when pictorial mathematical formulas are utilized! John Dewey's 'scientific ' writings on education are vulnerable because they ' absolutize his own criteria in the act of attacking others as arbitrary'. Dewey is justified in arguing that no tradition can be accepted as a final criterion,' but he is certainly wrong in assuming that therefore man does not need any such criteria at all'. In practice, subjective criteria must perforce enter judgment. ' In Dewey's case it is that of early twentieth-century science, seen through the spectacles of an American middle-class liberal intellectual of an older generation.' Extended into social science and the realm of objectivity, Nash's convictions lead him to similar conclusions: 'Plainly, "class" does not mean the same to H. J . Laski as it does to Mortimer J . Adler or Alfred Rosenberg', and therefore the attempt to be 'objective' about social classes is futile. Citing a previous work of the present author (The Educational Philosophy of National Socialism, Yale, 1941), Nash demonstrates how deeply the 'cult of objectivity has infected Anglo-Saxon thought'. No, concludes Nash, science is not presuppositionless; it is not completely independent of philosophy; and reason is not a neutral arbiter between contending opinions.38 By exhaustively analyzing and interpreting the history of science and by scrutinizing such perverse modern ideological structures as fascism and communism, Nash clears the way for certain constructive recommendations, sifted from his text as follows:

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(1) The typical democratic university teacher must drastically revise his proud boast that his aim is to teach nothing but the 'facts'—natural science without metaphysics, the social sciences without political bias, and history without propaganda. Instead, he must be willing to accept the responsibility for creating and teaching a 'unified philosophy'. (2) Modern man needs a new orientation of his mind in relation to the facts; and in the measure that the thought of the modern world has been based on mathematical and physical sciences; knowledge in the future must be understood in terms of its social origins; the sociological approach is indispensable. 39 (3) Political, social and economic, hence educational adjustment cannot be left to unco-ordinated individual activity; new equilibriums can be achieved only in terms of a rationally planned social order; for this the liberal education of the gentleman is not enough. (4) ' In a day when the optimistic presuppositions of a culture are so obviously at variance with the fate of the civilization on Which that culture depends, it is clear that a fresh source of wisdom is needed. And from where can that wisdom come unless it be from a re-interpretation of the Judaic-Christian tradition which, having outlasted the fall of many civilizations, has therefore a source beyond any one of them?' Reinhold Niebuhr, who writes Nash's foreword, states that the book is ' characterized by solid learning, diligent scholarship, and a wise comprehension of all the facets of the issue'. Whether a scientific humanist or a social reformer would be as enthusiastic is another matter. At any rate, one cannot deny to Nash a large measure of commendation and actual homage for his depth and breadth of documentation. Hardly a publication of note has been omitted; and the thoughts and actions of all men since Adam fall at one time or another under his critical theological eye. But like others who wish to prove a point of view Nash sets forth restricted interpretations of what he wants to attack. It is doubtful, for example, that any responsible scientist or advocate of scientific method is unmindful of the need for presuppositions. Many scientists have taken their social responsibility so seriously as to advocate resistance to any sort of scientific creation which will be used to destroy the human race. No one knows more than scientists how difficult and dramatic is the struggle for understanding. In the search for

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logical simplicity, observes Leopold Infeld, Nash's former colleague at the University of Toronto, we must more and more refine our techniques of deduction. If we are to assume less, we must deduce more. Science must discover an absolute but it does not assume absolutes or absolute insight into the nature of things; it is very careful to define only those phenomena which hold true for certain stated conditions and in terms of the stated conditions (as, for example, in citing the various properties of sulphur and then defining sulphur in terms of those properties). In Western democratic societies science is politically oriented and ideologically, if not philosophically, biased toward producing those things which will enhance national prestige and human progress everywhere. Bernal may want greater emphases on better science teaching and greater attention paid to the need for intense scientific research, but he also wants a closer integration of science with the general culture and with other subjects, a status which, Bernal shows, has actually been denied by men of the same thought processes as Nash. The great criticism of science is better presented by Aldous Huxley, who defends religion on more logical grounds. Expressing concern for the maintenance of peace through science and freedom, Huxley cites the various gods whom scientists worship; namely, big business, big cities, big government, political and economic power, and material ends: The same men who reject as superstitious the belief in a transcendent and immanent spiritual reality beyond and within phenomena, prove by their actions that they find no difficulty in worshipping as a supreme god whichever one of the world's fifty-odd nations they happen to belong to, and in accepting the infallibility of the Foreign Office and the quasi-divinity of the local political boss. Amid such limitations the pooling of scientific knowledge is doomed to failure. Up to the present, applied science has not been used for the benefit of humanity at large; 'rather man has been used for applied science.' If applied science is henceforth to be used for the benefit of man, 'technicians and scientists will have to adopt a professional policy consciously and deliberately designed to serve fundamental human needs and to forward the causes of peace and liberty'. Citing Gene Weltfish, Huxley quotes the following oath which he says all scientists ought to take:

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I pledge myself that I will use my knowledge for the good of humanity and against the destructive forces of the world and the ruthless intent of men, and that I will work together with my fellow scientists of whatever nation, creed, or color for these our common ends. Huxley agrees with Bernal that technical progress has resulted in economic and social insecurity. But he condemns Bernal's rationalization of the material underpinnings of social progress. ' The material havoc wrought by applied science in the service of nationalism is such that it will take a generation to repair the damage.' More hopeful than Nash, Huxley proposes an educational process which in its essence will sensitize the social conscience of the scientist, who may be investing in something that will be used to the disadvantage of society. Unlike Bernal, Huxley seeks recourse in neither government nor private capitalism but in the ability of the individual, possessed of the necessary skill and tools, to work out his own salvation. 40 In the realm of objectivity Nash has seemingly contracted a phobia. If the researcher is to be prevented from exposing all sides of a question in as Olympian a manner as his God-given sense of detachment will allow, and instead rely upon an allprevailing faith to guide discovery and creation, as does Nash, surely he hasn't developed much further than the ecclesiastically biased scribes of the early Middle Ages. It is comforting indeed to remain secure within a boundary carefully prescribed by religion, and some solace is to be had from the feeling that the concept of religion itself is evolutionary; but, even as with communism and fascism, which Nash rightly calls base forms of secular religion, so with Christianity the end will justify the means. The end may be ever so worth while and the purpose the most sublime for which man can strive; yet a voluntary constriction of freedom in accordance with the most liberal and most desirable of catechisms will tend to result in an equal measure of constricted creativity.41 Santayana, still mindful of the power of faith, reminds us that any sort of master passion that would like to be absolute is automatically hostile to all forms of dissension: ' It is usually blind to its own accidental bias and to the equal legitimacy of all existence.' 42 The lurking influence of T. S. Eliot and the nostalgia for old class distinctions cause Nash to be wary of mixing social groups. He is careful to avoid direct references; but the aristocratic,

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at times snobbish, tone of his text gives the impression of a desire to keep man in his 'proper station'. Certainly his remarks on liberal Western democratic society are condescending enough to leave no doubt as to his preference for the stratified British society of the mid-Victorian era. And this, not from an objective but a Christian point of view, is hardly consonant with Christ's teaching on human equality. Worse still, Nash also fears for youth who, he says, tends to be too hypercritical, illogical and the rest. His model remains undelineated except in restricted religious terms. Certainly he does not yearn for a reincarnation of the pliable, uncritical public-school graduate of the past, whose station in life rather than his ability too often determined his professional success. It is questionable that youth tends to be 'isolationist'. Youth also tends to be internationalist, humane, generous, charitable, lenient and altruistic. Youth tends to be spoiled not only by its own supposedly inherited depravity but also by the harshness and crudity of the adult social world and by distorted teachings on the wages of sin. T o say that youth is 'illogical' because it is 'isolationist', though admittedly but an example of Nash's argument rather than the central point of it, merely betrays the type of thinking that pervades his writing. As Nash well knows, British insularity and American isolation have been defended by mature Christian men of unusual powers of reason and logic. Professor Nash was formerly chaplain in the Student Christian Union. Currently, he is a professor of religion at the University of North Carolina. If he expects to win youthful converts to his cause, he would do well (i) to extend his horizons to include a wider grasp of youthful thought; (2) to follow more intimately his own assertions on the relation of knowledge to education, psychology and sociology, modern variety, with especial regard for the development of youth; (3) to acknowledge that even as Oxford was the ' mother of minor revolutions' and became great thereby, so the encouragement of intelligent rebellion and responsible criticism will lead to greater understanding and creativity. It is the disappointing anomaly of Nash's book that despite all the erudition and vast scope of reading that have gone into its production, the author can remain so rigid and solipsistic in his thinking. His imposing display of intellect and his wide expanse of documentary evidence do not bear sufficient relevance to his thesis. It is certain that university men of non-

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Christian leanings can accept nine-tenths of Nash's background material without feeling compelled to adopt his Christian prescription as the logical outcome. For what are we to conclude from a writer who with commendable sagacity approvingly interpolates the work of a scholar of the stamp of R . H. Tawney: The Church soon ceased to count because it ceased to think. As the dams of medieval restriction broke, each sphere of human activity: scientific investigation, artistic endeavour, business enterprise, and political effort developed along autonomous lines.... yet who in reality wants the dam rebuilt?43 Perhaps the most concerted effort at re-emphasizing and restating the Christian attitude with respect to university education was made in 1944 and 1945 by the Student Christian Movement, which appointed a commission to consider the fundamental presuppositions of higher education in Britain in the postwar era and their implications for the work of the Movement. The fruits of the commission's deliberations are available in a series of twelve publications called 'University Pamphlets', which, though written mostly by members of the commission, were nevertheless independently presented and approach the different issues from personal points of view. Unanimity of agreement is, however, strikingly evident, as Ronald Preston's General Preface to the series indicates, and from this reviewer's study of the pamphlets, there is little in them which is not embodied in more unified form in Sir Walter Moberly's Crisis in the University. As study secretary of the Student Christian Movement, Preston states that' any form of " Christian authoritarianism" or "ecclesiastical control" is far from the minds of the writers'. Instead, they believe that a 'free' university is necessary for the progress of Christianity: 'One of the main criticisms of the university today is that it is not " f r e e " enough and that Christian students are being put in a false position in consequence.' The authors also raise the question as to 'how long a " f r e e " university is, in fact, likely to survive in a hostile world without a considerable leaven of Christian support'. 44 John Baillie opens the series with The Mind of the Modern University, in which he distinguishes between the quest for knowledge and the quest for truth. The ' highest' kind of knowledge is the closest approach to truth. But there is another kind of knowledge, namely, that of ' how to do or make or mend 9

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things'. The distinction between the two kinds of knowledge is not absolute. However, a university whose interest in truth were only utilitarian would not deserve the name. Actually, a university could exist without professional and technical schools, but it could not be a university if that were all it possessed. 'Truth is quite literally infinite', Baillie continues, ' and hence our human search for it must always be selective.' Freedom of thought, the Greeks knew, was best gained through the adoption of one particular outlook: ' In every case it was a freedom conjoined to commitment and accompanied by intense conviction.' Seeking to prove his point by sketching the historical development of freedom, Baillie comes to the conclusion t h a t ' Never in any culture has intellectual life so much lacked a sense of direction as in the Western world during the last several generations': Whereas all previous schools of learning, belonging to no matter what earlier period or other tradition, have been closely integrated communities inspired by a common purpose and cemented by certain common and firmly held convictions, the universities of the modern West have increasingly gravitated towards a condition of complacent disinterestedness, forcing them to rely for such community spirit as remains to them upon certain superficial common interests which hardly touch the deeper springs of the spirit.

This has resulted in an 'abdication' on the part of the universities from their inherited function of guiding the public in its quest for ultimate truth and enabling people to form wise and balanced judgments on the great issues which face them. Instead, 'there is a growing tendency in the mind of youth towards the renunciation of definite beliefs of any kind'. Salvation by knowledge is the modern creed, laments Baillie—a brand of knowledge that is found to come mostly by way of the sciences. There is also a new kind of'half-conscious philosophy' which teaches that human nature is fundamentally good and men can apply the increase of knowledge to the advancement of wisdom and virtue. This concept is misguided and insufficient. There must be a real measure of common conviction prevailing throughout a university, a conviction which in the past was provided by Christianity. Today, there is hope that university communities 'will once again be united in heartfelt Christian conviction and zealous Christian commitment. But they will refrain from any premature attempt to force the issue by

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seeking to impose upon our common life the outward semblance of a unity which it does not inwardly possess.' One by one all the essays could be summarized more or less in the above manner, but all would end on fairly much the same note; namely, that Christianity is the only real and lasting basis of moral (hence intellectual) attainment; and in the confusion of the modern era both the university and the church need each other more than ever before. An elaboration of these ideas is reserved for the next chapter and some comment will be made in the final chapter. For present purposes the most pertinent essay, certainly one of the most challenging in the series, is Dorothy Emmet's The Foundations of a Free University. A reader in philosophy at the University of Manchester, Miss Emmet establishes six powerful presuppositions for the life and work of a university: (1) A sense of justice and fairmindedness in the estimation of evidence and in trying to appreciate what others are after. 'By this I mean not only the readiness to face evidence and not evade it, but also the serious attempt to present an opponent's position in a way in which he himself would be prepared to accept, and thus to examine and attack it in its strongest and not its weakest form, and above all, never to attack by innuendo points of view which we have not taken the trouble to understand.' (2) The distinction between sense and nonsense. 'There are sophisticated ways of arguing which draw support from the fact that it is difficult to define with precision just where the borderline comes between sense and nonsense, and seek to obscure our simple conviction that there is a difference somewhere.' We must be willing to accept the discipline of looking at empirical facts. (3) Genuine thinking is responsible thinking, not a mere rationalizing of one's own prejudices and reactions, but a desire to find out what one ought to think and to stand by the result. This may result in certain irresponsible and fanatical thinking in the university which may undermine the essential liberalism for which the university stands, but 'the evils of heresyhunting are more deadly than the risks incurred by carrying such people within the university'. (4) The need for moral courage, which is not a conspicuous quality in university life, partly because of its sheltered nature 9-2

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and the rarity of occasions on which it is clear that a stand has to be made. 'Our danger is rather that of a goodnatured. drift.... In the uncertain fortunes of the years ahead, however, there may well be occasions on which a stand must be made, and we need to cultivate a clear and alert discernment of what is happening to us in order to be able to judge when these occasions arise. That banked-down fires are really burning is shown when the moment comes for them to blaze up.' (5) The honest and serious conviction that things of the mind are really worth pursuing. 'Without it, we find university teachers becoming a kind of academic civil service; nice people doing their jobs reasonably efficiently, but without communicating that spark of intellectual passion which the fortunate among us remember with gratitude in those from whom we have learnt most.' (6) The social responsibility of the university. The public expects fair value for its investment. 'The university has a responsibility not only as a source of technically equipped practitioners in various professions, but also as a place for focusing the intellectual conscience of the community. By this I mean that it should be a place where the criticism and evaluation of ideas is continually being carried forward; where nonsense can be exposed for what it is; and where the intellectual virtues of sincerity of mind are being fostered and transmitted.' Properly understood, admits Miss Emmet, such convictions as these may not give the comforting assurance of a unity in the external pattern of knowledge. 'But they give us an inner unity of spirit strong enough to hold together our diverse intellectual worlds, and a foundation upon which a true cultural community may grow.' By far the most outstanding spokesman for the restoration of ruling values is Sir Walter Moberly, whose Crisis in the University has elicited more comment than the funds he apportioned as chairman of the University Grants Committee. Moberly diagnoses the predicament of the university as follows: Most students go through our universities without ever having been forced to exercise their minds on the issues which are really momentous. Under the guise of academic neutrality they are subtly condemned to unthinking acquiescence in the social and political status quo and in a secularism on which they have never seriously reflected. Owing to the prevailing fragmentation of studies they are

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not challenged to decide responsibly on a life-purpose or equipped to make such a decision wisely. They are not invited to disentangle and examine critically the assumptions and emotional attitudes underlying the particular studies they pursue, the profession for which they are preparing, the ethical judgments they are accustomed to make, and the political or religious convictions they hold. Fundamentally they are uneducated.

Sir Walter's thesis, not very different from that of Nash, is that men must know the meaning and value of the principles they adopt; it is not the purpose of the university to determine these principles, but to explore them in such a way as to assist the student in establishing criteria in the realm of values. Since culture is founded on multifarious, limited truths, many of which are either mistakenly presented or assumed to be absolute, the university must enable students to discover the contexts of truth and explore the limits of modern ethics accordingly. The university is a guild, and ' a guild initiates novices into the theory as well as the practice of the craft; it teaches these with authority as a set, not only of tentative hypotheses, but of articles of faith'. The university cannot provide young people with a philosophy of life, but higher learning fails if it permits students to enter life unfortified by a workable understanding of what they themselves believe to be the principles of the good life: The university's distinctive responsibility—the task which no one else can perform—is to be the university; that is, to be a place where the criticism and evaluation of ideas is continually being carried forward, where nonsense can be exposed for what it is, and where the intellectual virtues rooted in sincerity of mind are being fostered and transmitted.46

Moberly's thesis is reasonable enough. If intelligence is capable of splitting the atom, it surely may be applied successfully to the problems of social control and personal excellence within a power-ridden civilization i n ' imminent peril of disaster'. This concept is reminiscent of an earlier work, where Moberly valiantly seeks to rationalize Platonic educational philosophy for modern practice, pointing out that education benefits the child by substituting responsible for irresponsible pressures in his development. The same is true to a lesser degree in higher education, where responsible ideas should be separated from the irresponsible.46

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Sir Walter's later contribution represents a fusion of ideas advanced by the Student Christian Movement and the Christian Frontier Council, together with a body of laymen and university officials anxious to unite their faith with contemporary secular life, particularly in the sphere of professional and educational responsibility. They consider that the deepest roots of Britain's material difficulties are inextricably moral and ethical. They are shocked at the spectacle of a civilization functioning on unanalyzed principles for which individual members are willing to die, but which they cannot articulate or implement in a positive way. Whatever our basic values are, national and academic, we need to make them much clearer and to develop and deepen them, if we are to play the role in the world to which we were called in 1940, and to which leaders as far apart as Winston Churchill and Sir Stafford Cripps would agree that we are called today. Speaking for the group, Moberly is certain that the ideological solutions presently propounded are wanting in their most fundamental aspects. The scientific humanists find their inspiration in a 'blend of Francis Bacon and Karl Marx'. They seek to transfer scientific democracy to university practice, making a 'heresy of yesterday' and orthodoxy of tomorrow. Scientific humanists of the stamp of Professor Bernal are excessively materialistic in their estimation of the needs of mankind; for social engineering, scientific planning, wealth and abundance are not the essential requisites of happiness. Indeed, observes Moberly, extreme utilitarianism defeats itself. The human relation between two starving men may very well be strained, but ' there is little presumption that the human relation between two millionaires will be more happy'. 47 The whole trouble with scientific humanism, asserts Moberly, is that it puts a command of nature into man's hands before he knows how to command himself. The scientific humanist asserts that the convulsions of the day are merely 'growing pains'. If you attend to men's brains and their stomachs, you need not be bothered so much by their hearts: ' Human nature can be trusted with the terrific powers which natural science is making available without any remaking more radical than science can supply.' Thus Moberly interprets Bernal, Hogben, Haldane and others, and concludes: 'There is little in their teaching.. .to deter their pupils from becoming adventurers or Kommissars.'48

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Moberly presents other causes for complaint against scientific humanism, though somewhat anticlimactically. 49 But his implications for university conduct are clear. The university becomes a body of persons devoted to ' the resolute and untiring pursuit of truth in matters of highest significance'. A study of the nature of man and of the world, and its practical implications for conduct are foremost among such matters. At present, questions concerning them are 'disturbing and unsettling'. But answers cannot be superficial or dogmatic, and method must not be slovenly and restrictive. Scientific humanists can no longer escape from serious pronouncements on subjects regarding the supernatural and religion, and for this purpose they must consult the major Christian thinkers and saints, rather than rely on popular journalism or on the immature teaching received in their youth. 60 Classical humanism won't do, either, writes Moberly. In fact he dubs it a ' spurious remedy '. There is a great deal to be learned from exploring ancient modes of life and inquiring into nature and the good, and much merit in analyzing the hierarchy of values dependent upon these principles. But such practices allow little room for the humanizing value of modifications derived from other sources. Reminiscent of A. N. Whitehead, Sir Walter insists that classical humanism is not successful in integrating contemporary discoveries with contributions from the ancients : ' The classical, like the scientific, humanist makes no sufficient attempt to recognize and to provide for the grim reality of the struggle for survival and for power going on behind whatever decent façade civilization still maintains.' Indeed, the ideals of political, commercial and industrial conditions existing today are far removed in temper and purpose from the principles of stability and virtue which fitted the Greek city-state, with its oligarchy of privilege resting upon disfranchised and enslaved workers. For most students, many teachers of the classics live in a 'vanished world'. The classical outlook strikes them as ' disembodied and as sitting too close to the material substratum oflife '.Its intellectual climate is rarefied : It resembles our own no more than the pellucid air, the white buildings, and the brilliant colors of the Mediterranean area resemble Manchester or Birmingham. For good or for evil we live in a ' Great Society' which is thoroughly urbanized and industrialized... .The classical world is too remote to serve as our chief model.

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No stronger refutation of Livingstone's classical allusions could be forthcoming than Moberly's pronouncement: Assuredly we have, and shall continue to have, invaluable lessons to learn from the classical strain in our cultural tradition. But, as a complete philosophy of life on which to base university education, it is too rarified, too naive, too static, too limited, and, in a sense, too parasitic.61 There are many cogent implications for the teacher. T h e university may not be able to provide students with a philosophy of life, but that does not mean that its teachers must remain silent. ' I f the university cannot speak with one voice, let it speak through its teachers with several voices.' Real teaching, Cardinal Newman wrote, not only tends toward the cultivation of the intellect; it recognizes that knowledge is far more than an assemblage of scraps and details, and in this recognition it ' is a something and it does a something'. But, continues N e w m a n : This i d e a l . . . never will issue from the most strenuous efforts of a set of teachers, with no mutual sympathies and no intercommunion, of a set of examiners with no opinions which they dare profess, and with no common principles, who are teaching or questioning a set of youths who do not know them, and do not know each other, on a large number of subjects, different in kind, and connected by no wide philosophy, three times a week, or three times a year, or once in three years, in chill lecture rooms, or on a pompous anniversary. In the spirit of Newman, Sir Walter urges that university administrators promote the interrelations of faculty members, and establish a 'community within which the chief contemporary intellectual positions may enter into a living encounter with one another'. T h e teacher's function should be instinctively one of leadership; not, however, a leadership permeated with evangelism and indoctrination, propaganda or proselytism, but one imbued with honest personal conviction and working purpose, as opposed to the mass of triviality, drift and uncritical conventionalism characteristic of university life today. T h e teacher's immediate task is to aid understanding rather than to impel his pupils toward, or away from, prescribed types of action. He should provide them with data for forming intelligent j u d g ments of their own rather than to expect that they will be his disciples. But among these data should be the teacher's own conclusions and the reasons which have led him to them. 5 2

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Some of the postulates which the university holds as articles of faith, Moberly argues, are dependent upon the maintenance and defense of an integrated philosophy. It is the duty of the university not only to expound such postulates, but to relate them to an effective system of thought upon which action is reasonable and possible. Thus we are reminded of Sir Richard Livingstone, who, noting that humans must act and that every action implies some view of life, exhorts: How necessary, then, that we should have a philosophy of living, for shaping conduct, for reference in doubt, for challenge, stimulus, and driving power! How strange if at a time when all agree that we must understand or at least have a theory of nature so that we may control it, the importance of a rational theory on which to base conduct is not equally apparent! How paradoxical if an age of rationalism should not feel the need of a reasoned philosophy of life! Higher education would not have done its work if it sent out the student unable to write English or wholly ignorant of English history and literature, or unaware of the importance and nature of science. But is it not even more disastrous if it leaves him without a philosophy of life, however provisional, a definite view of the ends to which it should be directed and of the principles by which it should be ruled, a clear idea of good and bad in conduct?63 Moberly and his followers make no attempt to establish a comprehensive academic 'bill of rights'; instead, they list a set of postulates 'as the launching rather than the conclusion of a discussion'. They include: (i) a devotion to the preservation and advancement of intellectual values; (2) ' T h e obligation to be meticulously accurate in dealing with empirical evidence'; (3) the attempt to eliminate personal predilection in judging controversial matters; (4) the freedom to think and the responsibility to publish; and (5) the conviction that the university has a social responsibility, but that this is first and foremost a responsibility for focusing the community's intellectual conscience. These articles of faith adhere to no particular philosophy of life, b u t ' to some philosophies they are thoroughly congenial, and to others [they are] highly antithetic'. What is to be the basis upon which the university can rally its traditional forces and advance its intellectual integrity? One universal value, found in all religions, is the ' recognition of the " Tao ", that is, the existence of a " moral law " having authority'. Moberly then embarks on a program for establishing moral

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values out of Christianity and Western tradition, an exposition of which is better reserved for the next section, along with a general critique. The need to express experience in acceptable generalizations always becomes more urgent in times of confusion and rapid change. This is traceable not only to an increased desire for security and direction, but also to the apostolic quality of a comprehension powerful enough to suffuse one's perception ofvalues. A. E. Teale, professor of philosophy at the University of North Staffordshire, supports Moberly in advocating that students be encouraged to inquire into intellectual values, but not at the risk of losing moral and aesthetic emphases: Hitherto it was thought by many to be the very mark of a liberal education, such as universities seek to provide, to leave undergraduates free to find their own values; and those who protested that something more than free inquiry and free discussion was needed for a balanced education were suspected of wishing to impose on undergraduates, under cover of the word 'traditional', their own interpretations of values and their own peculiar view of life.... The main cause of present disaffection lies.. .in the disproportionate attention given to intellectual growth as compared with moral and aesthetic development, and in the lack of any special provision for a clarification of the values implied in intellectual achievement. Professor Teale, versed in philosophic ways, declares that argument and discussion are methods which lead most directly to intellectualism; but they also point the way to skeptical relativism in morality, rather than to beliefs which can empower consistent practical action. ' If we wish an undergraduate to believe only what is [reasonably] believable, we must provide him with opportunities, not for argument and discussion, but for the exercise of his own moral and aesthetic judgment.' 8 4 Teale's central interest is intellectualism, which, following Arnold Nash, he examines critically in the light of the 'failure of liberalism'. Understandably, he observes: 'Experience has shown... that a liberal education... is no sure aid to responsibility, and is no safeguard against that most insidious sophism that all values are subjective and relative to the culture pattern in. which one is reared.' Placing the responsibility on the type Teale carries his exposition along to the point where he finds undergraduates giving ' no evidence to warrant a belief in an

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absolute standard of conduct'. But there is 'plenty of evidence to show that moral customs and beliefs vary from time to time and from one society to another'. This sort of intellectualism is injurious and illusory, asserts Teale, because students are then ready to question all beliefs and to demand the same kind of intellectual evidence for morality that would be required for a belief in something concrete. Bitterly he states: Thus is born a fully fledged intellectual, that is, one who is ready to examine and discuss all statements of belief, and hence all assertions respecting values, with what he is pleased to regard as an open mind—though in actual fact his mind has already been closed, because of the kind of evidence it is prepared to accept, to everything upon which a vindication of values can depend. There is only one way to relieve society of differences of opinion concerning values, Teale suggests, and that is to 'find a remedy for intellectualism'. Professor Teale sets about the colossal task of 'shaking this attitude of mind' by requesting that those unfortunate enough to possess it draw on an experience or refer to a belief which no intellectual will disown, but for which no evidence of any kind he requires is forthcoming. How is it analyzed? Does it not demand enlightened and disciplined judgment? And is not judgment 'corrigible'? No artist, poet, musician, scientist or philosopher 'would ever suppose that external criticism could ever do more than reveal weaknesses [in the integrity] of judgment'. There is no evidence that any individual has been absolutely fair and absolutely sincere and 'no reason can be given', asserts Teale, 'why any man should forsake normal prudence in order to be scrupulously fair and utterly sincere'. Anyone who thinks he has achieved intellectual integrity, or ever glimpsed it, is guilty of'duplicity, chicanery and deceit'. In a personal letter to the author (12 December 1951) Professor Teale tells of an experience he had while a senior tutor in a university hall at the University of Manchester which impelled him in part to express his views. The hall was a Christian.foundation. Every student admitted came from a Christian home and was on admission a professing Christian: The Freshers attended chapel fairly regularly, but attendance fell in their second year, until by their third year they had quite outgrown what most of them called i a childish belief. Among the

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Freshmen there was much discussion—art, literature, music, politics and religion, but the brighter ones amongst them soon learned to apply to their childish beliefs the critical standards acquired in their academic studies, while the less bright clung to beliefs they were incapable of defending.. .. The more intelligent discarded their childish beliefs, but failed to acquire a deeper appreciation of religion, while the weaker brethren concentrated on the limitations of science whilst failing to apply rational criticism to convictions that nobody could defend. The problem, then, was one of encouraging students to hold on to and deepen their appreciation of the values under which as children they had been reared: I remember one speaker after another saying that he did not see how he was to teach mathematics, biology, economics, etc., in a Christian fashion. Was it not enough to see to it that students were adequately informed in the field of their own inquiries, disciplined in the discernment of relevant data, cautious in the use of it, honest in their interpretation of it, and scrupulous in rejecting anything that does not recommend itself to reason and judgment? What more could a teacher do? Teaching students to be honest and sincere, however, is quite a different process, continues Teale, from teaching the facts of history; that is, it is not a matter involving intellectualism, or even precepts, but one best achieved through example. As Aristotle observed, virtue involves insight; virtue is acquired not by thinking but by doing. ' W e become just', writes Teale, ' b y doing just actions.. .as a just man would.' Virtue, in other words, is a kind of art, and art is acquired not by thinking but by practice: Having seen what Kant meant by 'practical reason' as distinct from speculative reason, I was then able to see where Mill went wrong in thinking that all that was needed for an appreciation of moral values is an open mind and a willingness to sift all arguments for and against a particular view. This is really absurd. Nothing is learned, states Teale, by argument and discussion, but 'only by submitting to a discipline calculated to produce a judgment at once critical and informed'. Especially in the matter of moral judgment, knowledge is impossible until one's own moral judgment is more disciplined, enlightened and informed by its own ideal. The insight to criticize virtue or moral judgment is not acquired as one acquires a knowledge of

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persons and events, but only on the basis of mature experience. Intellectualism, therefore, as practiced in modern universities is 'dangerous from a moral point of view'. Morality does not depend on knowledge, if by knowledge one understands intellectual insight. The phrase, 'moral judgment', in the opinion of a 'very influential school of thought', is really a 'misnomer, for in so far as it is a judgment it refers to facts capable of empirical verification, and hence falls within the verification principle'. In so far as it is an evaluation, 'it merely evinces an emotional attitude which is unamenable to reason, and is neither true nor false'. The practical application of these convictions, Teale asserts, is evident in the fact that under National Socialism students were persuaded to discard the old values and to acquire Nazi views of men and society. Their views on the proper moral life were not sufficiently matured and their moral life was not sufficiently experienced to withstand the essentially intellectual approach. Could this not happen also in Britain? Knottily, Teale concludes: Here is a belief which underlies all argument and discussion. Yet no intellectual would admit it to be purely emotional in origin or merely relative to the culture pattern in which one has been reared, even though the evidence for it lies only in judgment itself. Here is a belief which cannot be imposed upon judgment either by direct instruction or by the most subtle forces of innuendo and suggestion; and ifwe wish an undergraduate to believe only what is thus believable we must provide him with opportunities, not for argument and discussion, but for the exercise of his own moral and aesthetic judgment. 65

Perhaps the only comment needed at this juncture is that Teale interprets the meaning and purpose of intellectualism narrowly and subjectively. Intellectualism has come to mean more than knowledge derived from pure reason. In the Baconian sense, an intellectual is one who overrates the importance of the understanding; but in Lowell's view, emotions may also become intellectualized. Also, how about moral intellectualism? What Teale seems to be attacking is not intellectualism as advocated in modern university practice; at least, few would admit his conception of it; but the overuse, if such there is, of scientific rationalism or pure reason to explain moral behavior. In any case, Teale should recall his Milton: Who would lose, though full of pain, this intellectual being, Those thoughts that wander through eternity?

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T h e case for intellectualism and intellectual growth is defended more popularly b y the late Sir Frederick Ogilvie, w h o leaves no doubt that intelligence is indeed a rare and precious thing which must be guarded at all costs: ' T h e highest qualities of intellectual ability are extremely r a r e . . . their value is beyond p r i c e . . . if they appear anywhere, they should be treasured and fostered without stint, no matter h o w limp or uncouth the personality which enshrines them.'

I f a choice has to be made between

training for intelligence and training for citizenship, the university 'quickly runs a m o k ' if it elects the latter. T h e r e are few sadder sights, comments Ogilvie, than the ' don turned gamesmaster', or t h e ' one-time passionate philosopher who has become the good chairman of committees'. T h e component parts of intellectual training must not, however, consist of the old subjects exclusively, nor even in an orderly balance o f ' tidiness' of subjects, but of the products of broad areas of contact a m o n g all fields of learning. ' I f the arts student goes through his university career without contact with the scientist, if the medical student merely zigzags between his lectures and his wards, if the lawyer remains a l a w unto himself, the balance of studies is almost valueless.' T h e main task of the university, says Sir Frederick, is to train minds and to turn out men and w o m e n w h o set store b y k n o w l e d g e — ' men and women who believe in reason and the rational approach, whose minds are well furnished, receptive, alert, honest, adventurous'. 6 6

Ogilvie is, indeed, a fresh breeze

after a session with Teale, though his concept o f ' training the m i n d ' seems to be derived more from the psychology that was coterminous

with the

Victorian

era,

rather

than from

an

acquaintance with the latest findings in associationism. A g a i n , in a more intimate and popular w a y , Sir Ernest Barker dispensing views from a storehouse of personal

experience,

assigns three tasks to the university: ( i ) discovering and training an

intellectual elite drawn from a sufficiently wide

circle;

(2) maintaining for the community a standard of culture which will include the 'great rules' of taste, truth, appreciation of beauty and a devotion to science in the highest sense of the word;

(3)

advancing

knowledge

and

promoting

research.

Sir Ernest's neat categories happen to correspond to the chapter headings of the latter half of this volume, but since he does not develop them consistently, it is best to expose them in toto at this point.

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On the education of an elite, Barker limits his advice to discovering the training which will ' suit them best for the part they will have to play in the life of contemporary society'. This argument leads him incidentally to condemn specialized courses, since they tend to produce narrow scholars rather than men of general culture, the exception being the Oxford 'Greats'. 'Men do not learn for the sake of learning', Barker observes, 'but to do some good by their learning; and a narrow learning is a narrow service.'67 Hewing a little closer to the theme of the university's second task, Barker notes that the Englishman endemically avoids rigid canons, standards and standardization, evidenced by the fact that Britain has never embraced the idea of an ' academy' which would standardize the language. Nevertheless, since these are days of party systems and partisan struggles, with all kinds of social hues coloring the national scene, 'there ought to be institutions which treat politics impartially and dispassionately, and pursue social and political ideas in the light of the ideals of science and truth'. Since the times are replete with peculiar vagaries of modern poetry, fantastic forms of painting, and curious expressions of the arts of music and dancing, 'there ought to be an institution which can maintain the perennial standards of a just aesthetic criticism'. To Barker, the university is in the best position to act as a judge, or co-ordinator, or assayer, of cultural standards in all realms. Failing a national academy for this purpose, the university of necessity inherits the task. It may be difficult to see where the 'ark of standards' should properly rest, Barker admits, but modern democracy must not allow itself to fall into a 'chaos of political and artistic license', as Plato characterized it. As to what happens when universities disagree on what is aesthetically correct or on what political and social modes are most adapted to British life, Barker makes no comment. Nor does he indicate where judgment shall lie when experts within the same university are of different minds. These deficiencies may, of course, be laid to errors of omission. As for a grave error of commission, however, Sir Ernest might be considered rather presumptuous in limiting the judgment of aesthetic creativity to the intelligence of academicians. Free-lance artists in all realms tend to look for personal satisfaction, public approval and expert criticism in places removed from formalism and pedantry. There is an

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undertone of disdain, if not naïveté, in Barker's epithets on certain types of modern art, which he calls ' curiously astonishing ' and ' at times sadly fantastic '—opinions which are obviously born out of his status as a layman. It is highly doubtful that an artist with designs on futuristic creativity will take much stock in criticism from sources that lack his imagination or fail to understand his purpose. The artist is by nature experimental and rebellious; he tends to reject any set of standards, no matter how elastic, which will hamper his free expression. Sir Osbert Sitwell, for one, shows no compassion for unimaginative opinion: The artist has throughout his career to fight the Philistine. And my life in these early days at least enabled me to feel and appreciate the immense negative energy, if I may so term it, of the opposition. . . . Yet perhaps it is this evil thing that has always given strength to English artists—those who survived.88

Sir Ernest should know that history reveals countless instances of permanent aesthetic accomplishment which was rejected at the time of its creation, because in the judgment of the masters of the period—mostly those entrenched in positions of influence —it was fantastic, weird, irresponsible, unintelligent, or, in overarching fashion, simply and purely 'bad art'. Again, no quarrel is intended with Sir Ernest's preferences, to which he is by all means entitled, and certainly the universities should be encouraged to foster creativity; but his defense of these preferences, what little there is of it, belies the lessons of history. We now pass to Barker's third task. Rightly, Sir Ernest attributes recent university advances in research mostly to impulses generated by the natural sciences, and he makes a plea for the quantitative promotion of research through increased endowments. The trouble with research as presently conducted in the universities is that it is still 'too much at the stage of what we may almost call hand-work—and solitary hand-work at that. Good minds, which are rare, are set as it were to do everything with their own hands.' The creative scholar should have all the help he needs. ' It is tragic to notice that a minor official of government may have a room full of typists, while a first-rate scholar of a university toils in the solitude of study.... A mind which is good enough should have its own secretariat.' To all this, of course, the researcher will say

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Amen, especially in view of Sir Ernest's qualifying factor, namely, that of providing solitary confinement where desired. Sir Ernest later modifies his views on the sovereignty of higher learning, indicating that room must be left for the amateur, the nonprofessional, and the private scholar. He knows that Gibbon, Macaulay, Grote, Lecky, Darwin, Parsons, Priestley, Cavendish and a host of others functioned well on their own. 'But the company of scholars—the society of scholars, living together in a regular companionship of the mind—this is the peculiarity and the prerogative of the university.' 59 Barker is perhaps at his best in his discussions on the inner life of the university. The great problem in British universities, as elsewhere, concerns itself with the relative amount of time and energy that should be devoted to teaching and research, and it cannot be stated that the British have found any magic solution or even widely accepted modus operandi. Barker joins Moberly in citing the unfair basis of faculty promotions, namely, 'scientific productiveness', 'scholarly research', and what Moberly calls ' the disproportionate weight attached to the number and bulk of published papers'. This is a harmful policy because it affects banefully the long-term contributions to thought and knowledge. Younger faculty members especially tend to be deflected in byways where 'originality' can more readily be claimed; they 'take up lines of study which promise quick returns, and s o . . . sacrifice quality to quantity and depth to clarity'. For his part Moberly passionately urges: For God's sake, stop researching for a while and begin to think. We n e e d . . . not only discoverers of facts. .. but explorers of ideas and rethinkers of values... we should speak more of the improvement rather than the extension of knowledge We want more thinking about the importance of things already known.60

Barker is sure that no university teacher should be allowed to confine his efforts to research, nor even to concentrate his teaching assignment on a few of the most advanced students. Wherever possible, every faculty member should lecture to undergraduates. This activity 'brings him down to earth—the invigorating virgin earth of the ordinary student mind: it is a discipline in the art of expression; and it is also a discipline . . . in the art of producing something aside from private research'. Barker feels that small discussion groups were the KLB 10

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'best and ripest fruits' of his tenure. There are, however, distractions other than teaching. Administrative demands and committee membership may be too time-consuming. 'Good scholars have shipwrecked and foundered on the rocks of too many committees... it is hard to be a good committee man and a good scholar simultaneously.' Another area of distraction lies in the ever-increasing external work demanded by the government and the local community. Discharging one's civic responsibility is a duty cheerfully assumed, but in so doing one is too often 'impaled on a sad dilemma between practical business instinct and the scholarly speculative trend'. On the one hand, there is the impulse which attracts and tempts highly specialized minds to make of their specialty something akin to a professional mystery, sacred to the elect. The professor is thus ' drawn towards an inner professional ring which fosters and emphasizes the strictest rules of technique'. He is 'carried into a rarefied atmosphere above common life and the human touch'. On the other hand, ' there is the impulse which causes men engaged in the moving and heaving subjects of the human sciences (especially economics) to devote themselves to current life and the airs of the ordinary atmosphere, thus deserting the higher fields'. The middle course is difficult to steer, but: 'Many have found a way. There have been Thomson and Rutherford, Acton and Maitland, in Cambridge; there have been Collingwood and Holdsworth, and there still is Murray, in Oxford; there has been Tout in Manchester, Kerr and his colleagues in University College, London, and Burnet and his colleagues at St Andrews; and if Whitehead is gone, there is still Bertrand Russell.' All of which leads Barker to conclude in a roundabout way that what Britain needs is a graduate college for the promotion and extension of research studies. He joins the ranks of Truscot, Teale and others who, with modifications, advocate what Barker terms 'a good marriage and combination of a graduate club for the social intercourse of research students and a graduate office for the promotion and encouragement of their researches'. 61 Barker ends his study with a series of recommendations which, in view of Sir Ernest's stature in educational affairs, the universities would do well to study. These recommendations may be outlined as follows: (1) The number of university entrants must be limited; the spirit of the university may be 'spoiled' by

