ABSTRACT
My image of Yale was of a centuries-old, stable institution. A place where scholars, following hallowed traditions, pursued their intellectual interests isolated from the frenetic pace of modern life, where days were filled with thoughtful reflections rather than the urgent strivings and connivings of the rapidly expanding public universities of the time, and where people were devoted to learning in a cloister of fruitful discussion, free from worldly surprise and struggle (and free, too, from greed and predaciousness)—all enfolding to the mellow voices of prep school educated, gentlemen songsters, such as the Whiffenpoofs.
