“While wandering as a stranger on the earth, suffering much in patience from tyranny, sophistry, and hypocrisy, seeking a man, and not finding what I anxiously sought, I decided to launch out once more upon the Academic Sea, though the latter had very often been hurtful to me.”— Reipublicae Christianopolitance Descriptio. 1619.
JOHANN VALENTIN ANDREA
ON ONE point at least, the bitterest political antagonists in present-day America, the isolationists and the interventionists, would find themselves in complete agreement: the necessity for preserving civilian control over the armed forces of this country. There is no room here for dispute. Among all the diverse groups in this nation, none advocates the release of the army or navy from such supervision, none proposes to give the military a free hand in determining domestic and foreign policies and in reshaping our government and economy. Nor do military men themselves seek such independence, aware as they are that total defense, not to speak of total war, is too big a show for them to run. Involving the whole of our economy, the utmost efforts of the social body, defense has already spread beyond the knowledge and scope of purely professional soldiers into the province of civilians.
This assurance, that civilians shall always decide issues of policy and retain control of the military power they create, is fundamental to democracy. It is more basic than most of the blessings commonly called essential: free enterprise, liberty of speech, fraternity, or the two-car garage. Without civilian supremacy in the state, no democratic right or privilege would be safe. And yet, readily as we would all assent to such a proposition, relatively few are prepared to admit or face its corollary: the education of the civilian in military affairs. Even now, in the midst of gigantic military programs, leaders of public opinion and education are still reluctant to confront the issue and discuss the relationship of higher education to the greatest problem of the nation today. To them, military studies still appear to be a direct step to militarism.
But are not civilian military studies, on the contrary, the only true guarantee of civilianism? Is not civilian control in danger of becoming a farce when Congressmen cannot understand or find time to study the details of the military budgets they pass, when the public cannot reasonably debate on the military aspects of policies it is asked to support? How is civilian control to be maintained, without the gravest risks both to civilians themselves and to the soldiers who must be directed by them, unless it is supported by a large current of informed opinion? Will the proper co-ordination between our defense forces and the economic front, the essence of modern preparedness, be attained so long as neither hand of society knows what the other hand does? Or are we to assume that the civilian will always make the right move, like Parsifal, the “perfect fool,” so long as his heart is pure? If so, we should at least make our choice entirely clear and say to ourselves: “Let the civilian control the army and navy, but let him preserve an unsullied ignorance of everything connected with the field under his control. Let him even avoid mentioning the name of the thing he manages, lest the single syllable, war, prove contaminating to his better nature. In our society, only the man in uniform shall know what he is doing.”
It cannot be pretended, at least, that Farsifalism is the “American tradition.” Rather, it is a distinct deviation from the plans and intentions of the Founding Fathers of the Republic. At the time when control over the defense forces was vested by the Constitution in a civilian Congress, the leaders of the new country intended that civilians should know something about the use of such a supreme power. This is evident in part from the proviso that the land grant colleges, all those sustained by original government grants of land, should offer military training to their students. West Point was established not merely to drill cadets, as the older European academies had done, but rather to strike off along new lines, taking advantage of the progress of civilian knowledge, and develop a scientific and technological study of war. A great deal was expected from science at that time and it was hoped that technology would add to America’s strength for war by making good the scarcity of labor and other deficiencies in the young society.
True, leaders like Washington and Jefferson voiced what nowadays is called “isolationist” sentiment. Their eagerness to keep this country free from foreign entanglements at certain times, however, did not lead them to advocate a general ignorance of military problems. This is made unequivocally clear in a letter from Thomas Jefferson to James Monroe, written while the latter was Secretary of War. “Isolationist” as he may be termed today (and certainly no militarist), Jefferson was strongly in favor of introducing war studies in the colleges: “We must train and classify the whole of our male citizens, and make military instruction a regular part of collegiate education. We can never be safe till this is done.” But no place was found in colleges and universities for military instruction. Even in the land grant colleges, R.O.T.C. training was pushed to the periphery of interest. No opening was made in the regular curriculum for specialists or “generalizes” in military matters. Not a niche was left anywhere for the study of military history, military economy, or what the Germans call Wehrwirtschaft—econ omy in preparation for war—for military psychology (including civilian defense as well as propaganda), for the sociology of war and military institutions, or for political science concerned with the policies and politics of defense, And while the door was thus shut on the military expert, the standard departments of teaching ignored military aspects and implications; such topics were tabooed under a system of values by which a problem like the diplomatic relations between Peru and the Vatican was considered as far more important than the military features of, let us say, the Russo-Japanese War. Not only have the colleges avoided research into topics of war strategy, war potential, and war organization; they have also refused to contemplate the subject of war itself, dismissing it often enough with the easy paradox, once thought so bold, that “war does not change anything.” Some ninety per cent of the nearly thirty-five hundred years of known human history have witnessed wars, but war itself was a tabooed theme to academic scholars.