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surfeiting the enrollment. (2) Enrollments should be proportionate to the number of good teachers available: ' It is by no means clear that the general standard of university teachers is high as it used to be in the quieter days of the past.' (3) A 'prop e r ' proportion of rich and poor students should be achieved; the poor should not be allowed to become an overwhelming majority, else the minority become too small to provide the benefits naturally accruing from contact with them. (4) Enrollments should be controlled by a realistic assessment of the university's equipment, power to handle, and ability to prepare candidates in the more specialized areas; ' H o w much can a university do without over-strain and collapse?' he asks. (5) Extramural activity in the form of adult education and extension courses has increased uncritically; this field of activity must be re-examined. (6) There is a need for a central organ for consultation and cooperation among all British universities. T h e above recommendations are necessarily very much abbreviated and in the process have lost a great deal of Barker's sweet reasonableness and geniality of expression. T h e hurried reader will quickly dismiss them as the work of a reactionary. It is true that Barker tends to be conservative, but he is not without an unusual command of liberal strategy and know-how. His arguments are well supported. He admits the severity of them; but 'the truth demands that they should be said'. Barker should know, however, that his case loses its strength because of (1) his failure to be specific regarding what he considers to be a fitting and proper number of university students in a contemporary society; (2) just what constitutes the lowest common denominator of a 'rich minority' or the highest common factor of a 'poor majority'; and (3) the extent to which individual universities would give up even the slightest amount of autonomy to an all-embracing central agency—granted such an agency would assume a certain power. One may also doubt the truth of Sir Ernest's pronouncements (1) that contemporary teachers are of a breed somewhat inferior to their predecessors; or (2) that the number of students over any period of time can outstrip the number of capable teachers available (double the pay of teachers and observe what would happen to the profession!) ; or (3) that the universities can in any way backtrack from their civic responsibilities in respect to adult education, public service and general social enlightenment. IO-2

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O n e m a y well acknowledge that the load now assumed b y the universities is backbreaking. T h e solution lies, w e are compelled to submit, not in constricting services but in finding the means, spiritually as well as materially, for doing better that w h i c h has to be done if the university is to grow and prosper with social growth and prosperity. Sir Ernest still thinks in terms of his early university life and he is entitled to an amount of nostalgia. By his o w n confession he is the product of the level of society which in his terms m a y too rapidly become a n unreasonable majority. I f w e were not captivated b y his geniality and otherwise practical wisdom, and if w e were not devoted to his ingratiating mode of expression, w e might be tempted to propose a lesson or two in educational reconstructionism. But youthful enthusiasm and b u o y a n t ideals rooted too precariously in contemporary exigencies need his steadying h a n d . A s an experienced educational administrator he makes far more sense than m a n y of his colleagues, whose frame of reference has actually contracted with the years. T h e more conservative educationalist's point of view is a b l y presented b y the irrepressible but talented Bruce Truscot, w h o in fighting terms defines a university as a 'corporation or society which devotes itself to a search after knowledge for the sake o f its intrinsic v a l u e ' . It is a corporation, not, ' i t will be observed, an " o r g a n i z a t i o n " or an " i n s t i t u t i o n " or a " s c h o o l " ; still less a " p l a c e " ' . Further, a university is solely a b o d y of scholars and teachers; it is not a set of buildings through which one m a y pass without recognizing their sublimer purposes. ' B o t h deliberate technical training and a certain amount of c r a m m i n g m a y legitimately be indulged in during the course of university instruction', but these practices violate the broad objectives of the pursuit of knowledge. I f the university is to b e c o m e simply a supersecondary school, or a training college, then the d e m a n d for research will have to be compromised and changes effected in organization. A university would h a v e to arise which, 'like A l l Souls' College, O x f o r d , had no undergraduates at all; and, instead of teaching, replenished its ranks b y the choice o f scholars w h o h a d been taught elsewhere, devoting itself entirely and exclusively to the pursuit of k n o w l e d g e ' . T h e pursuit of knowledge and the spirit of research cannot be achieved, Truscot hastens to add, if restricted to dull facts or their o w n even duller collation. T h e compilation of data should h a v e significance; it

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should lead to a re-formation of method or to the development of new theory at the 'fascinating boundaries of the unknown'. Truscot laments that this idea has all but died at the older universities under the pressure of social obligations, and at the newer ones under the onus of vocational emphases. The remedy lies in implementing the ideals of scholarship more consciously and more explicitly. Vocationalism, not denied to the university, should be more enlivened and made more sharply critical. 62 Truscot is fearful of what is happening to the university under social and occupational stresses. Too many teachers and students look on their university experience as they would on a training program in a factory: for the teacher, simply as a means of gaining a comfortable stipend for a few hours' work, or, in the case of the student, as a long and tedious road over which one must plod in order to secure a decent job. He quotes Ramsey Muir, Manchester University historian turned politician, to the effect that undergraduates enter the university ' not as to a factory of ideas but as to a mere knowledge-shop; not to be forced to think about life, but merely to acquire the necessary fragments of dull and uninteresting knowledge which were required for examination purposes'. Too often, submits Truscot, the student is 'caught up in a whirlwind of lectures, games, examinations, dances, debates, friendships, vacations, worries and who knows what else; and between preoccupations with the present and uncertainty as to the future, not only the most vital aspect, but any serious aspect, of a university career is forgotten'. Referring particularly to the civic university, but applying his criteria as well to the older universities, Truscot proposes five ways in which the universities can remain true to their mission: (i) More by their example than by their precept, officers and teachers should inculcate ideals of scholarship that are worthy of imitation by their students. (2) O f the two aims of the university, teaching and research, research is the more important; by its very nature the university is a place to intensify and explore new fields, not a continuation school where there is an obligation to give instruction in general education. (3) Scholarship must be closely related to character, leadership and virtue. (4) All university aspirations, whether vocational or purely intellectual, must be united with the ideal of service. (5) Students should be urged to adopt a policy of self-education, and to

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acquire a 'general culture' on their own responsibility. Elaborating on this latter purpose Truscot states: Dilletantism must be vigorously deprecated and its deleterious effect made plain. The linking together of interest and importance of intellectual relations must be insisted upon. This is a matter primarily for the psychologist; and it would be useful to arrange, in every October term, a short course of lectures for freshmen, to be attended perhaps by second-year students as well, to which the usual hortatory address could be the introduction. Two or three of these lectures, at least, should be given by a practical psychologist.63 Writing from the student's point of view, D. J. Davies, Magdalen College, Oxford, 1945-9, interprets Moberly's 'crisis' in terms of the 'unreality' of university life as compared with its 'real' task of properly preparing students for their life work. Most students, asserts Davies, feel that their university work is largely ' meaningless, except as a means to the end of passing the examination'—an examination which is an 'artificial climax to their studies'. When asked about their ultimate vocational purpose, students are too wont to reply, 'Haven't a clue', or ' I couldn't care less'. This attitude is due in part to nothing more than 'examination malaise', and is ' a flippant disguise for real anxiety about the unattractive prospects of future employment'. Not a few arts students, Davies found in his informal investigation, were 'only postponing the evil day when they would have to decide what they were going to do for a living'. For Davies this means that university purpose must be geared toward a more intimate realization of the aestheticism of work: 'A scale of values for work and leisure... would do more than anything else to inspire a moral revival.' Universities should recognize that much of the prevailing depression on the part of students is in reality fostered by the bleak prospect of the type of work which today's world of machines offers graduates. In Moberly's younger days, cites Davies, university graduates were destined to positions of romance and adventure, such, for example, as colonial administration. Nowadays the university should realize that most positions are of routine, repetitive nature, involving a minimum of personal creativity. They should therefore give students that sort of training which, emerging from the Hellenic ideal, enables students to develop their appreciations after they leave the university and enter the humdrum of the workaday world. Under existing conditions,

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graduates are 'exhausted mentally and starved spiritually', because they have been subjected to overspecialization in their preparation. They have not been given a synoptic view of human problems in the whole, or of grasping the underlying principles of specialized study, or of acquiring sound and comprehensive principles for living as well as for learning. The crucial problem, then, or the 'crisis', revolves around the extent to which the universities are willing to find ways of restoring the average student's belief in the intrinsic value of his studies.64 One final realm of argument needs to be treated, and that is the relation of academic freedom and government demands in times of national crisis. The problem fortunately is far less serious in Britain than in other countries. This volume has indicated a number of areas in which the university has been called on to supply the country with leadership and talent. Only secondary consideration has been granted to those who fear that the university's intrinsic freedoms have been violated. Reginald Lennard, until recently reader in economic history at Oxford, believes with Professor Oliphant that the intricate machinery of university operation should not be broken down by monetary necessity; he warns against any temptation to adopt remedies which seem to promise immediate relief,' as one afflicted with a toothache may risk a strong and deleterious drug'. Instead, the university must maintain its freedom and serenity and carry on in accordance with its essential mission: It is the urgency of present problems that is tending to obscure the ideal of what a university should be, so that we are inclined to forget that its essential function is not to do jobs of useful research or to train people for specific professions, but to educate its students as men and citizens and to work in full freedom for the advancement of knowledge in general. As the university serves the state, so the state has a reciprocal responsibility to keep the university strong and free, especially in times of emergency. Academic freedom, observes Lennard, means more than the freedom of university teachers from summary dismissal. It involves the privilege of deciding who shall teach and what shall be taught there. It means freedom for the individual investigator to select the area of his research. And all these freedoms must be secured, ' not merely as legal rights, but as economic possibilities'. Constructively, Lennard offers

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a compromise worthy of consideration: genuinely important professional preparation should be assigned to the realm of advanced studies, leaving the early period of higher education to its tested traditional responsibilities. Joining forces with Teale, Barker and Truscot, Lennard would therefore postpone emergency learning and the cultivation of specialized talent to later years, thus effecting a division in university function. 65 However one takes his ideas, Lennard demonstrates that he is aware of what is going on in the world. Emergency or no emergency, the university must consist of alert and reliable scholars who are able to keep their heads while politicians are losing theirs. It is clear from the foregoing that unanimity of thought regarding the mission of the university is far frojn having been achieved by Britain's educational leaders. In fact, it would be difficult to imagine a wider diversity of attitude, except as such diversity might also include extreme forms of regimentation. And this is all to the good, so long as indecision, vacillation or disagreement do not paralyze university behavior. While certain verities may have become eternal, few would deny that further truths have yet to be revealed. The search for these truths must continually take place even in the area of university purpose; and the possession of them is possible only as great minds come together to solve the plaguing issues. We are not prepared at this time to enlarge upon the critical commentary already contained in this chapter, nor to venture a synthesis of the thought expressed, even if that were possible. Instead, it is wiser to develop this thought in its more specific aspects and reserve critical commentary and summarization for the final chapter. We now concern ourselves with the perplexing problems of religion in education, man as a moral being, and the social values accepted by Britons today.

153 CHAPTER VI MORAL

MAN

AND

SOCIAL

VALUES

Beyond primary psychological needs lies man's spiritual need—the need, in theological language, to achieve his Final End, which is the unitive knowledge of ultimate reality, the realization that Atman and Brahman are one, that the body is the temple of the Holy Ghost, that Tao and Logos is at once transcendent and immanent.

ALDOUS H U X L E Y , 1 9 4 6

The universities no longer ask the fundamental questions. WALTER

MOBERLY,

1945

BRITAIN'S troubles have not been limited to a lack of natural resources. T o the admiration of the Christian world the nation has undertaken conscientiously to reassess her spiritual and ethical foundations as they have guided political and social evolution. Historical precedent for contemporary concern is seen by Sir Charles Grant Robertson to lie in the mentality of the postwar generations after 1919, ' a generation disillusioned, corroded by a conscious sense of frustration, which had lost or destroyed its moorings from the p a s t . . . ' . This generation ' could neither measure nor foresee whence came the tides or the winds in a cosmic system that had become unintelligible'. A n y generation which has lost or deliberately shed a traditional faith and that hungers for and cannot find a faith to take its place 'inevitably escapes to the shelter that a purely mechanistic materialism claims to provide'. 1 Thus Robertson gives voice to a strong conviction prevailing among Britain's intellectual leaders that although much has been done in a material way for social progress, insufficient attention has been paid to individual responsibility for preserving ultimate and abiding values. Clearing the way for an understanding of this defect, T . H. Silcock observes that society has, and can have, only a minimum system of values. The actual creation of values and the establishment of social institutions are the duties of the individual. The limits have been reached within which social fragmentation is possible; it is now necessary to explore the realm of values for ways to restore to society some of its former spiritual cohesion.2 Sir Fred Clarke joins Silcock in observing the tendency of

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industrialized societies to obscure and even suffocate the sense of ultimate purpose and meaning, and to depress the spiritual stature of the individual being. This is not a new phenomenon; acute observers on the continent were aware of it a century ago: Looking out from his watch tower, A m i e l could write : ' Materialism is the auxiliary doctrine of every tyranny, whether of the single m a n or of the masses. T o crush the spiritual, moral, general h u m a n man, if I m a y say so, b y specializing him ; to create, not complete h u m a n beings, but wheels for the great social machine; to give these not conscience but society for a central principle; to enslave the soul to things and depersonalize m a n ; is the dominant tendency of our epoch.' Those words were written in 1852. H o w prophetic they sound t o d a y ! 8

On the other hand, a national ethic strongly prevalent in Britain today considers that laissez-faire may actually destroy the most basic guiding principles to a safe and decent existence, involving the intellect in a kind of relativism that rejects all effort to impose order upon society except the order of a privately defined expediency or the will of a vested interest. Historically, Benthamite utilitarianism evolved into a concept of profits as the root of incentive and the guarantee of progress, and its devotees turned the theory into a program of cartelization to control trade and fix prices. The ' working class whose share of the profits was altogether abrogated, could find no moral inspiration in laboring to the end that the sons of Lord So-and-So could feast on mutton chops for breakfast while their own offspring ate porridge. A selfish expediency was erected by the privileged classes behind a façade of false moralism, and, according to Lord Lloyd of Dolobran, its chief architects should have been aware of the inevitable consequences : T h e triumph of so m u c h evil in the modern world is also the measure of the guilt of those who, holding, as they proclaim, to higher purposes and nobler ideals, have, nevertheless, failed utterly in their task of leadership, in their task of energizing our wills and hearts to the point of effective action. 4

Injustices were aggravated by an insistence that the moral standards which characterized national life in the eighteenth century should be preserved. The virtual equating of good with material possessions, a defect which, quaintly enough, classical liberalism shared with communism, ignored those all-important

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elements of the human personality and the human equation which had most to do with the shaping of history. Rejecting materialism as a prime human incentive, L. S. Amery cites the power of human and emotional determinants in history: These emotional factors, when at the height of their creative or destructive power, have transcended all other factors in the shaping of history and of national policies which are history in the making. Christianity, Islam, the Reformation, the French Revolution, racial and linguistic nationalism, Communism—the mere list of these movements is almost sufficient as a summary of international history over the last two thousand years.5 This type of thinking involves a search by higher education for the greater and more lasting values inherent in the subjective qualities of the human personality. Professor V. H . Galbraith, for example, laments the fact that education in feeling and judgment almost ceased during World War I I ; and Truscot approves Galbraith's recommendation that universities deal' not with this or that aspect of knowledge, but with men in the round: a life to lead and a soul to save'. 6 During the war, however, with 'souls to lead and lives to save', the universities forsook all semblance of their proper mission. Poets went to the front, while physicists and chemists stayed behind to supply them with more effective mechanisms for human destruction. A person or a nation in mortal combat may achieve brilliant flashes of insight, but systematic ethical thinking is a permanent and necessary product in all times. Even more fervently, Arnold Nash argues in essence that since the life of the human soul is after all the true object, or subject, of education and salvation, the life of the university should actually pivot on a spiritual (religious) foundation. Contrasting what he considers to be traditional British university thinking with that of totalitarian regimes, Nash calls upon Christian scholars to work toward an intellectual synthesis for the twentieth century which will be powerful enough to destroy the 'positivistic, the Marxist, the liberal humanitarian Weltanschauung now current in the liberal democratic world'. Nash's well-documented subjectivism leads him to the conviction that theology should be the queen ofthe sciences, and that Christianity should be assigned the leading role in the dissemination of knowledge. Nash is certain that the modern mind is lamentably out of tune with the teachings of Christianity, and Christian

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teachers need to practice more of what they preach. He gives no specific advice, however, as to how to bring about this reform, and, resignedly enough, he considers it' foolish to expect' that it will take place within the universities.7 F. R. Leavis, in one of his more lucid moments, takes up Nash's challenge by commanding the universities to reassess their approach to formal education on the basis of agreed moral standards: 'Now that the organic community has disappeared . . . the aim of education should be to give command of the art of living.' The university should adapt this new responsibility to the pattern already established; that is, it should participate in the general reinterpretation of ethical and moral values, not by adding subject matter, but by improving the existing channels of teaching and research. The universities should also re-examine what has been termed 'stark secularism' in the light of its effect upon student personality, taken not only as an end in itself, but also in its relation to national responsibility and world citizenship. A restoration of the spirit of community among faculties is regarded as fundamental to this purpose; but desirable results are attained only by recognizing and exploring more seriously the profound interrelationship of knowledge and feeling. For this end, however, traditional symbols will no longer serve; they have 'gone dead' in the minds of most people. New symbols will have to be introduced and they will be convincing only as they correspond to experienced reality. Contemporary thinkers can give serious attention only to those interpretations which have arisen from intrepid and faithful explorations into human progress throughout history.8 If the knowledge and insights derived from modern science are to be truly integrated with the knowledge and insights derived from other aspects of human experience, we shall have to overthrow (or modify) Hume, at any rate Hume as mediated to us through Huxley. The dichotomy between knowledge and feeling, which are unified and integrated in personality, is a token that we have gone astray. Though Leavis would no doubt ascribe to this teaching, the responsibility for it belongs to H. A. Jones, dean of Manchester Cathedral, who derives his inspiration in part from T. H. Huxley (Life and Letters): Science seems to me to teach in the highest and strongest manner the great truth which is embodied in the Christian conception of

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entire surrender to the will of God. Sit down before the fact as a little child, be prepared to give up every preconceived notion, follow humbly to wherever and whatever abysses nature leads, or you shall learn nothing. I have only begun to learn contentment and peace of mind since I have resolved at all risks to do this.

Mindful that the common metaphysic prevalent in the thirteenth century will probably never be revised in any form or substance, Jones is nevertheless convinced that it would be 'relatively easy' for the university to teach that the many and varied subjects of study and research are merely different aspects of a single deep, underlying spiritual reality. This was possible in the older universities, says Jones, because of the collegiate system. But in any case, ' we should escape from the paralysing and dangerous situation in which the word 'reality" means different things, not only for different individuals, but for different academic faculties'.9 There is perhaps no point in disputing Jones's allegations on a 'common metaphysic', which he says existed at Oxford and Cambridge, if we are content to accept the soporific unity of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Certainly, however, there were enough intellectual upstarts, ecclesiastical heretics and worldly scientists in the early period to invalidate any such benign concept of the unanimity of ethics. The existing 'chaos of values' becomes a challenge to the European-trained Professor Adolf Lowe, who, writing from the University of Manchester, submits that an agreement on fundamentals and a conformity of values cannot be effected by intellectualism alone. Also, unification cannot be established by organizing the new university as a church or as a purely Christian institution. Instead: Nothing but the process of cultural evolution itself can establish a commonly accepted table of values, and the universities would sin against their true spirit, and would ultimately frustrate their cultural mission, if they were to force this development. The university and the student within it must accept the existing struggle of competing ideologies as the background for their work.

Of the Mannheim school of sociologists, against criticizing any doctrine by the use tivity alone. Such a procedure would be self-deception which, by its false pretences,

Lowe also warns of scientific objec'a crude form of corrupts the sense

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of both intellectual and moral honesty'. Finally, no university teacher can or should claim possession of absolute truth. 'All he can, and should, achieve is the highest possible degree of truthfulness.' 10 Especially in modern universities, according to some commentators, religion tends to go by default when it should really be at the heart of university practice. John Adams, warden of Crewe Hall, Sheffield, calls upon organized religion to resume in part its former role of fortifying the life of higher learning. Adams advocates that the modern university, in co-operation with the churches, establish within itself not only places of worship and religious enlightenment, ' b u t also men with the perhaps rather special ability of presenting their faith to a section of the community which is trained to be critical'. Because ' l a y theologians' have hitherto proved themselves ineffective at the task, Warden Adams wants missionary work performed b y capable university men who are anxious for a more spiritual corporate existence and who are able to provide a 'focus' for a more profound consideration of religious faith within the walls of the university. But the university must remain a n ' open shop'. T h e Christian faith will lose vitality, as it has in the past, if it refuses to expose itself to the ordeal of criticism. Uncritical indoctrination, concludes Adams, destroys the spirit of the university. 11 Colin Forrester-Paton, writing Universities under Fire, the sixth University Pamphlet, is apprehensive about the future of the university 'because this is God's world and the university has a service of its own to render in that world'. Every sphere of human activity has been claimed by God through Jesus Christ, including the spheres of knowledge and inquiry. I f the universities forget this, they may be beset by their own sophisticated brand of sin, ' as well as by very ordinary sins', and therefore cease to render the service G o d has laid down for them. T h e Christian must not be ' f l a b b y ' in his university behavior. ' H o w many Christian students bring their studies and the work of their university into their prayers?' he asks. T h e intellectual achievements of the university tempt it to pride: the university sets out to discover the final meaning of the universe and 'finds it difficult to take the absolute claim of Christ seriously'. Its achievements tempt it also to 'lovelessness'. But, as St Paul warned, ' though the university understand all mysteries and all

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knowledge, and has not charity, it is nothing'. Knowledge should not be for its own sake but for God's sake. The scholar in search of truth must find there a 'calling' in which he serves God. The student who leaves the university to serve society must put himself at God's disposal. The graduate must be prepared to practice medicine among the poor, to work in the most difficult of industrial plants, and to teach in the least inspiring of schools. All this should take place in any part of God's world, 'always within the fellowship of the Church, always in grateful loyalty to Jesus Christ'.12 To all this David M. Paton subscribes. Britain is not a Christian country but a country that used to be Christian, 'a postChristian country that has not yet made up its mind what gods to follow if it does not return to God'. This is true also of the university. 'The university professes in a high-minded way its neutrality on all the ultimate [religious] questions.' We cannot live in two worlds, one of which—the world of work—occupies most of our time and assumes that the Christian faith is 'untrue', and the other, the world of our spare-time Christian activity of prayer and praise, which assumes it is true, for these two worlds are 'mutually incompatible'. Instead, the true Christian deliberately attempts to work out for himself a unified, coherent attitude toward life which takes into account the teachings of Christianity and gives Christian meaning to the individual's specialized field: At bottom this is the task, or ought to be the task, of Christians and Christian groups in universities: to preach the Christian Gospel as the key to understanding and living all human life; to demand the complete allegiance of the person to the way set forth in Jesus Christ and the working out of that allegiance in every part of his life; to seek to relate the various branches of knowledge to each other and to the basic Christian positions, so that we have at least the beginnings of an integral point of view; and to offer all our life (including intellectual life) to God for His glory.13

More moderately, A. R. Vidler, writing as warden of St Deiniol's Library, states that Christianity has come to be used in two main senses, the general and the specific. In the general sense the majority of English people may still be said to be Christian because they preserve certain ideals of human conduct, such as honesty, justice, freedom and responsibility, which were developed by Christendom and which are still regarded

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as valid. In the specific sense of the word, Christianity 'is determined by the Bible and the historic tradition which is enshrined in the creeds and witnessed to by the Churches in their formal standards, liturgies and institutions'. Christians in the specific sense 'own Jesus as the incarnate Son of God and the living Head of a redeemed race'. The universities have come to be Christian only in the general sense. There is danger, however, that ideals of goodness and truth are suffering from the inroads of irresponsible liberalism. ' It is doubtful that we can dilute our Christianity [in the general sense] much further without a spiritual vacuum appearing.' The Christian should therefore insist that moral and spiritual questions be 'freely canvassed in the universities, and students and teachers made to face them'. The best way to instill Christianity is to bring the opposition out in the open and by both precept and example demonstrate that Christianity, though not necessarily completely right, is nevertheless the most desirable mode of living for human beings.14 Not far removed from this attitude is Leeds's Professor W. R. Niblett, who, after the manner of Nash and Moberly, adduces arguments to prove that no man can live without some sort of faith. Since today, ' the faith of the many is feeble and uncertain... the time is coming when there will be a greater awareness of the importance and meaning of the Christian insights than there is yet'. Admitting, regretfully, that too many people today regard Christian teachings as' improper, immature, even outrageous', he longs for the day when devoted Christians will be able to ' bring others into touch with the springs within them'. One reason for the failure of the university to guide the moral life of the nation with any degree of success is traceable to the lack of conviction on the part of the majority of people that there is any ultimate meaning in things at all. The present distress in the world is due to the hunger for just such an abiding strength of conviction: It is the task of the Christian to let his own sure conviction of the ultimate unity of things be known, and to help to light the university with a profounder comprehension of its own responsibility; a responsibility not only for adding to the store of discovered facts, but for concerning itself with sorts of truth other than factual; a responsibility not only for extending the length, as it were, of knowledge, but revealing its depth.16

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Education is either Christian or pagan to Professor M . V . C . Jeffreys, director of Birmingham's Institute of Education. There is no halfway mark; and even that rigid alternative is further straitened by the claim that in one sense, ' T h e r e is no such thing as Christian education, just as there is no such thing as Christian agriculture.' T h a t is, there is no Christian educational technique, though there are Christian values which determine aims and methods. Professor Jeffreys, publishing his work under the general editorship of his philosophic kinsman W . R . Niblett, condemns the predominantly secular quality of modern education: The orthodox descriptions of the alleged aims of education—in terms of citizenship, social adjustment, individuality, self-development and the like—are really descriptions of means and not, properly speaking, of ends at all. The result is the whole behaviorist imbroglio that passes for educational theory in the democratic countries, and the anarchy of unrelated 'subjects' that form the content of a 'liberal' education. A n educationalist himself, Jeffreys is nevertheless of the firm opinion that for the deepest insights into educational problems one must go, not to educational writings, but to theologians, philosophers and scientists who are Christian in their orientation. T h e r e can be ' m u c h profitable co-operation between Christians and humanists in the day-to-day work of education', but there is ' n o compromise on the ultimate issues, since there is an ultimate cleavage'. Acknowledging his appreciation of the guidance provided by Nash, Niblett, J . H . Oldham, and especially Reinhold Niebuhr, Jeffreys seeks to establish two 'propositions': (i) Christianity, being God-centered, is ultimately incompatible with all man-centered views, ' a n y superficial resemblances notwithstanding'; and (2) only the Christian revelation is commensurate with the full dimension of life. 16 In solid theological prose Jeffreys argues that the prevailing notion of Christianity in Britain is unfortunately ethical rather than religious: ' We are undeveloped on the religious side and there is a positive inhibition against anything that implies the indecency of an inner life.' This unsatisfactory ethical orientation is derived in large part from Greek classical ideals, which educators seem to have forgotten were raised to a 'higher level' by Christianity: ' T h e general influence of post-Renaissance culture is to make us see Christianity through Greek spectacles.' zi

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A third influence is Britain's inherited competitive economic system, which has adversely affected morals by giving selective emphases to material prosperity and to the maintenance of the established social order. Britain has thus acquired a 'baneful heritage'—'an education on the cheap, to give the laboring classes enough instruction to make them useful but not enough to put ideas into their heads'. 17 I > One by one the Education White Paper of 1943, the Spens and Norwood Reports, the Education Bill of 1944, and even the august Sir Richard Livingstone meet Jeffreys's uncompromising criticism for being altogether too timid and too reticent about acknowledging God's revelation to man through an active, assertive and all-pervading Christian teaching. Livingstone's concept of Christianity, Jeffreys decides, is 'blurred by the classical spectacles through which it is seen'. There is 'nothing in Livingstone about conviction of sin and the need for redemption'; nothing in Livingstone or in the majority of modern educational writings that ' Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners'. He then couches his lance for a brief duel with Lancelot Hogben, scientific humanist, who, according to Jeffreys, myopically claims that the only basis for rational cooperation among citizens rests in 'scientific investigation of the common needs of mankind, a scientific inventory of resources available for satisfying them, and a realistic survey of how modern social institutions contribute to, or militate against, the use of such resources for the satisfaction of human needs'. Jeffreys claims that this sort of reasoning, along with much of the secular rationalism of modern sociological writings, is simply ' behavioristic and relativist, and reflects uneasiness about the state of society and at the same time a disposition to believe that there is some fairly easy way out, by human devices and inventions'. O n the contrary, states Jeffreys, reality is more than simply a process, or a flow of social experience, and we cannot be relieved of thinking in terms of individuals and their relation to one another. Furthermore, Christianity offers the ' only view' of the relation between individuals and society which fulfills the claims of both parties. It grounds the brotherhood of man in the fatherhood of God, vindicating the infinite value of the individual and the ethical claim of society. 18 The more that social problems are settled in impersonal, behavioristic terms, Jeffreys adds, the more the solution of moral problems is side-

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stepped. ' Since it is impossible ultimately to make sense of the moral relations between persons without assuming a God, the escape from having to deal with personal relations is particularly helpful to those who do not believe in God.' Such revelations will, of course, be least credible to educators who acknowledge the rare educational techniques of Christ's teaching methods, to sociologists who seek to define the relation of the individual to society, and to anthropologists who concern themselves with social and individual morality in the world's cultures. T o Jeffreys's credit it must be admitted that, unlike many of his calling, he faces up to the problem of unity in Christianity and to conflicting issues in comparative religion, though not altogether squarely and certainly somewhat cursorily. ' T h e Christian experience', he states honestly enough, 'is too rich to find adequate expression in any one denomination, and no existing church is good enough to survive at the expense of the others.' The obstacles to unity are 'far more social than theological', and Christian churches would do well to recognize that the values they teach must function in a democratic social order. Only through a united church, federalized rather than centralized or flatly uniform, can Christianity become adequately suffused with social life. O n the other hand, his reference to other religions is by way of unfavorable comparison with Christianity rather than of understanding and appreciation. Other great religions, Jeffreys observes with sufficient accuracy, are essentially ethical or mystical, with little sense of a personal relationship with God and therefore possessing ' no insight into the meaning of sin and salvation'. He concludes rather swiftly that the mysticism of such religions as Buddhism and Hinduism amounts to 'the inversion of the self-deification of man, which is humanism'. 19 Jeffreys is, we see, more of a champion than an investigator of the Christian religion in education; but we shall let him have the last word: The functional approach, illustrated, for example, by Professor Lancelot Hogben's sociological treatment of the sciences, is valuable so far as it goes, but, like so much contemporary work of that kind, it is functional at an insufficient depth.... It is not an adequate view of the problem that sees it only in terms of human desires. This view, which is man's most persistent delusion and the root of'sin', ignores the plainest lesson of history, namely the perpetual failure of man to achieve happiness by his natural powers. The truth is that social 11-2

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problems, whether scientific or political, are in the last resort religious in their implications, not in the sense that theology can answer questions which are the proper business of scientific research, but in the deeper sense that no human problem appears in its true shape unless it is seen in the perspective of God and eternity. In other words, under scientific humanism and secular sociology, man can make a success of life as an intelligent animal, but 'make a mess out of it as a fallen child of God'. We cannot keep the Christian ethic without the Christian religion. 20 The difficult task of defining terms and proposing action in the realm of moral values is left to the genius of Sir Walter Moberly.' The heart of man is deceitful and desperately wicked', he observes, repeating Jeremiah, and man's predicament is beyond cure by simple exhortations to moral rearmament and a change of will. Mentally and spiritually, most people today are ' displaced persons'; their situation is the natural outcome of the 'interaction of myriads of wills, each pursuing its own limited purposes', finally producing a total state of things which no one foresaw and no one wanted. Referring specifically to Britain's strategic place in the world's moral confusion, he states: Our young men do not see visions but they dream troubled dreams. We have been fumbling, unsure of ourselves and of our standards, and we have largely lost any sense of mission. But 'Dunkirk and all that' showed that there was life in the old dog yet. That 'life' was not merely a tough will for physical survival. It was also moral and spiritual, a sense of standing as a nation, even alone, for something of vital moment to the whole world.. .which enabled our people to rise to their 'finest hour'. This level ofmoral leadership has, however, not been maintained. Since much of the world still looks to Britain for guidance, 'with an expectancy which we have disappointed'; since also the fate of civilization may depend on 'whether this country can rise to its moral opportunity', and since 'in fulfillment of God's will for the world, a special mission may be assigned to Great Britain', it becomes a national responsibility to sound the depths and explore the heights of the spiritual resources needed for its proper consummation. O n what basis must action be laid ? 21 Most religions of the world, Moberly finds, recognize the values of reasonableness and good faith. Certainly these are characteristic attributes of the Western world. Other values

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generally agreed on include: (i) an 'activism' which defines much of its good in terms of works; (2) the Grecian concept of the good life, which embodies the cardinal virtues of wisdom, temperance, courage and justice, wedded to the R o m a n respect for law and order; and (3) the Palestinian tradition which ' deepens the Roman demand for even-handed justice by adding a respect for the individual as possessing rights and responsibilities'. T o these concepts may be added certain peculiarly British contributions, such as (1) the habit of tolerance; (2) the voluntary acceptance of law and order; and (3) the belief that in some real sense government must be by the people. Whether or not these tenets are Christian, they are submitted as the framework within which tradition has provided the materials for the formulation of a modern philosophy of life. Here in any case are articles of faith in which people generally have been found to profess belief, however divergent the interpretation of them may have become in practice. It is precisely in these areas that the criteria of truth have been most neglected by the universities; they have never made sufficiently clear the close relation of scholarship to character, leadership, and virtue. 22 Man's relations with man have gone awry, maintains Moberly, because the affinity of man with his Maker has become strained. People today live stunted lives: ' They have their mental being in an artificially restricted w o r l d . . . .Secularism is practical atheism and it does violence to human nature.'' Hence come false and distorted religions like Nazism; they arise because a fundamental need of human nature is denied its normal and healthy development. Moberly admits that some of his assertions are 'in the highest degree, controversial'. But 'to burke the issue is hardly consistent with integrity'. However these assertions are modified, whether in recognition of a distinction between doctrinal and pragmatic phases of religion, or of the impracticality and even inequitableness of restoring the supremacy of the Christian doctrine to the ethos of the university, the fact remains that the realm of utilitarian power has triumphed over the realm of the spirit. Even the assumptions governing courses of study and academic method in the universities today are 'implicitly, if unintentionally, hostile to the Christian faith and to liberal humanism'. T h e question is not whether Britons are Christian. Indeed, the traditional mysteries of the church are in general secretly disbelieved. What is more pertinent is to probe deep

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into the residuum of two thousand years of proud tradition and explore those tenets which are common to the thinking of both doctrinal and antidoctrinal sects. The fundamental need is to deal with those issues which tend to divide men from each other. However, the solution does not lie in student forums, which may be 'appropriate but inadequate', because people cannot reach fundamental agreement if there is no common intellectual ground existing in the university for the meeting of minds. The theologian and the engineer, the doctor, the chemist, and the lawyer, Sir Richard Livingstone and Professor Bernal, Mr C. S. Lewis and Professor J. B. S. Haldane, the Provost of King's and Professor Hogben, must learn how to talk to one another on the radical level at which their 'instinctive convictions' are brought into the open and their minds really make contact.... Till they do, no talk of an integrated philosophy of life for the university will be more than talk. There then follows an exposition of why the university is the most appropriate agency to lead the public conscience, discussion of which appears in the chapter on ' Education for Democratic Leadership' below. But the prime requisite is that all fields of human thought must be investigated and brought into the open fearlessly and in an atmosphere of unrestricted freedom. Even Christian training must include ' being confronted by, and not being safeguarded from, other ways of thinking'. Teachers must assume adequate maturity in their students. To the demurrer that resulting tensions are 'all very well for the abler student but beyond the capacity of the weaker brother', the answer must be that the 'weaker brother is probably out of place in a university, and certainly his needs cannot be allowed to determine university procedures'. For actually, the 'childcentered' type of education, so much in vogue in America, 'land of extremes', is hardly compatible with education according to Christian standards. Christianity puts a high value on the individual; it respects his freedom, his responsibility, and his destiny as a 'child of God'. On the other hand, 'the Christian sense of human creatureliness and human pervasion forbids us to take the idiosyncrasies of the individual, just as he stands, as a sufficient basis for determining the lines of his education'.23 Moberly's teachings have been met with dismay, antagonism, misinterpretation and outright rejection. Among his severest critics is Professor Michael Oakeshott of the London School of

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Economics. As general editor of the Cambridge Journal, Oakeshott employs Moberly's Crisis not only to excoriate all he opposes in existing university practice but also to expound his own preferences in the light of Moberly's shortcomings. Oakeshott does not provide a sustained theme, however, so that the interpretation of his writing must be equally saltatory and staccato. Validly enough, he notes that Moberly's particular form of Christianity is ' not everybody's'; indeed, it is ' eccentric'; and Oakeshott rightly sees a possible contradiction in Moberly's Christian conviction and his blunt assertion that 'back to Christianity' is a'spurious remedy'. Likewise, Oakeshott is on sound ground when he observes that 'civilizations cannot be " s a v e d " ; they cannot take a pledge and from that moment never touch another drop'. The identification of God's purpose with the survival of modern life is' scarcely permissible'. Nor is the control of men over nature the essential criterion: When what a man can get from the use and control of the natural world and his fellow men is the sole criterion of what he thinks he needs, there is no hope that the major part of mankind will find anything but good in this exploitation until it has been carried far enough to reveal its bitterness to the full.

The universities, admits Oakeshott, will always reflect the world in which they exist; insularity is impossible. But simply to accept this status is ' n o very exalted ideal'. The university has its own character and its own identity. Change is inevitable; but the university must not lose its soul with every change in society: Keeping up to date with the world is, then, an ideal which is subject to two important qualifications: the world must offer something which at least seems to be desirable as a model to be copied from an existing university, and the activity of approximation must be carried out in a manner that does not entail a loss of identity.... The contemporary world offers no desirable model for a university... the current activity of approximation is lacking, not in speed, but in discrimination.

There is no reason to turn the universities inside out because the world is upside down. ' T o set about adjusting universities to a world in chaos will make certain that they will be approximated to all that is most trivial in our tradition'; proposals for

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change which spring directly from emergency must of themselves be temporary, transitory and accidental. 24 Moberly's conviction that the universities should provide an 'over-mastering experience', a 'unified conception of life' (after Nash), a Weltanschauung, assumes we were 'born yesterday', Oakeshott continues. Instead, the universities have a body of tradition and an inherited character of their own. Moberly's theories and explanations of the changing conceptions of the university's task apply to no particular university any more than did Newman's or Matthew Arnold's, since ' a history of theories is not a history of university education'. Some of the theories expounded in the past and accepted by Moberly are evidence of the w a y in which he 'surrenders to all that is worst in the current disingenuous cant'. Rapierlike, Oakeshott cuts into Moberly's plea for an overarching philosophy of life: ' H o w revealing is this nostalgic backward glance to an imaginary world from which chaos has been excluded! A n d how stupendous is this misunderstanding of the Summa Theologica [which Moberly accepts as an example of a long-term objective]!' As for Moberly's advocacy of discussing more frankly and more profoundly the 'burning issues of the d a y ' : The universities would degenerate into that most worthless of all conditions—that of a forum for the discussion of ideologies... .These 'burning questions'.. .are of the sort which give a faint flicker round about midnight and have burnt themselves out by the morning No question is inherently 'burning' and the most probable way of making an important question trivial is by hotting it up. Pressing further his contention that the university has a character uniquely its own, Oakeshott reminds us that it is 'neither a beginning nor an end, but a middle'. It must accept students who have been educated in devious ways from the cradle through the schools, and it sends into the world graduates whose formative years have b y no means passed. It is precisely in this middle experience of a student's life that the university offers its peculiar and exclusive contribution. During this interval the student is able to set aside the fervent loyalties of his youth and actually refuse to commit himself: Here was a break in the tyrannical course of irreparable events; a period in which to look round upon the world without the sense of an enemy at one's back or the insistent pressure to make up one's

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m i n d . . . a moment in which to taste the mystery without the necessity of at once seeking a solution... .And all this, not in an intellectual vacuum, but surrounded by all the inherited learning and literature and experience of our civilization....

In perhaps his most moving and eloquent passage Oakeshott is stirred to reveal his own emotions when on one fine October morning he first entered the hallowed grounds of his college: The distracting urgency of an immediate destination was absent, duty no longer oppressed, boredom and disappointment were words without meaning, death was unthinkable.... The interim was ours. For the moment we were able to step aside from the brittle formations of the world, from the current vulgar estimates ofits predicament, from the 'burning questions' and the world's slick answers.. .freed for a moment from the curse of Adam, the burdensome distinction between work and play.... What opened before us was not a road but a boundless sea; and it was enough to stretch one's sails to the wind.

