Several people described to me the eloquence of the chancellor’s sermons, with the tremolo stop which reduces his auditors to tears. I asked one of them, “Does he believe in his religion?” The answer was: “No more than I do. He has no particle of Christianity or of faith; he uses it merely as a shield.” To his faculty its purpose appears to be to beat down their salaries. If you go into his office to ask for a raise, he will glare at you and pound on the desk, shouting: “What’s this I hear about you, John Smith? Do you believe in the divinity of Jesus? Have you been saying that you distrust the verbal inspiration of the Pentateuch?” Or maybe he will say: “I want you to understand, young man, I have been hearing reports about you. You were seen walking on the street with Professor So-and-So’s wife!” Or maybe he will say: “I have taken the trouble to inquire, and I find that you subscribe to the ‘Nation’ and the ‘New Republic.’” Heaven, from the point of view of college professors, is an intellectual sweatshop. I was told of a professor of geology, who was there for twenty years, and finally got up the nerve to ask for a raise, and he got fifty dollars a year. Another professor asked for a raise, but the chancellor discovered that this man had written a book, and he said: “A man who has written a book ought not to expect promotion; it shows that he had spare time on his hands.” All contracts with the university are verbal, and you take the chancellor’s word for your fate. It may seem a dreadful thing to say about heaven, but the fact remains that a number of the chancellor’s faculty, both past and present, unite in placing him among those college heads who do not always tell the truth.