We have thus punished with sovereign contempt the military problems, and we have viewed with suspicion those who contemplated them. The theologian who ponders the problem of sin is not necessarily thought a sinner himself, but those who have bothered themselves with military matters have often been regarded as militarists. And more unfortunate still, the same distrust was extended to the greater and more inclusive theme of power. Power has become an evil word. Employed usually in an invidious sense, it is represented as a force exerted and striven after by the wicked only. Arguing from the past, the academic world has denied all justification for the competition for power; disliking the old imperialist competition, including the rivalry of armies and navies in an age when every group in society competed lustily, scholars have extended that distaste to the new competition in arms which has now, alas, become the index of our security. But is this the way to confront the world of dark powers and, to us, questionable values? Do we not at least have to know what we oppose and, through knowledge, strive to end these false powers and values?
The academician’s attitude toward power has been to some extent a survival of the traditional Christian-stoic negative position, which involved belief in the wickedness or at least the futility of striving for power, as well as distrust of the wielders of power, military men, for example, who in the past may have deserved it as often as not. Power, theologically speaking, has been reserved for God. One might go further and trace the roots of the academic attitude to secularized sectarianism, strengthened perhaps by present-day Catholicism in an ultra-conservative stage. The days of the church militant are apparently over—will the right of resistance to tyrants ever be taught or preached again? There is no church that teaches it today as energetically as it was once taught and even practiced.
Sectarians—the word is taken in a very wide sense and not in an opprobrious one—have generally failed to see the full implications of their sectarianism, which is one of the roots of American aloofness; such pietists believe it is still possible to live in God, or in America, apart from the world. The right to such spiritual withdrawal and individualism of belief has been able to survive heretofore because it has been tolerated; but totalitarianism, wherever it is victorious, will not and cannot tolerate sectarianism. One may call to witness the brutal treatment meted out by the Nazis to the gentle and innocuous folk of the Ernste Bibelforscher, the earnest Bible-students, since 1933. In fact, it seems hardly overbold to say that intolerance under totalitarianism is more ruthless in actual persecution than it has ever been, even though doctrinal intolerance may have been greater at certain times in the past. The overwhelming superiority which modern armament gives to the final victor, a potential so foolishly neglected by the victors of Versailles, will allow the latter to introduce over the conquered a technologically enforced control stricter and longer-lasting than any seen before; it will allow little of that living tradition of Christianity, which has preserved sectarianism, to survive. There can be no catacombs under totalitarianism, no “Christian security” on an island, “as if it were a whole world in miniature,” of which the old Utopian Andreae dreamed when the Thirty Years War began.
The attitude of distrust toward power, whether religiously strengthened or not, has in the past led to the American rejection of power politics in doctrine and generally in practice, though there has been some active participation in power politics in spite of the doctrine. It is true that, subjectively speaking, the United States has for long periods been outside the increasingly worldwide, Europo-centric competition of the great powers. Nevertheless, America and the Western Hemisphere have been at various times the objects of imperialist desires. That the menace could be ignored and the desires resisted has been possible because of two obvious factors, neither of which is fully operative today: first, the geographic distance of the Americas from the scenes of competition; and second, the competition of the European powers within Europe or, in other words, the often-cursed and little-blessed balance of power.
That changes have occurred in both of these factors should be plain enough today. There may be legitimate differences of opinion as to how far the implications of this change go, how much the United States must do to meet the challenge, or where we should meet the challenger. But what seems unpermissible is to allow the private dislike of power and competition for power to prevent a study of forces which, after all, are seized upon by other peoples passionate for power and for its use. A sharing in the competition for power—competition against power, not for it, if you prefer —is necessary for the United States if we are to meet dangerous power both technologically and ideologically. In either respect we need a comfortable margin of competitive strength. Less than ever before in the history of the United States is liberty compatible with weakness. Never were small nations so small as today. Never was it so vain for a giant like the United States to dream of being as small and happy as Sweden—with the underlying assumption that to be small was to be happy, the veritable counterpart of megalomania. As never before, we must see and admit our size and strength, measure and study its application; we must confront the problems, not merely of defense and war, but of power itself.