The interim had to come to an end. The perennial undergraduate is indeed a 'lost soul'. Was the graduate better able to deal with the world? Possibly. But that was a question of little import. It was not in any case one of the motives of the university experience; nor did it constitute the criteria by which the value of the experience was to be judged. At any rate, ' this university did not turn out men who had completely come to terms with themselves, men who had 'settled' all their problems'. Oakeshott then maintains that the crisis exists not in Moberly's arena of ideas but in the changing character of the undergraduate, and in the 'unnatural burden' of providing technicians of one sort or another which has been imposed upon the universities: 'The problem of the universities today is how to avoid destruction at the hands of men who have no use for their characteristic virtues, men who are convinced only that "knowledge is power".' Moberly pleads for a greater unity of knowledge and a careful sifting out of subjects which have surfeited the curriculum. Oakeshott replies that although he, too, would like to see the world of knowledge assume the appearance of unity, the university is incapable of effecting integration except on a basis of 'emotional necessity' and this would be 'dishonest, false, trivial and worthless'. Constructively he suggests that the universities offer a more carefully selected list of specialisms, so that ' each

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may be seen as a reflection of the whole'. T h e real defect of a specialism 'does not spring from its failure to be the whole', but from being ' n o more than superficial within its limits'. A n d the reason the university today finds itself with a plethora of specialisms is that it has neglected its traditional right of discrimination in what is offered for study. Thoroughness of study is more important than integration generated ab extra. In a calm, well-reasoned rebuttal, Moberly sought to clarify what he found to be a 'surprisingly wide area of misunderstanding' in Oakeshott's criticism. Since this presentation has endeavored to eliminate the latter's more abusive and w a y w a r d comments, preferring to dwell on his constructive thought, it is appropriate simply to enumerate Moberly's replies: (1) T h e fact that the university is only a ' middle' Moberly readily grants, but this concept does not absolve the university of doing its utmost during this period in behalf of the student as a 'whole m a n ' . (2) T h e 'doctrine of the interim' hardly pertains to Redbrick university students, who cannot afford to be so carefree as Oakeshott would like to have them. (3) Since one cannot suspend living, one cannot suspend judgment; detachment from the political issues of the world is sometimes actually 'illegitimate'. (4) A student cannot be expected to have acquired his final philosophy or to have settled all accounts with himself by the time he graduates. ' But if his life during these years is to have any coherence, he needs at least some provisional loyalty and provisional map, though he may later come to modify or even to reject them.' 2 5 Oakeshott's pictorialization of his ideal university belongs to the 'historic past', concludes P. Mansell Jones, professor of French at the University of Manchester. A talented writer, Jones contributes the idea that the basic faults in university life are essentially academic in nature: educational inertia and inadequate adaptation, resulting in 'waste, obstruction and mouldiness'. This dire condition is the pathetic ransom for postponing to more troublesome times the solution of problems which Professor Oakeshott wants reserved for 'safer' periods, yet which by him and by others like him were neglected during eras of comparative serenity. Neither society nor its institutions can be the butt of constant, incessant criticism, else they become paralyzed and disintegrate. In fact, continues Jones, a large degree of noninterference is a condition for experiment and

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adaptation, and British universities have enjoyed this privilege in generous measure. T h e trouble is, there has been ' n o experiment and little adaptation'. T h e more favored colleges, resting on privilege in the midst of democracy, have tended to become closed, autonomous societies, with power to do fairly much as they pleased, ignoring all too complacently the claims of modern civilization. Professor Jones has little constructive to offer in the w a y of practical suggestions but provides his readers with a magnificent description of the type of criticism indulged in by men of Oakeshott's rigid persuasions: Vestiges and memories of 'our type of university' remain nostalgically beckoning, like the last monuments of good building which we relinquish with regret but relinquish none the less to the demand for minerals or to the depredations of urbanism.... There seems to be nothing to do but to stand at bay and when the aluminium bomber passes overhead, flash a rapier of dazzling steel at its shadow from a crenellated keep.26 Moberly's plea for the cultivation of a Weltanschauung encounters rational criticism from Lionel Elvin, formerly principal of Ruskin College, Oxford, and currently director of the Department of Education of U . N . E . S . C . O . Elvin gives evidence of understanding his adversary more intimately than Oakeshott. In the first place, if one wishes proof of the great breadth of student yearning for knowledge, Elvin suggests that one consult university bulletin boards, which a r e ' thick with announcements of societies.. .for the discussion of all the "fundamental questions" under the sun'. Certainly the clock has not been turned back to 1865 when Matthew Arnold observed of Oxford students: 'These are our young barbarians at play.' From the point of view of student seriousness, Elvin is sure that there has been ' n o such falling off as to justify the use of the word " c r i s i s ' " . Likewise, he is distrustful of those who advocate a ' coherent philosophy' or a 'unifying discipline', no matter how tolerant and liberal they are in their attitudes. Some people ' ought to be lost', not because they are merely nonconformists, but because their dogmatism, whether religious or social, is too uncritical and too confident. It is consequently 'the positive business of university teachers to sow doubts in such minds, whatever the dogma, and to suggest that no faith is worth having that has not been born out of, and continued to live with, a live skepticism. Beliefs and philosophies we certainly need,

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but h o w else c a n they be kept h u m a n e ? ' T h e democratic habit, 'particularly developed in this c o u n t r y ' , does not push people to philosophic extremes. I f ultimate ends are to be established in accordance with Moberly's preferences, then the means will h a v e to be adjusted to achieve those ends. Elvin rejects this process: ' W h a t w e h a v e a right to expect is that in universities both ends and means shall be discussed with the finest temper of mind and spirit.' L o o k i n g b a c k over history and taking a glance at university development elsewhere, Elvin scoffs at the idea that British universities are in a 'crisis'. T h e y are ' i n transition'. T h e y are ' m o v i n g with the times'. Sensibly he states: Had the English universities of the seventeenth century remained 'scholastic' and continued to deserve the strictures of Bacon, Milton, and Hobbes, they would have been not merely poorer servants of the nation but less good as universities. T h e right course is surely for the university to respond to such ideas and such social forces at the right level. Just w h a t the ' r i g h t l e v e l ' is, Elvin does not say, b u t his alert mind compares the views of M o b e r l y and Oakeshott with the philosophical attitudes of T . S. Eliot. Eliot's Notes Toward the Definition of Culture relates culture to class. Culture, states Eliot, can be effectively transmitted only over a period of generations and b y the family. Class is defined as a group of families persisting from generation to generation, each in the same w a y of life. In a highly civilized society, according to Eliot, there must be a marked and stable, but not rigid, differentiation of classes. A class is a real, vital, subconscious social element, differing from an elite, w h i c h is characterized chiefly b y skill and expertise. A c c o r d i n g to Elvin, Oakshott stretches this concept w h e n he contrasts the modesty and humility of the 'rising class' in former generations with that of the present. I n the past, the rising class ' was aware of something valuable enjoyed b y others w h i c h it wished to share'. S u c h is unfortunately not the case today. Oakeshott charges that ' t h e leaders of the rising class are consumed with a contempt for everything w h i c h does not spring from their o w n desires'. T h e y are sure that they h a v e nothing to learn and everything to t e a c h ; consequently, their aim is to l o o t — t o appropriate to themselves the organization, the shell o f the institution, and convert it to their o w n purposes'. T h e r e is no basis, Elvin maintains, for the stable class society w h i c h

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Eliot and Oakeshott postulate, since 'the basis for the persistence of groups of families from generation to generation, each in the same way of life, must be economic'. For its stability there must be a static economy and a complete absence of rapid technological and social change. Since in the contemporary period none of these conditions is present, ' There is no more basis for the kind of society that Mr Eliot desires than there is in the United States for revising the supposed virtues of the way of life of the Old South.' T . S. Eliot characterizes Matthew Arnold's cultural ideas as 'thin'. But Elvin cites Arnold in the original to justify his own attitude: The men of culture are the true apostles of equality. The great men of culture are those who .have had a passion for diffusing, for making prevail, for carrying from one end of society to another, the best knowledge, the best ideas of their time; who have laboured to divest knowledge of all that humanises it, to make it efficient outside the clique of the cultivated and the learned, yet still remaining the best knowledge and thought of the time.27 Likewise, Ortega y Gasset {The Mission of the University) understands that 'we live in changing times', and his task is to consider the effect of social change on university function. Pertinent is Ortega's verdict, reminiscent of his Revolt of the Masses: ' I f the working man should become the governing man tomorrow, the problem remains the same: he must govern in accordance with the height of the times.' Ortega reminds his audience that since in actual practice the working man governs, sharing that function with other social classes, university education must be extended to him in equal measure. The application of Ortega's ideas has, however, raised innumerable practical difficulties, and it is at this juncture that Elvin's essay builds its own constructive thought. State support, asserts Elvin, is firsthand evidence of a praiseworthy social interest in higher education. The 'truth' is, if the universities were deprived of state financial aid, and the students were refused government funds, institutions of higher education would not be in a position to do anything like the range or the quality of work they desire. The consequences of state interest are far-reaching, Elvin elaborates, since all elements of society as well as the universities gain a clearer picture of higher learning as a whole. Admitting certain dangers in government 'planning', which Oakeshott totally deplores, Elvin shows that the solution lies

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not in eliminating 'outside interference', but in considering much more sensitively the extent to which university life is the direct concern of a democratic society acting through its government. For example: The essential, the indispensable, academic freedom is the freedom of the teacher and the research worker to teach what they believe to be sound and to work at what they believe to be important without any pressure from outside interested parties. But the decision, for instance, that a boy or girl who measures up to the required standard shall not be debarred from a university education by his parents' poverty is a social decision, and rightly so.28 Elvin's concept of culture allows small space for its superficially 'gracious' qualities and its dependence on outward comfort. Genuine culture is often to be found among the poor and laboring classes—a culture which can be more vital and real than the 'cultivated' type. This attitude does not mean that the university shall shy away from cultivating graciousness and good taste; rather, it should combine these qualities with honesty and simplicity of living. In achieving its purpose of producing 'more cultivated' graduates, the university should give greater consideration to social and cultural change: That Greek and Latin classics were an admirable civilizing instrument for those who could give the greater part of their schooling to them few would deny, but the social changes of our time have made that condition no longer anything like so operative. If we wish to open the humanities to the boy who has specialized heavily in the natural sciences, which on the whole is likely to do it more fruitfully —six months of cramming of the rudiments of Latin, or a course of reading in the great works of imagination and discussion in the English language? Humorously Elvin asks Professor Oakeshott if he wants to 'resign from the twentieth century', but indicates that, like Margaret Fuller, he had better accept it. The Britain of the twentieth century is ' more democratic' than the Britain of the last centúry, and there is every reason to believe that she will be 'increasingly so'. This means, of course, that there may be 'less to go around...'. There may be 'less port, but this should not spoil its taste'. Likewise, there is no reason why the quality of the university should be spoiled. ' Indeed, with wisdom and with freedom from social prejudice', he concludes, 'there is no

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reason why the universities should not be "themselves" at least as fully in the future as they have been in the past.' 29 Elvin's philosophic confrere, Bonamy Dobree, reviews certain restricted concepts of the meaning of culture, and out of a background of liberal social and educational thinking apostrophizes engagingly: Culture! The word has a reassuring, cushioning sound... .For too long the trappings, the idle ornaments of culture have been allowed to pass for its reality, even a counterfeit for the true coin. The word conjures up such a scene as where, In the room the women come and go, Talking of Michelangelo, amid the tinkling of the coffee spoons, a scene descriptive of the culture Eric Gill consigned to the nether flames. Real culture is not a thing of cliques, of academic palms, a prerogative of the leisured and the secluded... culture is a criticism of life. Culture, continues Dobree, must have its roots in everyday activity, 'in common apprehensions'; otherwise, it bears only 'meagre flowers and wizened fruit'. It must respond to the 'crude vigour of life, not dwell in secluded arbours or academic groves; it must be met in the market-place, the trading house, the manager's office, not refuge itself in ivory towers'. Pertinently he asks: Is it not already noticeable that young people of vitality and imagination are turning away from traditional cultural studies to those of a scientific and technical nature because they promise greater significance? Approving Dr Johnson's observation concerning the classics: ' Greek, sir, is like old lace; the more a man has of it the better he is pleased', Dobree adds: But if a cultured man of to-day should have more than a glimpse of what Plato meant in The Republic, should he not also know something of the basis of Marx's philosophy of history ? . . . I do not say that it is better to read the Communist Manifesto than to read the Areopagitica, but I do say that it is equally important to know either.... I am sure —and here I feel that the spirit of Lord Grey is with me—that it is more important to know about the Statute of Westminster than about the Statute of Praemunire. More functionally, Dobree proposes that professors give at least one public lecture a year explaining what they do and how their activity is related to the problem of living, 'to the illumination

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of life'. The lecturer in Greek should demonstrate publicly just how Euripides is 'eternally modern'; the Latin lecturer 'might hold forth on the connection between Roman law and democracy'. In still other ways, the university can 'vivify the thought of the region' and become the 'focal centre' for the life of surrounding societies. Dobree repeats Flexner to the effect that universities must occasionally give to society not what it wants but what it needs.30 In a more sedate discourse on culture and its implications Sir Fred Clarke craftily remarks:' There is something more than cynicism in the warning that we should not too readily take our notions of culture from those who make a living by specialized dealings with it.' He carefully leads his reader through two chapters before venturing a definition: Culture covers, in fact, the whole social inheritance of beliefs, habits, moral and aesthetic standards, institutions, manners, techniques, vocations, and all that goes to make up the complex web of a community's inner and outer life. Properly it includes the baser and more menial activities, as well as those of higher refinements for which, sometimes, the name is exclusively concerned.31 One cannot be genuinely human unless one has become the bearer of a culture, since there would be lacking a determinate shape and expressive outlets for one's talent. Human contact would be 'foreclosed through a lack of a common medium'. The business of education is carefully and liberally to induce such conformity in terms of the culture in which one must live, taking care to avoid the excesses of conformity. A living faith, in other words, must not 'wither into a dead orthodoxy'. Thus we are reminded of Hocking's dictum that education must communicate the type and provide for growth beyond the type. Man's sociality is 'structural, not adhesive'. That is, man's sociality is innately part of his individuality, not something simply stuck on to it. This sociality, Clarke concludes, must rest not on a fashionable moral relativism but on an abiding faith. Each age has its own unique quality, and it is important for each age to understand the substance of this uniqueness. But the grave danger of extreme relativism is that it leads to moral opportunism and the atrophy of conscience. It pragmatically assumes that what is to the advantage of a particular group or a particular interest is necessarily right.32

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This faith, of course, is rooted in the Christian tradition and the doctrine of original sin, which Clarke claims to be the 'greatest need' of modern democracy. Christian teaching should become a 'habit of mind and not merely a proclaimed doctrine' (Canon Demant). Sin is a 'state of being' and not a breach of rules, and the deliverance from sin resides in the Christian teaching of repentance, redemption and grace. Christianity emphasizes the radical duality of man's nature as 'at once made in the image of God and a fallen creature'. This concept alone provides a 'balance and sanity of character' with measured dignity and humility. Contrary to psychoanalysis, which in Clarke's conception is concerned primarily with abnormality, belief in original sin is a necessary guarantee of normality. 'The nearer we get to a full acceptance of it, the nearer we come to such full sanity as is possible to men.' Sir Fred knows this to be a fact because it is an ' ancient doctrine about man which crystallizes the experience of many who were not among the worst of human beings'. For him, at any rate, that seems to be valid enough proof for at least' taking the matter seriously'. 33 Birmingham University's professor of German, Roy Pascal, sinks his philosophic dagger even deeper into the heart of both Moberly and Oakeshott as he elaborates on the social ideas of Elvin and Clarke in their relation to internal university behavior and professional scholarship. Formerly president of the Association of University Teachers, Pascal accuses Moberly of being at heart unconvinced of the intrinsic value of the very reforms he advocates, since his essential concern is to introduce something totally different into university life, namely, a new spirit and a new attitude. Moberly 'plasters an ideology on the top of alien and incorrigible behaviour'. He 'fails to give an adequate picture of the changes actually going on in the universities and of the spiritual and practical forces which are responding to the "needs of the times" and revitalizing university tradition'. As for Oakeshott, his condemnation of efforts to throw university doors open to 'large untapped reserves of men and women' indicates that he is actually comrade in spirit with Moberly. Both these men 'join a vast body of opinion which watches with something akin to despair the rise to power of a social class which creates new demands and new standards'. Attacking Moberly's religious emphases, Pascal states: 13

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The religious feeling that Moberly advocates might become, in spite of his wishes, a dogmatic imposition at loggerheads with all intellectual practice, introduced out of political expediency; or, more probably, it would take the form of the savage and arrogant misanthropy of Kierkegaard, not a balm in Gilead but the symptom of acute distress. No, asserts Professor Pascal, Moberly and Oakeshott do not plumb the depths of the crisis in Britain; we have the form of an empire without the power, we talk of social justice but rule colonial peoples, we live on credit, we cling to privileges and blind ourselves to their hollowness. The universities share the moral and material responsibility for cutting through illusions and eliminating these contradictions; if they fail, our culture and our ethos will be a mockery. Constructively, Pascal urges that both students and teachers be given the opportunity to inquire into the ratio of each separate discipline. T h e y should delve into the social relevance of their work, and 'define links' among the various disciplines: ' T h e consciousness of meaning, of value, can arise only if the life of university members is purposefully conjoined with the society which it serves and fertilizes.' Arguing with Arnold Nash, he submits that there is ' no knowledge without a social origin and a social relevance'. Pascal caps his climax by assigning the task of experimenting along these lines to education departments, admonishing that they 'on the whole resolutely ignore university problems'. 3 4 T h e above critics do not by any means expose all the inconsistencies in Moberly's attitude. Sir Walter may be an honest and sincere truth-seeker, but in a number of respects he exhibits unfounded prejudices. T o d a y , he asserts, many of the younger teachers and the abler students find their inspiration in a blend of K a r l M a r x and Francis Bacon. T h e y seek to make the scientific-democratic movement the official policy of the university. I f this is so, then despite what Moberly writes, there must exist, by his own confession, a prevailing philosophy of Weltanschauung. In fact, Moberly calls it a new type o f ' conversion of Constantine' and goes on to define what he considers to be the articles of the new creed, summarized under planning, organization, instrumentalism, rationalism and social progressivism. Furthermore, Moberly makes it clear that the remedies advocated by some philosophies, or ideologies, are 'spurious'. In

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reality, then, what Sir Walter wants is a genuinely Christian orientation and little else. When he states that 'modern man puts his energies into the struggle with nature and with other men who get in his way', whereas 'the Christian puts his energies into the struggle with that in himself and others which unfits them for the real community', he establishes a difference which is difficult to prove. More significantly, despite Moberly's liberal proviso that Christian assumptions need not take the place of secular assumptions, modern man and his philosophy would have a hard time establishing his place in Sir Walter's university, since the judgment of his philosophy would ultimately have to come under the 'light of God'. Again, when Moberly speaks of the Christian conception of an 'ingrained perversity in human nature', he defies a great deal of psychological and biological evidence to the contrary, and is no more correct than was Rousseau, who thought that all children were born intrinsically good. Referring especially to integration, the cult of which can be 'deadening', Moberly makes a nice distinction between unison and harmony, the latter, of course, to be desired and submitted as most easily possible under Christian or religious values. However, by the same token, a university system in China would in its very essence be most harmonious under Confucian teachings, and an Indian university would prosper best under, let us say, a Hindu orientation. What happens to the harmony of universal knowledge, may we inquire, when orchestrated by composers of widely diverse religious or spiritual strains? Doesn't Sir Walter mean unison after all, since harmony would be possible only from the voices of those within the ranks, that is, from those who ascribed to his particular religious theme? Moberly scorns the 'cult of neutrality' sponsored mostly by liberal thinking: 'There are issues so fundamental that ostensible neutrality is illegitimate [Moberly likes this word] and real neutrality is impossible.' Scientific humanists, he says, seem to 'know how' but not enough 'to what end'. He states that their ends are unformulated but asserts that there is little in them to deter adherents from becoming 'adventurers or Kommissars'. Moberly advocates a 'free and open' university, admitting infidels; yet he would bar those who repudiate pure philosophy. He states: ' N o thinking will be repressed as dangerous.' Yet if a professor held, as did Henry Ford, that history was 12-2

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' b u n k . . .however great his erudition.. .he would be unfitted to hold a chair in history'. The place for the dissenter is 'marginal rather than central'. 35 The essentially earthy opinions of Lord Simon of Wythenshaw, social reformer, educator and scientific humanist, have been left till last because he not only provides pertinent responses to the Christian moralists but cites moral exigencies not usually found in religious writings. Lord Simon admits that Sir Walter is 'probably the greatest living authority on the varied aspects of university work and life in this country', but for a number of reasons it is' nonsense to talk about a " crisis in the universities " ' . The crisis, if there is one, is social, rather than educational. ' T h e universities are doing what the country wants; what the country is prepared to pay for.' They are 'carrying out admirably the responsibilities which the country lays upon them', Real crises lie in industrial production, in productivity per head, in the failure of the universities to support, or at least to walk hand in hand with, industry as it progresses, and, conversely, in the failure of industry to work with the universities in such areas as human relations in industry, time and motion studies, scientific management, and psychological placement testing. Referring especially to education and the crisis in coal mining, Lord Simon states: There can be no doubt that the main responsibility for this disastrous British failure must be laid on the shoulders of the directors of the coal mines. The bulk of them were 'practical men' with limited education. Broadly speaking, they did not study foreign methods of production; they did not employ good enough mining engineers. Indeed, these did not exist; there were about ten schools of coal mining in the universities of the country, all of them quite second rate. Enough coal-mining engineers were not produced by the universities; it was not mainly the universities' fault, because if they had existed, they probably would not have been employed. Consequently, the universities should be encouraged to produce larger numbers of graduates for higher technical and managerial posts in industry, and in such a way as to acquire a wider understanding of human relations and of the scientific method. With these and other problems of a crucial nature, asserts Lord Simon, Moberly's 'crisis' is not concerned. ' H e hardly mentions the number of students, the shortage of buildings and teachers, whether the universities have any responsibility for the

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national production crisis, whether there may be a financial crisis in the universities.' Moberly's moral crisis fails to impress Lord Simon because it is merely an extension of the moral crisis of the Western democracies. He points to the field of public affairs and the administrative civil service, which consist of university men and women of 'quite outstanding ability and integrity', and 'rarely equalled' by any other group, and asks, 'What is their "philosophy of life"? Nobody knows what proportion of them is Christian or humanist, and nobody cares, because that seems to be irrelevant.' The principal factor is that they share the values of democracy—' belief in fair play and decency and freedom'—with the great bulk of their compatriots. As for Moberly's reflections on former university education, which supposedly did much to assist students in attaining a philosophy of life, Lord Simon retorts that his sole experience at Cambridge consisted of a warning that he should not attempt to convert other graduates to his 'pernicious views'. That he has a fairly clear philosophy of life at present is due in no part whatever to his university education. Effectively Lord Simon presents his interpretation of the crisis of the university, if, indeed, it can be defined as such: We democrats believe that all that differentiates us from the beasts, all that is noble and fine in human civilization, is due to the free use of the human reason, to the gradual development of methods of discussion and persuasion as opposed to violence; that the disinterested search for the spiritual values of truth, goodness and beauty is only possible in a state built up and carried on by the co-operation of free and responsible men and women... .Why has education not been more successful in producing citizens who bring about a better social order? The reason seems to us to be simple: we have never given sufficient thought to the best method of educating a student for the purpose of fitting him to play his part as a citizen of a democratic state... .The political world is so complex and difficult that it is essential to train men just as consciously and deliberately for their duties as citizens as for their vocation or profession.

The real crisis, then, according to Lord Simon, is one of citizenship morality, which must be based on the tenets of political democracy, social concern and modern humanism. 36 The secular humanist point of view of Lord Simon is developed in a more professional way by the eminent classicist Benjamin Farrington of Swansea, who claims that the unifying

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principle of humanistic education cannot be sought in a supernatural revelation. T h e movement away from revealed religion, states Farrington, ' is often described as a drift. But this is untrue. It has been a struggle, not a d r i f t . . . a part of the intellectual and spiritual achievement of modern m e n . . .a phase in an irreversible process.' Likewise, there is no objective historical proof to substantiate the claim that there is a system of values universally recognized at all times and in all places which could provide the armature of modern education. Human society, Farrington admits, is 'inconceivable' without some rules of behavior, some mores', and societies have independently achieved a similarity of moral behavior out of different cultural backgrounds. But 'this does not constitute proof of an unconditional absolute objective code of values'. He cites the Proceedings of the IXth International Congress of Philosophy (Paris, 1937), where three volumes are devoted to the theory of values, and concludes that it is impossible to regard men's changing conceptions of the Beautiful, the True, and the Good as a primitive and permanent revelation'. Classical humanism is certainly not the way out of present difficulties, comments Farrington. Solutions are to be found in a reinterpretation of human history on the basis of ' eliciting guiding principles ' and analyzing human affairs scientifically. Approvingly, Farrington cites the work of C . S. Lewis, Jean Przyluski, R . G . Collingwood and Gordon Childe. Repeating Przyluski's verdict, ' Le déroulement de l'évolution est suspendu à notre vouloir', Farrington both translates and interprets: If we are to survive, we must will and plan our survival. There is novelty in this situation. Man has never before held in his hands such power for good or ill. The suicide of the human race has become a possibility first in our generation.... Man is the true Proteus, and a humanistic education should follow him into his manifold transformations . 37 Farrington's essay is one of many which appeared in the Tear Book of Education 1951, issued by the London University Institute of Education under the joint editorship of Professor Joseph A . Lauwerys and Dr Nicholas Hans. This issue of the Tear Book is concerned with the problem of religious and moral education in different countries, the general implications of which are pertinent to the British scene. The decay of faith in religion, the

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editors state, is partly traceable to its divisive rather than unifying characteristic: The danger is that by stressing religion and making people more clearly aware of doctrine we may deepen the existing cleavages inside each nation and, equally bad, intensify the gulf between Christian, Marxist, Buddhist, Muslim, Hindu nations—this at a time when the world must move towards political unity or perish. Religion, in a word, which must pull men more closely together, may prove an element of conflict—a divisive rather than a uniting force. Religious education, in other words, aims not only at intensifying man's response to his cosmic environment but also at developing an understanding ofparticular forms of that response. The chief problem existing today consists of finding unifying principles which can be universally recognized. ' The weakness of the religious approach lies in the fact that there are so many rival claims for the universality of some particular revelation, and the inability of believers to agree among themselves on the interpretation of each historical revelation.' In other words, unless and until Christianity itself can be a more unified creed, there is little likelihood that its benefits and teachings will achieve a greater acceptance. 38 The easiest way to point to solutions is, of course, to state that the truth lies between extremes. Exactly where it lies, however, is quite another matter. The problem is far more easily defined than tackled. It is also consoling to state that in Britain morals and religion are in transition. But such consolation is short-lived when one realizes that there is little indication of the precise direction in which the transition is leading, except perhaps to a more mature understanding of materialism and secular humanism. Certainly the religious standards and codes of moral behavior which prevailed in the nineteenth century are no longer as rigidly applied. But it must not be forgotten that British life is grounded in a deep sense of Christian obligation and a profound reverence for the Christian religion because of its insistence on the sanctity of the individual personality. That, maintains Phyllis Doyle, is one of the cornerstones of British democratic tradition. 39 But it is difficult for young people in a democratic society, where free thought is not only permitted but actually fostered, to formulate, establish and maintain carefully circumscribed religious or denominational beliefs in the face of all types of disturbing evidence. Perhaps the best that

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can be hoped for is that out of the struggle for acceptable principles a certain moral purpose can be envisaged which will inevitably bring a formulation of new codes and new standards, even if such a development has to come about as a necessary means of survival against political totalitarianism. Then again, people get tired of purposelessness and vain groping for a moral ideal. Perhaps out of the sheer boredom or continued frustration which purposelessness engenders there may arise a renewed search for an understanding of the meaning of life and a consequent resolve to set up standards of conduct which will receive voluntary homage and allegiance from all elements of society. That the university is one of the chief agents for realizing this sublime ideal few would deny. That the university at the moment is even on its way toward achieving it few would admit.

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concerning the purposes of a university leads to disagreement concerning what it shall teach and how subjects shall be taught. It has already been shown (chapter i) that specialized studies in preparation for professional careers characterized university training from the very first. One of the tenets adopted by the Council of the Association of University Teachers, 19 May 1950, confirms this fact with reference to contemporary technical and vocational education: DISAGREEMENT

In medieval times the study of grammar, rhetoric, dialectic, and theology equipped men for service in Church and State, and led indirectly to the growth of knowledge and scholarship. Mathematics and astronomy were included because of their utilitarian value. Law and medicine are in the same category; they are the oldest of the technologies, and nobody has ever suggested that they be moved elsewhere. In modern times engineering quickly gained a foothold in most universities because it was fundamental to industrial development.1 Today, the need for increased vocational or professional emphases is paramount in all curricular reforms. The idea of making a living as something exclusively for the economic man and not for the gentleman of culture is practically obsolete. Even Sir Charles Grant Robertson, whose ideas on university purpose tend to be traditional, concedes willingly that the university provides the best recruits for the higher ranges of industry, and that direct experience with business and administration must be incorporated in university courses of study.2 The question resolves itself to one of modes and types of emphasis. What happens to the essential unity of knowledge when it is artificially fragmentized? What stress should be laid on immediate,

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specialized, or vocational goals as against the advancement of learning in general? The task of providing definitions and distinctions is assumed by Louis Arnaud Reid, professor of the philosophy of education at the University of London. Vocational education, writes Reid, is simply that type of training which one receives in preparation for an occupation or a profession to be practiced later. Humane education 'implies.. .some breadth of range and genuine contact with, and reflection upon, actual human affairs, the actual life of m a n ' . Arts subjects do not necessarily constitute humane education. However, their explicit content is ' h u m a n e ' , that is, it deals with Homo sapiens and his concerns in society and politics (history); and with man both as an artist (literature and arts) and as a thinker (philosophy). Certain vocational courses may also contribute to humane education, such, for example, as architecture and town planning, but not fuel technology; medicine, but not electrical engineering. The reason for this differentiation lies in the fact that in the case of most technologies the 'direct human reference' is absent. Professor Reid is disturbed about what happens to the soul of students who, because of contemporary trends in the teaching of science and technology, fail to receive the proper amount of humane education during their academic career. Terming this trend to be a 'deadly disease' and a form of 'educational schizophrenia', he writes: What is wrong is not of course science and technology nor the demand for more of them, but a lack of something else in school and university education. It is a failure to recognize, in the urgency of the moment, the deep-seated need to realize fundamental ends as well as immediate ones, the need for redemption from a partial and highly specialized outlook to a wholeness of understanding and feeling and being. The greater the stress, however legitimate, upon urgent requirements, the greater the need for recognition of this other. Within the university a 'bifurcation of nature' has arisen in the essential unity of life and mind, exemplified by the tendency to place aesthetic, moral and religious values on ' one s i d e . . . the subjective side', at the same time confining them to the realm of feeling and imagination; and on the other side placing scientific studies, which are supposed to be more 'real', more intellectual and more 'truth-finding'. Even the Percy Report

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on Higher Technological Training made no adequate attempt to deal with the problem, observes Reid, though it admitted t h a t ' more attention should be paid to developing a liberal outlook on life (including adaptability and character) Unfortunately, science, continues Reid, is 'autonomously bounded by limits outside it and prescriptions inside it'. Physical science is interested in the physical world but 'not in the observing, feeling, knowing subject, beauty and aesthetic experience, the heavens as declaring the glory of God. Infinities and experiences are taboo to the scientist from nine to five.' Thus science is 'unrepentantly abstract': T h e results of science are most definite, because most defined, that is, limited. T h e results are ' r e a l ' . . . .Prediction, control, and verification by observing the fact, these are the driving, cutting edge of science, its triumph and glory. Science divides to conquer, and does it with success. She achieves victory by the admirable strategy of securing and consolidating her positions one by one in a strenuous war of intellectual eye and hand and finely adapted weapon.

But peace, too, is a desire of the human heart. The common human experience, which is the raw material of the humanities, seeks expression in its desire for peace and understanding through the vision of poets, the thought-concepts of philosophers, and the teachings of religion. Nor does science have a monopoly on objectivity: It takes discipline for the literary man to enter into the flux of value-yielding events which belong to an entirely different metier from his own. T h e historian must constandy overcome prejudice. T h e moralist needs self-abnegation. But perhaps the most difficult — a n d most important—of all is the humility required to understand and assess religion, for those who at the outset have an antipathy for it.

Humane education, then, can be neither arts nor science education exclusively. Nor can it simply be an addition or composite of arts and sciences, because ' the method of each is not only different from the other, but contradictory and opposed'. Reid writes confidently: T h e enjoyment of poetry is both not scientific and antipathetic to science; the experiment in chemistry is not only not an enjoyment of poetry but any poetry here would cloud and muddle—and woe betide the student who dreams poetry in the lab! Sheer chemistry and

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sheer poetry when they make contact are, and always have been, sheer enemies. And you cannot add enemies together and make some mystic harmony. Science, strictly speaking, cannot be humanized; nor can humane studies, except now and then, be scientific. T o be 'perfectly humanly educated' would be to possess a totality of outlook—a totality which would be 'spurned' by science and never achieved by a single human study (except perhaps philosophy). But a balance of studies is possible and a balance in one's appreciation of human values attainable for the striving. T w o conditions are necessary, according to Reid: (i) students must not be starved of fundamental satisfactions for the sake of developing strictly limited abilities; (2) the university must preserve the lively mind, and it can do so only if it recognizes that very often there is a 'deadweight of public opinion which is wrong in its sense of values'; indeed, the good home and the good school will always attempt something a 'bit better' than social opinion. T o achieve any sort of perfection in humane education, humane subjects with their stress on the reflective understanding of the concreteness and individuality of experience, thought, intuition and feeling must b e ' compensated' by scientific studies, with their emphasis on the abstractly intellectual and their common concern for 'deliberately confined parts or aspects of reality'. Humane education ideally includes the development of all man's fundamental faculties, and these, concludes Reid, involve scientific enterprise of every kind. 3 For its part, classical humanism will not allow the ancient distinction between general education and vocational training to go unrecognized in modern practice. John Morrison, fellow and tutor in Greek at Trinity College, Cambridge, wants us to go to ancient Greece for first principles. Morrison is not to be deterred in his reasoning by Plato's alleged antidemocratic spirit, and he is fully aware of the prejudice he has to overcome if he wishes to win public respect for the Athenian conservative philosophers. The university originates, states Morrison, in the lectures of men like Protagoras; also, the public recitation of the poet was the first form of higher education. Another innovation, in the fifth century B.C., was the art of speech. It was recognized that persuasion and eloquence were more powerful forces than reason:' The law court depends not on justice but on the spoken

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word'; the public official best able to influence justice through rhetoric commanded very high fees. But Socrates was opposed to the teaching of rhetoric as an academic subject. From that precedent Morrison draws a lesson for the' true educator' today, who 'should not teach how to speak, but what to speak'. Simply and easily Morrison transfers his reader to Socrates' distinction between a liberal and a vocational education, as Socrates corrects Hippocrates: 'You didn't learn your lessons, then, with a profession in view, so as to become a doctor or sculptor or teacher, but with a view to an education "as befits a man of freedom and independence".' Answering, Hippocrates admits that the second kind of instruction is really what he ought to have. ' If that is the case,' enjoins Socrates, ' you are handing over your soul for treatment to somebody you don't know anything about.' Instead, Hippocrates is advised to seek a ' doctor of the soul'. According to Morrison, Socrates assumes that school education is nonprofessional, 'an assumption that is not always made by us'. There is a difference between technical training and general education; the latter, synonymous with schooling, 'alone benefits the man of freedom and independence'. Education is fundamentally concerned with the 'nourishment of the soul'. Socrates condemned the teachers of his day because they' merely retail knowledge without considering or knowing whether it is good or bad for the soul; and in fact, the rhetorical training in which they specialize is morally worthless'. If Socrates' challenge is accepted, the universities, writes Morrison, will (i) more sharply differentiate between general education and technical training, accentuating the former by 'admitting variations of interest and talent'; and (2) assume increased responsibility for the total moral welfare of the individual, 'which since the collapse of the Christian ideal of education has progressively declined'. If the universities would only see their way clear to fulfill these two tasks, they would be giving the community a greater understanding of their true mission. Morrison acknowledges that the ultimate judge of university accomplishment is society, but he takes no account of the implications of modern social progress.4 The literary humanists are not without their men of strategy. Professor V . H. Galbraith, patron saint of Bruce Truscot, goes a step further than Reid and Morrison in his assertion that it is

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the humanities and not the technical subjects which are the most practical. The pragmatic value of the humanities lies in their power to assist people in making correct decisions in everyday life. The humanities treat the big questions in a nonspecialized, technical way, with very tangible and practical results: Every man has to make decisions of vital importance for his own life. He has, for example, to decide what church he will attend or stay away from. He has to decide what woman he will marry, what school he will send his children to, which political party he will belong to. The fact that you are a physicist, a chemist, or an expert electrician will not, as such, give you the slightest help in answering any one of these questions. Why not? Because they are not scientific; they are human. Now, the sort of thinking a man does when he chooses a church, a wife, or a political party, is precisely the sort of thinking which an arts faculty seeks to develop. Here the right decision is as much a matter of feeling as a matter of thought.... The arts student pursuing at his university, perhaps rather abstractly, the truth about great matters is simply acquiring a true sense of values. It is this which makes all the difference between good and bad decisions. If the humanities are 'bled white' in favor of the so-called concretely practical subjects, Galbraith continues, there will be an inevitable lowering of the general standards of intellectual life in every university in the country. Admittedly fascinated by this revelation, Bruce Truscot declares in his engaging but querulous Red Brick and These Vital Days that the education of young men in feeling and judgment has almost ceased. This type of education is best achieved in the humanities: And we Arts teachers, who sincerely believe that French is as important as physics and refuse to admit that history is bunk, felt very keenly the depreciatory attitude taken up towards Arts subjects both by the man in the street, who is the product of our imperfect education of the past, who can only be pitied, and by the Government, who ought to know better. 6 Of a far different orientation is the renowned classicist and scientific humanist Benjamin Farrington, who pronounces it 'foolish' to identify humane studies exclusively with what is taught in the faculty of arts. Since science is a creation of man, it must take its place among the humanities. ' The arts are concerned with the activity of man in society, the sciences with the understanding and control of external nature.' As a matter of

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fact, there is ' n o common consciousness of purpose' in the arts as currently taught, whereas science possesses a 'clear social function in the control of external n a t u r e . . . ' . Society could not exist without science: If we say that the arts man becomes a humanist as the science man becomes a scientist, it would not be true. No common consciousness of purpose is created; consequently the arts man has no organization to define, defend, and propagate his mode of thought. Not being himself clear as to what his social function is, it is not to be wondered at that he cannot make it clear to others. The trouble with humanistic teaching via the arts is that the fundamental meaning and purpose of subject matter are discounted. 'Literary studies relapse into dilettantism.. .verbalism reigns supreme.' This is especially true in the case of the classics, where the vain hope has been expressed that ' a systematic study of this beautiful and logical language [Latin] might exercise a beneficial influence on the child's prose style'. Real humanistic education should show how man became a hunter, farmer, merchant, monk, or king; not merely how he became an essayist, poet, or playwright. 'As things are at present', Farrington criticizes, 'humanistic education tends to be an introduction to the refinements of life, even to the entertainments of life, rather than to life itself.... We must aim to produce men, not schoolboys.' He concludes: Humanistic education would assist the arts man to acquire some insight into the working of society, some confidence in the possibility of improving it by proficiency in his work, some awe at man's achievement in building the civilization we possess, and a determination not to let it be destroyed.6 For a Christian humanist of the stamp of Arnold Nash, unity cannot be achieved within the framework of science, or the humanities, or by any means other than the Christian faith. The answer does not lie, however, in religious accretions to the university curriculum. Man throughout recent history has become so ' intoxicated by a concern with the part rather than the whole of life' that the worship of God the Creator has become not the ultimate end, as it should, but simply one of a number of ends man strives to achieve. 'After four centuries of intellectual endeavor modern man finds that he has exchanged the intellectual idolatry of scholasticism for the intellectual polytheism

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of scientific positivism.' T h e Christian teacher, therefore, has a 'task of supreme moment'; namely, 'to help create a Weltanschauung which steers a middle path between the Charybdis of liberal atomism and the Scylla of totalitarian dogmatism'. In the so-called secular subjects Christian scholars will have the responsibility of working out a new ' Christian map of knowledge', thus putting an end to the widespread 'fallacious notion' that religion is merely one subject among others in the curriculum: T h e question at issue is not whether we shall set the Biblical point of view over and against scientific knowledge, but whether we shall accept a Biblical or some other frame of reference for understanding human nature and into that fit the facts drawn from modern science.' Summoning London's Sir Fred Clarke and Oxford's M . L . Jacks to his aid, Nash concludes that the ultimate purpose of all education, when stripped of its earthly integument, is really ' to save souls—to be a vale for soul-making'. Religious education is neither religion nor education, 'for if Christianity is true, it must unify all subjects taught'. 7 Nash's recommendations may be summarized.as follows: (1) T h e liberal democratic university must find a way to the glory of G o d ; only therein does unity lie. (2) T h e chemist, the sociologist, the historian and others must discover the meaning for themselves of a Christian profession or vocation. (3) Specialized subjects must seek ways in which they can work within a Christian speculum mentis; this will entail application of Christian criteria. (4) Efforts should be make toward achieving an intellectual synthesis for the twentieth century which shall establish God, and not theology or any other system, as sovereign. 8 A n equally ardent believer in a return to religious (Christian) foundations is H . A . Jones, formerly provost of Leicester, who maintains that it is in reality itself, and not in any one aspect of the human approach to it, or even in the sum of human approaches, that the integration of human life can be found. Modern science, asserts Jones, is psychologically the child of the Judaic-Christian tradition, for 'it was not until man's fear of the universe had been expelled by his belief in the Fatherhood of God that his instinct of curiosity had free play and he began to examine the world in which he lived'. T h e science which has

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been the result of that transformation has tended since Huxley to disown its parent. ' It will be a happy day for mankind when it returns home, free but in fellowship.'9 In contrast to these interpretations, the theologically minded Professor M . V . C . Jeffreys asserts that there is no antithesis between liberal and vocational education; in fact, Christian teachings demonstrate that education represents simply a ' special instance of that particularized fulfilment, or " i n c a r n a t i o n " , which is of the nature of T r u t h itself'. All ideas to the contrary are 'historically connected with the disparagement of manual labour and the assumption of a social élite'. Preparation for a vocation is not an inferior type of education, but a 'significant orientation of all true education'. Further, 'the merely academic is not Christian, whether at the level of swotting for the School Certificate or at the level of the esoteric and dignified [intellectual] ping-pong played between professors and students in universities'. T r u t h must be not merely beheld but lived. 'Be ye doers of the word and not hearers only', he quotes St Paul. T r u t h is involved in process and action (Jeffreys's italics), and the pursuit of truth can never be a purely intellectual operation : ' Man's business is not to seek truth and then contemplate it, but to live in a faith that must be fulfilled in action, particularized in time and place.' 1 0 Concepts of character education which were established in the Elementary School Code (1926), continues Jeffreys, are ' applicable to any type of English school other than the purely technical institutions'. This means that 'the various types of schools, other than the purely technical, recognize that they have a responsibility for character training'. For Professor Jeffreys, institutions fostering vocational education may fittingly respond to demands of Christian morality, but there is no w a y in which that morality can be taught in the purely technical schools. 11 J o h n Adams, warden of Crewe Hall, Sheffield, claims that specialized studies are 'inevitable'. It is the 'handling' of the specialty which is most important. ' I f the jibe at specialization is that ultimately it means knowing everything about nothing, the equally absurd retort can be made that general education means knowing nothing about everything.' Dangers there are, and many of them, Adams admits, in too much concentration on one field, but the remedy is ' not to make the scientist read 13

