An odd state of affairs! Hardly possible in a cloister devoted to learning and education. Its very nature should make it immune to such a disease. Yet the symptoms of this widespread malady are quite evident within our four walls. We are fortunate to have escaped the fraternity system of most colleges. One is pre-eminently a member of Yale, and not such-and-such a club or society. But the herd spirit is no less strong on that account. From the beginning of Freshman year we are conscious of it: we turn up our coat collars, buy a pipe—and are off in the right direction. Slowly and in various degrees we are moulded to definite standards. We come to dress as punctiliously as our allowances make possible; to act as casual and reserved as our youthful exuberance will permit. The few hours we have for reading are wisely devoted to Vanity Fair. Our conversation is as circumspect: some subjects are not to be talked of, some adjectives not to be used if one is to escape the censure of aestheticism. And beneath these outward criteria we find the primary cause—a fundamental uniformity of thought. Left to ourselves we would certainly not think in the same channels; but thrown into a crowd we think as the crowd does. We blandly accept those opinions which are oftenest and loudest shouted in our ears, repeat them as our own, and go merrily off to find a “fourth” for bridge. Thus, we are propagating ideas which are not our own, which are second-hand. The voice, which was once ours, has become an echo. To speak specifically, are we sure that unlimited cuts would be a good thing? By nature opposed to paternalism, we thoughtlessly advocate any measure which would seem to lessen its power—our only assurance of this end being that “everybody says so”. Therefore, if unlimited cuts are generally acclaimed, we join our cry with the rest. The final result is that “most of us have only the courage of our conventions”. What a courage is that! Splendid for a sham battle, but hardly sufficient to withstand the first rumble of real cannon. And as for convictions, they are never the product of “crowd” thought. Lamps which are filled with water, fires built of damp wood, give neither light nor heat.
That is the reflection among us of a national crowd complex. Its grave danger, already hinted at, has been pointed out by Carlyle: if we live in crowds we are going to think in crowds—which is not to think at all. When that stage is reached, a stage where our ambitions and ideals are no longer our own, we cease as individuals to live. We become automatons, robots, beings rather below the par of an intelligent animal. Better a man with a will and energy turned to wrong uses than such Donothingness, such flotsam, such weight upon progress. The man who sinks into the crowd has sold his birthright for a mess of pottage. He has lost his particular spark of individuality—that unnameable fibre which differentiates him from all others. What else has he to call his own? That lost, and all is lost. Thus, Agnes Repplier ironically concludes: “All these Leagues, Societies, Associations, and Guilds relieve man from the burden of individualism. Therefore does he pay their dues.” What dues they are? A Birthright for pottage!
Truly, the disease is a dangerous one, in many cases mortal. Its cure, in proportion, is difficult. And once cured, constant vigilance must be taken that it be not recontracted. The powers of nature are ever in league against bodily decay. It is our responsibility to fight and guard with like precision against mental inertia. There will be no help in any attempt to abolish the superficial conformity of dress, conversation, or interests. These things in themselves are trivial. They are the natural consequents of “crowd” thinking. That is where we must strike, and with all the power we can. Once cut away from us, its exterior betrayals will vanish as well.
The obstacles are many. It is so easy to drift! A ready agreement, a quiet acceptance of the latest tenets not only relieve us from the burden of thinking, but can make us no enemies—neither a troubled conscience nor scornful companions. That is why the herd mind is “essentially and inevitably a timid mind”. The gaps are filled up with bridge, the movies, plans for the next week-end. Little unorthodox doubtings, hesitances, questions, are suppressed. They would only cause trouble. Things are quite all right as they are!
Another obstacle is the over-organized life of the campus. Its rights and wrongs, goods and bads are ever being debated. In the meanwhile, there is little time for any of us to think. We are too busy putting out daily papers, producing plays, establishing world’s swimming records. There is no spare hour in the morning and another at night to sit back and reckon where the past day has brought us. And if there is such time, it has already been pledged to the card-table. Thus, solitude and intelligent reading—both excellent cures—are out of reach to the majority. Those who are privileged to enjoy both have always done so. They are quite immune from our disease.
There is one course left, requiring no end of patience and care. But its cure is certain. Moreover, it is within reach of us all—the busy and the idle, the radical and the conservative. We can make ourselves consciously challenge all ideas, opinions, theories which are foisted upon us—by others, or by our own sluggish minds. We must convince ourselves in every case that they are right or wrong, and once convinced, act fearlessly. Here is no place for timidity. We shall now vote as we choose, defying the dictates of the crowd. Ideas thoroughly analyzed and considered may wield tremendous power. They have not the hollow sound of an echo. Theirs is the true ring of the voice. All the Leagues for Peace in the world are a waste of time unless each member has implicit belief in the worth and need of peace. Progressive changes in college administration will never be promoted by jabbering repetition of “current opinion”. They will come only when a majority of us have quietly and firmly convinced ourselves that such changes are right and necessary. Then you have solidarity, which is uniformity of convictions and not conventions. Further, you have accomplishment and progress. The old lamp is cleansed of its water, and now at last pierces the darkness. Some dry wood is thrown upon the smouldering fire, and the flames rise high above the countryside.
WALTER EDWARDS HOUGHTON, JR.
Dusk
I raise my face to evening’s veil