We shall have to admit, moreover, that the old easy Anglo-Saxon concept of power for war has been seriously threatened. This Anglo-Saxon concept, as it may be called because the English are in much the same mental situation as the Americans, has combined two old notions: first, the ancient idea of the militia, or, in modern terms, a National Guard, a body of civilians, more or less roughly trained, ready to take the rifle or cannon stored in armories and meet the enemy invader; second, the belief that wealth, whether latent or developed, brings inevitable superiority, that the richer nation can take its time and “muddle through.” Such convictions went far toward forming the misleading idea of the “war potential” of the democracies. To this concept the Fascist nations offer opposition. They insist that intensive training of chosen soldiers, making highly expert war-technicians, will produce a better army than the sketchy drilling of homespun multitudes. Lexington farmers can no longer oppose “regulars.” Furthermore, the Fascists argue that a head start is vital; given a “jump” on a richer nation, the poor may have a chance to win. All this is a challenge to the basis of our educational system which has, on the whole, been open to the democratic idea, the belief that everyone is fit for every office, every profession, after receiving the same training. Is it not time to reappraise the effect of preparedness, with its intense demands for high skills and specialized knowledge, upon the Cincinnatus ideal of education?
To those who insist that the colleges and universities have nevertheless managed very well up to the present, whatever changes may be forced upon them in the future, one may reply that the present situation is in no small measure the result of academic blindness toward the momentous changes taking place in the Fascist countries. The universities may indeed be charged in general terms with a failure to prepare the minds of democratic peoples for a realistic view of events; specifically, it was largely their fault that German intentions and German rearmament were so consistently misunderstood and misjudged. The Nazis had openly discussed their ideas and purposes in a rapidly growing literature devoted to the “military-political revolution,” as Nazi officers openly called it as early as 1936. Thus it was not only that hysterically toned propaganda work, “Mein Kampf,” that contained timetables of future movements; a solid scientific body of work was available, but it could have been appreciated only by a relatively small group of scholars capable of reading and appraising it. Had scholars translated, reviewed, or discussed such studies, they might have compelled the Western world to take Hitler’s confession seriously at a far earlier date. If they did not give the danger signal, it was because the military implications of German pronouncements in the fields of law, history, and economics, as well as military science proper, escaped them. Such aspects they were little qualified to observe, and they had left almost as unprepared the men whom they trained, politicians, diplomats, and journalists. None outside the ranks of professional soldiers—and few enough of these—proved able to judge events in Germany and to estimate the dangers inherent in the world situation.
A purely military judgment of the total situation would have called for a timely preventive war. Swift action could have terminated the rising German danger. This was the one possibility of preserving academic traditions and academic security in their older form, permitting the continuance of scholastic hobbies, the overspecialized dissertation, the playful or ponderous antiquarian research, the belief in the services of diplomacy and the functioning of traditional international law. But a preventive war—suicide in fear of death, to quote Bismarck, who timed his own wars so well— was of course utterly outside the range of the universities. Since the American intelligentsia did not grasp the spread of insecurity in the world, absorbed as it was in part by endeavors to preserve its own security of tenure, it played practically no part in the preparation or discussion of the steps that were finally found necessary to avert military danger to this hemisphere. The same is in large measure true of England, where governing and thinking groups were probably less informed in military matters than any previous ruling and thinking class known to that country.
If the colleges and universities had become ivory towers, instead of lighthouses and watchtowers dedicated to the tasks of Lynkeus, the guardian, “born for vision, ordained for watching,” they are hardly better equipped now to deal with the tasks of this hour. That revolutionizing institution, conscription, was formulated as policy and law with extremely little collaboration by political scientists. There are few signs that they will be heard, on the basis of any special knowledge, when Congress, sometime this year, must deliberate and decide how the future reserves of the army are to be organized. The academic world is barred from such debate by its very indifference, derived from democratic tradition, to the question of authority in society. Democracy has always avoided a theoretical showdown on discipline and authority; it has faintly applauded or merely taken for granted authority in the state or the family, but has never seriously considered how it may be instilled, maintained, or undermined. Now that the United States is called upon to accept a new “discipline of the free,” the scholars have still not asked, singly or co-operatively, the minimum questions: Discipline for what and under whose authority? Through what means of cohesion, horizontally or vertically, is it to be won and preserved?