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philosophy but to encourage him to be more philosophic about his science; not to make the historian study the grammar of science, but to stimulate him to examine the main ideas, achievements, and methods of science in their effect upon history'. Specialization and vocational utility have attained a new and acceptable status, so that the problem centers not on whether they are an educational good, but on how good they áre for the educational development of universities and students. Citing Ortega y Gasset and J . S. Mill, Adams states that there must be in the community not only 'some organ intimately associated with all the more important forms of knowledge and thought in their most fully developed expression', but also 'some group or groups which are probing further, refining and revising what already appears established, and so, by a process which is truly dialectical, establishing new truths, new concepts, and, where it is appropriate, new faith'. If a society is mobile and liberal, it follows that university practice should respond in kind. In a society which is highly specialized the university cannot avoid stress on specialized studies, the dangers of which are due, not to any intrinsic frailty, but to 'wrong handling'. We have to consider what can be learned, as Ortega explained, as well as what can be taught. Too often, the undergraduate is introduced to specialization in the wrong way, so that when he begins to ply his trade he finds that his foundations are insecure. 'What counts', Adams asserts, 'is whether at the university he has learned a real discipline of enquiry and judgment.' Penetratingly he asks: Is it not the duty of the university to promote such work [as the scientific study of materials, construction techniques, or forms of propulsion] and to provide facilities for undergraduates to enter upon it, provided that the social importance of the technology be established, and that the discipline is such that the undergraduate is given not merely a technical drill, but is stimulated to think and enquire on logical, scientific lines and to see the wider bearings of his study? Adams then points to the social repercussions of ¡science, which 'challenge the enquiring mind to reflect on the problems of sociology and economics'. For that matter, since the technologist must also express himself with clarity, logic and elegance, he will, according to Adams, gain immeasurably from an appreciation of language and literature. Thus, general education

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would necessarily be integrated into specialized disciplines and specialized subjects would be woven into the general cultural fabric of the university. Neither element would be a design all of its own. 12 In his letter to the author (22 December 1951) Adams extends this concept: The plea I was entering was for the scientist and the technologist, for example, to be brought into touch with other fields of study and scholarship through his specialized interest; to be made conscious of the art of language through being made to write much more than he usually is, so far as I can discover, in our modern universities; to be induced to think about social, economic, or even aesthetic and moral problems by being challenged about the repercussions of his particular field of study, etc. I would like to see the same process reversed for the arts man, though obviously in different ways. Viewing the matter in similar perspective, the late Sir Frederick Ogilvie claims that specialization is fundamental to higher learning: ' It would be an evil day if the modern search for general education put specialists off their stride.' But experience suggests that the specialist is a happier and more productive individual if he is 'something more than a specialist'. Ogilvie conceives that there are four principal strands in the fabric of Western civilization: the classical, the Christian, the democratic and the scientific. He asks, ' Can university people be said to be educated if they are without some knowledge of all four?' But the acquisition of knowledge is not enough; universities should see to it that students have ample opportunity for narrowing the gulf that exists between arts and sciences; specialized courses should be linked intimately with learning in all four realms cited above. 13 The controversy over whether education should be vocational or liberal Ogilvie treats lightly, observing that there is no sharp antithesis between the two. A liberal education does not necessarily disqualify a man from filling certain posts successfully, as the results of civil service experience testify. Ogilvie reminds his reader that one of the most famous of liberal courses, the Oxford 'Greats' course, was for many years also highly professional in nature: ' It opened many doors in politics and helped a man towards No. 10.' Conversely, courses which possess a professional or vocational bias may have considerable passive value. Faculties of theology, law and medicine have been 'heavily entrenched' for centuries, and many of the courses 13-3

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taught in these faculties have been liberal as well as professional. In any case, 'A thing is not tainted just because it may be of use'. 14 Extending the main lines of this argument, others dwell on the dangers of an intellectualism which divorces itself from practical issues. Even Sir Richard Livingstone warns of the seductive power of knowledge per se: Knowledge may become an end in itself, irrespective of whether it is worth knowing. The scholar is seduced by his technique. So we see Housman, a man of penetrating and poetic imagination, giving years of his life to studying a third-rate writer like Manilius. It is of such research that Jowett said, 'That sort of learning is a great power if a man can only keep his mind above it'. It may have its justification: , , , , , High heaven neglects the lore Of nicely calculated less and more.15

Harold C. Shearman, vice-chairman of the London County Council Education Committee, is particularly wary of an intellectualism that is obscurantist. Voicing impatience with ' disillusioned bores' who deal out 'scraps of information' to their students, he repeats what in America is to be found in every student-teacher's notebook: 'The education of the individual must be related to the whole life of the individual—and therefore to something beyond the individual, namely, the society in which he will play his part.' Shearman scorns some of the inherited concepts for which certain people still have a blind affection and comments on the past: If the age of steam compelled recognition, its educational implications were little understood. 'What I want is Facts' might be an educational programme for Thomas Gradgrind; but what was needed was an education which would enable men to grasp the principles of the new scientific method which was transforming the world and their relations with the social evolution as a whole.16

With infallible good humor, Sir Fred Clarke submits that higher learning ceases to exist when it becomes merely an intellectual pastime. Referring to what he characterizes as the 'romanticism of the intellectually interesting', he lightly chides the guilty parties for their academic irresponsibility: ' For such as these, intellectual exercise is not much more than an absorbing pastime, they are not seriously concerned to do anything except to go on with the g a m e . . . . ' Sir Fred deplores the artifi-

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cial line that so many people insist on drawing between one's culture and one's calling, and sees only cultural dislocation as a result: ' One of the worst effects of the Industrial Revolution was to cause culture and vocation to fall apart, so that we got a devitalized culture and dehumanized education.' Such thoughts are, of course, not new. Clarke observes that four hundred years ago the French essayist, Montaigne, observed in his Pedantry: Like birds that go forth from time to time, to seek for grain and bring it back to their young in their beaks, without tasting it, our pedants go gathering knowledge from books and never take it further than their lips before disgorging it. And what is worse, their pupils are no better nourished by it than they are themselves. It passes from one person to another and only serves to make a show or provide entertainment.17 As science must be unified with social progress, states John Bernal, so should the various branches of science be connected with all the elements of higher learning. An effort must be made to' recapture the ancient spirit of a university, where the different disciplines of study are related to one another'. To this end, Bernal recommends the formation of general societies of scientists, historians and economists, who will agree to discuss questions affecting all of them in different ways. Specialization is 'peculiarly self-defeating'. Intensive teaching prevents the acquisition of a general culture. The vast extent of any specialized realm prevents all but the most talented student from acquiring a detailed competence; this competence should in any case be reserved for postgraduate study. Preferably,' sample' or exploratory courses should be taken in as widely separated fields as possible. Then, Bernal is certain, students would not only do good scientific work but also come to understand what their science is about and how it might be used for human welfare. The only solution for specialization lies in the creation of higher universities—lengthening the present three-year training to five or even seven years, and increasing government aid accordingly. With particular reference to medical training, the course should be longer; future physicians could repay their debt to the community by their subsequent service, 'as they now do in the Soviet Union'. The collaboration of the different disciplines is even more necessary in medicine, since the physician's functions are becoming more and more social and psychological.

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As for the social sciences, which 'still divorce thought from action', Bernal states: ' W e cannot separate without loss of understanding the behaviour of individuals from their political and economic relations, or the structure of society from earlier forms.' The universities should be genuinely concerned with converting social science from its present analytical and descriptive bias to one of an experimental, applied nature: ' What we need is a coherent and unified picture of human society, in which the different disciplines of economic, psychological, and anthropological analysis and the reconstruction of history by the methods of scholarship and archaeology find a natural place.' Again, One of the chief evils of present-day specialization is that in far too many universities there are only one or two of each particular kind of specialist, and this isolation leads to the development of that caricature of human knowledge, the scientific specialist who knows more and more about less and less. To remedy this situation, the specialists should be grouped in a smaller number of centers; there would be no necessity for each scientific center to possess institutes for all the specialties. In some instances there might be need for only one center in an entire country; in others, perhaps only one or two in the entire world. Bernal cannot divorce his ideas on specialization from his concept of the social function of science. For him specialization has a sort of imperiousness about it, a repulsive pomposity, an intolerable aloofness. The specialist 'enjoys that delicious sense of personal possession of knowledge' which is the 'ultimate crime of the scientist'. Bernal terms specialization 'knowledge monopoly' and the reflection of a striving for personal and private enjoyment, rather than for universal happiness. Also, an integrated society based on human co-operation is possible only when we 'shall have done with the evils of specialization'. At least, that is what Bernal concludes, though in all his historical recital he gives no example of a specialist whose studies were so much his own that society did not benefit, except perhaps in the eighteenth century, when science assumed a more contemplative aspect. But the 'real' scientists, that is, those who benefited society in a profitable and practical way, were for the most part not connected with the universities. The same

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situation prevailed in the seventeenth century with the Royal Society, which by Bernal's own interpretation consisted mostly of amateurs. 18 Bernal's more recent collection of essays, published under the title of the first one in the series, namely, The Freedom of Necessity, shows little change of attitude, despite a decade of change in the relation of society and politics to science and education. Written in more restrained terms and in loftier phraseology than his previous work, Bernal's essay on ' Science and the Humanities' attacks artificial divisions in human culture and exposes some of the bases for the university's traditional insistence on separating the sciences and the humanities. As a neo-Marxist, the London professor still claims that much of this attitude is traceable to what he restrictively calls a 'breakup of society into a ruling caste, who dominated men by words of power, and a working caste.. .who worked with their hands to produce food and goods'. (Bernal tends to confine his idea of a worker to one who is employed solely in manual labor.) The rulers had thoughts and souls, Bernal continues, whereas the workers had only their hands; they were the body. Though amply challenged by such men as Francis Bacon, consequent dualisms and separatisms have unfortunately become the pattern of university curricula. Bernal is certain that this is 'a profoundly unsatisfactory pattern, because it can be sustained only by ignoring. . .at least half the human experience; or if an attempt is made to combine without unifying them, by the obligation to maintain unrelated compartments of thought and consequently to split and diminish the human personality'. In fact, he concludes, 'The union of science and humanities is for us a condition of survival'. 19 From the more strictly educational point of view Belfast's Professor Ubbelohde submits that some subject-matter segregation should take place at higher levels as a matter of sound administration and practical consideration, since there is value in separating specialized studies from the unfavorable encroachments of studies of a more academic nature. Actually, separate institutes for advanced technology ' appear to offer the best safeguard both for the social functions of the technologies and for the integrity of academic studies'. A teacher of chemistry, Ubbelohde is convinced that the modern university, like the medieval but unlike the nineteenth-century university, is be-

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coming increasingly vocational, especially in its undergraduate divisions. This does not imply any surrender of the ideal of integral education at the highest level by universities. ' But the contemporary idea of the university must recognize. .. that the structure of integral education is to be built around explicit vocational objectives.'20 On the other hand, Sir Eustace Percy, who gave his name to the Percy Report, is strongly opposed to segregating university specialties of whatever kind. In this instance, ' the expulsion of technologists from existing universities would have to be accompanied by a no less wholesale exodus of professors of pure science. In times when the unity of knowledge is essential, there are no problems in the teaching of technology or in research which could be solved through isolation.'21 According to the Nuffield College group, a university must maintain a 'reasonable range' of studies and not allow itself to become subservient to the demands of any one profession or field of research. But specialization, whether resulting from a policy of private research or from a preference on the part of a university faculty, will be 'barren' and 'narrowing' if it is not based on an adequate study of other disciplines: As Mill said, the political economist who is only a political economist is not even a good political economist.... Universities, therefore, must limit themselves to what is consistent with preserving the special character of the education they give; which means, in a period of expansion like the present, giving first priority, so far as they are in a position to do so, to increasing the supply of university teachers and research workers.

Again, concerning their attitude on the responsibility of the universities regarding the professions, especially in the technical field, the Nuffield College group have this to say: The line between purely professional and purely scientific studies is, of course, not so clear.... In practice it is blurred, and similar work is done on both sides. The university is, however, primarily concerned with the task of preparing the mind by relating the purely professional to the purely scientific element in the problems studied. On the other hand, practical training for a limited purpose can be done more economically by an agency different from a university; a wide range of technical schools exists to meet this need. 22

Agreeing with Sir Eustace Percy on maintaining the unity of knowledge, but not on the basis of opportunism, is Professor

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M. L. Oliphant, former director of the department of Physics at Birmingham and currently director of the Research School of Physical Sciences at the National University of Australia. Oliphant defines a university as a ' corporate body of individuals whose aim it is to preserve and continually review the knowledge and culture gained in the past, and aggressively to attack and extend the frontiers of that knowledge'. This dual purpose has been shamefully neglected, even by the older universities, in favor of a purely vocational training and the adoption of programs designed to solve the ad hoc problems of the day. Oliphant urges that more attention be given to abstractly general branches of knowledge and less adulation paid to what might be termed the 'nominalism of momentary emergency'. Specifically referring to his own field, he states: A university is not a static foundation, but one which absorbs, by an evolutionary process, the best of the results of all serious experiments in higher education. In my view the experiment of the nineteenth century, which introduced the complex divisions of engineering and applied science to the universities, has been a failure, whereas the growth of the fundamental sciences has added to their stature.23

Oliphant believes that our ideals of life, and hence of the university, must still be determined to a large extent by our instinctive reactions. Not a Christian, he confesses, in the sense of Sir Walter Moberly's convictions, he is nevertheless awed by the mystery of nature. As a scientist he is humbled accordingly. He is convinced, however, that some subjects taught in the universities are not branches of knowledge; consequently, the institutions in which they are taught suffer greatly as a result. The attempt to teach engineering in a university is ' unrealistic', because 'no university can hope to possess equipment for the purpose which is adequate or which remains up to date and in line with that used in industry'. If the applied sciences are to remain in the university, they must become studies in the engineering sciences: 'Courses in sewage disposal, petroleum production, brewing, tanning of leather, etc., must be replaced by a thorough training in modern mathematics, modern physics in all its branches, recent advances in chemistry, and in other subjects cognate to the future of technology.' Only in this way can the university maintain accord with its ' real' spirit and function, and prevent itself from being rapidly ' dragged

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down to the level of a technical college'. Oliphant, it would seem, believes in preserving the idea of an essential difference between the theory and practice of knowledge, above all, in the scientific field if modern man wants to preserve the 'true' university idea.24 In his private correspondence with the author Oliphant states that as vice-chancellor of the University of Birmingham he did all in his power to foster the study of the applied sciences while, at the same time, 'endeavoring to persuade the country that the only way in which adequate finance for higher education and research in those subjects could be provided was to create a few properly endowed specialist colleges, if possible as institutes attached to one or more universities'. The idea was to lay foundations for the study of engineering sciences on lines already established by Cambridge in such a way that ' the best of the graduates should become real technologists by further study and research in the institutes'. In his experience, 'progressive industries in the United Kingdom prefer the Cambridge graduates in the engineering tripos to the men fed with technical detail a.t the expense of principles in one of the provincial universities'. Technical knowledge, he continues, is 'purely empirical and impossible to teach in a university. It is also ephemeral and changes continuously. On the other hand, technological knowledge is enduring, is concerned with the principles of engineering and reacts strongly on the abstract sciences.' It is evident that Oliphant wants more attention paid to technical knowledge and applied science, but not within the framework of a 'true university'. Oliphant's concluding remarks are sufficiently pertinent to be repeated in full: Anyone accustomed to the administration of a university knows how the very proper claims of the applied sciences for more and more money (to pay more and more expensive members of staff who have to be enticed away from industry by monetary baits, to supply equipment and technical assistance and bigger and better buildings to house them) upset the balance of the university. The liberal arts and sciences have to be starved to provide for these needs because the immediate increase in productivity is a natural aim transcending all long-term considerations.

From the literary camp measured support for Oliphant is discernible in F. R. Leavis's plea for bringing the special sciences and studies into 'significant contact' so as 'to discover how to

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train a kind of central intelligence by or through which they can, somehow, be brought into relation'. Leavis confesses that he cannot be brief and convincing about this relation, but he knows t h a t ' a smattering, or even a good deal, of half a dozen specialisms doesn't make an educated mind'. Specialization is inevitable, to be sure, but the problem is to produce specialists who are ' i n touch with a humane centre'. Relying on Ortega y Gasset, Leavis refers to the 'peculiar brutality and aggressive stupidity with which a man comports himself when he knows a great deal about one thing and is totally ignorant of the rest'. H e then opines: Even a specialist who merely knows that there is a centre will be better than that. And even the mere specialist to whom this degree of education cannot be ascribed, will, in his complacent barbarism, be less cut off from the centre if he is in touch with fellow-specialists who are themselves, in some measure, not uneducated. 25 Sensing the need for synthesis or integration in place of 'merely a dry, if accurate, knowledge of a single specialty', Sir Ernest Barker looks around for ways in which this operation may be performed. T h e threefold proposal of the British Association for the Advancement of Science is cited as having special appeal, because it involves: (i) the introduction of a new general degree course called ' philosophy, natural and h u m a n ' , which would treat the modern world against a background of natural science; (2) the initiation of all students of sciences and technology into the general field of sociology and citizenship, with a view toward broadening and humanizing the range of their scientific outlook (after Bernal); and (3) conversely, though not equally compulsorily, the presentation to arts students of the essential methods and main outcomes of modern science, alike in their application to nature, to the mind of man, and to the study of human society. Whatever plan is adopted, Barker submits that subjects need constantly to be thought out afresh in terms of contemporary existence and under the light thrown on them b y other branches of knowledge. 28 T h e university is a 'place not only at which subjects are studied but in which life is to be lived—and distinctively the life of thought'. Agreeing with Moberly's characterization of the university as 'the deep level where real decisions are m a d e ' , Professor W . R . Niblett calls for an environment which is 'alive

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and warm'. In this respect, Oxbridge has the advantage over Redbrick. Once one is inside its walls, it is even ' more democratic', because it is 'easier to make friends and to discuss things at a deeper level than in Redbrick'. Perhaps nowhere in the literature is there a more lucid statement of the essential difference between the two types of universities than that expressed by Professor Niblett: The intellectual life of Oxbridge is fanned to flame by all sorts of influences other than lectures, organized classes, and arrangements consciously made either by the university or the colleges. In Redbrick the quality of the student's understanding and extent of intellectual grasp is apt to be more dependent upon the individual professors and lecturers than at Oxbridge. For if they are alive in imagination and if their interest obviously reaches out beyond their own subject, that will matter a great deal. If they are dark and dead, some at any rate of their students will never come within the range of any other light bright enough to awaken them. In Oxbridge there is always the spirit and beauty of the place working silently. But Redbrick has certain advantages over Oxbridge: (i) there is a closer and more vital connection with the problems of the times; it is less possible to become merely academic and escapist, 'and in the course of time a desiccated don'; (2) student bodies at Redbrick are drawn from a wider range of British society; (3) with this wider representation Redbrick is better able to interpret the nation's needs and to serve them; and (4) Redbrick is actually guiding Oxbridge in newer concepts and practices of education. However, the two types of universities must not feel that they are inseparable. Niblett urges a 'cutting of more channels' of communication between Oxbridge and Redbrick. More 'twow a y ' traffic is needed between older and newer constituents for arriving at ultimate answers to the challenging questions of the day. This ideal is closely connected with the attainment of unity in university life, with which the professor is chiefly concerned. The increasing size of the universities, overcrowded conditions and intolerable discomfort, together with the artificial line of demarcation which has grown between the faculties, combine to create a 'culpable disunity'. A third cause is the diversity of study programs. The specialist learns to speak the language of his specialism; subjects which entered the curriculum only recently, such as economics, education and sociology, for the

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ostensible purpose of serving as links between other special fields are fast developing into specialties themselves. Philosophy, especially, has been tempted to sell its birthright for a mess of pottage. Working his way through a subjective theory of the function of analysis cognate with the teaching of Sir Richard Livingstone, Professor Niblett emerges with the conviction that there must be a greater concern for the interrelationship of subjects, 'so that life does not remain a series of isolated continents and countries, separated from each other by unexplored seas'. The way to achieve synthesis is through life itself. If the student becomes too completely a specialist 'working on the bed of his own bit of the o c e a n h e may never feel the need for coming up into life at all: So often people in universities go about wearing spectacles specially designed to enable them to see the creatures inhabiting a particular part of the universe. You may encourage them as much as you like to stare through the spectacles at life in general but they will never be able to see without the queerest distortions. Any experiences which come to a student and increase his human understanding will h e l p . . . even a humble task done on behalf of the university as a whole—collecting money on rag day, prompting for a university play, serving at a refectory table—may help to develop a sense of corporate responsibility.

The penchant for isolating subject matter likewise comes in for sharp criticism from Bonamy Dobree, who argues for an inquiry into mutual values, uses and relationships. Education of whatever stamp implies the possession of a free and inquisitive mind able to see relations between things. The majority of students, warns Dobree, are graduated without any sense of the interrelationship of knowledge : The slogan 'learning for learning's sake' may easily become as meaningless and barren as that o f ' art for art's sake'; both must be for the sake of life, the eager, aspiring life which heaves tumultuously about us. Moreover, this duty of the university to itself carries with it the obligation of its members to discuss with free and enquiring minds all the crucial issues of the day, religious, social, philosophic, economic, and political; and further, to give a lead in welcoming and appraising new manifestations in the arts.... For who else is there to set a standard in thinking about these matters?27

Dobree joins Moberly and Niblett in condemning the prevalent practice of separating the physical from the spiritual. In the

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absence of a 'missionary fervor', which all three feel is alone capable of preventing the fragmentation of learning, who or what is to strike the balance ? The answer is, according to Dobrée, the spiritual element. From the more mellowed intellect of Sir Fred Clarke come new and somewhat revolutionary interpretations on the history of specialization and vocational training in relation to classical education and humanistic training. Clarke's views tend to demolish much of the subjectivistic, exclusive type of thinking that has its basis more in personal taste than in educational history. In Clarke's judgment the plea for classical education as the 'real thing' and for a purely humanistic training unspoiled by technical studies is 'relatively modern'. Directly influenced by Cardinal Newman, it has little historical precedent earlier than the eighteenth century. Following MacMurray's findings (The Boundaries of Science), Sir Fred writes that the cult of knowledge for its own sake tends to rise in a society that may be ready to utilize the techniques of a new order but is not prepared to accept any changes in the basic structure of an existing order. It opposes any displacement of an existing culture in which it has a vested interest by one which would transfer the social advantages to another class. In a tactfully worded passage Sir Fred develops the theme that 'the plea for knowledge for its own sake becomes socially suspect as the dress of an interested ideology'. Boldly he states: The ideal of a disinterested student pursuing knowledge 'for its own sake ' may express the interest of a regime which has the strongest reasons for not wishing to see new knowledge used instrumentally all along the line—that is, in social and political reconstruction as well as in the provision of scientific techniques.... In such conditions studies are the material of a defensive façade rather than the source of instruments of positive social action. British classical-humanist education, states Clarke, has been 'shot through with compromise', revealed historically in at least two respects: (i) From the eighteenth century on, this type of education was afforded as an appropriate preparation for a vocation, namely, that of training rulers, as Locke disclosed when he explained his reasons for taking Latin (it was ' necessary to a gentleman ' and of little or no use to anyone else). And (2) the classical curriculum provided the substance of an education for such professions as the ministry, teaching, law and

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medicine. The ' clerkly' tradition, as Sir Fred expresses it, is still in evidence; indeed the 'best-known Bidding Prayer of the Anglican Church with its reference to men trained for service is quite frank about it'. Men like Arnold and Thring effectively, though artificially, wedded the spirit of traditional humanism with the complex demands of national life, and the Oxford of Jowett and Green felt it necessary to establish a rigorous system of selection and training for the higher civil service. The ruling class, however, did not surrender its 'proper' functions and future professionals were trained in the same classical tradition which their teachers had experienced. The logical outcome was that the substance of classical thought and achievement perforce became relevant to the contemporary situation; under the guidance of men like Matthew Arnold, the whole tradition was 're-assimilated' into the needs and conditions of a new and complex industrial and imperial society. On the resultant product, Clarke observes: The 'cultural' and the 'special' were thus rewelded in the light of changed social necessity, and the type it has produced in such numbers entirely merits the confidence and admiration it has evoked. It is a type, cultivated, steeped in philosophy and history, aware of its world politically and intellectually, and interested, in a deeper sense than either the scholar or the aristocratic amateur could claim to be. Yet it combines effectively the qualities of both, and has in addition the advantage of professional experience. The rise of the culturally and socially oriented graduate illustrates, in Clarke's reasoning, why the British refuse to concentrate on the production of a narrowly specialized expert, either in pure learning or in technology. British education will have culture, but it will also have competence and power to discharge a skilled task responsibly. There is strength in such a position because it is 'philistine' enough to be suspicious of 'pure' culture, and 'cultivated' enough to have a healthy distaste for an efficiency that lacks style or grace. This is all to the good because it contributes to present desires for greater educational syntheses, especially in the realm of the literary versus the scientific, which Sir Fred neatly personifies in the form of Plato versus Bacon. Jovially he reminds his reader that it is still possible to take a 'queer kind of apologetic pride in knowing nothing about science, and to suffer no hindrance in social and political advancement in consequence'. This calls for a revision

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in the minds of educators as to the nature and function of science—not as a ' mysterious and highly complex cult ' but as an 'emanation of life itself in one of its most fundamental aspects.. .an essential part of man's whole education'.28 In other words, according to Clarke, the basis for establishing a greater unity of knowledge is to be found in British educational tradition; why it has not been established and in what manner it may be established are matters on which Sir Fred does not elaborate beyond the elementary and secondary school. The reader may infer from his exposition on ' Lines of Re-adaptation' that he supports a program involving the 'relevancy of training'. This implies the construction of curricula which in a negative sense will prevent maladjustments and misdirection, all too characteristic of much of the education now pursued, and in a positive way will afford a 'full exposure' of the relation of training to the crosscurrents of national life and at the same time foster greater progress toward social cohesion. Any further conjecturing would, however, be presumptuous. The most recent formal analysis of specialization and its implication for university behavior is that of George B. Jeffery, who succeeded Sir Fred Clarke as director of the London University Institute of Education. Writing from a background of training in mathematics, Jeffery expresses concern over the way in which universities have come to think of their function ' more and more in terms of instruction and less and less in terms of education'. This process has resulted in a 'progressive disintegration of knowledge into subjects and parts of subjects.... We are steadily losing our sense of trusteeship for a great body of knowledge, which is one and indivisible and is the common heritage of all scholars.' Jeffery spends little time condemning this development but turns his mind toward methods of regaining unity in knowledge. Sir Charles Grant Robertson earlier had written that the liberal or humanizing arts should be introduced in even the most technical of studies. The purpose was to emphasize the unity of knowledge and 'to mix up the students in a common life, so that the engineer has social intercourse with the pure scientist, and the medical student... learns unconsciously by breathing a purer and more bracing air that a thermionic valve or a loaded governor is in the same intellectual field as a Greek tragedy, the comedies of Molière, and the use of penicillin'.29 Jeffery deve-

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lops this concept by indicating first of all that every scholar should pursue his work ' under the shadow of a conception of the unity of knowledge V no matter what his training and special interests are. The best way to do this is to create a situation in which the combined knowledge of many specialists can function in community fashion, and in which intercommunication is easy and frequent: We thus begin to form a picture of the knowledge of a community which transcends that of its individual members because it includes much more. T h e private knowledge of one has its place within the whole and is, as it were, pin-pointed to the whole at many of its points of intrusion. T h e more perfect the inter-communication within the community the greater the degree of pin-pointing.

This community should be much broader and more intimate than the usual subject-matter departments already in existence; it should be especially concerned with enhancing corporate, not specialized, knowledge. Instead of allowing specializations to multiply, the ' cure l i e s . . . in a more philosophical treatment of each specialty within itself'. This is a problem best tackled by the philosophers, because the whole history of philosophy is concerned with the relation of higher learning to the whole body of knowledge. Furthermore, the distinction between vocational and nonvocational training should give way to better concepts of what constitutes good vocational education. In other words, since the universities always have been ('and may they always remain') places of vocational education, the best thing to do is to accept the fact and make sure that the candidate is trained in accordance with the broader implications of his specialty. Finally, the universities must realize that it is the student and not the specialty which is under primary consideration. Students must therefore be helped in a very personal way as they pursue their scholarly interests: It is a fundamental circumstance of our modern university life that very many of our students will receive no help at all in facing these important questions unless they receive that help within their university. It is no derogation of the labors of a faithful few to say that, broadly speaking, the universities are doing nothing about it. So long as this can be said without obvious falsehood, our universities are failing in one of their principal purposes—that they should be places not merely of instruction but of education.

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This does not mean forcing one's opinions and conclusions on the student. On the contrary, ' It is the mark of a great teacher that he can see his pupil reject his teaching and can rejoice in the rejection', assuming, of course, the rejection is based on valid principles. Professor Jeffery's reflections provide a fitting conclusion to this section, since out of all other attempts at a solution they emerge as the kind which accept specialized studies as an inevitable reality and go forward to dispel the incumbent evils, not by throwing away the malformed body of specialization, but by nourishing it in its most awkward period of growth. For Jeifery, the question is not one of a final decision on which road to take—either specialization or general education—but one of a better cultivation of the values of specialization, which is intrinsic to all higher learning, and by concentrating attention increasingly on the implications of specialized training for 'pure knowledge', for the unity of knowledge, and for the society which must be served.30

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LEADERSHIP Democracy obviously cannot imply that all people are equal in their natural endowment or in the functions they perform. A. N. W H I T E H E A D Leadership in a Free Society

MENTION the principle of leadership to the average devotee of Western democracy and he will immediately associate your motives either with the German Fuhrerprinzip, an inimical, debauched form of human selection, or the French term, élite, a somewhat smug, intellectually biased social and cultural classification. The chances are he will then reject any ideas thereto in any way appertaining. Characteristic of this attitude is the statement of a contributor to the London Times'. There is no appeal more commonly heard today than the call for leadership.... Its depth and seriousness may be open to question; its insistence is n o t . . . . There is little doubt that this widespread demand is the groundwork for every kind of totalitarian tendency in the world today.1

The history of elites unfortunately has an unsavory quality, which has been helped none by Lord Bryce's decision that even in a free government elites are and have been ' a n oligarchy within a democracy'. Bryce's implication is that democracy must always rely for its success upon the control of an oligarchy derived from the elite. Elites have been little groups of henchmen around chiefs and potentates, coteries of sycophants around a monarch's throne, generals behind conquerors, a king's ministers, a president's cabinet. In most instances they have been of aristocratic birth or from an aristocracy of intellect and talent. Bryce concludes that although democracy has forever fought against elites, the battle is a losing one. The abler and more skillful will always rise to command ; the solution rests in seeing that they do not represent a single caste, class, or privileged group, but are recruited from all ranks. It is a foregone conclusion that leadership in Britain shall 14-2

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operate only within the framework of a democratic society, the support and furtherance of which is fundamental to all university purposes. Perhaps the best contemporary British definition of leadership in political democracy is ventured by Lord Lloyd of Dolobran, whose lecture on 'Leadership in Democracy', delivered in 1 9 3 8 at the University of St Andrews, is predicated on the assumption that the whole democratic idea is dependent upon intelligent leadership. Lord Lloyd establishes strong bases for the alleged superiority of British democracy over all other forms of government. In France, he observes, there is no universal suffrage. In the United States the Senate is elected on a restricted franchise; the powers of the executive, not elected directly by the people, are severely restricted by the doctrine of states' rights and by the limits imposed by a written constitution. In Britain, on the other hand, government is by direct representation of the people, who remain in control even after elections. British democracy confers restricted rights on majority opinion, subject only to a weak suspensory veto of the House of Lords, and 'not even to that in the all-important sphere of finance'. Although Lloyd may be challenged on what he considers to be democratic weaknesses in other countries, especially in the matter of states' rights in the United States, his extension of the meaning of democracy is sound and worthy of full reproduction: In so far as we mean by the democratic ideal a manner of living which leads free men to think for themselves, to live their own lives, and, therefore, to be independent and self-reliant: a manner of living which persecutes neither religious nor political opinion, nor suffers the growth of economic monopolies (whether at the hands of capitalists or politicians) to the point where men are economically enslaved... that ideal must be defended at all costs. But if all we mean by the democratic ideal is a system of government which is substituting opportunism for foresight, the flattery of public opinion for its guidance, and obedient to the drift of popular and uninstructed public opinion for the inspiration of a purpose securely held and ruthlessly pursued, then democracy is something which we neither should nor can preserve.2 Training for leadership, strangely conceived as something rather new to many educators, is of course traceable to Plato, as Livingstone and Moberly will not let us forget, or more recently to Cardinal Newman who included it among his essential edu-

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cational 'utilities'. As was to be expected, the older concepts were drawn out of context of the society in which their authors lived; but the essential principles endure today: the collective moral force of loyal citizenship demands a training as essential as that of any specialty; political training is an indispensable element in the education of the personality. Lord Simon of Wythenshawe insists that the democratic values—'belief in fair play and decency and f r e e d o m ' — a r e what is needed when graduates leave the university as specialists. But they must above all 'learn to care and know and think about public affairs in their daily life \ 3 Democracy must, however, be built on more than works and good intentions. For Lord Lloyd of Dolobran an ethos is necessary, even beyond a mere intellectual acceptance. There must be a 'passion' for democracy: People have forgotten the fundamental fact on which the possibility of progress under democracy depends, that the will dominates the intellect. Out of the conflict of mere opinion nothing results but chaos. Among those people whose will is energized by a moral purpose differences of opinion cease to count; they become resolved in the white heat of a passionate and inspired purpose.4 Cognate with Lloyd's view, Sir Fred Clarke's theory rejects factual or utilitarian ends as ground on which to further democracy. ' T h e life of democracy is religious through and through: otherwise it is a pretentious and fleeting mockery. 6 Emotional attitudes and religious devotion, however, must not lead to a blind acceptance of any form of government. Democracy thrives under constructive criticism and amid the élan of social progress. Harold Laski, modifying his socialistic concepts, warns that man must not hug his chains and become a slave to custom: ' I f democratic government is to survive, it must discover means of restoring to the individual citizen his personal initiative and responsibility.' 6 Finally, as individuals b y their own good example improve the national commonweal, so must the nation conduct itself in world affairs that it becomes worthy of emulation. Sir Fred Clarke goes back to William Pitt for his text: ' T h i s country has saved herself by her exertions; she will yet save Europe b y her example.' T h e editors of the Yearbook of Education 1950, mindful of the suspicious finger which may be pointed at them, are nevertheless courageous enough to clarify university responsibility for the preparation of leaders. T h e y develop the following set of

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assertions: (i) An elite group is not a privileged class, but one carrying a higher-than-average responsibility to place its knowledge and ability at the service of the community. (2) Following Le Play's definition, 'Pensemble des hommes qui se devouent', leaders give structure, direction of movement and stability to the community. (3) They should therefore know most, understand best, and act with the most courage and wisdom. (4) They must not be a closed group, but should be numerous and well distributed among all social and economic levels. (5) ' The new elites should act as a leaven for the masses, serving them without servility or flattery, acting as centres of enlightenment, helping their brethren to reach towards the maximum of education and of self-fulfillment.'7 Not everyone can be a leader, but there will always be preeminent men and women in any society'. Education has a large responsibility in determining methods of choosing these leaders, the conditions under which they should retain leadership, and the type of considerations which guide their activity as leaders. A. N. Whitehead writes in support of this view: The essence of democratic leadership is that it shall be so exercised as to promote opportunities for the fitting initiative of those within the society, and in the manner which these latter desire.... The object of leadership is to achieve satisfying social living for everyone. It is further evident that in all societies every member is to some degree both a leader and a follower. In a democratic society leaders function by common consent of the group. Leadership consists in obtaining the permission of a group to make an individual contribution to the life of that group. Thus leadership is considered to be shared, in the manner of social responsibility; and it is the duty of leaders to prevent ignorance or negligence from destroying social cohesion. It follows that a leadership group must be fully permeated with the common culture and the stream ofnational and social experience. Leaders are responsible to see that every member of society, whatever his gifts or lot in life, is afforded 'full access to those resources of culture and education which are the common patrimony of all mankind, the potential source of spiritual enrichment for all'. 8 As Lord Lloyd understands it, leadership is 'not the art of becoming and remaining a leader, but the art of leading'. One of its most salient characteristics is its appeal to strong and useful

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motives in those who are to follow. The need for leadership is more urgent in a democracy than in other forms of government because the people, 'who are as a body neither wise nor virtuous', possess all the ultimate power; the full control of the government is really in their hands. Such being the case, the responsibility for promoting leadership belongs to the electorate, each one of whom should have a greater understanding of his personal obligation in the matter. Pertinently Lloyd observes: ' What a deplorable misunderstanding of the tasks of leadership to congratulate yourself on catching the bus which you yourself are supposed to be driving!' Eschewing the idea that political revolutions begin with the people, he avers: There are only the consequences of wise leadership, the consequences of bad leadership, and the consequences of no leadership at all. You can have the consequences of the moral and political forces of a people organized to a high purpose or for an evil purpose, or you have the consequences of a national will allowed to become inert and powerless for either good or evil. 9

The failure of leadership so far, Lord Lloyd asserts, is due to a neglect of its first principle, which is to set before a people clearly and distinctly the ends which they should seek, and to show how these ends are shaped and determined by the requirements of Christian morality. It is a profound mistake to abuse the fundamental ethical attitudes of the people or to neglect their implementation. Sir Walter Moberly's ideas on leadership, like those of Sir Fred Clarke, are an extension of his convictions on the moral power of Christianity. According to Moberly, training at the university level would be a 'matter of dispensing Christian coloring and bringing into consciousness the Christian background of basic values on which the university is built'. Leaders must not be drill sergeants or spellbinders. Neither must they be of the type that finds out what the followers want and gives it to them. Christians must assume the role of a creative leadership minority in shaping university policy, organizing studies, and determining the quality of corporate life. Christian leadership is one of 'enlargement and refinement'. Moberly implements Lord Lloyd by enumerating a set of reasons why the university is the most appropriate agency to lead the public conscience: (i) The university is a self-regulating guild, alone competent to judge

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its membership and the formation of its code. (2) It has a moral responsibility, inherited from centuries of devotion to learning, to maintain its own standards. (3) It recognizes the professional training of its members to be a sacred duty. Developing his ideas on moral training for leadership, Moberly joins Lloyd in acknowledging that although all the principles of the good life are not known, the experience of men and history cannot have been for nothing; from this experience some framework for discovering inherited principles and putting them into practice may certainly be constructed. At least, unless an effort is made in this direction, the protagonists of Western culture are apt to find themselves debating the virtues of their sundry beliefs while the house burns down. 10 Manchester University's Professor P. M. S. Blackett is not one to let the house burn down. Deriding his colleagues for their indifference and complacency in the face of national chaos, he challenges them to look around at their fellow professors ' at the next meeting of the senate' and ask themselves ' in what single direction in relation to any major public issue of our time could they be expected to lead anyone'. As a matter of fact, ' T h e British universities have not led the main intellectual religious and social movements of the last three hundred years and it is surely idle to expect them, as collective bodies, to take the lead now, or even for a majority of their members acting as individuals to do so.' Professor Blackett's criticism represents, of course, a temporary discouragement, and refers largely to the educational leadership of the scientist. He is also convinced that universities today are better than they have ever been. Nevertheless, he is certain that the ineffectiveness of the British university is 'an inevitable result of the social and ideological connections of the universities with the more conservative elements of this country'. Leadership, in other words, must come from the masses if it is to guide the masses. Further, if professors consider themselves to be leaders in thought and learning, they must demonstrate their capacity for leadership outside the classroom as well as i n . u Lord Simon of Wythenshawe responds to his colleague's exhortations by urging that the universities incorporate the values and issues of democracy in all studies, whether arts or sciences. Their greater service lies in developing leaders in public affairs who have vision and wisdom, achievable only from a wider study and a broader application of their specialty. 12

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No educator in the United Kingdom has given greater attention to the study of education for democratic leadership than Sir Fred Clarke, whose Freedom in the Educative Society concerns itself with the nature of contemporary British social and cultural change and how it can be directed wisely and sympathetically toward fulfilling the aspirations of a free society. An educative society is defined as one which 'accepts as its overmastering purpose the production of a given type of citizen . . . applying the idea in a form which will make it compatible with individual freedom'. The acquisition of moral conscience 'stands for a belief in the reality of moral law and moral values, and for a repudiation of any thoroughgoing moral relativism'. Even in the realm of economic activity, Clarke asserts, the significant, driving motives are those of conscience and culture, as recent experiments in 're-humanizing' work bear out. Education should therefore be so constructed as to place the main emphasis upon a 'common culture', in the hope that the cleavages and tensions of conflicting interests may be transcended and their divisive effects checked. Some measure of indoctrination, states Sir Fred, is a 'condition of freedom and not a denial of it'. Properly conceived, this indoctrination leads to a better understanding and appreciation of Britain's vast cultural inheritance. Its net effect is to insure the emergence of the kind of elite that a free society must have. The elite will not form a vertical class system but will be widely spread throughout all political, social, vocational, and economic groups: A free society of common men is possible and safe only if it can insure that the right sort of uncommon-common man will continue to emerge, and be so placed that he can discharge his all-essential function.... No function of the system is more vital than the determining of the criteria by which potential recruits to the elite may be recognized. By this concept, freedom becomes a ' continuing process, not an original birthday gift', and well-trained leadership is essential in discovering the process whereby acceptable common standards can ultimately be achieved for progressive, purposeful social cohesion. 13 No matter from what social strata future leaders may be selected, the administrators at least must be educated in the university, which is the ' only source' capable of creating leaders who are fully conscious of the structure and aims of society at

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large. The creation of leadership, continues Adolf Löwe, is a highly technical matter; it rests on a critical understanding of the psychological and institutional mechanisms of the cultural order as a whole, and of the individual's position in it. The ideal pattern of a democratic ruling class may well correspond to what is generally understood by the term 'enlightened expert'. The new intellectual elite cannot be produced in accordance with a simple blueprint, however, since social reconstruction is evolutionary; it is in constant process. 'All we can expect to achieve in the near future is such rebuilding of our educational framework as is necessary to stimulate the creative forces and to encourage experiments in accordance with needs of our age of transition.' Expressing the same sort of concern as Sir Fred Clarke over the breakup of spiritual unity in British life, Löwe goes a step further to suggest that before there can be any hope for a wholesome influence on the outlook and behavior of the younger generation, present concepts of reality will have to be changed. However, reality cannot be changed, unless ' by some educational agency an elite has been formed which acts in the new spirit'. The university is, therefore, charged with this lofty responsibility: 'Fundamental as moral education will be for the formation of a new elite, the task which falls to the universities in this respect will primarily be one of providing opportunities for experience and initiative.' Admitting that he is 'stimulated' by Clarke and remains 'indebted' to Mannheim, Löwe observes sensibly though somewhat abstrusely: Our future intellectual leaders will not be able to understand, and still less to plan, even a small fraction of social life unless they know how to link together the various aspects of their experience into a unity of knowledge. But they can carry out this process of linking together only if they have learnt to make use of the findings of the specialist sciences and, at the same time, have acquired some direct experience of, say, the particular benefits and strains arising from industrial life, of nature as reshaped by technique, of social responsibility as increased by the new potency of planning.

