With the exception of one Japanese, none of the students whom I happened to know took the slightest interest in the subject. I had hoped that there might be opportunity, so essential in philosophy above all other studies, for some direct play of mind between my own uninstructed one and[Pg 150] that of the instructor. There never was. The professor was a mere unapproachable oral textbook. Nevertheless, he had the illusion that studying “under him” had induced some play of mind among his novel-readers, and for that reason he used to give out the examination questions at the year’s end so that the student might give original thought to them. Five of my friends were among the novel-readers. Having paid no attention to the course the entire year, they got me to sit under the apple trees at Ik Marvel’s place, and for a couple of afternoons before the examination I talked over the questions with them. They all passed, with higher marks, I believe, than I did myself, and received Yale’s imprimatur that they were proficient in philosophy. Since I had completely lost the desire to teach which had taken me to the University, I took my Master’s degree and let a Ph.D. go hang. I have never regretted the step, though I have no illusions as to the self-educated man’s being as well trained as one who has had a genuine education. Thus ended mine, which had cost me a dozen years and my father certainly a minimum of six thousand dollars, pre-war. If it be objected that things are different to-day, I may add that I see no evidence of it; instead, I see an even greater confusion of aim and method. Not long ago I asked a well-known professor at one of the largest and best-known universities in the East what, in his candid opinion, his university did for the many thousands of students who annually attended it. After a moment’s thought he said that as far as he could see, the university turned out a standardized, low-grade mental product, much like an intellectual Ford factory. [Pg 151] II