The fact is, then, that the greatest, most vital, most costly institutions and establishments within this country are now given form, policy, and direction with practically no academic co-operation or control—control, that is, through knowledge and interest. The unfortunate results of that passivity are already apparent in the public debate on intervention versus isolationism—a debate carried on with far too much amateurish gush, combined with personal acrimony, too many superficial parallels with 1914-18, and far too little informed opinion. Unfortunate effects are apparent also within our government today, where, to state it briefly, the New Deal bureaucracy is in conflict with industry over production for the greatest or most efficient preparedness effort; the New Deal misses rather badly the university man educated for dealing with war and emergencies short of war. Is this situation to be prolonged? If so, the largest single national endeavor of today and for some time to come will go on without the colleges, or at best with their pallid approval. The idyllic campus world may realize too late the enormity of that oversight, the dangers inherent in the separation of political defense measures from the academic sphere.
The fear of militarizing education is widespread, whether it is genuine or merely a pretense to hide the lack of preparation of the academic teacher for directing military studies. Most conscientious objectors to military studies would probably find their fears expressed in a by now perhaps slightly outdated statement of 1916, taken from Ralph Barton Perry’s “The Free Man and the Soldier”: Since military service itself emphasizes the central authority, increases solidarity and promotes loyalty to whatever is traditional or established, it is important that it should be offset by agencies tending to independence, individuality, and criticism. The greatest of these agencies is education. Over and above the education for livelihood and the education for service, it is indispensable that there should be the education that emancipates. There could be no greater disaster in a free country than that a national educational system should be contrived merely to mobilize the intellectual and moral resources of the community for the purpose of the state. Co-operation, patriotism, and all the civic virtues must indeed be imparted, but without killing that revolutionist and non-conformist that lives within every free man’s breast.
Bearing in mind that the margin of liberty has shrunk since 1916, when the conflict with Wilhelmian Germany was taking shape—and it might very well be remembered that the conflict of 1914-1918 took place in a world far more identical in its parts, in sum less antagonistic, than the world of today—how far should the introduction of military studies, or the study of war (two somewhat different things), be carried, if entrance into the college curriculum is permitted them at all? And further, what reorganization of teaching would be required by such introduction?
First, it should be emphasized that every political policy thought through to its consequences has its military implications. This is a tenet more readily accepted by conservatives or reactionaries than by liberals, by Communists than by socialists; but it would seem possible now to show that the liberals’ traditional lack of interest in military affairs, maintained while their political enemies rose in power abroad, has proved disastrous.
Second, only an utter reactionary would wish military history to dedicate itself to glorifying all or nearly all that the military have done in the past; a better military understanding would insist, for example, that the Civil War and the World War were not milestones in American history and evolution but simply miles, and would treat them accordingly. There is great room for the spirit of criticism in all military studies; to study does not mean to accept blindly any or every phase of the thing studied.
Third, in view of the faulty preparation of the teaching staffs to take up military problems, it seems most feasible at the present time to let each department deal with them in its own manner, rather than to create new chairs or departments to deal exclusively with warfare. Dallas D. Irvine has proposed to set up a whole new science, something called “polemology,” the “all-science” of war, in order to master the entire reach of this terra incognita. It may be that such a science will be developed, for the plan would appeal to the American admiration for “pioneering,” the attempt to break new ground, erect new buildings, and add to the language a new terminology. Several drawbacks to this scheme must, however, be faced; we simply have not time now to start afresh and nurture a new science through the years. Nor can we find in a few years the master minds suitable for such an overarching science. Modern total war is too big a thing to be mastered in our age, when the universal genius has vanished in every other field. It should be pertinent to recall that this is not the way the Germans have proceeded: their great accumulation of recent war literature, now surpassing that of any other country, was built up by countless small contributions of experts in many fields and not by a Leonardo da Vinci of war.