Just how this synthesis is going to be possible within a planned moral order, which Löwe says can become eternally 'true', is not easily explained. In fact, Löwe is confessedly 'less certain' as to the position which falls to the natural sciences in cultural education. However, Löwe's investigations in the field of university curricula lead him to suggest outlines for possible

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' solutions '—solutions which turn out to be carefully eclectic in nature, with borrowings alike from American progressivism, German Lern- and Lehrfreiheit, the essentialist movement (of the Harvard Report variety), and certain British cultural traditions according to Clarke. T h e whole is capped by a program for unifying knowledge under such headings as Modern Culture, Experience, the Teaching of Criteria, Moral Education, and Adaptation to the New Social Stratification. Löwe then advances what he calls 'formal preconditions' for educational change, namely: (i) a complete liberalization of teacher-student relations ; (2) a greater practicability in much that is taught; and (3) a 'drastic reduction of examinations'. More specifically in the realm of training future leaders, Löwe advocates the establishment of an 'adult university' for the education of former university graduates. This adult university would do well to 'take its start' not from the body of British universities, but from the ancient universities alone, 'on which, after all, the responsibility for the cultural tradition of the country rests'. One wonders what attitude Löwe's former colleagues at the University of Manchester will adopt when they recall that their institution originated as a mighty protest against the cultural tradition favored by the ancient universities. Certainly Löwe did not derive his cultural idéefixefrom his alleged mentor, Sir Fred Clarke. Certainly, too, the lush garden of tradition watered by the C a m and the Isis is not guaranteed adequately to nurture those leaders who must ply their trade amid the smog and despond of the muddy Mersey. 14 Ortega y Gasset's argument that the university exists primarily for the creation of an elite, with research a secondary function, has a special appeal for Bonamy Dobrée. Research constitutes the 'salt of learning', but the end of learning is to produce creative individuals. A n elite, defined in Dobrée's terms, is composed, roughly, of those who mold the enlightened public opinion of the day. 'At lucky periods it composes the ruling class.' In former times the elite group was clearly in evidence. Today, the elite have become dissipated by two agencies : from the outside by the pressure of rising classes, which have tended to displace the older ruling castes and undermine their cultural values; from within by an increasing specialization of knowledge, 'which has shattered the unity of outlook and agreement as to values'. T h e widespread indifference toward

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Christianity is also a factor. The whole constitutes a ' dangerously unstable situation': A society cannot exist without an elite which seeks to understand its age, from which its rulers and leaders are drawn, and which provides the creators in the realm of thought, the inventors who are the creators in the realm of fact, who together enable society to adapt itself to the ever-changing environment of human existence. Since this elite no longer exists naturally and traditionally, it will have to be created consciously. By far the most effective, perhaps the only instrument through which an elite can be created, states Dobree, is a 'freshly conceived faculty of arts'. The reason for this is historical. The old aristocracy 'in imbibing the humanities' became 'impregnated' with ideas of civilization and with those values which were valid in their day. The new arts faculty must educate for a 'new homogeneous class of cultured men'; that means, learning must contribute to a greater awareness of the important currents of opinion, and of the philosophies, 'tacit or proclaimed, which underlie actions, whether personal or collective'. The newer learning must frankly become more 'utilitarian' in preparing candidates for leadership. No slur is intended upon faculties of science or technology, Dobree appends. But the nature of the case determines the way it works out: 'Science deals with how things happen in the material world; technology is concerned with how to make things happen in the material world; the arts are concerned with human values, with human responsibility.' A scientist or a technologist may very well become a member of the elite, concedes Dobree, but there will always exist the fear that he may rule in the interest of mechanical efficiency. It is essential that the faculty of arts make other faculties alive to human values, so as to insure the proper type of preparation of a scientist who will become a member of the elite. Whether in reciprocity the scientific faculties will be able to assist the arts faculties in establishing norms and values and in preparing an enlightened elite, Dobree does not divulge. He confesses that 'with all the division of thought which makes our age restless and even explosive', and with all the 'irreconcilable assumptions upon which we base our lives', the only harmony that has been established has been the work of great scientists (Whitehead, Haldane, Hill, Huxley). He thus seems to mitigate quite con-

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siderably his own apprehensions that scientists ' may rule in the interest of mechanical efficiency \ 1 5 We leave for the final chapter, however, an appraisal of Dobree's limited concept of science and the scientist, and for the reader the decision as to whether scientists will be content to let their arts colleagues assume the exclusive responsibility for preparing leaders in an age of scientific discovery and enlightenment. Despite the disparity of views on ways in which the universities may prepare the leaders of tomorrow, there is unanimous agreement that the universities are the central agency for accepting and executing the task. This author has no further responsibility, actually, than one of exposing the current thought and preference with regard to the education of leaders, but he is constrained to warn against any brand of multiplied power which will start British leadership down the road to the peculiar Gleichschaltung which seized German universities hardly two decades ago. In the heat of hostilities many of the consequences of this depravity were grossly exaggerated, especially in considering the fact that German universities, unlike the British, were always dependent on central ministries of education and always favored ad hoc specialization, often removed from life's banalities. Nevertheless, the danger exists for Britain that the universities will consider themselves the sole source of competent leadership, and will guide their conduct accordingly. Many a man is born to lead without benefit of a university education. The nation stands to suffer if universities make of their membership a powerful and exclusive elite, intolerant of those outside the circle. In support of this, Eric James, capable high master of the Manchester Grammar School, is called to witness: 'A governing elite rooted in nothing more solid than academic distinction might not come up to expectations, and it is possible to feel this doubt without falling into the vulgar fashion of contemning intellect.' 16 There is yet another caveat for educational creators of leadership, and it involves a much deeper understanding of the irresistible effect of the technical and social forces which shape the culture in which leaders must function. The tendency in the past has been to recruit national leadership from those who talk fluently, write appealingly, argue forcibly, abound in personal magnetism, and are expert in the art of vote-getting. There has been only a passing regard for technical, scientific, or professional

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knowledge. It is one of the inexplicable anomalies of a scientific era that the people who live in it continue to elect to positions of political and social leadership those who do violence to the very foundations of scientific practice and professional ethics. Over a decade ago Professor Lancelot Hogben, one of Britain's outstanding scientific intellectuals, warned that if democracy continued to produce leaders whose principal attribute was skill at invective, it would be doomed; educational selection should favor competence more than fluency. In the social sphere, continues Hogben, educators must canalize the will to constructive social progress by prospering the human experiment; they must distribute the kind of knowledge which can be instrumental to the task of social reconstruction.17 What was referred to above as one of the weaknesses of democracy, namely, its tendency to promote to high political office individuals who know only politics and vote-getting, is here repeated as a concomitant of this view. A nation must be led not by political moralists and declaimers alone, but by the most capable in all realms of cultural, scientific and professional endeavor. A leader in one field is not necessarily a leader in another. Leadership is not a single or simple constellation of related abilities, as most observers seem to conclude, and much failure and tragedy results, for example, when generals, politicians and professionals of all types are made high university administrators without regard for specialized preparation. What is desperately needed is a full-scale analysis of differential types of leadership in a democratic culture and a firmer understanding of methods ofpreparation without overdoing specialization to the detriment of incumbent human values and the interplay of cultural forces. To date, British thought on leadership is healthy. In its awareness of the dangers it is commendable. But in its more analytical aspects and suggested programs of action it is still on unsure ground.

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Critics have no partial views, Except they know whom they abuse.

SWIFT

WE have now portrayed in wide perspective the spirit and behavior of British university education. Thoughts on its intrinsic purposes and revelations as to its proper functions are of infinite scope and variety, ranging from those who defend what they consider to be the university's essential isolation from social turmoil to others who champion its newly acquired place of leadership in national progress. As the needle points more in the direction of the latter group, the observer is compelled to wonder where the responsibility of the university actually ends, if at all. The question is pertinent: How much can university education accomplish anyway? Sir Fred Clarke is sure that people are too prone to exaggerate its powers and to build their hopes too high.1 The Nuffield College group fear lest 'in the endeavor to give everyone what he wants the universities will end by giving nobody what he wants'.2 And Sir Charles Grant Robertson cannot help observing somewhat sardonically: [Nowadays, every student must b e ] . . . so educated as to emerge with a well-defined part in the general movement for a drastic reconstruction of the whole social and industrial structure, which is identified with 'progress,' while the universities themselves through their staffs will collectively be the general headquarters and the central power stations for generating and distributing the voltage and the current for the forces of 'progress'.3

That the British university, like universities everywhere, is seeking to become more closely woven into the cultural pattern of the nation is incontestable. And while the easy answer to Sir Fred's doubts and to Nuffield College's dilemma is that the university can by no means fulfill all that is expected of it, if not for reasons of preference, then certainly because of physical limitations, the fact is sure that British universities have

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voluntarily elected to determine and share in national cultural progress to an ever-increasing extent. Although it would be very convenient for the reader and very handy for the critic to be presented with a lucid summary and synthesis of all the thought expressed in this volume, the very nature of that thought defies any such attempt. How, for example, could the thought of an Oakeshott be fused with that of a Moberly or a Bernal in such a way as to provide the theoretical roots of constructive action? How would the secular ideas of a Lord Simon fare when wedded with Nash's religious configuration? There are, however, certain areas of agreement, or points of contact, at which most commentators may safely be said to have arrived, among them: (i) The university is more than a physical structure; it is a spiritual being whose supreme purpose is to seek and disseminate knowledge. (2) As a spiritual entity it must accept responsibility for the moral as well as the intellectual development of students. (3) The university must assist in integrating and interpreting knowledge; it is unreasonable to expect students to synthesize a culture which has been fragmented by the multifarious types of analysis that emanate from powerful minds. (4) The university must acknowledge its responsibility to produce professionals and specialists and hence increase vocational and specialized types of education in view of national needs. (5) An increase is recommended in the number and kind of specialized institutions for professional training, such as engineering, medicine and agriculture. (6) If the universities are neglected, or their functions impaired, greater perils will be in store for Britain than those caused by a fall in exports or a rise in taxes. (7) The question of academic freedom falls primarily under the jurisdiction of the universities; however, since freedom is not an absolute, society, which supports the universities, holds the veto. (8) The present structure of British university life as it has developed spontaneously from private benefactions and local initiative must be preserved. The result may be a wide diversity of type and policy, distressing to the tidy mind, but not necessarily ill adapted to the diverse needs of the country. Though the question of academic standards is always raised, it is difficult to compare higher education in Britain with accomplishment elsewhere. Educational commentators have been far too glib in matching statistics and measures of achievement

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abroad with what has been termed similar efforts in Britain.4 In the first place, British university entrants are usually one year older and have attended secondary school a year or two longer than their American confreres. They are more highly selected, both as they proceed through the secondary school and in consequence of a highly developed entrance, or matriculation, examination system. Higher education is not simply an extension of secondary school training; it involves not so much a continuance of general education as a concentrated program of 'reading' a certain specialty. In a sense, the first-year and possibly the second-year undergraduate at a British university may more nearly be compared with a third-year student in an American college, with certain added qualities characteristic of the American graduate school, particularly as regards individual responsibility for scholarly production. In assessing British and American higher education the following data should be taken into account: (1) The fairer comparison omits the accomplishment of the first two years or so of the American college. (2) The British make a distinction between higher education and what has recently been termed 'further' education; that is, the type of training that takes place in organized institutions of learning beyond school-leaving age (fifteen or sixteen). (3) The type, quality and intensity of the work accomplished are matters largely of national educational preference. (4) Although there is intellectual dalliance of some proportion in British universities, none of them can be called country clubs. Three hundred years ago, John Hall, parliamentarian of Gray's Inn, submitted his petition for reform. 'An Humble Motion', he called it; yet it was a memorable educational document of such unusual prescience as to be actually frustrating to those commentators who feel that they have explored new and untapped fields in university purpose. Chief among Hall's recommendations were the following: (1) The university should be 'changeable and accountable every yeare'; it should' examine and pursue experiments... compleat and actuate new inventions'; allow the wings of knowledge to 'take great flights'; and provoke some 'syderial and flaming souls to their full and radiant meridian lustre'. (2) Education thrives best in any place that would be 'least cumbred with unnecessary notions, and did the most facilly and orderly insinuate itselfe into the understanding'. University KLB 15

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professors should teach that which is 'most reall and most universall'. T h e y should deal with things, rather than words. (3) History has been written subjectively; it is a 'bare skeleton without either flesh or sinews, larded and pestered with the private discourses of the writers.. T h e universities'. . .should discover the inner side of negotiations and events, and the true face of things, without the adulteration of common policy'. (4) On professors: ' A n d truly, but that I would not doe violence to the Mother that bare me, and prophane that place which is in my account holy, I could lay open abundance of their customes, both superstitious, irrationall, uncivill, and ridiculous; I could instance how some vices are growne generall in some degrees of them, how many slugs are, how some courses they take will prove meerly the choaking of all literature.' 5 With Hall's recommendations as an appropriate backdrop we are now in a position to reveal several aspects of British university education, particularly in the area of educational commentary, that lend themselves to critical appraisal. (1) T h e first item on Hall's list is an apt and far-sighted definition of one of the weakest areas in British university thought today. T h a t the university should be 'changeable in thought and accountable every yeare' may, of course, be considered exaggerative, though perhaps only in its time specification. Also, British university leaders are interested actively enough in reassessing purpose and accomplishment. A s for allowing the 'wings of knowledge to take great flights' beyond the boundaries of the known, there exists a sort of calculated reticence which in too many cases borders on intellectual inertia. Granted that in educational commentary, organization, method and technique must predominate; granted, too, that the history of educational thought and contemporary activity must always be central; the most glaring weakness in contemporary British educational thinking and planning stems from a neglect of, or an unconcern for, the consequences of recognized discoveries in related fields. Modern theory and practice are based for the most part on knowledge that existed at least a generation ago, and is too often predicted on the complacent assumption that such knowledge remains unchanged. T h e British themselves are not unaware of this situation. Bonamy Dobree states quite clearly: [The arts faculty]... is largely a self-contained system, making little impact on the outer world, and hardly affected by it: almost

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divorced from life, such influence as it has is a deadening one. T h e subjects themselves bear small relation to life as it is lived now, though a good deal to life as it used to be l i v e d . . . . Most university teachers (there are brilliant exceptions) are addicts of the past; they are conservative in the most deadly sense, forgetting that a living tradition does not stand still, but like every other thing that is alive, changes and grows.6

Even more pertinently, Alfred North Whitehead, sometime fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge, writes from H a r v a r d : Modern scholarship and modern science reproduce the same limitations as dominated the bygone Hellenistic epoch, and the bygone Scholastic epoch. They canalize thought and observation within predetermined limits, based upon inadequate metaphysical assumptions dogmatically assumed.... T h e intimate timidity of professionalized scholarship circumscribes reason by reducing its topics to triviality, to bare sensa, and to tautologies. It then frees itself from criticism by dogmatically handing over the remainder of experience to an animal faith or a religious mysticism, incapable of realization. 7

Most of the recent literature on university education contains ideas which stem from personal preference and operate in vacuo. T h e Gothic principle that we are to look backward instead of forward for the improvement of the human mind is as valid today, in the minds of many, as it was when Thomas Jefferson made the observation. O n l y in the annals of our ancestors, it seems, lie solutions to the ills of the present world. T h e index of Moberly's Crisis, for example, is not without reference to such a melange of moderns as Jaspers, Polanyi, Russell, Whyte, Toynbee, Maritain and others; but the teaching of these men is interpreted not in accordance with its own peculiar essence but almost exclusively as it pertains to the theme of the book. Aside from fleeting references to Bernal and Hogben, there is slight evidence in Moberly to indicate that he is adequately acquainted with pertinent contemporary findings in science, psychology, or sociology. Arnold Nash, who has no index, uses his documentation in the same subjectivistic manner and allows little that has happened in the intellectual world of the last few decades to interfere with his theological aspirations for higher learning. Leavis, already out of his field, shows little evidence of comprehending educational or psychological, much less sociological, implications for modern practice in accordance with more mature understandings of man's 15-2

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behavior. His ideas on culture reflect the constricted modes of the nineteenth century. He is barely affected by the anthropological revelations of a Malinowski, a Mead, or a Linton. Jeffreys, sermonizing within his field, forewarns of the appalling danger if one goes out of it. His either/or approach with regard to religious teaching and the state, reminiscent of seventeenthcentury Puritanism, is not only unrealistic in view of the spread of sectarianism in Christianity but also totally impractical in modern Britain's self-imposed scheme of things. Bruce Truscot, pen name of the late Professor Allison Peers of Liverpool University, presents engagingly fluent though bumptious educational texts which take their documentation almost exclusively from personal predilection. Though to his credit go undying plaudits for writing wittily and entertainingly on a subject that is ordinarily characterized by drabness and vacuity, one wonders if Truscot has ever ventured out of his fastidiously prescribed orbit. Together with Galbraith, Truscot cleverly asserts that the humanities are 'more practical' than the so-called practical subjects. But neither writer reveals specific ways in which the humanities have actively advocated an applied training in politics, church-going, married life, schooling, or anything remotely connected with the areas they mention. In actual fact, they consider these ' practical' matters to be educational froth, unworthy of scholarly attention in a university; and they would be among the first to condemn their inclusion in a humanities curriculum. The fact that Truscot also contradicts himself by referring to contemporary neglect of the 'real life values' of the humanities, as demonstrated in the past, and 'our imperfect education of the past' (when humanities held fuller control) emphasizes only too well the nonscientific, almost capricious, basis of his educational commentary. We have already mentioned the inadequacy of the Livingstone school, which is essentially and unrelievedly literary and retrospectionist, and in the case of other contributors pertinent critical comment has been forthcoming throughout the text. It is not expected that in short articles or essays these authors can plumb the depths of all related subject matter, nor is it the intent of this commentary to imply that educational specialists shall be expert in all realms of recent discovery. Yet there is a precious tendency on the part of British writers to stud the

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text with verses and quotations, utilizing them as documentary proof of a thesis which should have sounder support. Almost to a man the psychology of learning and the sociology of mass action are either alien or hostile concepts. One searches in vain for the implementation of such findings in educational psychology as those of a Sir Cyril Burt or a Sir Godfrey Thomson, to mention but two of the British school.8 One must admire the ability of British educational writers to draw on a wealth of literary knowledge unknown to most American educational commentators. One must deplore the tendency to imply that all problems are solved through the linguistic, philosophic, or literary-historical approach. (2) Concepts regarding the purpose, nature and function of science propounded by exponents of the arts, the humanities, or religion are on the whole narrow, prejudiced, and, worst of all, inaccurate. (There is also a tendency for scientists to react the same way toward the arts, as will be mentioned below.) Commentators of the stamp of Livingstone, Leavis, Moberly, Nash, H. A. Jones, Niblett, Jeffreys, the Student Christian Movement, and, to a limited extent, Clarke, should understand that it is dangerous to advance any sort of philosophic, theological or religious dogma without exploring beyond the actual sphere in which such dogmas are formulated and tested. Into their interpretation of facts they tend to inject conceptions which have been formed a priori and independently from them. Most of these writers are content to acknowledge recent subject-matter contributions merely as means or as techniques. There are no ends, they say, in sociology or technology. Nash, for example, asserts that only Christianity has ends; he condones absolutes in theology, which to him is synonymous with religion, and in turn synonymous with Christianity, and he accuses science of monopolizing them. H. A . Jones, in defiance of all knowledge to the contrary, wants us to return to a single reality based on the Judaic-Christian tradition. Niblett condemns science for postulating absolutes. The entire history of science illustrates the danger of trying to establish single realities and proceeding on the basis of absolutes.9 The earliest foundations of science incorporated mythical forms, the influence of religion being fundamental to scientific analysis. Primitive man, with his totemic concepts, attributed souls to animals. The idea of the soul in Platonic

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philosophy postulated disembodied souls stored in the empyrean and ready to descend to earth when there was a corpus prepared for their temporary residence. From these doubtful notions came precedents for such dichotomies as body and soul, spiritual and corporeal, which modern biology conceives as essentially unified. Likewise, the first instigators of modern mathematics developed their propositions around concepts formed outside of and prior to the inception of their study. Their propositions were used as symbols for the natural order and as a means for controlling the external world, evidenced by their findings in astrology, which are still believed by many. Pythagoras of Samos, for example, regarded the contemplative life as the ideal; he studied mathematics and astronomy as a means of self-purification. The progress of ancient mathematics received considerable impetus from the construction of symbolic monuments like the Sumerian ziggurat and the Egyptian pyramid, representing ethereal hierarchic orders, and replicas are still to be seen in modern arithmetic books. By assuming as 'true' or 'absolute' certain axioms based on mystical concepts of pure reasoning, the old geometricians bequeathed mankind a branch of mathematics that is no longer valid and actually impedes further discovery. Enrico Fermi, referring to the nucleus of atoms, states that the rules of some of our mathematics are obsolete and inaccurate : ' Perhaps space is a granular structure, with grains the size of the nucleus. Our trouble may come from our concept of continuous space, from simply our geometry.' Thus, scientists have come to recognize that the fewer the absolutes they are forced to accept or act upon, the less chance there is of formulating theories or establishing procedures which will be invalidated at a later period. Again, criticisms of science in its applied forms are apt to be short-sighted and unjust. They confine themselves to the evils attendant upon mechanizing life, upon the material aspects of applied science, and upon the destructive weapons that have been placed by science at man's too ready disposal. Much of the criticism of the teaching of applied science in the universities does not sufficiently take into account the manifold problems and conflicts which abound in the world as a result of the lack of food, clothing and shelter. As the theoretical physicist Edward U. Condon maintains, science, especially in its applied

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forms, is in reality devoted overwhelmingly to human good. ' T h e destructive applications of science are determined by social and political institutions.... The fact that scientific developments have been used as tools of destruction is an indictment of social man and not of science.' Further, the solution of material difficulties may actually contribute to spiritual and intellectual well-being: ' T h e hungry are generally much too preoccupied with visceral demands, the diseased with pain and death, the shelterless with weather, to have much care for either social, cultural, or religious pursuits.' Some of this attitude toward things scientific develops, of course, from faulty pedagogical notions on the purpose and value of what is taught in universities. The difficulty originates in an archaic conception of education, which is regarded for the most part as exclusively mental training, mostly of the memoriter pattern, largely in the language or literary field and within the framework of a particular ideology or culture. The association tracts thus established become narrowly intellectual and restrictedly academic; the wider implications of the learning process and the proper function of the thing which is to be learned are thus neglected. The fact that science itself can contribute to spiritual power and can reveal a great deal about the emotional as well as intellectual factors which drive men to great accomplishments has hardly entered the field of pedagogical values. Yet, as Yale's psychologist Frank A. Beach points out, a minute quantity of thyroxin makes all the difference between a genius and an idiot. In other words, revelations concerning the very chemical make-up of the human system and the bodily fluids it creates constitute a biochemical approach to an understanding of the human being and his educability which must increasingly be taken into account in personality adjustment and the betterment of human relations. 10 Let not the reader conclude that all is well with science and that the 'scientific method' is the only answer. Science is no final or ultimate panacea for human problems. It has no more magical attributes than any other realm of human endeavor. For thought processes, perhaps its only outstanding contribution lies in the area of logical empiricism, in showing how theories may be tested and verified. Regarding the frailties of scientists themselves, Sigmund Freud in his classic Interpretation of Dreams refers to the 'brilliant example of the aversion to

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learning anything new so characteristic of the scientists'. Professor Butterfield of Cambridge warns his colleagues in his Origins of Modern Science: ' O f all the forms of mental activity, the most difficult to i n d u c e . . . is the art of handling the same bundle of data as before but by placing them in a new system of relations with one another by giving them a different framework.' Most scientists, asserts David Lindsay Watson, are little men with all the pettinesses and frailties characteristic of human beings. Most of them, once out of their laboratories, no longer follow the scientific methods they advocate but revert to inherited behaviorisms in their home, their church, their club. u S. R . Humby and E. J. F. James are certain that the complaints that scientists are 'narrow' and 'uncultured', though often grossly exaggerated and based on wrong criteria of 'breadth' and 'culture', are nevertheless essentially correct. Humby and James also make the point that too many science teachers have limited training and hence are able to present only fragments of knowledge without much correlation. Laboratory work is not infrequently associated with smells and sights that are not pleasing. Teaching is still aimed at the supposedly inferior, that is, those not 'up to the classics'. In general, the teachers do not inculcate the scientific method as a way of life, and science teaching still tends to present science as a dead body of facts, rather than as a living cultural and social force. 12 Finally, Arnaud Reid appropriately observes: 'There is no one more dogmatic about things "unscientific" than a scientist.' Scientists, too, can advocate faulty educational theory. Professor Oliphant, for example, wants unity in knowledge and states that the quality of the university has been enhanced not by applied science but by a study of the pure sciences. The question might be raised regarding the extent to which pure science can advance without application, and conversely how far applied science can go without theory. Oliphant would be the first to agree that scientific theory and practice should be united. How he expects the unity to be successful spiritually ii he keeps them apart physically remains undisclosed. T o state that 'fundamental science' has added to university stature, whereas applied science has detracted from it is a conclusion that depends on one's idea of what constitutes university progress. The fact that Oliphant admits he cannot document any of his conclusions on the educational value of applied sciences

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lends no weight to his dubious assumption that pure science can reap all the benefits of progress in applied science without affording the latter any more than a passing nod. From another point of view—the relation of science to social and political education—it is unfortunate that a scholar of John Bernal's brilliant proportions should allow his erudition to be controlled by an almost uncritical allegiance to Marx and Engels, whose philosophy embodies for him the alpha and omega of a proper social interpretation of science. Worse still, it is difficult to understand how a man with such wide perspective can consider the Soviet Union, or any nation for that matter, to be a model state. Bernal's teaching defies summarization, and an adequate response would require far more space than is here available; but it may be safely observed that until he can show a greater understanding of, and sympathy with, other points of view, his otherwise valuable contribution is doomed to continued distrust. Science, no less than the humanities, can ill afford to be dogmatic and sempiternally infallible, especially since it has contributed only indirectly toward any resolution of the bickering, selfishness, resentment, intolerance and other character perversions all too prevalent in this brummagem day and age. Instead, values derived from naturalistic or scientific theories tend in the long run to be reduced largely to expediency, to settling the most immediate problems. Also, Professor Sinnott of Yale University concedes that there are many aspects of reality with which science cannot deal.13 As Fermi indicates, we may only be at the frontiers of an even greater age of inquiry and revelation, in which contemporary scientific achievement will finally be adumbrated. This means that greater achievements in understanding the anatomy of nature and of man may depend upon a far more intimate comprehension of the essence of God than humans are capable of today. The moral is quite simple: science and the humanities must work together and not in conflict if the search for truth is to be productive and if human progress is to be sound and fruitful. . (3) There is a tendency to be too restrictive, too exclusive and too traditional in historical and cultural interpretations, and hence in all scholarly, academic and intellectual assessments, in the face of respectable findings in social and scientific fields regarding the individual and the human race. As Hume sug-

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gested, history must be used constantly in the divination of man's future course and in the solution, both existential and transcendental, of individual and societal problems. History is essentially a recording of man's thoughts and actions. But in its recording, truth has been sacrificed to the recorder's persuasions, which in most cases have been heavily weighted with personal or factional bias. It was Voltaire who observed that the historical writers of his day were no better than the old scribes who made the dead behave in such a way as to guarantee their own political or religious peace of mind. History, he added, could be properly set down and interpreted only in an environment of freedom from orthodoxies. That history and cultural tradition have been distorted irreparably by wanton subjectivity and by corrupt forms of objectivity is being demonstrated year after year with the publication of new works which discredit theories, facts and interpretations which have drawn uncritical allegiance for centuries.14 Oxford's Ronald Latham reminds us that a culture 'does not bind us absolutely.... In all its forms it partly helps and partly hinders the fulfilment of men's primary needs... .It is artificial.. .imperfect. . .alterable.'16 The Scottish ecologist Thomas Robertson is even more insistent. Our education, he states, serves to 'foster unreality and inculcate obedience to external authority'. Under existing practices, 'those experiences of life which should be available to all for the gathering of perceptions and the building up of "knowledge" become increasingly limited.... Millions of people.. .have almost forgotten what direct experience is like.' Real education begins with the 'gathering in of perceptions to build up a structure ofknowledge, which alone constitutes the essence of reality'.16 Another Scotsman, James L. Halliday, M.D., shows that much of the present psychological confusion, not only among individuals but among nations, is a result of faulty emotional behavior and defective intellectual attitudes.17 Placing the blame for contemporary social, cultural and educational breakdowns on such rationalizations as an 'age of transition', a 'crisis in education', a 'decline in moral standards', is only partly valid, states Halliday. Science must also share the blame. While modern methods of communication and transportation have' telescoped regional man into world man or mankind', our knowledge, our science, has remained specialized, compartmentalized, institutionalized, 'dead to life'.18

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T o such considerations as these, even if only partly valid, as they most certainly are, much more attention needs to be paid than is presently evident in British educational writing and practice. There is plenty of advanced thinking taking place among British intellectuals, but those who are more immediately responsible for the higher education of youth seem to be largely allergic to i t . ' Learned men are not c u r i o u s o b s e r v e d Anatole France. T h e urge is strong to submit a bibliography of compulsory reading on modern progress in certain learning areas to replace the dog-eared texts, stuffily annotated, long since obsolete. ' K n o w l e d g e ' , warns Whitehead, 'keeps no better than fish.' (4) T h e charge that modern society 'lacks values' or displays a ' chaos in values' is open to serious doubt. Values in abundance prevail everywhere. There still exists the vast and perennial body of acceptable manners and norms of behavior, automatically and voluntarily adhered to by the vast majority of people. There is still fairly general agreement on what constitutes good and evil in human society, attested to and confirmed both by written laws of legislatures and the unwritten laws of social acceptance. It is consequently more reasonable, even more accurate, to state that some, or many, values are being re-examined in the light of new forces—new attitudes toward the state and the universe; new concepts regarding the family; new fears; new hopes; new prayers. These hopes and fears and prayers are born out of an age of j e t propulsion, atomic energy and welfare services. O u r young people, exposed to sound and vision via the ether, are ear- and picture-minded, as well as book-conscious. Unlike their fathers, they are educated to minimum standards of schooling under a national system that enforces their attendance, and have in themselves become an almost independent society—free, eager and ready to give expression to fresh ideas, with all that such ideas imply for cultural reconstruction. Many, cast down by ineffectiveness and immorality in high places, are fired by the promises of radicalism. Their vision looks beyond the realm of unproved certainties to establish places for themselves in their world. Characterizations of human behavior falling under such epithets as disloyal, bigoted, liberal, sinful, irreverent, irreligious, subversive, take on aspects vastly different in the light of twentieth-century social, political and religious development

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from what they implied at the time of the Reformation. The value concepts of the nineteenth-century operated in a less expansive society. Their interpretation today derives from an immensely wider panorama of human interests and experiences and a great expansion in the number of social, political and religious groups to which people increasingly belong. Malcolm Cowley states that the special mark of this age, an age which has every right to make its own demands, is not characterized by a lack of values, but by the presence of conflicting systems of value: Christian and agnostic, Catholic and Protestant, liberal and conservative, orthodox and reformed. Each of these systems of value has the right to function in a democratic society. In the intellectual world, writes Cowley, our age has been one of conversions, apostasies and reconversions. 'We read the story of a young man who became a free thinker, then a Communist, then an Episcopalian, then a Quaker, embracing four different systems of value in succession.... ' 1 9 We cannot escape the fact that human behavior is differential. The human drama is made up of boundless yearning and limitless conflict, and much drama remains yet to be written. Despite the efforts of many contemporaries, we cannot expect finally to resolve conflicting values, above all in a free society, unless all systems of value but one are eliminated. Solutions, then, to the so-called anarchy in the realm of values lie not in regimenting values under one flag but in establishing a working basis for the healthy growth and interplay of all values—material, spiritual, humanistic, religious and educational—within the political and cultural framework of Western democracy. Strength in diversity, if properly mobilized, can be turned toward a powerful unity in promoting human welfare and happiness. (5) Returning to Sir Fred Clarke's apprehension lest the universities take on more than they can handle, greater humility might be exercised in the university's assumption that it is responsible, or should be responsible, for all the learning imparted to the students in their charge. The amount of learning and research taking place outside the universities at such institutions as the national scientific laboratories, the British Museum, and the Public Record Office tends to be underplayed. Three hundred years ago Comenius decided that schools were 'slaughterhouses of the mind, where ten or more years are spent on learning

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237 what might be acquired in o n e I t is' nothing short of a miracle wrote Einstein in his autobiography, telling of the repressive practices he experienced in his own formal education, 'that modern methods of instruction have not yet entirely strangled the holy curiosity of enquiry'. 20 The psychologist Arnold Gesell shows that growth in human beings goes on inevitably, as in all organisms; adult influence inhibits or stimulates, but the impulses that lead to growth are innate. A great deal of mental development for which teachers take credit transpires regardless of their influence. Growth, we also learn from Gesell, is infinitely older as a life process than human culture, and no civilization can survive unless it is compatible with the laws of human behavior and organic growth; all of which recalls Malinowski's verdict that culture is hardly more than the organized behavior of man—a 'large-scale molding matrix, a gigantic conditioning apparatus', in steady and constant process, almost regardless of individual human preference.21 University education may actually stultify or interfere with the normal processes of intellectual and emotional development. The behavior and attitude of students throughout the land afford incontrovertible evidence of the need for vital intellectual challenges and for a more sincere encouragement in exploring new learnings, removed from nineteenth-century academic clichés and predigested textual information. A. N. Whitehead, drawing on his experience as a university professor, is struck by the 'paralysis of thought induced in pupils by the aimless accumulation of precise knowledge, inert and unutilized'. He urges professors to set about the task of teaching as humble, ignorant men, thinking simultaneously with their students and striving to utilize, rather than simply indoctrinate, their small share of knowledge. For, in a sense, 'knowledge shrinks as wisdom grows; details are swallowed up in principles.. .and it is this union of passionate interest in detailed facts with the equal devotion to abstract generalization which forms the novelty in our present society'. Discarding such dichotomies as the theoretical and the practical man, or the economic and the moral man, Whitehead shows that mankind is that factor in and of nature which exhibits in intense form its own peculiar elasticity. The intelligent individual is primarily concerned with mastering the art of life, with realizing the most complete achievement of his infinite

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potentialities. 'Science, art, religion, morality, take their rise from this sense of value within the structure of being.' Each individual, then, embodies an adventure of existence, whose path is illumined by the art of life. Thus, in setting forth its knowledge and understanding of the world, the British university, in equal measure to universities the world over, has no justification for its existence except as it preserves the contact between knowledge and the zest for living and as it unites the young and the old in the imaginative consideration of learning: The gift which the university has to offer is the old one of imagination, the lighted torch which passes from hand to hand. It is a dangerous gift, which has started many a conflagration. If we are timid as to that danger, the proper course is to shut down our universities.22 (6) In British universities, as elsewhere, there must be an end to irresponsible bickering on the relative values of the various types of subject matter. The humanist and the scientist can ill afford to continue deprecating the work of the other. The spiritual, material and emotional aspects of man's existence must become equally unified in, and central to, the basic disciplines as cultivated in all universities. The sciences and the humanities must be taught with emphases on their commonality and interdependence, rather than as mutually antagonistic disciplines. The mature teacher demonstrates methods by which the poet and the scientist create in similar fashion; he points out ways in which intuition functions in scientific research, and how the subconscious brings solutions unachievable through logical processes. As Edmund Sinnott remarks, the greatest peril in the modern age stems not from lack of education, but from one-sided, partly educated men. The more that educators insist on driving wedges through the body of knowledge and conjuring up doubtful dichotomies in man's total personality, the more lopsided and unbalanced will be the education and character development of coming generations. With especial reference to the scientist, but equally pertinent to the humanist, Sinnott concludes: If education is to meet the test which the crisis of today has put upon it, the sciences must be taught as parts of a great whole and against the background of all human knowledge, rather than as a privileged and superior discipline. Men of science minister to the world in many ways, but perhaps their most important service now

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is to join hands heartily with their colleagues in other fields, assuring our young men of that breadth and catholicity of education from which alone can grow the wisdom they must have to save a desperate world.23 Although it is not incumbent upon this work to specify ways in which such a union of effort may be effected, a few suggestions may be helpful in elucidating the text. In general, in literature and history courses far greater emphasis should be laid on the history of scientific accomplishment. Conversely, the progress of science should be defined out of a matrix of religious, cultural and social influences. The whole needs to be permeated with a greater understanding and interpretation of human beings as the authors as well as the mere onlookers of historical events, memorable accomplishments and great ideas. Basic studies should draw increasingly on scientific methods, logical analyses and the proper and more effective use of data. The passive reception of knowledge, so lamentably prevalent in most of the world's universities, should be converted into an active interpretation of it in terms of how, why and what for. In developing argument, learning and knowledge, sharper distinctions should be made in all courses among what are and what are not hypotheses, presuppositions, sequiturs and conclusions. The question as to what is and what isn't knowledge should be vital to all learning. Finally, as each new bit of knowledge is assimilated, the question should be asked, How does it fit in with the existing body of knowledge already acquired? For there is nothing more certain than that all knowledge is unified and is split up artificially only for the. convenience of study and learning. With such an approach to learning, the teacher who fanatically considers his subject to be the most important in the curriculum and in the life of the student will not fail to become ridiculous in the sight of men. (7) The restrictive attitude toward what shall be the proper ingredients of a university education is unfortunately but logically at the source of the difficulty with regard to student selection, which is founded almost entirely on intellectual, and, especially in the case of the ancient universities, also on social considerations. In fact, the whole area of selection for the universities needs a thorough investigation grounded in a clearer understanding of human growth and the characteristics and implications of leadership in the modern world. The whole

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situation is aggravated by an abiding penchant for admitting students with the idea in mind that they are preparing for later university careers. Both Farrington and Dobree refer to a ' circular process', which makes of university education an experience devised predominantly to prepare undergraduates for teaching careers because the teachers themselves were prepared that way. Farrington calls this practice a 'closed circle', in which students move from school to university back to school, and within which training for the teaching profession dominates all other types of preparation. T h e University Grants Committee favors more effective methods of selection than those based on intellectual and social achievement and intelligence tests alone. With special reference to medical candidates, the Committee recommends increased emphasis on the personal interview and on reports from contributing schools. ' I t is open to suspicion', they report, 'that the scales are weighed unduly in favor of the socially eligible candidate of athletic prowess and of pleasant manner and address, whereas none of these things is necessarily proportionate to real weight of metal.' 2 4 Everywhere during his investigations the author posed the same questions: How do you know you have chosen the best candidates for university education? Is leadership in public life based primarily on the attributes you require for university entrance? O r are you not in reality preparing students preponderantly for academic careers? What is happening to those young people of superior intellect who do not enter the universities? Answers, in general, betrayed a lack of statistical or formal information and an embarrassing unawareness of the issues. Despite the social changes of the last decade, British universities operate for the intellectual few, and there seems to be little disposition for change. With only 85,000 students in the whole realm of university education out of a total population of over fifty million, one is compelled to wonder if the present expansion in university enrollment is commensurate with Britain's expanding social and political democracy. President Dodds of Princeton University draws an interesting comparison with developments in American social and political history and dwells on the inevitable consequences of democratic egalitarianism, concluding that universities which exist for a select minority will

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meet growing resistance in the years to By the same token, the powerful egalitarian forces which have operated to revise secondary-school behavior will ultimately pass upward to affect the university even more trenchantly than they have to date. Although there is a great deal of prestige value in keeping enrollments low, it is inevitable that present policies on student selection will have to be revised. There is no doubt that the British graduate enjoys a greater reputation in society than does the American graduate, even at the same level of educational attainment. It is doubtful that this prestige value outweighs the obligation of the nation to be factually as well as idealistically certain that university education is extended to all the young people who should have it. In other words, the figure of 85,000 needs far more substantial and statistical support than is currently available. Statements to the effect that recent increases in enrollments have failed to produce a higher calibre of students, and indeed swelled the number achieving only average results, are, of course, not to be ignored, but they should be taken seriously only in the light of the yardsticks which have been used for measuring these results. The Universities Quarterly states editorially that opinions among university people are varied, but a 'consensus' shows that 'the best students are as good as ever, and the worst students are no worse than before, but the average quality is lower because there has been a greater increase in the lower ranges'. 26 There is no concrete evidence submitted as to how this evaluation was made or on what mature bases the conclusion was reached. It is hardly to be expected that a greater and wider variety of student personnel can accurately and fairly be appraised on the standards of another era. The answer, of course, does not lie in a policy of mass higher education but in an earnest scientific study of the potentiality among Britain's youth for higher education and of the admission requirements and selection processes as related thereto. 27 (8) The so-called crisis in British universities has been defined in many different ways by as many different authorities. Moberly terms it a moral crisis; Dobree sees it as a cultural and regional matter; to Wythenshawe it is a social crisis; Davis considers it a crisis in study values; Oakeshott envisages the very essence of university integrity threatened; Clarke urges a re16

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examination of cultural foundations; Truscot is troubled by what is happening to the university's inner life as a result of lay invasions; Lowe calls the crisis cosmic; while Elvin perceives no crisis at all. It is obvious from what has been revealed in this volume that the author sees a crisis, or better a critical situation, in the very intellectual substance of the writing which has appeared in the last few decades on university education per se. The failure adequately to account for advances in related fields contributes in heaviest fashion to much of the impoverished, vapid literature that sorely tries the reader who would pluck its fruit. The commentary summarized in this volume, culled from thousands of pages and millions of words, has been too hard won. Ideas are thinly sown; documentation is worn out and threadbare; and argument runs volubly round and round, even in a day when newsprint is rationed. The so-called educational fundamentals as defined in modern commentary, as well in Britain as elsewhere, are far too trite and nugatory in the light of what modern specialists in biology, anthropology and psychology reveal on human life and living. The human organism seems to be understood largely as the house of a nebulous soul, best responsive to an overmastering moral belief, set down in a code. Education for acculturalization—conditioning the coming generation to institutional practices already established —the elders transmitting to the young the thinking and acting of yesteryear—all this is far too residual in British thought. When Dobr^e refers to the preference of modern students for scientific rather than humanistic studies, perhaps it is partly because in the latter realm they are more apt to find the challenges of the future as they arise spontaneously from fresh and unabashed interpretations of the past. It is rudely evident, to say the least, that Moberly did not succeed in defining the crisis in the university but rather described one situation which might be said to involve a crisis. Such controversies as rage today on the feasibility of coeducation or sex education or moral training are largely sectarian or mythological in their origin, not biological or psychological, and not at issue in other cultures. At heart such problems should be equally sociological in their resolution. Western civilization, we must remind ourselves, owes its cultural prowess and its intellectual triumphs to its obdurate, persistent habit of challenging and experimenting with taboos. It owes its dis-

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coveries, hence its strengths, to men who in some special realm have been aggravatingly and heretically skeptical about its orthodoxies. The preservation of all avenues through which the 'undisciplined' may express their originality is a prime condition for the continued progress of Western culture, not only, for its own sake but as an example for the world to respect.28 Perhaps not since that remarkable period five hundred years before Christ which gave birth to the teachings of a galaxy of prophets, Laotse, Buddha, Krishna, Zoroaster and the Ionian philosopher-scientists, has there been so much new knowledge expounded about the universe and such original and penetrating thought into its secrets. Robert A. Millikan, a giant among intellectuals, whom Dr Leavis deprecates, reflects sentiently on the rapid expansion and intense penetration of modern knowledge: The changes that have taken place during the last century in the average man's fundamental beliefs, in his philosophy, in his concept of religion, in his whole world outlook, are greater than the changes that occurred during the preceding four thousand years all put together. .. because of science and its application to human life, for these [changes] have bloomed in my time as no one in history had ever dreamed.29 'It is the business of university people', writes Sir Frederick Ogilvie,' to stand on the frontiers of knowledge, looking outward, not in.' So much for the shortcomings. Every one of the above observations could, of course, be extended indefinitely. The aim has been to indicate lines along which additional thinking might profitably take place and to point out areas in which increased concentration is nothing short of vital. The interpretations above are not to be construed as pleas for the elimination of conservativism and tradition, much less for the ultimate demise of every kind of faith and allegiance. The monumental work of such a staunch Christian thinker as Arnold Toynbee is indispensable to historical understanding. 'In Christianity', observed Sir Fred Clarke, 'there is conveyed, however darkly, profound knowledge, knowledge of truth about life.' Faith is a natural urge in humankind; it is the first necessity for human action; it is at the root of all ideologies which direct and explain man's progress through cultures and civilizations. And tradition, emanating from that faith, provides the keel of human 16-2

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progress. But tradition is not static; it is evolutionary; it becomes modified in the light of new interpretations and new discoveries. It becomes increasingly valid—and valuable—as it stands the test of circumspection. What can British universities teach the world? That, of course, is a large order, different in its make-up for different university systems. Adequate responses involve formulating generalizations which by their very nature cannot help being vulnerable. The following statements must be interpreted liberally and in the mature understanding that circumstances most assuredly alter cases. (i) British universities are singularly independent of government control. Official legislation adopted on recommendation of royal commissions is in large part a direct consequence of university desire for investigation by impartial bodies. Like the old Jockey Club and Inns of Court, the universities are what Robertson calls 'historic homes of privilege and monopoly'; in this way they contrast strikingly with the state-created, statesupported and state-controlled universities which exist in most of the civilized world. The state, in other words, customarily reserves the right to influence university behavior through a method of suggestion and criticism that does not imply control. Governmental 'interference' comes largely as a result of invitation from the universities. It is not superimposed. Internally, too, no university system in the world is freer than the British; this freedom has been won by an insistence throughout history on the autonomy of the university and by repeated demonstration that knowledge is incapable of discovery and dissemination if outside control interferes. 30 The lesson for higher learning throughout the world is threefold : First, free and independent universities must be allowed to flourish and prosper, and support must be found from both public and private sources to guarantee their free and untrammeled existence. The more varied the sources of support, the less probability there is for a single control. Second, the administration of oaths, political, religious or of whatever type, is inimical to free, uninhibited investigation; such practices permanently cripple healthy university growth. Third, the establishment of rigid types, or norms, reduces the quality of diversity and impedes the flowering of genius, which by its very nature cannot be 'normal'. For universities dependent on central mini-

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stries or boards of education the moral is this: Control must be limited to administration and to the details of material and physical support. Once the basic requirements for operation are provided, the details of that operation and the general conduct of the university must be left increasingly to university administrators and faculties. (2) In the realm of finances, the problem of government support without control has been solved with a remarkable degree of satisfaction, so that universities know well in advance what moneys they may count on. They receive enough money to guarantee the economy of their existence; and they remain solvent as long as the government is able to fulfill its obligations. Abroad, state financial support has tended strongly toward state control, state interference, or direct state participation in university life. Britain has much to teach autonomous universities on methods of preserving independence yet accepting public moneys. Although British universities are by no means opulent, and much more financial support is needed than has been allotted to date, severe cuts in personnel, subject offerings and general amenities are foreign to the university scene. (3) University appointments and personnel attitudes rest on a much more secure basis than in most countries. Extreme care is taken with regard to the awarding of important posts, and investigations are of unusual length. Once a man is appointed, his tenure is practically unassailable. As a result, faculty turnover is at a minimum and insecurity is the just reward of the indolent and the immoral. The dismissal of staff members in consequence of budgetary difficulties, lack of enrollment, or improper political attitudes, is rare. British university staffs are neither 'top-heavy' with high-ranking professors nor surfeited with young instructors. (4) The administrative, executive and business staffs of British universities contain a large number of officials who have either served on teaching staffs or who lecture simultaneously. Although this practice lends itself to the criticism that few men can do two jobs well, the benefits of fusing the two occupations are so great as to recommend its adoption elsewhere. A t least in America, there is an increasing penchant for viewing universities in the same light as business institutions. Treasurers, bursars, registrars and business managers are apt to take a hard, materialistic view of university existence, and this attitude tends

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to lead to open antagonism between business and teaching staffs. The problems of teachers are better understood by administrators if they experience them firsthand. Contrariwise, professors with a business flair can bring to their colleagues a more sympathetic understanding of administrative and executive difficulties. Finally, the attitude of students toward their university executives is improved if they are afforded the opportunity of appreciating their scholarly attainment. (5) Once having determined that a student is of university caliber, neither the university nor the government shirks its responsibility to provide the material means for his education. In other words, since nearly 80 per cent of British university students are subsidized in one way or another, the conclusion must be that Britain has decided to finance university students from private and public funds to whatever extent necessary. There is considerable doubt as to whether the admission requirements are sufficiently broad to include a fair estimate of all the elements of a candidate's personality, and certainly the stress on purely intellectual attainment is too great. Also, it is probable that Britain is educating only a portion of students of potential university caliber. But the practice of removing financial barriers to productive work is commendable. Students are relatively well provided for in British universities. (6) The general attitude of administrators in British universities is that their prime duty is to serve teaching staffs, not dictate to them. It is a fact that teachers low in the hierarchy have little to say about university policy, but once a policy has been adopted, administrators tend to work co-operatively with members of the faculty and in some cases actually consider themselves as service agencies. In too many countries university administrators are mindful of their position in the higher echelons and in military fashion are apt to issue academic commands that must be carried out by the lower ranks. One might criticize British universities for a lack of focus in administrative behavior, and there is considerable haziness about the nature and function of committees; but democratic procedures in university conduct are an accepted practice, and it is doubtful that the method is more highly developed elsewhere. Universities abroad have a great deal to learn from the British tradition of maintaining a clear line of demarcation between the prerogatives of an administrator and those of a member of the academic

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staff. Directors of schools and institutes are more content to leave matters of curriculum and methods to heads of departments and members of their immediate staffs than would be considered safe in other university systems. This practice cannot help but contribute to academic freedom and give a greater stability and sense of security to those who are responsible for collecting and imparting information. There are other areas, of course, in which British universities hold a unique position of renown, such, for example, as those involving societies, athletics and general social life, where a happier balance seems to have been struck with the essential purposes of a university. In general, it may be said that if maturity of attitude and equipoise of behavior are discernible anywhere in the university world, they may be witnessed in Britain, where seriousness of purpose is healthy and where scholarly achievement is on a high plane. British universities would do well, however, to examine university progress abroad to a much greater degree than they have done to date in the areas of student selection, the distribution of subject matter, the wider purposes of the university, and in regard to other matters mentioned in a number of places throughout the text. Britain has much still to do ifshe wishes to fulfill the worthy aims of coming generations of university youth—much still to do if she wishes adequately to respond to the ideal of university life and experience so grandly expressed by the president of the Student Union at the University of Leeds: We are fortunate people; the whole range of human knowledge is ours.... And yet what an enormous universe, how scientifically inexplicable, how philosophically confounding! Schooled in such a world as this, beset with such a great host of the learned, who will not marvel at his endless opportunity? We shall take our place... reassured by the learning we have acquired, mellowed by a sympathetic understanding, and broadened by a knowledge of the world.81

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NOTES TO CHAPTER I 1 Charles Homer Haskins, The Rise of the Universities (New York: Henry Holt, «923). P; 442 Hastings Rashdall, The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1936), 1, 157-8, 304-11. 3 The culmination of this development in the high Renaissance period is vividly described by Henry S. Lucas, The Renaissance and the Reformation (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1934), pp. 291-305. 4 Rashdall, The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages, 1, 145-6. 5 Rashdall (ibid, hi, 34) pertinently recounts the story of the townswoman who was accidentally killed by an Oxford student in 1209. Royal punishment was meted out, and in protest the university dispersed, partly to Cambridge, not to reconstitute itself until five years later, when papal intervention granted Oxford powers over its own destiny. The dispersion was said to involve 3000 students. 6 See especially V. A. Huber, The English Universities (London: Pickering, 1943), I, 49. Professor Huber states that the Oxford marshes rendered the town almost inaccessible to invaders. Also, the London Bridge fortifications prevented pirates from sailing up the Thames. (Huber was professor of Western literature at the University of Marburg.) 7 Harry Plowman, 'Some Historical Observations on Town and Gown', in Oxford Society, Oxford (London: Oxford University Press, 1949), p. 56. See also The Government of Oxford (London: Oxford University Press, 1931), p. ix; and Rashdall, The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages, m, 35. 8 Rashdall, The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages, ni, 136, 271. J . A. R . Marriott, Oxford, Its Place in National History (Oxford: Clarendon, 1933), p. 63. 9 Rashdall, The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages, 111, 280-2. 10 Ibid. 11, 1 4 1 - 2 , 322-3. A. I. Tillyard, A History of University Reform from 1800 A.D. to the Present Time (Cambridge: Heifer, 1913). 11 Nathan Schachner, The Medieval Universities (New York: Stokes, 1938), p. 3 1 1 . 12 New College was originally called St Mary's, acquiring the name because it was 'new', that is, something different in the life of learning. 13 Rashdall, The Universities of Europe in the Middle Ages, 111, 216, 220, 224, 232. 14 On other colleges Marriott (Oxford, Its Place in National History, p. 78) has this to say: 'About King's Hall and the College of Brasenose, founded 1509.. .there is much that is picturesque but nothing that is historically significant. The new college was evolved in unbroken descent out of an old hall, whose scholars had in 1334 carried off their famous brazen knocker to Stamford.. . . The rest of the sixteenthcentury colleges correspond, in every case, to the national mood of the moment. Corpus Christi represents the new birth of learning; Christ Church rises phoenixlike from the ashes of the monasteries; St John's and Trinity mark the triumph of Marian reaction; Jesus and Wadham symbolize the Elizabethan compromise.' 15 Arnold Nash, The Universities and the Modem World (New York: Macmillan, 1943), p. 99; Sir F. Maurice Powicke, The Christian Life in the Middle Ages (Oxford: Clarendon, 1935), pp. 74 fr. 16 Preserved Smith, A History of Modern Culture (New York: Henry Holt, 1944), II, 18. 17 R . H. Tawney, Religion and the Rise of Capitalism (London: Penguin, 1948), pp. 43, 76. 18 For critical commentary on these attitudes, see Powicke, The Christian Life in the Middle Ages, which makes a case for logic as the forerunner of scientific thought; and H. B. Workman, Evolution of the Monastic Ideal (London: Sharp, 1927), p. 310,

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on St Francis as an originator of modern scientific thought. See also Bertrand Russell, A History of Western Philosophy (New York: Simon and Schuster, 1945), p. 464. 19 Marriott, Oxford, Its Place in National History, p. 98. (The 'false-hearted traitors' in this case happened to be Roman Catholics.) W. H. G. Armytage, 'Precedents and Projects: Further Aspects of the Civic University Tradition in England, 1 6 6 0 - 1 7 3 1 T h e Universities Review (May 1951), 166 fF. 20 S. C. Roberts, British Universities (London: Collins, 1947), pp. 16-17. On the mixed attitude of Henry V I I I see Huber, The English Universities, pp. 225 ff. 21 F . J . Varley has written two outstanding monographs of this period: The Siege of Oxford (Cambridge :Heffer, 1932) and Cambridge during the Civil War (Cambridge: Heifer, 1935). 22 Roberts, British Universities, p. 25. Marriott, Oxford, Its Place in National History, pp. 115, 136. 23 Huber, The English Universities, pp. 65-6. 24 From the fly leaf of Albert Mansbridge, The Older Universities of England— Oxford and Cambridge (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1923). 25 John Hall, An Humble Motion to the Parliament of England concerning the Advancement of Learning (London: printed for John Walker at the Starre in Pope's Head Alley, 1649), p. 35. 26 There were, however, important reform movements outside the universities, such as Sir Thomas Gresham's attempt to found a college in London, four years after Sir Humphrey Gilbert's abortive scheme for an academy, along with the Royal Society of Antiquaries, 1572, whose real purpose was to 'separate truth from falsehood and tradition from evidence'. Armytage pointedly observes: ' T h e thirty-eight members.. .found in antiquity the necessary legal precedents which were to serve the constitutionalists of the following century with arguments against monarchical tyranny, and it is not surprising that James I saw fit to dissolve it as a " treasonable " cabal' (see W. H. G. Armytage,' Education and Social Change in England, 1546-1600', in Vocational Aspect of Secondary and Further Education [Bolton, May 1951]). 27 Armytage,' Education and Social Changein England, 1546-1600', pp. 16-17: 'The comprehensive measures taken to control the press in 1586 showed that the printed word was certainly having its effect on the mass of the population.' 28 W. H. G. Armytage, 'Arts and Sciences: The Emergence of the Civic University Tradition in England, 1731-1800', Universities Review (Oct. 1951), p. 14. 29 J. D. Mackie, "The University of Glasgow, 1451-1951', Universities Quarterly (Nov. 1951), p. 67. 30 Marriott, Oxford, Its Place in National History, p. 149, quoting T . J. Hogg's Life of Shelley. Cf. also Huber, The English Universities, p. 102: 'Henceforward, the universities have been on the whole opposed to the national majority and to its efforts at progress; as, it need hardly be said, they are to this day.' Matthew Arnold wrote: 'Oxford.. .spreading her gardens in the moonlight and whispering from her towers the last enchantment of the Middle Ages.. .home of lost causes, forsaken beliefs, unpopular names, and impossible loyalties.' 31 Charles C. Gillespie, 'English Ideas of the University in the Nineteenth Century', in Margaret Clapp, ed., The Modern University (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1950), pp. 27-9, 32, 36. 32 Nicholas Hans, New Trends in Education in the Eighteenth Century (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1951), pp. 5-6, 41 ff., 179, 193, 210-12. 33 P. M. S. Blackett,' The Education of the Scientist in the University of Today', Universities Quarterly (May 1950), pp. 227-8. Others detached from universities include Erasmus, Descartes, Harvey, Galileo, Leibnitz. Cf. Tillyard, A History of University Reform..., chap, n; and Nash, The Universities and the Modem World,

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p. xxii. (Young, Davy and Faraday belonged to the Royal Institute, however, and Dalton and Joule lectured at the University of Manchester.) W. H. G. Armytage ('Arts and Sciences:... 1731-1810') describes the scientific work done in higher education by the dissenting academies and new institutions of higher learning. G. G. Robertson, The British Universities (London: Methuen, 1944), pp. 19-21. 34 Huber, The English Universities, pp. ix-x. 35 Charles E. Mallet, History of the University of Oxford (London, 1924-27), m, 295~6> 352- Armytage, 'Arts and Sciences:.. .1731-1810',passim. In a letter to the author Armytage cites the lives of Jowett, Pattison and Goldwyn Smith at Oxford, and Henry Sidgwick, Lord Rayleigh, and J. J. Thomson of Cambridge to show that' there was much of the Baconian spirit there'. Robertson ( The British Universities, p. 23) brings out the influences of the Mechanics' Institute after 1825, the workingmen's colleges, the technical schools after the Great Exhibition of 1851, and the reform in secondary education, all of which, together with the Royal Commissions of 1858, 1877 and 1922, led to considerable soul-searching and reorganization in the ancient universities. See also Gillespie, 'English Ideas of the University in the nineteenth Century', in Clapp, ed., op. cit. pp. 27-9, 32, 36. 36 Robertson, The British Universities, p. 25. 37 Bruce Truscot, Red Brick University (London: Faber and Faber, 1945), pp. 20-1. For a capable and talented reply to Truscot see D. W. Brogan, 'Redbrick Revisited', Cambridge Journal (two installments: Dec. 1951 and Jan. 1952). Brogan objects to Truscot's tendency to set the merits of one type of university against those of the other. Both are valuable in their own unique way and should be judged accordingly, states Brogan, not in terms or ideals of the other. 'Redbrick cannot and must not imitate Oxbridge.' Also, the religious and social exclusiveness of the two ancient universities was an 'anomaly' as early as the nineteenth century. "There were a good many really poor men there.' And in any case, Oxford, and Cambridge were typical of the entire British cultural configuration of the time, not the exception. (To prove that poverty was not unknown at Oxford, Armytage brings out the fact that Matthew Arnold had to borrow a thousand pounds to pay the bills incurred by his son while at college.) 38 Haskins, The Rise of the Universities, p. 69. 39 Some amount of competition was also provided by the professional colleges and dissenting academies. See Armytage, 'Arts and Sciences:.. .1731-1810', pp. 7-20. 40 H. C. Dent, British Education (London: Longmans, Green, 1949), p. 28. Cf. also Abraham Flexner, Universities, American, English, German (London: Oxford University Press, 1930), p. 247. 41 Regarding the University of London, George B. Jeffery (The Unity of Knowledge [Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1950], p. 7) observes, contrary to other authors, that 'religious toleration and the liberalization of the curriculum are touched upon infrequently and delicately'; in reality it was essentially society as a whole that was ready for new types of institutions of higher learning. 42 M. L. Jacks, Modern Trends in Education (London: Melrose, 1950): ' I t was in 1870 that this country first began to take education seriously, and the story may therefore begin from that date.' 43 A university college employs university faculty staff members but cannot grant degrees. It submits its students to the external examinations of the University of London. In his meritorious Portrait of a University (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1951), H. B. Charlton gives what he calls a 'biography' of Manchester University as typical of a regional university, illustrating two principles: that these institutions should be free from all religious and political tests; and that they should be close to the community that gave them birth and which must nourish their growth. A recent monograph on a civic university (Bristol) is by B. Cottle

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and J . W. Sherbourne, The Life of a University (Bristol: Arrowsmith, 1951). See also E. W. Vincent and P. Hinton, The History and Significance of the University of Birmingham (Birmingham: Cornish, 1947). 44 Cf. Jeffery, The Unity of Knowledge, p. 19: 'The unsolved problem for both types of universities is to find new forms appropriate to the circumstances of the times which will give social expression to the unity of knowledge in the fellowship of learned men.' 45 Sir Frederick Ogilvie, British Universities, Current Affairs Pamphlet No. 68 (London: Carnegie House, 1948), p. 4. Cf. Robertson, The British Universities, p. 13: ' In Great Britain, as elsewhere, the evolution of the universities proves that the only safeguard against the tyranny of majorities and the infallibility of minorities is a full measure of autonomy, an unqualified liberty of opinion, and a power in the university itself perpetually to revise and reverse its own decisions. Our universities are characteristically British in their retention of the medieval ideal of autonomy, as independent as possible of the state—civil and ecclesiastical.'

N O T E S T O C H A P T E R II 1 Truscot, Red Brick University, pp. 17-18. D. W. Brogan ('Redbrick Revisited', p. 199) retorts: 'We cannot charge Bruce Truscot with refusing to see and paint the warts.' a Robertson, The British Universities, pp. 29-30. London's University College and King's College, adds Robertson, 'were, as colleges, doing university work for their full-time students but were crippled in their search for endowment funds because they could only make a collegiate and not a university appeal to potential benefactors'. 3 Dent, British Education, p. 29. Brogan, 'Redbrick Revisited', p. 139. Barker, British Universities, p. 10. In Britain the term 'social studies' usually excludes economics. 4 Interestingly enough D. W. Brogan ('Redbrick Revisited' [Jan. 1952], p. 210) does not approve of suburban building. Insisting that Redbrick universities should keep to their own special nature and mission, even though they 'must do without their green swards', he states, 'They will be useful to the city in so far as they are in the centre.' 5 In his letter to the author (5 Feb. 1952), Sir Hector Hetherington, principal of Glasgow University, states, ' I wish they might be more critical'. Pertinently, D. W. Brogan observes' Glasgow in its 500 years of life has acquired less endowment than has Manchester in its one hundred years.' To compensate, 'The Scottish schools are not as regularly "milked" of their best pupils by Oxford and Cambridge colleges as is the case of England' ('Redbrick Revisited', p. 138). J . D. Mackie, 'The University of Glasgow', p. 69. 6 Robertson, British Universities, pp. 37-9. 7 For further information regarding university specialties, see the section below entitled 'The Anatomy of Subject Matter'. 8 Cf. D. W. Brogan, 'Redbrick Revisited', pp. 207-10. 9 Regarding the University of Wales, for example, T. I. Ellis {The Development of Higher Education in Wales [Wrexham: Hughes, 1935], p. 9) stresses religious and theological foundations:' It is to some a matter of regret that when the educational edifice of modern Wales was in process of erection, the foundations were not laid as securely as they might have been in the cultural tradition which undoubtedly existed.' 10 See Oxford Society, Oxford (London: Oxford University Press, 1949), p. 3 1 : ' Many of the University "independent" members were only Tories in disguise. If

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it is really desired to represent the University, her Burgess should be chosen by Congregation, and it is an interesting speculation as to what type of member this would produce.' Cf. Marriott, Oxford, Its Place in National History, p. 104. 1 1 Oxford University, The Government of Oxford (London: Oxford University Press, 1931), p. 1 5 : 'Probably the most essential difference between Oxford and Cambridge lies in the power of the General Board of the Faculties. This power arises, primarily, from the substitution of a system of paid university lecturers for the system of unpaid inter-collegiate lecturing which prevailed at Cambridge until after the Royal Commission's Report, and which still holds at Oxford, where the greater part of the lecturing is performed by college tutors receiving no remuneration from the University.' 12 Ibid. pp. s i , 1 4 - 1 5 , 10: ' T h e election to Council takes place along lines of party and personal influence; hence Council is often divided against itself. The curious thing is that, according to the constitution of the University, it is Council as a corporate entity that has to present measures to Congregation, and thus Council, although without collective responsibility, resembles a Cabinet in its power of originating legislation. This absence of joint responsibility seems to be an inevitable consequence of committee government.' 13 Ibid. pp. 6-9, 59. 14 Barker, British Universities, p. 23. Barker states that the disciplinary powers of the proctors include expulsion, rustication (suspension), fines and 'gating'. ' I n the past such penalties as flogging and impositions were possible. One man, within his six months' rustication, had to abridge the whole of Herodotus, make notes on St Paul's Epistles and the last 100 Psalms in Hebrew, translate a volume of sermons into Latin, study and annotate four books of Euclid, and work out a large number of algebra examples. His six months could hardly have been a holiday! Most mild offenders today pay a small fine for a first offense and are proud to do so. 1 5 Compiled from The Oxford University What's What (Oxford: Widdicombe, 1948-9) and M. M. Chambers, ed., Universities of the World outside the U.S.A. (Washington D.C.: American Council on Education, 1950). 16 Marriott (Oxford, Its Place in National History, p. 184), aptly likens university 'supremacy' over the colleges to the relation of the American federal government to the states. 17 The Government of Oxford, p. 16. See abo Truscot, Red Brick University, p. 6 1 ; and Barker, British Universities, p. 15. 18 Dent, British Education, p. 35. ' T h e Vice-Chancellor's Statement to the Court', The University of Manchester Gazette (July 1951), p. 2. 19 Cf. Ogilvie, British Universities, p. 1 5 ; and The Government of Oxford, p. 59. We cannot resist incorporating the seasoned comment of Malcolm S. MacLean, professor of higher education at the University of California, Los Angeles, who, on 9 J a n . 1954, wrote to the author as follows: ' I n studying the feasibility of dual control in administration, the British might profit from studying what has happened and is happening in American universities. Looked at functionally, there seem to be three major branches of the administrative process: (1) the academic; (2) the financial, including both money-raising and money-spending, as well as accounting, housekeeping, buildings, and grounds; (3) public relations—with politicians, alumni, and the general public ("lay representation"). It is almost impossible to find an administrator competent in all three, even if the complexity in a large institution did not overwhelm him. Therefore, several kinds of organization have been carried out. The most common is the president and the comptroller at the simplest level. Almost always these two are in increasing conflict over how to spend university money. Sometimes the president controls; sometimes the comptroller gets the upper hand and, in fact, by management of funds actually controls the academic side. In larger institutions, with chancellors and presidents, the conflict

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in administration is severe and leads sometimes to chaos. All too frequently administrators' are too busy with detail to have time or energy for long-range study and formulation of policy. As a great administrator friend of mine put it, "Administration is a process of incessantly swatting mosquitoes and occasionally getting a shot at a bull moose, which one usually misses because he is at that moment swatting mosquitoes".' s o Harold J . Laski, The American Democrtuy (New York: T h e Viking Press, 1948), pp. 345 ff. a 1 Bonamy Dobrie, The Universities and Regional Life (Cambridge, 1943), p. 5. 22 Universities Quarterly, rv, no. 4 (Aug. 1950), p. 32a. 23 Truscot, Red Brick University, pp. 58, 61. 24 Times [London] Educational Supplement, 10 Mar. 1950, p. 183. 85 Truscot, Red Brick University, pp. 59-60. Cf. The Government of Oxford, p. 18 n . : 'Certain universities have unwieldy Councils numbering over forty. Liverpool provides that the members of the Council who are members of the Senate or any of the Faculties should not be more than the number of members of the Council divided by five, thus ensuring that the executive authority should not be in the hands of the teachers.' a6 Ogilvie, British Universities, p. 14. a7 Sir J o h n Stopford, 'Vice-Chancellor's Statement to the Court', University of Manchester Gazette (July 1951), p. 3. 28 Times [London] Educational Supplement, 10 Mar. 1950, p. 173. ag University Grants Committee, University Developmentfrom 1935 to 1947 (London: His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1948), p. 5. See also Harold J . Goldthorpe, 'British Universities and the Government', Bulletin of the A.A.U.P. xxxin, no. 3 (Autumn 1947), esp. p. 491. 30 Times [London] Educational Supplement, 10 Mar. 1950, p. 183. 31 Truscot, Red Brick University, pp. 61, 64. 32 Sir Walter Moberly, The Crisis in the University (London: S.C.M. Press, 1949), P- 23933 Barker, British Universities, p. 46. 34 Times [London] Educational Supplement, 10 Mar. 1950. 35 Blackett, ' T h e Education of the Scientist...', pp. 233-4. 36 University Grants Committee, University Development from 1934 to 1947, p. 54. 37 Ogilvie, British Universities, p. 18. 38 University Grants Committee, Returns, 1949-50 (London: His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1951), p. 6. 39 Moberly, The Crisis in the University, p. 206. 40 University Grants Committee, Returns, ¡947-8 (London: His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1949), p. 9. Dent, British Education, p. 29. 41 University Grants Committee, Returns, 1950-1 (London: His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1952), p. 6. 4a Eric Ashby interestingly suggests that students have bed and breakfast at home or in lodgings and use halls of residence for study and activity u p to bedtime. See his 'A Note on Alternatives to Halls of Residence', Universities Quarterly (Feb. 1951), pp. 150 ff. 43 Marriott, Oxford, p. 184. T h e story is told that after women were admitted to university classes, some lecturers openly flouted them. Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch, for example, professor of English literature, always began his lecture by addressing the 'gentlemen', utterly ignoring the young ladies. Finally, the time came when he h a d only one m a n in his class; the number of young women increased. ' S i r ' , he would start off. Then, as the story goes, there was no m a n at all; whereupon old ' Q,', as he was fondly called, dropped his salutation a n d talked as if he had no audience.

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44 University Grants Committee, Returns, 1947-8, pp. 1 4 - 1 5 ; Returns, 1949-50, pp. 6-7. 45 University Grants Committee, Returns, 1950-1, pp. 6-8. 46 Barker, British Universities, p. 34. For a more extended treatment of the steps by which women were admitted to universities, see R. M. Scrimgeour, 'Frances Mary Buss and University Education for Women', The Universities Review (Sept. '95°)> PP- 18-19. 47 Universities Grants Committee, University Developmentfrom 1934 to 1947. 48 Eric James, lecturing on the relations between schools and universities at the University of Leeds, 24 Oct. 1951, is tartly critical of entrance procedures: ' T h e only contact that the headmaster of Bricktown County Grammar School might have with Redbrick might well be a printed form from the registrar, or a cyclostyled letter from an indecipherable female describing herself as an administrative assistant... .Universities should regard school representatives as genuine partners who must not be made to feel they are supplicants trying to wring concessions from aloof and jealous gods.' 49 Dobrie, The University and Regional Life, p. 9. 50 David Thomson, ' T h e Universities, a Period of Transition', Britain Today (London: The British Council, Apr. 1949), pp. 12-18. On his retirement in September 1951, the vice-chancellor of Cambridge University announced that the University needed at least £200,000 more per year in order adequately to meet current expenses. N O T E S T O C H A P T E R III 1 Hall, A Petition, pp. 24-5. 2 Marriott, Oxford, p. 184. University Grants Committee, Returns, 1950-1, p. 42. 3 University Grants Committee, University Development from 1934 to 1947, p. 7. 4 Lord Simon of Wythenshawe, The Development of British Universities (London: Longmans, Green, 1944), p. 6. See Lord Simon's Appendix, which lists areas in which planning might well be initiated. 5 University Grants Committee, University Development..., p. 7. 6 Lord Simon of Wythenshawe,' Speech to the Court of Manchester University University of Manchester Gazette (Dec. 1950), pp. 1-3. 7 University Grants Committee, University Development..., p. 78. 8 M. L.Jacks, Modem Trends in Education (London: Melrose, 1950), p. 187. 9 Committee of Vice-Chancellors and Principals, 'A Note on University Policy and Finance', cited in W. R. Niblett, The Development ofBritish Universities since 1945, MS. University of Leeds Institute of Education, 1951. 10 Flexner, Universities, p. 271. 11 University Grants Committee, University Development. .., p. 77. 12 Moberly, The Crisis in the University, p. 239. 13 Ogilvie, British Universities, p. 15. 14 Bernal, The Social Function of Science, p. 106. 15 The Financial Times (15 Feb. 1952) submits data indicating that the total amount of funds obtained from government sources amounted in 1950-1 to £24 million, of which £14,500,000 was a direct income grant. The balance included a 'nonrecurrent' item (£9 million) plus grants from local authorities (over £ 1 million). Estimates for 1952-3 involved a direct income grant of £20 million, arising annually to £ 2 5 million by 1957. Birmingham is used as a case study to illustrate the method of earmarking certain funds for such schools as those of medicine and dentistry and the Institute of Education. The University's control over the disbursement of government funds is limited to the extent to which they are earmarked, though of course the figures are agreed upon by the University's authorities and members of the Grants Committee. Returns, 1950-1, p. 8. 17

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16 University Grants Committee, Returns, ¡947-8, pp. 20-1; Returns, 1949-50, pp. 8-9. 17 Of the above sums, the maintenance figures vary from £165 for students living at home and attending provincial universities to ¡£265 for students in residence at Oxford and Cambridge. 18 Barker, British Universities, p. 9. 19 Dent, British Education, pp. 35-6. In addition, ' t h e criticism has been made that Scottish universities rely too much on large lecture courses' as a n economy measure. 20 Harold W. Dodds, Louis M. Hacker and Lindsay Rogers, Government Assistance to Universities in Great Britain (New York: Columbia University Press [for the Commission on Financing Higher Education], 1952), pp. 25-6, 28-30 and passim to p. 70. 21 Ibid. pp. 94, 99, 123. 22 Cf. the Scarborough Report (London: His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1948).

NOTES T O CHAPTER IV 1 O n wood production and consumption, for example, see Central Statistical Office, Monthly Digest of Statistics (London: His Majesty's Stationery Office, May 1949)» P- 322 André Siegfried, What the British Empire Means to Western Civilization, trans. George M. Wrong, Pamphlets on World Affairs, C 4 (New York: Farrar and Rinehart, 1940), p. 5. See also L. S. Amery, The British Commonwealth in World Affairs (London: Longmans, Green, 1948), p. 2 1 . 3 Walter C. Richardson, ' T h e Labor Government: an Appraisal', Bulletin of the A.A.U.P. xxxv, no. 3 (Autumn 1949), p. 503. See also Herbert L. Matthews, 'Freedom and Democracy Assured in Britain', Times [New York], 22 Nov. 1947. 4 Central Office of Information, Britain, 1949-50 (London: His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1950), p. 44. 5 The Economist (Apr. 1950), p. 963. Cf. the Manchester Guardian quoted in Newsweek (4 Dec. 1950), 3 5 : ' T h e coal crisis is a symptom of the sickness of the welfare state.' The New York Times states (3 J a n . 1951) : ' O u t p u t per m a n shift for the entire industry rose from 1 • 16 tons to 1-19; output per miner, from 3-01 to 3-11.' By the end of 1951 there was another slight improvement. 6 Lewis G. Ord, Politics and Poverty (New York: Funk and Wagnalls, 1948), p. 11, quoting the findings of L. Rostas, Comparative Productivity in British and American Industry (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1948). See also T . U . Matthew (University of Birmingham), 'Lessons in Productivity from U.S.A.', The Listener, XL.II, 1073 I 1 ^ Aug. 1949), pp. 259-60: 'But to bring British industrial productivity u p to American levels, we must rely, not only on the results which can be achieved through simplification of work using existing processes, but also on the intensive application of scientific research in industry. I n this, American practice in advanced training for engineering production and management and in close co-operation between research workers in university research institutes and industry gives us a clear guide. I believe that more than half the advanced research work in engineering and management now being carried out in American universities is being done on a co-operative basis, and is being sponsored by American industry. This close co-operation between industry and university leads to the rapid application of research results and is definitely one reason for the continuing trends towards higher productivity in America.' 7 This Modern Age (Issue 2 3 ; London: Arthur R a n k Studios, 23 Nov. 1948): ' T h e r e are still some short-sighted men in labor today who will not permit effi-

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ciency studies.' (Most textbooks on industrial relations are written by Americans— author.) 8 Universities Quarterly (Feb. 1950), pp. 116-17. 9 T . U. Matthew, loc. cit.i 'In the field of management and administrative methods, we have only recently become seriously interested in the promotion and dissemination of what is recognized as "best practice" through our professional and educational institutions.' 10 Nuffield College, The Problem Facing British Universities (London: Oxford University Press, 1948), p. 19. See also F. C. Hooper, 'The Arts Graduate and Business', Universities Quarterly (Feb. 1947). University Grants Committee, Returns, lg^D-g, p. 19: The ratio of honors to pass degrees in all arts courses was about 7:3. 11 Campaign Committee for the Expansion of Higher Education, 'Britain's Need for Higher Education'. Factual Notes for a Regional Conference, MS. (London: 3 Endsleigh Street [W.C. 1], 1947), unpaged. 12 Blackett, 'The Education of the S c i e n t i s t . . p . 231. 13 The Barlow Report,' Scientific Manpower' (London: His Majesty's Stationery Office, May 1946). 14 Campaign C o m m i t t e e . . ' B r i t a i n ' s Need for Higher Education'. 15 Nuffield College, The Problem Facing British Universities, chap. 11. University Grants Committee, Returns, 194.J-8, p. 14. 16 The Percy Report, 'Higher Technological Information' (London: His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1945). 17 Council of the Association of University Teachers, ' Report on the Place of Technology in the Universities', The Universities Review [Bristol] (Sept. 1950), pp. 86-92. 18 Ministry of Education, The Future Development of Higher Technological Education (London: His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1951), esp. pp. 8, 14. 19 Times [London] Educational Supplement, 17 Nov. 1950. 20 R . A. Butler, 'The Future of Technical Colleges', The Journal of Education [London] (Oct. 1950), pp. 534-5. 21 Lord Simon of Wythenshawe, The Development of British Universities, p. 4. 22 The Economist (1 Oct. 1949). 23 'Landlord and Tenant', The Economist (17 Sept. 1949), pp. 597-8. The writer adopts a dim view of the status of British agriculture: 'The private landowner is today in a very different position from his grandfather. He is a very much poorer man—at least so far as his agricultural activities are concerned. His holding is likely to be a good deal smaller and more fragmentary. His personal relationship with his tenants is weaker and his tenants' statutory rights are stronger. If he is a large owner, he is continuously worried by the impact of death duties. Nevertheless, he still occupies a vital economic position in agriculture. As part of it, he is now called upon to participate in the realisation of a large-scale plan of agricultural expansion. He is asked to overcome the ravages of seventy years' neglect, to improve his holding, and to invest large amounts of fresh capital.... Can the private landowner operate successfully under strange new conditions, or is his gradual extinction inevitable?' 24 Central Office of Information, Post-War Britain, 1946 (London: His Majesty's Stationery Office, 1946), p. 61: 'The proportions of imported nutrients in the average British diet were: calories, 64 percent; protein, 50 percent; animal protein, 40 percent; calcium, 25 percent; iron, 50 percent; vitamin A , 30 percent; vitamin C, 30 percent.' 25 Monthly Digest of Statistics (July 1949), 77. 26 The Economist (Nov. 1949), p. 1109. Poultry stocks were lowest in 1943, about 75 per cent of 1939; cattle at no time fell below 1939 levels; in 1947, sheep (62 per cent) and hogs (39 per cent) were at their lowest ebb, while poultry had risen above 17-3

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90 per cent and cattle to 110 per cent of 1939. All stocks were increased somewhat in 1948, when a world wool shortage began to appear. 27 Central Office of Information, Britain, 1949-50, p. 165: ' T h e objectives set for 1953-3 as percentages of 1936-9 output are, for milk, 123; for eggs, 131; for beef and veal, 110; for mutton and lamb, 83; and for pigmeat, 92.' The desired expansion of husbandry was delayed initially by international shortages and high prices of feed grains, a condition which led The Economist, loc. cit., to criticize government restrictions on imports of feeding stuffs. 28 Central Office of Information, Britain, 1949-50, p. 166. The Economist (17 Sept. 1949), 598, reports: ' I f British agriculture can be revitalized into a much increased efficiency, then it will cease to be so dependent on state aid or so liable to state control. Such a transformation is in any case devoutly to be desired; although unfortunately present government policy will do little to achieve it.' See also The New Statesman and Nation (27 May 1950). 29 Nuffield College, The Problem Facing British Universities, p. 18; 'Report of the Committee on Higher Agricultural Education in England and Wales', Cmd. 6728, 1946; the Alness Report, 'Committee on Agricultural Education in Scotland', Cmd. 6704, 1945; 'Second Report', Committee on Veterinary Education in Great Britain, Cmd. 6517, 1944; and the Loveday Report, 'Higher Agricultural Education', 1946. 30 F. T . Brooks (Cambridge), 'Research in Agriculture', Universities Quarterly (Feb. 1950), pp 177-83. 31 N . M. Comber, Agricultural Education in Great Britain (London: Longmans, Green, 1948), p. 17. 32 Sir Fred Clarke, Freedom in the Educative Society (London: University of London Press, 1948), p. 106. 33 Cf. Ivor Thomas, The Socialist Tragedy (New York: Macmillan, 1951). 34 Cf. ' T h e Case for British Socialism', New York Times (6 Sept. 1949). See also a series of articles by Herbert L. Matthews, 'Britain at the End of an Era', reprints from New York Times (Nov. 1947); and Winston Churchill, The Gathering Storm (Boston: Houghton Mifflin 1948), chaps, entitled ' T h e Tragedy of Munich' and 'Munich Winter'. 35 There were exceptions, of course. The editor of the Railway Review (29 June 1951) observed uncompromisingly:' There is as much chance of successful co-operation between capitalism and socialism as there is between two fighting cocks in a barrel . . . Capitalism is the root of the world's tension at the present t i m e . . . . It is regrettable that many of our leaders cannot yet turn their backs upon the twisted education they received in the institutions, which, if they do not consciously support capitalist economic philosophy, do not actively assail i t . . . .We in the Trade Union Movement are irrevocably committed to the overthrow of the capitalistic system.' 36 Central Office of Information, Britain, 1949-50, p. 56. See also Sir Stafford Cripps, Why This Socialism? (London: n.p., 1933), which states that private enterprise, capitalism and the profit motive must endure. 37 Fred Clarke, Education and Social Change (London: Sheldon, 1940), p. 7; Herbert L . Matthews, 'Britain at the End of an Era', 24 Nov. 1947). 38 A . L. Goodhart, The British Constitution (New York: British Information Services, 1946), p. 57. See also J. B. Priesdey, 'Four Years Have Rebuilt British Democracy', New York Times (5 Sept. 1943). 39 However, certain individuals of the type of Ivor Thomas, Oxford journalist and former Laborite, predict socialism's ultimate demise. Thomas considers that there are only two instruments that make men work: the whip or the paycheck, the latter involving the right to own property. See his Socialist Tragedy, cited above, n- 3340 Joseph E. McLean, ed., The Public Service and University Education (Princeton:

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26I

Princeton University Press, 1950); reviewed in Universities Quarterly (Feb. 1950), pp. 192-4, by A. P. Waterfield. 41 A. P. Waterfield, 'Competition for the British Civil Service and its Relation to the Universities', Oxford, special issue (London: Oxford University Press, 1949), pp. 36-55. Waterfield incorporates a study of the work of Lord Macaulay and other early promoters of the civil service. Cf. Brogan, 'Redbrick Revisited', pp. 199-200: 'By tying the recruitment of the new higher civil service to the existing university system Macaulay and Gladstone made high university distinction even more profitable, in a worldly sense, than ever before.' 42 Waterfield, loc. cit., states that results from this method, which consists of a systematic residential examination lasting at least three days, are to be reviewed after ten years. One-quarter of the Home Service candidates are selected by means of the personality tests, and at present all the vacancies in the Foreign Service are to be filled by this method. 43 Alfred B. Badger, The Public Schools and the Nation (London: Hale, 1944), p. 48, Badger's criticism is not new. In 1852 Cardinal Newman referred to the public schools as 'miserable deformities on the side of morals, with a hollow profession of Christianity, and a heathen code of ethics'. Lest Badger, however, be accused of being too unfair to the public schools, the following is appended: 'Though the British character is a racial phenomenon and not the product of these schools, it is no small tribute to them to assert that they have, in the main, striven down the centuries to keep the Christian flag flying; and although the nation should not hesitate to examine the manner of its hoisting, it should hesitate greatly before hauling it down on the field of education' (p. 61). 44 Nuffield College, The Problem Facing British Universities, p. 22. See also Richardson, ' The Labor Government: an Appraisal', p. 499. 45 T. W. Silcock, 'Training Social Workers in the Universities', Universities Quarterly (Feb. 1950), p. 169: 'The list of careers appears at first sight like a catalogue of a jumble sale. Personnel managers, secretaries of voluntary societies, psychiatric social workers, community centre wardens, probation officiers, welfare officers....' University Grants Committee, University Development. . . , p. 72. The subjects studied were economics, economic history, sociology, anthropology, social psychology, political science, demography, statistics and certain branches of medical statistics and law. 46 Silcock, 'Training Social Workers...', pp. 168, 175-6. 47 Nuffield College, The Problem Facing British Universities, p. 26. Chief source: Eileen L. Younghusband, 'Report on the Employment and Training of Social Workers', Carnegie United Kingdom Trust. 48 Sir Fred Clarke, 'Preparing Teachers in England and Wales', Educational Forum (Jan. 1946), pp. 152. 49 R. A. C. Oliver, 'Institutes of Education, I ' , Universities Quarterly (Aug. 1951), P- 35950 Sir Fred Clarke,' The Universities and the Teaching Profession', Bulletin of the A.A.U.P. (Oct. 1944). See also Jeffery, The Unity of Knowledge, p. 62. 51 The New Statesman and Nation (25 Feb. 1950), p. 218. 52 Oliver, 'Institutes of Education', p. 360. 53 Nuffield College, The Problem Facing British Universities, p. 25, citing the McNair Report, 'Teachers and Youth Leaders', 1944. 54 Truscot, Red Brick University, pp. 82-4. 55 Eric James, 'The Shortage of Teachers', The New Statesman and Nation (4 Feb. 1950). P- »a6. 56 Times [London] Educational Supplement, 21 Apr. 1950, p. 307. 57 Central Office of Information, Britain, 1949-50, p. 86; see also Post-War Britain, pp. 44-5.