Another objection may also be raised: would it not leave the average academician exactly where he was before? Would it not give fresh excuse to the traditional-minded to ignore every military consideration? Why should the historian) economist, or psychologist trouble his head with war history, war economy, or the mind in war, when all this could be left to the “polemological” faculty? Those acquainted with academic life know what scrupulous care is given to the fences around each field: the historian would blush to trespass among the sociologists, the psychologist feels he can ignore history. If “polemology” were actually set up, no one outside that faculty would dare to read a book on war, lest he be thought a poacher.
In the face of all these difficulties, we should find it not only swifter, easier, but actually more beneficial, to adopt a different plan: that is, to develop the study of military policies and methods within the framework of our established disciplines and departments. This might be accomplished with less dislocation. The study, like the conduct of war itself, would seem to call at once for an inter- and supra-departmental arrangement like the interdepartmental co-ordination of agencies in a war economy. If war is the great “mover of the human race,” why should it respect the traditional separation between the fields of knowledge any more than it respects the separation between agencies of government and the powers of production and distribution in economy?
As the first step toward the realization of such a program, an investigation should be made in every college, however small or large, to find out what each department could contribute at once, or within a convenient time, to instruction about war. Gaps should then be filled in by additional lectures or courses, in order to make possible a comprehensive treatment or symposium on the subject, admittedly rough and ready, but a beginning at least.
Let history begin and relate how the wars of the past were undertaken; how different they were from one another because of the various societal arrangements of the warring parties as well as because of the changing technology of war. The then of former wars will help produce an understanding of the terrific now of the war in Europe, Asia, and Africa. Let sociology teach the interdependence of war and society and study the arrangements necessary to secure authority and discipline as well as cohesion in war, inside and outside armed bodies. Perhaps it might point out as well the blind spots in the vision of the governors of certain societies with respect to the changes occurring in the preparation and conduct of war. Let the political scientists hold forth on the different constitutional and other arrangements for policymaking with respect to defense. Emphasis might be laid on arrangements for securing a smoother co-operation of the necessary military and civilian departments. Let the economists take up the impact of war on economy in the past and present, the role of finance in war—which may be expected to decrease—and the role of industry—which has already so terrifyingly increased. The economists are in the lucky position of having available a very recent and convenient textbook on war economics, “The Economics of War,” by Horst Mendershausen. Psychology used to be, in the days before Miinsterberg’s “Psychology and Industrial Efficiency,” averse to questions of industrial efficiency. Now, whatever its disinclinations toward such questions, it will have to concern itself not a little with problems of military efficiency. It would be reactionary, in a politico-scientific sense, not to do so. In fact, studies of aviator psychology are under way now to make up for the head start which the Germans have obtained.
Even the enumeration of such examples does not exhaust the possibilities of worthwhile discussion. The theme of total war is wide; those who study defense must now have an intimate knowledge of the life and mentality as well as of the resources of other peoples likely to be allies or potential enemies. For the study of such peoples, their lives and backgrounds, we must levy upon the departments of language and literature. This aspect, too, has long been familiar to the Germans, who have not neglected to study customers or competitors for trade or war. The Nazis have had for some time an Ibero-American Institute which is a model of its kind-no mere decorative building dedicated to empty gestures of friendship, but a serious center of research, engaging the best specialists in Latin American language, literature, music, history, and culture generally. America needs such research not only in order to understand the trends in South America but also to know the thought of Fascist powers as well. If we had had such an institute dedicated to German studies, for example, it would have familiarized itself with German war-economy literature and we should not have been left as unprepared as we are. The whole sphere of the humanities, in short, may be drawn upon for contributions to the general understanding which is necessary for the universal total conflict.
Such a program could be organized even by non-prepared professors for non-prepared students. It must necessarily be a makeshift in the beginning and will have to be followed by better informed professors for somewhat aroused students. But it would be a beginning. It will be objected, of course, that such a plan for co-ordinated teaching in many lines will result in lopsidedness and incompleteness. Many colleges can develop but a few of these branches. But let us not wait for an ideal of scholarly completion to be realized. It will be enough if, rather than teaching the specific material, an interest that later becomes specific is aroused. A further objection will certainly be made, that the scheme involves a considerable shake-up of the neatly divided and jealously hedged fields of learning. But perhaps that will not prove unfortunate; American academic life has, on the whole, been dominated by material: the material in our teaching of the social sciences has taken precedence over underdeveloped methods and theory. History teaching, for instance, has been considered largely as the story of a particular period or place, rather than as the history of ideas and institutions, as universal or world history. A professor teaches the Enlightenment and considers himself justified in remaining unenlightened about the Renaissance or the period since 1010. Such a periodization has effectively stood in the way of knowing what has happened since the first World War and what now touches us so closely. Quite possibly, the integration of many fields in such a manner as we propose here might bring new emphasis on ideas and on the study of contemporary forces.