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58 Bernal, The Social Function of Science, esp. pp. 257-8. Bernal's main complaint was that medical students are trained in the classical style; they neither acquire nor utilize the scientific method. When they finally enter the profession they ' close the door' on science. 59 Goodenough Committee, 'Report on the Inter-Departmental Committee on Medical S c h o o l s 1 9 4 4 . See also Universities Quarterly (Aug. 1949), pp. 734 ff. On dentistry see the Teviot Reports, 1944, 1946. University Grants Committee, University Development..., pp. 62-7. 60 University Grants Committee, Returns, 1947-8, p. 28. 61 'Final Report of the Inter-Departmental Committee on Dentistry' (Oct. 1945), cited in University Grants Committee, University Development..., pp. 62, 67. 62 Nuffield College, The Problem Facing British Universities, pp. 12, 50; sources: the Goodenough Report, 1944; the Teviot Report, 1946; Carr-Sanders and Wilson, The Professions (1944). See also University Grants Committee, Returns, 1947-8, p. 14. 63 'The Professional Practitioner', The Economist (12 Nov. 1949), pp. 1046-8. 64 The Nuffield Report (p. 28): "The universities' business is the education of its members; if professional training is consistent with a full education, by all means let them be combined; but education comes first. All we can infer from the figures is that the product which the universities turn out is increasingly needed by contemporary society.' 65 Harold C. Shearman, Education, the New Horizon (London: Nicholson and Watson, 1947), p. 95. 66 The British Council, Higher Education in Great Britain and Ireland, Handbook for Students from Overseas (London: Longmans, Green, 1948), pt. m. 67 The May 1951 edition of the Universities Quarterly, for example, devotes much of its space to a study of teaching English in the universities. 68 Lord Simon of Wythenshawe, The Development of British Universities, p. 8. NOTES TO CHAPTER

V

1 The initial number of the Universities Quarterly, established under the leadership of Lord Simon of Wythenshawe, lists the following sample issues plaguing university students and teachers and editorializes on the need to inquire into them: (1) The science graduate knows nothing about the humanities and regrets it. The arts graduate knows nothing about science and is proud of it. How far is this true? (2) How far do the universities succeed in producing good specialists and good citizens of a democratic state? (3) How far have their graduates acquired what Whitehead calls a 'habitual vision of greatness'? (4) The chief problem of higher education is that of integration of knowledge. What does this mean? Can it be achieved through history? philosophy? sociology? (5) How far do most students believe that their success in life depends on getting the best possible degree? How far does this cause them to concentrate on preparing for examinations and to neglect anything not directly useful to that purpose ? (6) Should university teachers be trained? (7) Should universities be inspected? Why? By whom? (8) Are there too many lectures? (9) What is the purpose of examinations? Are students o verexamined ? 2 Ruskin was, however, much concerned about the education of the complete personality, as contained in his Stones of Venice and Time and Tide. Erudition, he wrote, should not be mistaken for education; and schools should devote themselves more to scientific study, especially the study of organic ftature. 3 Sir Richard Livingstone, Education in a World Adrift (New York: Macmillan, 1944)4 Sir Richard Livingstone, Some Tasks for Education (London: Oxford University Press, 1946), pp. 14-15, 90 ff.

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5 Sir Richard Livingstone, Some Thoughts on University Education (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1948), esp. p. 10. 6 Ibid. pp. 7-8, 25, 28. Livingstone approvingly quotes Tolstoi (Life, 11, 426): 'True religion is a relation, accordant with reason and knowledge, which man establishes with the infinite life surrounding him, and which is such as binds his life to that infinity and guides his conduct.' 7 Livingstone deprecates the work of Lytton Strachey on Arnold. For a talented, comprehensive, and objective appraisal see Badger, The Public Schools and the Nation, pp. 46-7. Badger states that salvation was lost to Arnold because he did not understand that boys were boys and men were men; his attitudes 'only proved what havoc a little mental dishonesty plays with our thoughts and powers of logic'. He was 'no believer in the democratic system of government'. Citing other examples of educational undesirability, Badger concludes: ' It is not surprising to find wholesale condemnation of the system from prominent men in the post-Arnold period who had spent their boyhood in this kind of discipline, and this denunciation has persisted right up to the present day.' 8 Livingstone, Some Tasks for Education, p. 74. 9 A . N. Whitehead, Adventure of Ideas (New York: Macmillan, 1945), p. 117. 10 Times [London] Educational Supplement (29 Oct. 1949), reporting on a conference on 'The Study of the Ancient World', organized by the University of London Institute of Education (22 Oct. 1949). 11 W . R . Niblett, 'The Responsibility of the University', Fortnightly (Sept. 1949), pp. 169-71. 12 F. R. Leavis, Education and the University (London: Chatto and Windus, 1943), pp.15-16. 13 Ibid. pp. 17-18. 14 Ibid. pp. 30-1. 15 Bernal, The Social Function of Science, p. xiii. 16 Ibid. pp. 2-5. 17 Ibid. pp. 10-11. 18 Ibid. pp. 16-18. 19 Ibid. pp. 18-20. 20 Ibid. pp. 19-20. 21 Ibid. pp. 134, 344, 359. 22 Ibid. p. 78. 23 Ibid. pp. 91-2, 121. 24 Ibid. p. 412. 25 Ibid. pp. 341-3. 26 Ibid. pp. 415-16. 27 Nash, The University and the Modem World, p. 300. For a critical bibliography of other histories of science see ibid. pp. 299-301. 28 Ibid. p. 17. 29 Flexner, Universities, American, English, German, quoted in Nash, The University and the Modem World, p. 13. 30 James B. Conant, Science and Common Sense (New Haven: Yale University Press,

195031 On newer concepts of relativity and the quantum theory see Lancelot Law Whyte, The Unitary Principle in Physics and Biology (New York: Henry Holt, 1949). Whyte proposes a single principle to govern physics and biology as a reliable alternative to Newtonian foundations of exact science, now conceived to be 'inadequate'. 32 Cf. Joseph H. Spigelman, 'Can Science Make Sense?', Harper's (May 1951), pp. 57-8: 'The physical Principle of Relativity means principally that the same phenomena will be differently described in different coordinate systems, that no

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coordinate system can be given pre-eminence, but that certain relations (among mass, velocity, and the speed of light, for example) are covariant for all continuous coordinate transformations; that is, for all coordinate systems.' Spigelman goes on to show that scientific theories and systems have 'nothing to do' with social development: 'The laws and principles of the various sciences have dependable meaning only for the particular fields to which they respectively belong.' 33 In a letter to the author, 9 Jan. 1954, Professor Malcolm S. MacLean presents the case for teamwork:' The director of research for Monsanto Chemical has under his leadership some fifty young Ph.D.'s in chemistry, physics, biology, botany, etc. When I asked him what some of his problems were, he said, ' The chief one is that modem research demands teamwork, as witness the Manhattan Project on the atomic bomb, in which more than one hundred different kinds of specialists had to co-operate, to cross-fertilize. But our universities are ridden by tradition and still train their graduates in individual research, in isolation, with resultant dog-in-themanger attitudes, jealousy, and suspicion of other workers. Restraining these very able men in teamwork is a painful and tedious process, and some of them can't make it, so I have to fire them. I think there is not one man in thousands who can do alone as good work as he can as a member of a team."' 34 Nash, The University and the Modem World, p. 25. 35 Ibid. Foreword and Preface. 36 Ibid. pp. 9-27. 37 Ibid. pp. 36-7. 38 Ibid, pp.41, 117, 125. 39 Ibid. p. 242: The sociology of knowledge is viewed as 'an empirical study that seeks to derive the relation that exists between ideas, opinions, and convictions, and the social situations in which they emerge'. 40 Aldous Huxley, Science, Liberty and Peace (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1946), pp. 23, 28, 66-7, 69 f t 41 Cf. L. J. Russell, Universities Quarterly (Feb. 1949), p. 119: Professor Russell questions the assertion that a nonacceptance of the Christian ethic has led to inferior lives. In the measure that universities are 'Christianized', he observes, their freedom of thought, action, and belief are affected. See also the work of Childe, Carl Becker, Erich Fromm, and Arthur Koestler. 42 George Santayana, Dominions and Powers: Reflections on Liberty, Science, and Government (New York: Charles Scribner's Sons, 1951). 43 Nash, The University and the Modern World, p. 256. In his letter to the author, 11 Feb. 1952, Professor Nash modifies his views: 'By "Christian" I do not mean that there is a closed system of thought available to us The Christian teacher, while claiming the democratic right to do justice to his Weltanschauung, should nevertheless exhibit a certain agnosticism in his teaching... . " N o t that I have attained, but that I go forward" (St Paul).' 44 Student Christian Movement, University Pamphlets (London S.C.M. Press, 1946). The pamphlets include John Baillie, The Mind of the Modem University; H. A . Hodges, Objectivity and Impartiality-, Dorothy Emmet, The Foundations of a Free University; A. R. Vidler, Christianity's Need for a Free University; Colin Forrester-Paton, Universities under Fire; Paul White, Calling All Freshmen; Daniel T . Jenkins, The Place of a Faculty of Theology in the University of Today, David M. Paton, Religion in the University, W. G. Symons, Work and Vocation; L. A. Reid, Vocational and Humane Education in the University; Group Report, Halls of Residence in Modern Universities. 45 Moberly, The Crisis in the University, pp. 120-1, 127, and passim. See also Universities Quarterly (Feb. 1950), p. 120. 46 Sir Walter Moberly, Plato's Conception of Education and Its Meaning Today (London: University Press, 1944).

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47 Ibid. pp. 8, 75, 146-7, 139: 'In wartime it was often remarked that we were much surer of what we were fighting against than of what we were fighting for.' 48 Ibid. pp. 83, 85. 49 For example, Moberly {ibid. p. 93) reminds scientific humanists that' by any neutral academic test' Christian theologians, philosophers and others are their equal in intelligence, and, quite obviously, have given religious questions 'a far greater quantity and quality of attention'. 50 Moberly, loc. cit. 51 Ibid. pp. 93, 96, 99. 52 Ibid. pp. 107-11. 53 Livingstone, Some Thoughts on University Education, p. 23. 54 A. E. Teale, 'An Examination of Intellectualism', Universities Quarterly, rv, no. 1 (Nov. 1949), pp. 4 4 - 9 .

55 Ibid. p. 49. Gf. Nash, The University and the Modem World, p. 2 5 1 : 'The intellectual anxiety of man that leads to the absolutizing of his point of view is one particular expression of his essential nature in its perpetual quest for security. The anxiety that colors his reason is not simply his desire for physical survival but it is the anxiety of a self who is both involved in and yet transcends the natural process. Thus the real situation in which man finds himself is that, just as the animal nature cannot be completely understood without understanding human nature as emerging from and yet being more than animal nature, so man cannot be understood except with reference to that which transcends man. The fundamental fact about man is aptly symbolized in his capacity to stand in judgment on himself as well as on nature or his reason or his conscience. Moreover, this transcendence is limitless, for not only can man judge himself but he knows that he judges himself and so he can judge his own judgment.' 56 Ogilvie, The British Universities, pp. 6, 16. 57 Barker, British Universities, pp. 24-6. 58 Sir Osbert Sitwell, Noble Essences (New York: Little, Brown, 1950). Sitwell cites the following who defied public opinion (the anti-Philistines): Edmund Gosse, Ada Leverson, W. H. Davis, Arnold Bennett, Ronald Firbank, Wilfred Owen, and the artists Sickert and Whistler. 59 Barker, British Universities, pp. 6, 28. 60 Moberly, The Crisis in the University, pp. 183-4. 61 Barker, The British Universities, pp. 29-31. The Institute for Advanced Studies at Princeton University is often referred to as a model. At Oxford, Nuffield College and Halifax House in particular deserve the appellation of graduate colleges; and Barker notes that St Anthony's College, recently endowed by an anonymous French benefactor, will concentrate on French studies at the graduate level. 62 Truscot, Red Brick University, pp. 53-5. 63 Ibid. p. 56. 64 D. J. Da vies, 'Work and Universities', Universities Quarterly, TV, no. 1 (Nov. 1949). PP- 67-7265 Reginald Lennard,' The Threat to Academic Freedom', The Hibbert Journal, XLVII, no. I (Oct. 1949).

NOTES TO CHAPTER 1 2 3 4 5 6 V.

VI

Robertson, British Universities, pp. 68-9. Silcock, "The Training of Social Workers', p. 171. Clarke, The Price of Democracy, p. 5. Lloyd of Dolobran, Leadership in Democracy, p. 12. Amery, The British Commonwealth in World Affairs, p. 4. Bruce Truscot, Red Brick and Vital Days (London: Faber, 1944), p. 29, citing H. Galbraith, 'The Lost Years', The Listener (13 May, 1943), p. 567.

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7 Nash, The University and the Modern World, p. xxi. 8 F. R . Leavis, Culture and Environment (London: Chatto and Windus, 1948), pp. 87 ff. and 106. 9 H . A.Jones, 'Research, Reality, and Religion', Universities Quarterly, rv, no. 3 (May 1950), pp. 220-4. 10 Adolf Lowe, The Universities in Transformation (London: Sheldon Press, 1940), 'Preface', and pp. 36-7. 11 John Adams, 'Aims and Methods', Universities Quarterly, iv, no. 1 (Nov. 1949), pp. 62-6. In his letter to the author, 22 Dec. 1951, Adams states that there ought to be university chaplainsof all denominations: Moslems, Jews, non-Christian faiths, etc., if there is demand. These denominational representatives would be officially recognized by the university but their teaching would not be sponsored. 12 Colin Forrester-Paton, Universities under Fire (London: S.C.M. Press, 1947), pp. 9, 12, 24, 31-2. 13 David M. Paton, Religion in the University (London: S.C.M. Press, 1946), pp. 29-30. Paton was chaplain and librarian of Westcott House, Cambridge. 14 A. R . Vidler, Christianity's Need for a Free University (London: S.C.M. Press, 1946), pp. 13 ff. 15 Niblett, 'The Responsibility of the University', p. 171. 16 M. V. C. Jeffreys, Education—Christian or Pagan (London: University of London Press, 1945), Preface, Introduction, and p. 8. 17 Ibid. pp. 17-18. 18 Ibid. p. 81. 19 Ibid. p. 87. Jeffreys clarifies his view by quoting from Eckhardt:' The eye with which I see God is the same eye with which God sees me.' 20 Ibid. pp. 50-1 ff., 93. Cf. p. 71: 'Animals have no history; they only have a biological cycle, which is not the same thing. The possibility of history implies a transcendence of the biological cycle.' 21 Moberly, The Crisis in the University, p. 19. 22 Ibid. pp. 53, 129 ff. 23 Ibid. pp. 27, 100, 109, 117, 176. 24 Michael Oakeshott, ' The Universities', The Cambridge Journal, 11, no. 9 (June 1949). PP- 5I5-4225 Sir Walter Moberly, ' T h e Universities', The Cambridge Journal, in, no. 4 (Jan. 1950), pp. 195-213. 26 P. Mansell Jones, 'A Debate on the "Crisis'", Universities Review (Jan. 1951), pp. 117-21. 27 Lionel Elvin, ' T h e Universities and Social Change', Universities Quarterly, iv, no. 1 (Nov. 1949), pp. 24-8. 28 Ibid. p. 32. 29 Ibid. p. 36. 30 Dobree, The Universities and Regional Life, pp. 14, 19. 31 Sir Fred Clarke, Freedom in the Educative Society, pp. 24, 36. This volume is one of a series edited by W. R. Niblett entitled 'Educational Issues of Today', and includes Jeffreys's Education—Christian or Pagan and B. A. Fletcher's Education and Crisis (?.».). Prefacing each volume Professor Niblett writes: ' I t is the conviction of the contributors to this series, first, that education is a far more complex and deep-reaching affair than instruction; second, that what is taught and how we teach it necessarily reflect the beliefs we hold and our assumptions about life and what it is for; third, that the direction in which civilization develops as the century goes on must in great measure depend upon the integrity with which the individual is enabled to live in an increasingly planned society; and, lastly, that Christianity has insights to offer for which there is no substitute.' 32 Clarke, Freedom in the Educative Society, pp. 29-30, 45, 88.

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33 Ibid. pp. 97-101: 'In other words, there may be here one of the kernels of truth that we have been throwing away, in this instance because it is not at all pleasant to the natural taste.' 34 Roy Pascal, 'The Universities and Social Purpose', Universities Quarterly, TV, no. 1 (Nov. 1949), pp. 37-43. 35 In a personal letter to the author (Dec. 1951), Moberly modifies his views: ' I write as a Christian. I hold that the Christian conception of human nature is true and that no institution based on a different conception can be wholly satisfactory or lasting. But a fully Christian unity will only be a possible or legitimate goal of policy when the great majority of its members are convinced Christians. It is not the policy I advocate for present-day Great Britain and far less for India or China.' 36 Lord Simon of Wythenshawe, 'University Crisis? A Consumer's View', Universities Quarterly, 1v, no. 1 (Nov. 1949), pp. 73-81. 37 Benjamin Farrington, 'Secular Humanism', in The University of London Institute of Education, Tear Book of Education, 1951 (London: Evans, 1951), pp. 102-8. 38 Tear Book of Education, 1951, pp. 4-14. 39 Phyllis Doyle, 'Religion and Morals in England', Tear Book of Education, 1951, pp. 311-12. NOTES TO CHAPTER

VII

1 The Association of University Teachers, ' Report on the Place of Technology in the Universities', The Universities Review (Sept. 1950), p. 86. 2 Robertson, The British Universities, p. 65. 3 Louis Arnaud Reid,' Vocational' and' Humane' Education in the University (London: S.C.M. Press, 1946), pp. 9-17 and pp. 20 ff. Reid uses the expression 'compensating studies', referring to subjects outside of one's specialty which contribute to a humane education. This appellation is neat and logical in view of Reid's concept of the existing 'lack of something else in university education' which needs to be overcome. 4 John Morrison, 'Socrates and the Professors', Universities Quarterly, rv, no. 1 (Nov. 1949), pp. 50-8. 5 Galbraith, ' The Lost Years', quoted in Truscot, Red Brick and These Vital Days, pp. 29-30. In supreme self-contentment with his anonymity and with an amusing flourish of self-congratulation over the success of his Red Brick University, Truscot writes: 'Fortunately, the book was published at an auspicious moment: its criticisms were the first slow drops of what has already become a heavy shower and is likely before long to develop into a thoroughly wet day. The worst offenders, of course, have put up large-sized umbrellas and rim no danger at all of getting their clothes wet—I mean, for example, the most unenlightened members of Council, the most snobbish schools, and the professors who have never done a stroke of work since their appointment and never will. But there are signs that others are at least feeling the wind, if not the rain, and my hope, when I first sat down to write, was that they would feel it a good deal more' (p. 13). 6 Farrington, 'Secular Humanism', pp. 102-12. 7 Nash, The University and the Modem World, pp. 260, 266, 272, 274-6, quoting Clarke, Education and Social Change, Preface, and Jacks, God in Education, p. 76. 8 Ibid. pp. 292-3. 9 H. A.Jones, Universities Quarterly (May 1950), p. 225. 10 Jeffreys, Education—Christian or Pagan, pp. 10-11. 11 Teachers in 'purely technical' schools would be among the first to deny Professor Jeffreys, if only out of the fact that such character deficiencies as laxity, inattention, carelessness, indolence, and the rest might very well lead to bodily, if not spiritual, harm when one is in contact with machinery. In consideration of the

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amount of fair play and honesty required in technical and vocational preparation, one wonders why Jeffreys needed to limit the locale of his character training. Perhaps the best and most logical conclusion would be, as Jeffreys himself amusedly observes, that character is best developed through stout resistance to all types of education! ia Adams, 'Aims and Methods', pp. 62-4. 13 Ogilvie, British Universities, pp. 16-17. 14 Ibid. p. 6. 15 Livingstone, Some Thoughts on University Education, p. 18. 16 Shearman, Education, the New Horizon, p. 83. 17 Clarke, The Price of Democracy, pp. 7-8. 18 Bernal, The Social Function of Science, pp. 263-5. For more recent research on the Royal Society see Armytage, 'Precedents and Projects', p. 168. 1 g John Bernal, The Freedom of Necessity (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1949)» PP- H 6 ff20 A. R. Ubbelohde, 'The Segregation of Technical Studies', The Journal of Education (May 1950), pp. 249-51. 21 Times [London] Educational Supplement, 27 Oct. 1950. 22 Nuffield College, The Problem Facing British Universities, pp. 89-91. 23 M. L. Oliphant,' University or Institute of Technology ?Universities Quarterly, iv, no. 1 (Nov. 1949), pp. 19-22. 24 In reply to the author's letter, Professor Oliphant, on 20 Dec. 1951, wrote as follows: 'At the time of publication of my article, a number of us were trying to foster the foundation of one or more technological institutes or universities like M.I.T. The article was written as part of this campaign. It was deliberately provocative and it was with intent that the case was overstated. The article was not an official document stating a case, but an attempt to arouse just the reactions you exhibit with the object of helping to transform lethargy into proper consideration of the problem.' 25 Leavis, Education and the University, pp. 25-6, 29. 26 Barker, British Universities, pp. 20-1. 27 Dobrie, Universities and Regional Life, pp. 8-9. 28 Clarke, Education and Social Change, pp. 21-7. 29 Robertson, The British Universities, p. 66. 30 Jeffery, The Unity of Knowledge, pp. 30-2, 47-81, 55 ff. NOTES TO CHAPTER

VIII

1 Sidney Barry, D.D., 'Leadership', Times [London] (21 Aug. 1949). 2 Lord Lloyd of Dolobran, Leadership in Democracy, pp. 4-5, 15. 3 Quoted in Adams, 'Aims and Methods', pp. 62-3, 80. 4 Lord Lloyd of Dolobran, Leadership in Democracy, p. 12. 5 Clarke, The Price of Democracy, p. 12. 6 Harold Laski, The Dangers of Obedience (London: Harpers, 1930). 7 University of London Institute of Education, Yearbook of Education 1950 (London: Evans, 1950), pp. 39-40. 8 Ibid. pp. 40-1. 9 Lord Lloyd of Dolobran, Leadership in Democraty, pp. 1 2 - 1 3 . 10 Moberly, The Crisis in the University, pp. 117, 141-3, and passim. 11 Blackett, ' T h e Education of the Scientist...', p. 229. 12 Lord Simon of Wythenshawe, 'University Crisis? A Consumer's View', p. 81. 13 Clarke, Freedom in the Educative Society, pp. 13, 27, 30-1, 38, 42, 46-7, 50-1, 93. 14 Lowe, The Universities in Transformation, pp. 22-9, 33-6, 40-1, 61-2. In his letter of 1 Feb. 1952, to the author, Lowe writes as follows:' If you read in my book

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269

strong reservations against the educational "style" of the provincial universities, you can believe me that they are based upon a good deal of experience. I did not leave any doubt about the "sociological backwardness" of the ancient universities. But they have at least preserved a sense of values, whatever one may think of the concrete substance of these values.... You cannot escape the basic dilemma of the age: how to educate in a climate where there is no unified sense of direction.' 15 Bonamy Dobrie, Arts Faculties in Modem Universities (reprinted from Political Quarterly [Oct. 1944]), pp. 1-9 and passim. 16 Times [London] Educational Supplement, 29 Oct. 1949. 17 Lancelot Hogben, Retreat from Reason (New York: Random House, 1938).

N O T E S TO C H A P T E R IX 1 Clarke, The Price of Democracy, p. 9. 2 Nuffield College, The Problem Facing the British Universities, p. 95. 3 Robertson, The British Universities, p. 5. 4 A typical example in Britain is that of Lord Simon of Wythenshawe, who doubtless knows better, in his Development of British Universities, p. 4: 'The total expenditure on American universities was fifteen times greater than ours.' Lord Simon is astute enough to account for population differences, but not for the difference in price levels and the broader age-span of American students of higher education. Allowing for a population three times as great, a cost for services at least twice that in the United Kingdom, and a college enrollment which commences a year or two earlier than in Britain, the net difference in expenditures is hardly so impressive as Simon indicates. Sir Frederick Ogilvie (British Universities, p. 6) repeats Lord Simon's data but warns: 'The comparison with America is especially risky.' 5 Hall, An Humble Motion, pp. 19, 29-31. 6 Dobrée, Arts Faculties in Modem Universities, p. 7. 7 Whitehead, Adventure of Ideas, p. 151. 8 See London University Institute of Education, Yearbook of Education 1950, which features valuable essays by Sir Cyril Burt on' The Theory of Mental Testing', and E. A. Peel on 'Psychological Testing as a Measuring Operation'. Other essays in this admirable publication are 'Heredity and Environment in Relation to Education', by Birmingham's John A. H. Waterhouse, and 'Educational Opportunity and Social Mobility', by Jean Floud, lecturer at the London School of Economics. For a review of this volume by the present author, see The Journal of Higher Education (Feb. 1952). 9 However, Fred Hoyle in his The Nature of the Universe (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1950) claims that the procedure in all branches of physical science consists of two steps: ' The first is to guess by some sort of inspiration a set of mathematical equations. The second step is to associate the symbols used in the equations with measurable physical quantities.' This method is severely criticized by Harvard's astronomer C. P. Gaposchkin in the New York Herald- Tribune (13 May 1951): 'Sometimes, it is true, this method leads to important results, as in the discovery of the positron. But much of the progress of astronomy has followed an opposite path.... It is dangerous to start out with the answer; one might associate it with the wrong question. The first concern of the scientist who starts out from theories must be not: "Have I got the facts right?" but "Have I got the right facts?"' 10 Frank A. Beach, Hormones and Behavior (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1949)11 David Lindsay Watson, Scientists are Human (London: Watts, 1938) 12 S. R. Humby and E. J . F. James, Science and Education (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1942).

270

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IX

13 Edmund W . Sinnott,' Science and the Whole M a n ' , American Scientist (Winter 1948), pp. 136 ff. especially. 14 Cf. Morton G . W h i t e , ' Revolt against Formalism', in Social Thought in America (New York: Viking Press, 1949). 15 Ronald Latham, In Quest of Civilization (London: Jarrolds, 1946). 16 Thomas Robertson, Human Ecology: The Science of Social Adjustment (Glasgow: MacLellan, 1948). 17 In his The Next Development of Man (New York: Henry Holt, 1948), Lancelot L . Whyte sees a fundamental division between two ways of organizing behavior. Inherent in the form and function of human beings are two types of behavior: spontaneous and deliberative, the former determined by the hypothalamus and neural transmissions of stimuli which maintain a perpetual call to action, and the latter controlled by the cerebral cortex, whose function is to retain records, permit the slow digestion of experience, and encourage delayed response. The frustration of either of these dual urges leads to mental stultification. Translated into common parlance, the lesson Whyte teaches is that the heavy hand of tradition should not prevent youth's natural curiosity from probing into learnings beyond prescribed syllabuses; discovery and accomplishment should be rewarded more liberally. 18 James L. Halliday, Psychological Medicine: A Study of the Sick Society (New Y o r k : W . W . Norton, 1948). 19 Malcolm Cowley in the New York Herald-Tribune (27 May 1951). 20 See Paul Arthur Schilpp, Albert Einstein, Philosopher-Scientist (New York: Library of Living Philosophers, 1949): 'Autobiographical Notes.' 21 Arnold Gesell, with Frances Ilg, Child Development: an Introduction to the Study of Human Growth (New Y o r k : Harper and Brothers, 1949). 22 Alfred North Whitehead, The Aims of Education (New York: Macmillan, 1929), pp. 48-50,97, 106; see also his Science and the Modem World (London: Pelican, 1948), p. 2; and his Adventure of Ideas, p. 150. 23 Sinnott, ' Science and the Whole M a n ' , p. 138. 24 University Grants Committee, University Development..., p. 35. 25 Dodds et al., Government Assistance to Universities in Great Britain, pp. 103-4. 26 Universities Quarterly (Nov. 1949; May 1950). 27 Some attempt to cope with university selection problems is discernible in a symposium, 'Selection for Universities' Universities Quarterly (Nov. 1951), which is more an expression of opinion than a scientific analysis of the capabilities and needs of potential students. See also R . R . Dale, ' T h e Interview and University Entrance', The Universities Review (Oct. 1951), pp. 41-8. 28 Cf. Pitirim A . Sorokin, Social Philosophies in an Age of Crisis (Boston: Beacon, 1951). The Harvard sociology professor in one of his more constructively imaginative moments thinks that the way to get beyond inherited platitudes to significant facts and causal relationships is to supplement the sensory and rational components of knowledge with a third way of knowing, which revolves around intuitive, aesthetic, mystic, suprarational, suprasensory, and immediate elements, as practiced in Hinduism, Buddhism, Taoism, Jainism, Platonism, Pythagoreanism, Gnosticism and preached by moderns like Berdyaev and the existentialists. 29 Robert A . Millikan, Autobiography (New Y o r k : Prentice-Hall, Inc. 1950). 30 Stephen S. Duggan, late director of the Institute of International Education, writes warmly in approval of this custom:' It is practically unknown for a professor to be ousted for his economic, biologic, or religious opinions. The British university does not have to fear interference from a stupid governor or a snooping legislative committee as do some of the state universities in our country.' See War Time in Britain (New York, 1944), pp. 10-15. 31 University of Leeds, Introduction to the University (Leeds, 1951), 'Preface' by the president of the Union (Gilbert Gray), p. 9.

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273

G L O S S A R Y OF ACADEMIC TERMS* Battels: at Oxford, the college accounts for board and provisions supplied from the college kitchens; the term is also used to cover all college accounts for board and lodgings, rates, tuition and contributions to various funds. Bursar: (a) the senior bursar is the treasurer of a university college who deals mainly with estate finance; (¿) the junior or domestic bursar is the official who handles domestic administration and college finances. Bursary: a grant given to an undergraduate in need of financial assistance. Candlemas term: the second, spring, or Lent term in the academic year of the Scottish universities. Chancellor: the titular or honorary head of a university, sometimes elected by a body of senior graduates or by all registered students. Congregation: a general assembly of the senior members of a university, with power to make regulations and confer degrees. Convocation: (a) the great legislative assembly of the university, consisting of all qualified members with the degree of M.A.; (b) a body consisting of all registered graduates, having the power of discussing and expressing an opinion on any matter connected with the interests of the university, and of electing certain members of the senate. Dean or chairman: (a) a professor elected by his colleagues as head of a faculty or department; (b) the title given to the heads of certain colleges; (A) the administrative and disciplinary officer of a college. Demy: a special scholarship or fellowship at Magdalen College, Oxford. Exhibitioner: winner of an exhibition, or lesser scholarship. Faculty: not, as in the United States, a teaching body, but a subject-matter division. First public examination: an examination in several forms, of which the student takes that best suited to his particular field of study. In some cases it has only 'pass' status, and in other fields it may be 'honors' examination. This examination is taken only at Oxford by candidates for the Pass or Honors B.A. degree. (See honors and pass degree.) Fellow: {a) a distinguished scholar selected to hold a certain position in a college, involving teaching or research or both; (A) the holder of a certain position in a college, without duties; (c) the holder of a research fellowship. Gated, to be: a disciplinary measure. An undergraduate is confined to his college or hall of residence after a certain hour every evening for a stipulated number of days for a minor offense that does not merit rustication {q.v.) or expulsion. The more usual punishment is a fine. Graduate: one who has obtained a degree in a university. (This term is used in preference to 'alumnus'.) Greats: the honor school of Literae Humaniores (classics and classical philosophy) at Oxford. Heads ofcolleges: a variety of terms used in the colleges of different universities: dean, master, mistress, president, principal, provost, rector, warden. Hilary term: the second, spring, or Lent term of the academic year. Honors: a final examination of high standard, usually confined to one particular subject or to closely related subjects, and conferring the degree of B.A. or B.Sc. (hons.) with a first, second, third, and, at Oxford, a fourth class. * Source: Reference Division, British Information Services (New York), Dec. 1947, ID 726. 18

KLB

274

GLOSSARY OF A C A D E M I C

TERMS

In statu pupillari: every student who is a junior member of the university, with status lower than that of an M.A.,is subject to all the university regulations concerning discipline. Junior common room: the room or rooms reserved for the general use of the students in a college, usually residential; the term is also used to signify the students as a whole. M.A.: in Scottish universities, the first degree, equivalent to a B.A. In other universities, the second, or higher, degree, after the B.A. The Universities of Cambridge and Oxford award M.A. degrees to their own graduates only, and without further examination, after the completion of a specified number of terms after matriculation. At the University of Durham, Durham Honors graduates of three years' standing are admitted to the M.A. also without further examination, though other graduates must pass the M.A. Examination. Other universities require an additional period of study, with a thesis and/or an examination, before students are admitted to the M.A. Manciple: the person in charge of catering arrangements at certain Oxford and Cambridge colleges. Martinmas term: the first, or autumn, term in the academic year in the Scottish universities. Matriculated student: a student who has been formally admitted to a university on the production of qualifying certificates (?.».). Michaelmas term: the first, or autumn, term of the academic year. Modern Greats: the honor school of philosophy, politics and economics (P.P.E.) at Oxford University. Mods: 'moderations' (at Oxford) or intermediate examinations. National Union of Students (N.U.S.): an association with branches in most universities, to facilitate travel and interchange and to promote student interests at home and abroad. Orator, public orator: the holder of this office is a n M.A. appointed to write letters and addresses and make orations in Latin on public occasions in the name of the university. H e introduces candidates for degrees 'honoris causa'. Pass degree: the name given at some universities to a n ordinary B.A. degree, or one that is not taken with honors (?.».). To plough: to fail, or to cause to fail, in an examination. Postmaster: a scholar {q.v.) of Merton College, Oxford. Principal: (a) in certain universities, the chief administrative officer; (6) the title given to the heads of certain colleges. Proctor (Oxford and Cambridge): a n official who exercises certain disciplinary powers over the students. Professor: a title reserved for those who are full professors. Usually heads of departments, their time is devoted to departmental administration, research, and supervising the work of advanced students. Quadrangle: the rectangular court inside college buildings The word ' q u a d ' is frequently applied to the buildings themselves. Qualifying examinations: examinations qualifying for admission to the university. Various names are used: Matriculation—London; Previous—Cambridge (Little-go); Responsions—Oxford (Smalls); Preliminary—Scottish universities. Certain school examinations, such as General School Certificate (known as General Schools, and set by the University of London), the Oxford School Certificate, the Cambridge School Certificate, and the Oxford and Cambridge Joint Board School Certificate (all together generally known as school-leaving certificates) may exempt, in whole or in part, from the matriculation examination. To read: to study a subject.

GLOSSARY OF ACADEMIC

TERMS

275

Reader: a university teacher and research associate of higher rank than a senior lecturer, but of lower rank than a professor (?.!>.). Rector: (a) the medieval title of an honorary officer in the four Scottish universities. Elected every three years by the matriculated students, the rector represents the students on the university court, over which he has the right to preside; (b) the title given to the heads of certain colleges. Regius professor: the occupant of a professorial chair which is under the special patronage of the crown, usually by reason of royal foundation. To rusticate: to send down (?.».) for a limited, stipulated period for offenses which are not so grave as to justify total expulsion. Scholar: winner of a n undergraduate scholarship. School: a department of a college or university devoted to one field of study, such as the School of Modern History, School of English, etc. Schools: the name given at Oxford to final examinations. Senior common room: the room or rooms reserved for the informal and exclusive use of the teaching staff of a college or university. The term is also used for the members of the staff collectively. Sent down: expelled for misdemeanor or for work that is below standard. Supervisor: one who directs the work of a student preparing for one of the higher degrees. Term sessions: the academic year in Britain is divided into three terms. (See Michaelmas, Hilary, Trinity, Martinmas, Candlemas, and Whitsm.) Trinity term: the third, or summer, term of the academic year. Tripos: the name given at Cambridge to the final honors examination. Tutor: in certain universities, a member of the academic staff appointed to give individual teaching and to direct the work of students in his special subject; in some cases appointed to act in an advisory capacity to students (moral tutor). Union: in most universities, a debating society and club, constructed and run on parliamentary lines. Vice-chancellor: the acting head of a university. Visitor: a n important personage invited by a university or college to act as supreme officer and final court of appeal. Warden: (a) the academic head of a hostel or hall of residence; (4) the title given to the heads of certain colleges; (e) the head of an adult residential college. Whitsun term: the third, or summer, term of the academic year in the Scottish universities. Wrangler: the name given at Cambridge to one who has obtained first class honors in the mathematical tripos (q.v.).

18-2

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Scarborough Report [on Slavonic and Far Eastern studies]. London: H.M.S.O. 1948. Scottish Education Department, Committee of the Advisory Council on Education in Scotland. Technical Education. Cmd. 6786. Edinburgh: H.M.S.O., 1947. Scottish Education Department, Committee of the Advisory Council on Education in Scotland. Trainingfor Citizenship. Cmd. 6495. Edinburgh: H.M.S.O., 1944. Teviot Reports [on dentistry], London: H.M.S.O., 1944 and 1946. University Grants Committee. Returns, ¡947-8, 1949-50 and 1950-1. London: H.M.S.O., 1949, 1951, 1953. University Grants Committee. University Development, 1935-47. London: H.M.S.O., 1948. University of Bristol. Prospectus, 1948-9. University of Edinburgh. Handbook of Departments Related to Industry. Edinburgh:

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INDEX

19

291

INDEX Academic freedom, 57, 79, 151-2, 170-1 Barker, Sir Ernest, quoted, 23, 36, 48, Act of Uniformity, 12 49. 53» 56, 100; 142-8, 152, 203, 254 Acton, 146 n. 3, 255 nn. 14 and 17, 256 n. 33, Adams, John, 158, 193-5, 266 n. 1 1 , 257 n. 46, 265 nn. 57, 59, and 61, 268 n. 26, 281 268 n. 12, 280; quoted, 194, 195 Adler, Mortimer J . , 124 Barlow Committee on Scientific ManAdvancement of Learning, The (F. Bacon), 7 power, 76, 259 n. 13, 279 Agnostics, defined, 101 Barry, Sidney, D.D., 268 n. 1 Agricultural Improvement Council, 82 Beach, Frank A., 231, 269 n. 10, 281 Agriculture, studies in, 29, 80-2 Becker, Carl, 264 n. 41 All Souls College. See Oxford University Becket, Thomas à, 3 Alness Report, 82, 260 n. 29, 279 Bedford College. See University of American Commission on Financing London Higher Education, 67 Benda, Julien, 123 Amery, L. S., quoted, 71, 119, 155; Benedict X I I I , 6 Bennett, Arnold, 265 n. 58 258 n. 2, 265 n. 5, 280 Benthamites, 16, 21 Amiel, 154 Bergson, Henri, h i Antaeus, 42 Bernai, John D., 63-4, 94, 96, 1 1 1 - 2 2 , Archimedes, 1 1 3 »34. '97-9. 224. 227, 233, 257 n. 14, Areopagitica, 175 262 n. 58, 263 n. 15, 268 nn. 18 and Aristotle, 1 1 , 116, 140 19, 281; quoted, 63-4, 1 1 3 - 1 4 , 115, Armfelt, Roger, 280 116, 117, 118, 198 Armytage, W. H. G., quoted, 12, 15, Birrell, Augustine, 15 20; 252 nn. 19, 26, 27, and 28, 253 nil. 33, 35, 37, and 39, 268 n. 18, 280 Blackett, P. M. S., 18-19, 48-9, 216, 252 n. 33, 256 n. 35, 259 n. 12, 268 Arnold, Matthew, 16, 21, 103-6, 168, n. 1 1 , 281 171, 207, 252 n. 30, 253 n. 37; Boots of Nottingham, 32 quoted, 103 Boundaries of Science, The (MacMurray), Arnold, Thomas, 62, 105, 263 n. 7 206 Aronson, Albert H., 280 Arrowood, Charles F., 282 Brasenose College. See Oxford University Arundel, Archbishop, 4 British Association for the AdvanceAshby, Eric, 256 n. 42, 281 ment of Science, 203 Association of University Professors, 279 British Council, The, 262 n. 66, 279 Association of University Teachers, 177, British universities: associations of 185, 267 n. 1, 279; quoted, 185; students and masters in, 1 ff. ; Council of, 78, 259 n. 17, 279 establishment of, 1-6; corporate life Authentic Habita (Barbarossa), 1, 2 in, 6-7, 48-51; the collegiate system Avicenna, 12 in» 7~9> 30-1; composition of student bodies in, 7-9, 16, 50-1, 239-41; endowments of, 8-9, 56-7, 63-4; Bacon, Francis, quoted, 7; 134, 172, ecclesiastical domination of, 9-J4; «78. '99> 807 curricula in, 9, 12, 75-80,83-8, 93-6, Bacon, Roger, 12, 23 97-9,185 ff.,passim; state domination Badger, Alfred, quoted, 87; 261 n. 43, of, 9-14; beginnings of reform in, 19263 n. 7, 281 26; administrative and organizaBaillie, John, 129-31, 264 n. 44, 281; tional concepts of, 21, 38-48, 100 ff., quoted, 130 passim; characteristics of, 27-33; Balliol College. See Oxford University types of, 32-3 ; government of, 33-41 ; Balliol, Sir John and Lady, 8 degrees awarded by, 37-97 ; the Barbarossa, Frederick, quoted, 1 ; 2 19-3

292

INDEX

British universities (cont.) newer, 38-41 (see also names, e.g., University of North Staffordshire); residence in, 48-51; enrollments in, 48-51, 240-1; financial history of, 56-70; government grants to, 57-64, 173-4; University Grants Committee and, 60-3, passim; (see also University Grants Committee); distribution of funds to, 64-70; sources of income of, 64-5; state aid to students in, 66; dangers of government subsidy to, 67-70; technological education in, 75-80, 83-8, 185 ff., passim; agriculture and the, 80-a; teacher preparation in, 88-93 ; medical and dental training in, 93-6; classification by auricular offerings, 97; mission of, 100-52, passim; areas of agreement among commentators on, 224; compared with American, 225; duties and responsibilities assessed, 236-8; relative values of subject matter assessed, 238-9; bases of student selection assessed, 239-41; crisis in, assessed, 241-4; contributions to world-wide higher learning, 244-7; see also Higher learning in Great Britain, and names, e.g., University of Manchester Brogan, D. W., quoted, 32; 253 n. 37, 254 nn. 1, 3 , 4 , 5 , and 8,261 n. 41,281 Brooks, F. T., 260 n. 30, 281 Brougham, 21 Bryce, Lord, 211 Buddha, 243

36; Girton, 37, 53; Gonville and Caius, 36; Jesus, 13, 36; King's, 36; Magdalene, 36; Newnham, 37, 53; Pembroke, 36; Peterhouse, 36; Queens', 13, 36; St Catharine's, 36; St John's, 13, 36; Selwyn, 37; Sidney Sussex, 36; Trinity Hall («350), 36; Trinity (1546), 36; medieval curriculum in, 1 0 - 1 3 ; spoliation of, 13; in period of little progress, 14-19; residential colleges in, 3 1 ; government of, 33-6; organization and administration of, 37-8, 40; student residence in, 49, 5 1 ; government grants to, 65; curricular specialities in, 96-7 Campbell, Thomas, 21 Carrel, Alexis, 120 Carter, J . Roger, 281 Cavendish, Henry, 20 Cavendish, William [Duke of Devonshire], 20, 145 Central Economic Planning Board, 85 Central Office of Information, 258 n. 4, 259 n. 24, 260 nn. 27, 28, and 36, 261 n- 57» 879 Central Statistical Office, 258 n. 1, 279 Chambers, M. M., 255 nn. 15, 281 Charlton, H. B., 253 n. 43, 281 Childe, Gordon, 182, 264 n. 41 Christ, 101 ff., passim Christ Church College. See Oxford

University Christian partisans: defined, 101; 1 0 1 216, passim; on the nature of learning, 122-9; o n science and the JudaicChristian tradition, 123-5; o n class Bulletin of the American Association of distinction, 126-7; on the Christian University Professors, 280 attitude and university education, Burke, 165 129-38; on the teacher's function, Burnet, 146 136-7; on the limitations of specialiBurt, Cyril, 229, 269 n. 8 zation, 193-6; on training for demoButler, R. A., quoted, 79; 259 n. 20, cratic leadership, 215-16; viewpoints 281 examined, 229-33 Butterfield, Professor, 232 Christianity, 100 ff., passim-, science in relation to, 1 1 3 - 1 5 , 1 2 1 - 2 ; as opposed Caius College. See Cambridge Unito communism, 1 1 8 - 2 1 ; university versity orientation toward, 122-9, 155-6, Calendar (Bristol), 43 passim; British concept of, 161-8, Cambridge Journal, The, 167, 280 passim; in relation to social values, Cambridge University: origins of, 5 ff.; 177-84; as applied to specialization collegiate system in, 7, 31, 52; the and unity of knowledge, 189-98; as Colleges: Christ's, 36; Clare, 36; the standard in democratic leaderCorpus Christi, 36; Downing, 36; ship, 215-16 Emmanuel, 36; Fitzwilliam House,

INDEX Christ's College. See Cambridge University Churchill, Winston, 134, 260 n. 34, 281 Cicero, 12, 107 Civil Service, 86-8 Clapham Committee on Social Sciences, 59.88 Clapp, Margaret, 252 n. 31, 253 n. 35, 281, 282 Clare College. See Cambridge University Clarke, Sir Fred, 83-90, 153-4, 17^~7> 192, 196-7, 206-8, 213, 217-19, 223, 236, 241, 243, 260 n. 32, 265 n. 3, 266 nn. 31 and 32, 267 n. 7, 268 nn. 17, 28, and 13, 269 n. 1, 281; quoted, 83, 89, 90, 154, 176, 206, 207, 217 Classical humanists, 102—210, passim; criticized, 135-6; on general vs. vocational education, 188-9; o n the need for integrated education, 206-10 Coeducation, 52-5, 94, 256 n. 43 Cohen, S. W . , 281 Cole, G . D. H., 106 Collingwood, R . G . , 146, 182 Columbia University, 67 Comber, N . M . , 260 Comenius, 236 Committee for the Expansion of Higher Education, 76, 259 n. 11, 279 Committee for Vice-Chancellors and Principals, 61, 257 n. 9 Committee of the Royal Privy Council (Scotland), 39 Committee on Post-War University Training, 279 Communist Manifesto (Marx), 175 C o m p a y r i , Gabriel, 281 Conant, James B., 119, 263 n. 30, 281 Condon, Edward U . , 230 Confucian teachings, 179 Corpus Christi College. See Cambridge University and Oxford University Cottle, B., 253, 281 Cotton Research Association, 80 Cowley, Malcolm, 236, 270 n. 19 Cripps, Sir Stafford, 134, 260 n. 36, 281 Crisis in the University (Moberly), 129,132 Cromwell, Oliver, 13, 29 Culbertson, Robert E., 280 Curtis, Stanley, J . , 55, 281 Cybernetics (Wiener), 120 Dale, R . R . , 270 n. 27 Dalton, 18, 253 n. 33

293

Dangerous Thoughts (Hogben), 119 Dante, 108 Darwin, Charles, 145 Davies, D. J., 150, 365 n. 64, 281 Davis, W . H., 241, 265 n. 58 Davy, 18, 253 n. 33 Dent, H . C . , quoted, 24, 39, 6 7 ; 253 n. 40, 254, n. 3, 255 n. 18, 258 n. 19, 281 Descartes, 252 Dewey, John, 124 Diderot, 123 Dobie, Frank, quoted, 53; 281 Dobr6e, Bonamy, 38, 42, 55, 75, 175, 205, 219-21, 226-7, 240, 241, 242, 256 n. 21, 257 n. 49, 266 n. 30, 268 n. 27, 269 n. 15, 281; quoted, 38, 42, 55» 75» >75» 205» 220 Dodds, Harold W . , 69, 240, 258 n. 20, 270 n. 25, 281 Doll, John, 282 Dongerkery, S. R . , 282 Downing College. See Cambridge University Doyle, Phyllis, 183, 267 n. 39, 282 Duggan, Stephen S., 270 n. 30 Eby, Frederick, 282 Economist, The, 80, 95, 258 n. 5, 259 nn. 22, 23, and 26, 260 nn. 27 and 28, 262 n. 63, 280; quoted, 95 Economy of Britain: history of changes in, 7 1 - 5 ; influence on technological education, 75-80; government controls of, 83-8 Edgar, John, 282 Edinburgh Review, The, quoted, 8, 19; 21 Education A c t of 1944, 89, 162 Education White Paper of 1943, 162 Educational Forum, The, 279 Educational Philosophy of National Socialism, The (Kneller), 124 Einstein, Albert, 37, 120, 237 Eliot, T . S., 109, 127, 172, 173 Ellis, T . I., 254 n. 9, 282 Elvin, Lionel, 1 7 1 - 5 , 177, 242, 266 n. 27, 282; quoted, 172, 173, 174 Emmanuel College. See Cambridge University Emmet, Dorothy, 131-2, 264 n. 44, 282 Engels, 233 Enrollments, 52-5, 7 5 - 7 ; recommendations concerning, 146-7, 239-41 Erasmus, 252 n. 33 Euphues, 9, 14

294

INDEX

Euripides, 176 Exeter College. See Oxford University Fabian Society, 279 Faraday, 18, 253 n. 33 Farrington, Benjamin, 105, 181-2, 190I, 240, 267 nn. 37 and 6, 282; quoted 182, 191 Federation of British Industries, 75 Fermi, Enrico, quoted, 230; 233 Financial Times, The, 257 n. 15, 280 Financing the universities, 8-9, 56-64, '73-4 Firbank, Ronald, 265 n. 58 Fitzwilliam House. See Cambridge University Fleming, Richard, 8 Fletcher, B. A., 266 n. 31 Fletcher, J . S., 282 Flexner, Abraham, 28, 62, 119, 123, 176, 253 n. 40, 257 n. 10, 282 Floud, Jean, 269 n. 8 Ford, Henry, 179 Forrester-Paton, Colin, 158, 264 n. 44, 266 n. 12, 282 Forum of Education, The, 280 Foundation of a Free University, The (Emmet), 131 France, Anatole, 235 Freedom in the Educative Society (Clarke), 217 Freud, Sigmund, 231 Fromm, Erich, 264 n. 41, 282 Fuller, Margaret, 174 Galbraith, V. H., 155, 189-90, 228, 265 n. 6, 267 n. 5; quoted, 190 Galen, 116 Galileo, 252 n. 33 Gaposchkin, C. P., 269 n. 9 Gasquet, Cardinal, 282 Gesell, Arnold, 237, 270 n. 21, 282 Gibbon, 16, 145 Gill, Eric, 175 Gillespie, Charles C., 16-17, 20> 2 5 2 n. 31, 253 n. 35, 282; quoted, 17 Girton College. See Cambridge University Gladstone, 16, 86 Glossary of Academic Terms, 273-5 Godly, A. D., 282 Goldthorpe, Harold J., 256 n. 29, 282 Gonville and Caius College. See Cambridge University

Goodenough Committee on Medicine, 59; Report of, 93-4, 262 n. 59, 279 Goodhart, A. L., quoted, 85; 260 n. 38, 282 Gosse, Edmund, 265 n. 58 Government Advisory Council on Scientific Policy, 77 Government Assistance to Universities in Great Britain (Doods et al.), 67 Government of Oxford, The, quoted, 33, 35; 255 nn. 11, 17, and 19, 279 Graham, Henry G., 282 Grant, Alexander, 282 Gray, Gilbert, 270 n. 31 Green, T. H., 106, 207 Gresham, Sir Thomas, 252 n. 26 Grey, Lord, 175 Grote, George, 21, 145 Hacker, Louis M., 67-9,258 n. 20, 281; quoted, 68-9 Hadfield, J . A., 282 Haldane, J . B. S., 134, 200 Hall, John, quoted, 14, 56, 225-6; 252 n. 25, 257 n. 1, 269 n. 5, 282 Halliday, James L., 234, 270 n. 18, 282 Hamilton, Sir William, 21 Hans, Nicholas, 17-18, 182-3, 2 5 2 n 32, 282; quoted, 17, 183 Hardie, C. D., 282 Harvard University, 37, 119 Harvey, Nigel, quoted, 80 Haskins, Charles Homer, 23, 251 n. 1, 2 53 38» 2 8 2 Hazlitt, 15 Henry II, 3 Henry III, 4 Henry V I I I , 12, 13, 123 Herald-Tribune [New York], 269 n. 9, 270 n. 19 Herbert, E. L., quoted, 90 Herodotus, 107 Hertford College. See Oxford University Hervey, 252 n. 33 Hetherington, Sir Hector, 254 n. 5 Higher learning in Great Britain: history of, 1-26; early purpose of, 9 ff.; period of litde progress, 14-19; beginnings of reform in, 19-26; applied to national services, 71-99; the nature of, 100-52, passim; moral and social values of, 153—84, passim; spirit and behavior of, 153 ff., passim; concepts of specialization and unity

INDEX Higher learning in Great Britain (cont). of knowledge, 185-210; concepts of education for democratic leadership, a 11-82; summarized, 223 ff.; purposes of, 225-9; concepts concerning, assessed, 229-35; see also British universities Hilton, John, 87 Hinton, P., 254 n. 43, 286 Hippocrates, 189 History of Oxford (Mallet), 17 Hobbes, 15, 172 Hobhouse, L. T., 106 Hodges, H. A., 264 n. 44, 282 Hogben, Lancelot, 119,134,162-3, a a 2 > 227, 269 n. 17; quoted, 119 Hogg, T. J., 252 n. 30 Holdsworth, 146 Homer, 107 Hooper, F. C., 259 n. 10 Housman, 196 Hoyle, Fred, 269 n. 9, 282 Huber, V. A., 13-14, 251 n. 6, 252 n. 20, 253 n. 34, 282; quoted, 14 Humanism: classical, 112,135,182,188, 206; scientific, m - 1 7 , 121-2, 134-5, 164, 179; secular, 181 Humby, S. R., 232, 269 n. 12, 283 Hume, 21, 156, 233 Hunter, J . N. W., 284 Hutcheson, 6 Huxley, Aldous, quoted, 126, 127, 153; 220, 264 n. 40, 283 Huxley, Thomas, 21, 156, 193, 200 Idea of a University (Newman), 21 Ilg, Frances, 270 n. 21, 282 Industrial Revolution, the, 18-ig, 71, 197 Industry: development of, 71-5, cooperation with the universities, 75-6; employment and training for, 78-80, 180 Infeld, Leopold, 126 Interpretation of Dreams (Freud), 231 Irvine, James Colquhoun, 283 Jacks, M. L., 61-2, 192, 253 n. 42, 257 n. 8, 267 n. 7, 283; quoted, 61 James, E . J . F., 232, 269 n. 12, 283 James, Eric, 92-3, 221, 257 n. 48, 261 n. 55, 283; quoted, 93 James I, 34, 252 n. 26 Jaspers, 227

295

Jeans, James, 120 Jefferson, Thomas, 227 Jeffery, George B., 208-10, 253 n. 41, 254 n - 44. 26' n - 50, 268 n. 30, 283; quoted, 209 Jeffreys, M. V. C., 161-4, '93. «28-9. 266nn. 16, ig,and31,267ml. ioand 1 1 , 283; quoted, 161, 163 Jenkins, Daniel T., 264 n. 44, 283 Jeremiah, 164 Jesus College. See Cambridge University and Oxford University John of Dunwich, 5 John of Salisbury, 12 Johnson, Dr, 175 Jones, H. A., 156-7, 192-3, 229, 266 n. 9, 267 n. 9, 283; quoted, 156-7 Jones, P. Mansell, 170-1, 266 n. 26, 283; quoted, 171 Joule, 18, 253 33 Journal of Education, The, 280 Jowett, 21, 102, 106, 196, 207 Kaiser Wilhelm. See Wilhelm II, Kaiser Kandel, I. L., 283 Kant, 140 Katherine of Aragon, 13 Keble College. See Oxford University Kerr, John, 146, 283 Kierkegaard, 178 King Ahab, 123 King Alfred, 3 King's College. See Cambridge University King's College of Household and Social Sciences. See University of London Kneller, George F., 283 Koestler, Arthur, 264 n. 41 Krishna, 243 Lady Margaret College., See Oxford University Laotse, 243 Laplace, 120 Laski, Harold J., 41, 124,213, 256 n. 20, 268 n. 6, 283 Last, Hugh, 283 Latham, Ronald, 234, 270 n. 15, 283 Laud, Archbishop, 34 Lauwerys,Joseph A., i82-3;quoted, 183 Law of 1581, The, 12 Leach, A. F., 283 Leadership in a Free Society (Whitehead), 211

296

INDEX

Leavis, F. R., 109-M, 156, 203, 227, 229, 243, 263 n. 12, 266 n. 8, 268 n. 25, 283; quoted, 110, h i , 156, 203 Lecky, 145 Legantine Ordinance, 3, 23 Leibniz, 252 n. 33 Lennard, Reginald, 151-2, 265 n. 65, 283; quoted, 151 Le Play, 214 Lewis, C. S., 182 Life and Letters (T. H. Huxley), 156 Lincoln College. See Oxford University Lindsay, A. D., 106, 283 Lindsay, Lord, 31 Linton, 228 Literary humanists: defined, 101; on the modern vs. the ancient universities, 1 0 2 - 1 1 ; on the nature of learning, 102-7; o n the nature of truth, 105-6, 107-9; o n intellectualism, 138-41; on the pragmatic values of the humanities, 190 f.; on the unity of knowledge, 1 9 1 - 3 ; on the segregation of subject matter, 202-3; on training for democratic leadership, 217-18 Livingstone, Sir Richard, 96, 102-7, 136-7, 162, 196, 205, 212, 262 nn. 3 and 4, 263 nn. 5, 7, and 8, 265 n. 53, 268 n. 15, 283; quoted, 96, 103, 1045> 1 3 7 . 196

Lloyd of Dolobran, Lord, 154, 212-15, 265 n. 4,268 nn. 4 and 9,283; quoted, 154, 212, 213, 215 Locke, 206 Lockwood, J . F., 107 Louis of France, 3 Loveday Report, 82, 260 n. 29, 279 Lowe, Alfred, 157-8, 218-19, 242, 266 n. 10,268n. 14, 283;quoted, 157,218 Lowell, 141 Lucas, Henry S., 251 n. 3, 284 Lundberg, George A., 284 Lunt, W. E., 284 Lyly, quoted, 9, 14 Macaulay, 145 McCabe, Joseph, 284 Macintosh, D. C., 124 Mack, Edward C., 284 Mackie, J . D., 16, 30, 252 n. 29, 254 n. 5, 284 Maclean, George E., 284 McLean, Joseph E., 260 n. 40, 284

MacLean, Malcolm S., 255 n. 19, 264 n- 3 3

MacMurray, 206 McNair, Arnold, 284 McNair Committee on Teaching, 59, 90; report of, 91, 261 n. 53, 279 Magdalen College. See Oxford University Magdalene College. See Cambridge University Maitland, 146 Malcolm, C. A., 284 Malinowski, 228, 237 Mallet, Charles E., 17, 20, 253 n. 35, 284 Manchester Guardian, The, 32, 258 n. 5 Manchester University Gazette, The, 280 Manilius, 196 Mannheim, 157, 218 Mansbridge, Albert, 252 n. 24, 284 Maritain, 227 Marriott, J . A. R., 4, 52, 251 nn. 8 and 14, 252 nn. 19, 22, and 30, 255 n. 16, 256 n. 43, 257 n. 2, 284 Marx, 118, 134, 175, 178, 233 Matthew, T. U., 258 n. 6, 259 n. 9, 284 Matthews, Herbert L., 258 n. 3, 260 n. 37» 284 Mead, 228 Mécanique Céleste (Laplace), 120 Medicine and dentistry, 93-6, 262 nn. 58, 59, 61, 62, and 64, 279, 280 Memoirs (Pattison), 21 Merton College. See Oxford University Mill, J . S., 6, 140, 194, 200 Millikan, Robert A., n o , 243, 270 n. 29, 284; quoted, 243 Milton, 108, 141, 172 Mind of the Modern University, The (Baillie), 129 Ministry of Education, 29, 46, 69-70, 77-9. 91» 259 18, 279 Ministry of Works, 59 Missionof the University (Ortegay Gasset), 173

Moberly, Sir Walter, 45-63, passim-, 129-38, 164-72, 177-81, 203, 205, 212, 215-16, 224, 227, 229, 241, 242, 256 nn. 32 and 39, 257 n. 12, 264 nn. 45 and 46, 265 nn. 49, 50, and 60, 266 nn. 21 and 25, 267 n. 35, 284; quoted,46,47, 50,6o-i, 63, 129, 1323» '34> 1 3 5 , 1 3 6 , 145» 153» 164, 166

Molière, 208

INDEX Montaigne, quoted, 197 Monthly Digest of Statistics, 259 n. 25, 279 More, Sir Thomas, 123 Morgan, Alexander, 284 Morris, Sir Charles, quoted, 27 Morrison, John, 188-9, 267 n. 4, 284 Muir, Ramsey, 149 Mullinger, J . B., 284 Murray, Gilbert, 105, 106, 146 Murray Report, 49 Napoleon, 89 Nash, Arnold, 119,122-9,133,138,155> 16&-1, 178, 191-2, 227, 229, 251 n. 15, 252 n. 33, 263 n. 27, 264 nn. 34 and 43, 265 n. 55, 266 n. 7, 267 n. 7, 284; quoted, 123, 124 National Advisory Council on Education for Industry and Commerce, 77-9 National Agricultural Advisory Service, 82 National Agricultural Research Council, 81 National Committee for the Training of Teachers in Scotland, 279 National Conference, Committee for Extension of Higher Education, 76 National Department of Educational Research in England and Wales, 279 National Department of Scientific and Industrial Research, 80, 279 National Foundation for Educational Research, 90 National Research Development Corporation, 80 National Socialism, 141 National Union of Students, 100 National University of Australia, Research School of Physical Science, 201 New College. See Oxford University New Statesman and Nation, The, 260 n. 28, 261 n. 55, 280 New Tork Times, The, 258 n. 5, 260 nn. 34 and 38, 280 Newman, F. W., quoted, 19 Newman, J . H., Cardinal, 15, 21, 48, 100, 103, 136, 168, 206, 212, 284; quoted, 48 Newnham College. See Cambridge University Newsweek, 258 n. 5 Newton, 15, 18 Newton, Arthur Percival, 284

297

Niblett, W. R., 62,107-9,160-1, 203-5, 229, 257 n. 9, 263 n. 11, 266 nn. 15 and 31, 284; quoted, 160, 204, 205 Niebuhr, Reinhold, 125, 161 Non-Conformists, 16, 24 Norwood Report, 162 Notes Toward the Definition of Culture (Eliot), 172 Noüy, Lecomte du, 120 Nuffield College. See Oxford University Nuffield College Study, 75-7, 86, 89, 91, 94, 223, 259 nn. 10 and 15, 260 n. 29, 261 nn. 44, 47, and 53, 262 nn. 62 and 64, 268 n. 22, 284; quoted, 200 Oakeshott, Michael, 166-74, '77> 224, 241, 266 n. 24, 284; quoted, 167, 168, 169 Ogilvie, Sir Frederick, 26, 40-9, 60, 63, 142, 195, »43> 254 n. 45, 255 n. 19, 256 nn. 26 and 37, 257 n. 13, 265 n. 56, 268 n. 13, 269 n. 4, 284; quoted, 49, 243 Oliphant, M. L., 151, 201-2, 232, 268 nn. 23 and 24, 284; quoted, 201, 202 Oliver, R. A. C., quoted, 90, 91; 261 nn. 4g and 52, 285 Ord, Lewis G., 258 n. 6, 285 Oriel College. See Oxford University Origins of Modem Science (Butterfield), 232 Ortega y Gasset, José, 100, 173, 194, 203, 219; quoted, 100 Owen, Wilfred, 265 n. 58 Owens, John, 32 Oxford and Cambridge Act of 1882, 21 Oxford Society, 154, 285 Oxford University: origins of, 3-4; collegiate system in, 7, 31, 52; the Colleges: All Souls, 8, 13, 26; Balliol, 8, 13, 36; Brasenose, 36, 251 n. 14; Christ Church, 36, 251 n. 14; Corpus Christi, 36, 251 n. 14; Exeter, 36; Hertford, 37; Jesus, 13, 36, 53, 251 n. 14; Keble, 37; Lady Margaret, 36; Lincoln, 8, 36; Magdalen, 8-9, 36; Merton, 8, 36; New College, 8, 13, 36; Nuffield, 37; Oriel, 36; Pembroke, 36; Queen's, 36, 251 n. 14; St Anne's, 37; St Anthony's, 37; St Catherine's, 36; St Edmund's Hall, 36; St John's, 13, 36, 251 n. 14; St Hilda's, 37 ; St Hugh's, 37 ; St Peter's,

298

INDEX

Oxford University (cont.) 37; Somerville,37; Trinity, 36, 251 n. 14; University College, 36; Wadham, 3 6 , 2 5 m . 14; Worcester, 37; medieval curriculum in, 10-13; spoliation of, 13; in period of little progress, 14-19; residential colleges in, 31; government of, 33-6; organization and administration of, 37-8, 40; student residence in, 49, 5 1 ; government grants to, 65; curricular specialties in, 86-7, 96-7

Powicke, Sir F. Maurice, 251 n. 15, 285 Preston, Ronald, 129 Priestley, J . B., quoted, 86; 260 n. 38, 285 Priestley, Sir Raymond, 42 Princeton University, 16, 69, 240 Proceedings of the IXth International Congress of Philosophy (Paris, 1937), 182 Protagoras, 188 Prout, 120 Przyluski, Jean, 182 Pythagoras of Samos, 230

Parliamentary and Scientific Committee, 76 Parsons, 145 Pascal, Roy, 177-8, 267 n. 34, 285; quoted, 178 Paton, David M., quoted, 159; 264 n. 44, 266 n. 13, 285 Pattison, Mark, 21, 253 n. 35 Pedagogical critics: defined, 101; on the nature of higher learning, 14250; on intellectualism, 142,196-7; on the purpose of the university, 142-7; on research, 144-5, '48-50; on realistic education, 150-1; on academic freedom, 151-2; on the segregation of subject matter, 199-201; on the need for integrated education, 203-6; on training for democratic leadership, 212-15; on the creation of an educational elite, 218-22 Pedantry (Montaigne), 197 Peel, E. A., 269 n. 8 Peers, Allison. See Truscot, Bruce Pembroke College. See Cambridge University and Oxford University Percy Committee on Higher Technological Education, 77, 259 n. 16; Report, 186, 200, 280 Percy, Lord Eustace, 108-9, 2 0 0 > quoted, 108 Peterhouse. See Cambridge University Pitt, William, 213 Plato, 83, 103, 113, 143, 175, 188, 207, 212; quoted, 83 Plowman, Harry, quoted, 4; 251 n. 7, 285 Polanyi, 227 Political Quarterly, The, 280 Pope Alexander X I I I , 2 Pope Honorius I, 5 Pope John X X I I I , 4

Queens' College. See Cambridge University Queen's College. See Oxford University Quiller-Couch, Sir Arthur, 256 n. 43 Railway Review, 260 n. 35 Rait, Robert, 285 Rashdall, Hastings, 3-6, 251 nn. 2, 4, 5, 7, 8, 9, and 13, 285; quoted, 4, 5, 6 Räybould, S. G., 285 Rayleigh, Lord, 253 n. 35 Red Brick and These Vital Days (Truscot), 190 Reid, Louis Arnaud, 186-8, 232, 264 n. 44, 267 n. 3, 285; quoted, 186, 187 Republic, The (Plato), 175 Research, 65, 78, 82, 86, 90, 94, 120-6, 148-50 Revolt of the Masses (Ortega y Gasset), '73 Reynolds, Myra, 285 Richardson, Walter C., quoted, 72; 258 n. 3, 261 n. 44, 285 Roberts, S. C., quoted, 13; 252 n. 20, 285 Robertson, Sir Charles Grant, 19-88, passim, 153, 185, 208, 223, 244, 253 n. 33, 254 nn. 2 and 6, 265 n. 1, 267 n. 25,268 n. 29,269 n. 3, 285; quoted, 19, 22, 25, 28, 30, 88, 185, 223 Robertson, Thomas, 234, 270 n. 16, 285 Rogers, Lindsay, 258 n. 20, 281 Rosenberg, Alfred, 124 Rostas, L., 258 n. 6, 285 Rousseau, 179 Royal Commissions, The (1850, 1872, 1919), 20, 21 Royal Holloway College. See University of London Ruskin, 102, 105, 262 n. 2

INDEX Ruskin College, 280 Russell, Bertrand, 12,146,227,252 n. 18, 285 Russell, L. J . , 264 n. 41 Rutherford, 146 St Anne's College. See Oxford University St Anthony's College. See Oxford University St Catharine's College. See Cambridge University St Catherine's College. See Oxford University St Edmund's Hall. See Oxford University St Hilda's College. See Oxford University St Hugh's College. See Oxford University St Jerome, 12 St John's College. See Cambridge University and Oxford University St Paul, 158, 193 St Peter's College. See Oxford University Santayana, George, 127, 264 n. 42, 285 Scarborough Report, 258 n. 22, 280 Schachner, Nathan, quoted, 7; 251 n. 1 1 , 285 Schilpp, Paul Arthur, 270 n. 20, 285 School and Society, 280 Scientific humanists: defined, 1 0 1 ; on the nature of learning, 1 1 1 - 2 2 ; on the history of science, 1 1 1 - 1 6 ; on science as the basis for education, 1 1 6 - 2 2 ; on the power of Christianity, 1 3 1 ; criticized, 134-5; on unity of knowledge, 190; on science and social progress, 197-9; o n the segregation of subject matter, 201-2 Scottish Education Department, Committee of the Advisory Council on Education in Scotland, 280 Scottish universities: highly esteemed, 6; organization and administration of, 39; student residence in, 50; coeducation in, 52; meager financial resources for, 67; see also University of Aberdeen, University of Edinburgh, University of Glasgow, University of St Andrews Scrimgeour, R . M., 257 n. 46, 285 Seeley, Sir John, 21

299

Selwyn College. See Cambridge University Seneca, 12 Shearman, Harold C., 96, 196, 262 n. 65, 268 n. 16, 285 Shelley, 16 Sherbourne, J . W., 254 n. 43, 281 Sickert, 265 Sidgwick, Henry, 253 n. 35 Sidney Sussex College. See Cambridge University Siegfried, André, 258 n. 2, 285 Silcock, T. W., 89, 153, 261 nn. 45 and 46, 265 n. 2, 285; quoted, 89 Simon, Brian, 100, 285 Simon of Wythenshawe, Lord, 59, 80, 99-101, 180-1, 213, 216, 224, 241, 257 n. 6, 259 n. 2 1 , 262 nn. 68 and 1, 267 n. 36, 268 n. 12, 269 n. 4, 285-6; quoted, 59, 99, i o o - i , 180-1 Sinnott, Edmund W., 233, 238-9, 270 nn. 13 and 23, 286; quoted, 238-9 Sitwell, Sir Osbert, quoted, 144; 265 n. 58, 286 Sixtus IV, 4 Smith, Goldwyn, 253 n. 35 Smith, Preserved, 1 1 , 251 n. 16, 286 Social Function of Science, The (Bernal), h i , 119 Social thinkers, defined, 101 Socialism in Britain : effect on concepts of educational need, 72-95 ; effect on industry, 72-5; rise of, 83; effect on education for public service, 86-7 Socrates, 102, 107, 1 1 3 , 189 Somerville College. See Oxford University Sorokin, Pitirim, 270 n. 28, 286 Spigelman, Joseph H., 263 n. 32, 286 Sprout, Harold and Margaret, 286 Steegman, John, 286 Stephen, Sir Alex Murray, 58 Stoecker, Frederick, 123 Stopford, Sir John, 44, 256, n. 27 Stubbs, Charles W., 286 Student Christian Movement, 129, 134, 229, 264 n. 44, 286 Student Frontier Council, 134 Students, associations of, 1 ff. ; selection of, 7-9, 16, 50-1, 87-8, 239-41 ; state aid to, 66-9 Student's View of the Universities, A (Simon), 100

3°°

INDEX

dental and medical education in, 936; classified by curricular offerings, 97-8; see also British Universities and Higher learning in Great Britain Tasso, 108 Universities Quarterly, The, 75, 241, 259 Tawney, R . H., II, 129, 251 n. 17, 286; nn. 8 and 10, 262 nn. 59, 67, and 1, quoted, 11 270 n. 27, 280, 286 Teachers: status of, 89; shortage of, 92Universities Review, The, 280 3; salaries of, 92; function of, 136 ff., Universities under Fire (Forrester-Paton), passim 158 Teale, A . E., 138-42, 152, 265 n. 54, University College. See Oxford Uni286; quoted, 138, 139, 140, 141 versity Teviot Reports [on dentistry], 280 Texas University, 53 University Grants Committee, 45-54, This Modern Age, 258 n. 7, 285 passim; purpose of, 57-9; function of, Thomas, Ivor, 260 n. 33, 286 60; criticism of, 62-4; 68-9, 88, 240, Thomson, David, 257 n. 50, 286 256 nn. 29, 36, 38,40, and 41, 257 nn. Thomson, Sir Godfrey, 229 44. 45. 47. 3. 5. 7. and 11, 259 n. 15, Thomson, J. J., 146, 253 n. 35 261 n. 45, 262 nn. 60 and 62, 270 n. Thorndike, Lynn, 286 24, 280; quoted, 62 Thwing, C . W . , 207, 286 University of Aberdeen: founded, 6; Tillyard, A . I., quoted, 6, 251 n. io, 286 government grants to, 65; curricular Times [London], The, quoted, 45-6, 48, specialties in, 98; see also Scottish universities 79. 93. a " Times [London] Educational Supplement, University of Belfast, 31, 33 University of Birmingham: founded, The, 256 nn. 24, 28, 30, and 34, 259 24; curricular specialties in, 29, 96, n. 19, 261 n. 56, 263 n. 10, 269 n. 16, 98; see also Universities, modern 280 University of Bristol: government grants Tomlinson, Rt. Hon. George, quoted, to, 65; see also Universities, modern 60 University of Durham and Newcastle: Tout, 146 founded, 29; curricular specialties in, Toynbee, Arnold, 227, 243 29, 96, 98; residential colleges in, 31; Trades unions, 74 student residence in, 49; government Trahison des Clercs, Le (Benda), 123 grants to, 65; see also Universities, Trevelyan, G . M., 61 modern Trinity College. See Cambridge UniUniversity of Edinburgh: highly esversity and Oxford University teemed, 6; government grants to, 65; Trinity Hall. See Cambridge Unisee also Scottish universities versity University of Exeter: government Truscot, Bruce, 22-7, 41-6, 91-2, 146grants to, 65; local support of, 66; 52, 155, 190, 228, 242, 253 n. 37, see also Universities, modern 254 n. 1, 255 n. 17, 256 n. 25, 261 University of Glasgow: founded, 6; n. 54, 265 n. 62, 267 n. 5, 286; curricular specialties in, 30, 98; enquoted, 27, 41, 42-3, 46, 91-2, 150, rollments in, 30; government grants 152, 190 to, 65; see also Scottish universities University of Hull: student residence in, Ubbelohde, A . R., 199-200, 268 n. 20, 495 government grants to, 65; curri286 cular specialties in, 97-8; see also UniUniversities, modern : organization and versities, modern administration of, 38-9 ; lay participaUniversity of Leeds: curricular specialtion in government of, 41-8; corties in, 29, 98; enrollments in, 30; porate life in, 48-51 ; coeducation in, student residence in, 49; govern52-4; government grants to, 65-6; ment grants to, 65; see also Univertechnological education in, 75-80; sities, modern agricultural education in, 80-2 ; Swift, quoted, 233 Symons, W . G., 264 n. 44, 286

INDEX University of Leicester: government grants to, 65; local support of, 66; see also Universities, modern University of Liverpool: curricular specialties in, 29-30, 96; enrollments in, 30; government grants to, 65; see also Universities, modern University of London: founded, 24, 28-9; semisegregated colleges for women: Bedford, King's College of Household and Social Sciences, Royal Holloway, Westfield, 52; government grants to, 65; curricular specialties in, 96; Institute of Education, 208, 268 n. 7, 269 n. 8, 286 University of Manchester: founded, 24; curricular specialties in, 29, 30, 97-8; College of Technology: financial statistics, 65-6; see also Universities, modern University of Marburg, 251 n. 6 University of North Carolina, 128 University of North Staffordshire: founded, 3 1 ; enrollments in, 3 1 ; government grants to, 65; see also Universities, modern University of Nottingham: government grants to, 65, local support of, 66; curricular specialties in, 97; see also Universities, modern University of Reading: curricular specialties in, 29, 96; residential colleges in, 3 1 ; government grants to, 65; see also Universities, modern University of St Andrews: founded, 6; government grants to, 65; see also Scottish universities University of Sheffield: government grants to, 65; local support of, 66; curricular specialties in, 96, 98; see also Universities, modern University of Southampton: government grants to, 65; see also Universities, modern University of Wales: founded, 30-1; government grants to, 65; curricular specialties in, 98; see also Universities, modern Varley, F. J . , 252 n. 21, 286 Vidlar, A. R., 159-60, 264 n. 44, 266 n. 14, 286 Vincent, E. W., 254 n. 43, 286

30I

Virgil, 108 Voltaire, 123, 234 Wadham College. See Oxford University Wallas, Graham, 106 Waterfield, A. P., quoted, 86; 261 nn. 40, 41, and 42, 286 Waterhouse, John A. H., 269 n. 8 Watson, David Lindsay, 269 n. 1 1 , 286 Watson, Richard, 15 Weltanschauung, 155, 168, 171, 178, 264 n. 43 Weltfish, Gene, 126 Westfield College. See University of London Whistler, 265 n. 58 White, Morton G., 270 n. 14, 286 White, Paul, 264 n. 44, 286 Whitehead, A. N., 107, 135, 146, 2 1 1 , 214,220, 227, 235,237,263 n. 9,2Ö9n. 7, 270 n. 22,296; quoted, 2 1 1 , 2 1 4 , 2 1 7 Whyte, Lancelot Law, 120, 227, 263 n. 3 1 , 270 n. 17, 286-7 Wiener, Norbert, 120 Wilhelm II, Kaiser, 123 William of Waynflete, 9 William of Wykeham, 8, 56 Wills family, 32 Winstanley, D. A., 287 Women's colleges: Bedford (London), 52; Girton (Cambridge), 37, 53; King's College of Household and Social Sciences (London), 52; Lady Margaret (Oxford), 37; Newnham (Cambridge), 37, 53; Royal Holloway (London), 52; St Hilda's (Oxford), 37; St Hugh's (Oxford), 37; Somerville (Oxford), 37; Westfield (London), 52 Workman, H. B., 251 n. 18, 287 Wrong, George M., 258 n. 2 Wycliffe, 8, 23 Yale University, 27, 231, 233 Yearbook of Education 1950, 213, 268 n. 7, 269 n. 8, 286 Yearbook of Education 1951, 182, 267 nn. 37» 38» and 39 Young, 18, 253 n. 33 Younghusband, Eileen L., 261 n. 47 Zimmern, Alfred, 105, 106 Zoroaster, 243