In any case, however imperfect the chosen plan, we cannot wait for perfection. We are in the same situation as European nations were in during and after 1914: they could not wait for an ideal plan for war-economy, but had to set out instead, with improvisation and constant adjustment, through committee co-operation, to approximate efficiency. We face an equal emergency. Let each contribute what he can and as quickly as possible. What you do, do soon. “All delays are dangerous in war,” it was said in the leisurely age of Dryden. Our age has more iron in it than any previous period. Today we may amend Dryden and insist that delays are dangerous before the outbreak of war, a war that others than ourselves might declare or might start to wage upon us without declaration.
The need for haste cannot be overemphasized, for it is generally still too little understood that we have a serious time-lag to make up in this country. How great our backwardness is, in some respects, is not readily apparent to those who are hypnotized by the word “progress” and who consequently assume that a “progressive society” must be ahead in everything. To the many still wrapped in that dream of progress, sitting in the waiting room while the rails grow rusty, it must be reiterated that today, as in many periods of the past, there is an unevenness, a disparity, in the development of human society. In the past, thought has often outrun technical development; or societal and political institutions may be outmoded by a discovery as of gunpowder and cannon, or a new route to the Indies, by a technological shift or revolution—and those who have a phobia about the word revolution might be reminded that revolution originally meant a turn of the wheel of Fortuna, which in the course of time made an industrial revolution.
There is a great disparity in our times. (One might even call it syncopation, for undoubtedly the breathless measures of modern jazz reflect that nervous effort of our society to keep pace with the machine.) To restate it in very general terms: a thoroughly industrialized society, with an up-to-date productive apparatus but a great deal of historicism in its politics and concepts, whether religious or military, has failed to understand and manage its new powers. It has overlooked the toxin of war which may be secreted by industrialism; it has not realized to the fullest extent the applicability of industrial power for war; and, relying on its own industrial and financial strength as a potential for war, combined with its still fortunate geographic situation, it has allowed an incalculable competitor to forge ahead of us and our only potential ally. When Nelson in 1801, at the time of the threatening Napoleonic invasion, was entrusted with the command in the Channel, he reported to the British Admiralty that with the active force at his disposal he could pronounce the invasion impracticable, but, he added: “It is perfectly right to be prepared against a mad government.” There is again a Napoleonic government in the world.
To ensure that this Napoleonic government of our time suffers a Waterloo before its adversaries experience a Jena which would be the result of too slow a reaction to the threat, much fast action is called for on this side of the Atlantic. Our thought must not only be quick, it must avoid mere imitation, which has too often been used in situations of the sharpest military competition (when Tirpitz, for example, imitated the Dreadnought instead of developing the submarine) . There is perhaps only one thing worse than to imitate the enemy too closely: that is imitating oneself as the French did in 1940, despite all warnings that what had happened in Poland in 1939 might be repeated in France.
To run and think at the same time is not conducive to the best thought. But we have no choice: a course, a race in fact, must be run all the way from our historical past into our technological present, a distance longer than many think who linger and malinger in academic shells. The task of getting the nation out of its own past into the fearful present should be performed by the colleges, which in the nature of things still impart the broad, if perhaps outdated, knowledge with which the nation is supplied. But what is to happen if that teaching remains thin and unrealistic, imparting but a shallow and miscellaneous knowledge like that of a radio information quiz? What is to happen if we delay the reform of our high school system, on which the colleges should now be insisting? If the college intelligentsia makes no effort to recover its old function of social criticism and the setting-up of values—who are the value-givers in America today?— there must be serious consequences, not only to the national development but to the members of that academic world themselves. If some fine day a club-footed Fortinbras like Doctor Goebbels steps into their Oxf ordized halls and throws them out at the point of a bayonet as “the damaged goods (Ausschussware) of the nation,” let them consider what friends and allies the academicians will have among their own countrymen.