We take the Illinois Central Railroad, with its Columbia trustee, a recent University of Chicago trustee, a Knox College and a Rockford College trustee, and an Armour Institute trustee, and one First National, one Guaranty Trust, and two National City Bank directors, and find ourselves in the town of Urbana, where the state university is located. Here is another of these terrible mushroom places, with a thousand instructors, and ten thousand students exposed to all the ravages of commercialism. I first heard of this university after the publication of “The Jungle,” when the Chicago packers flew to their interlocking regents for protection, and a committee of the university faculty was appointed to inspect the stockyards and report that everything was all right. In return for this, Mr. Armour gave some money for a veterinary college, and Mr. Armour’s partner, Arthur Meeker, was made a regent, and his portrait now hangs in the Sanhedrim where the interlocking regents meet.

This University of Illinois has made itself conspicuous in the glorification of trade; they have a whole college devoted thereto, with an especially large building, and ten years ago they had a solemn ceremonial in which they dedicated this temple to Mammon. The affair was known as a “Conference on Commercial Education and Business Progress,” and doubtless it caused great progress in the business of getting contributions from the plutocracy and its politicians. It lasted two days, and was addressed by such dignitaries as the president of the Chamber of Commerce of the United States, the president of the Chicago Association of Commerce, the dean of the College of Commerce and Administration of the University of Chicago, and the President of the Board of Trustees of the University of Illinois, who was, and still is, chief operating engineer of Edison Electric. There was an invocation to the God of Commerce by the Reverend President of Knox College, and an address by the President of the Illinois Bankers’ Association, who opened the Hall of Fame of the University by presenting a portrait of a lately deceased banker; then there was a prayer of dedication to the God of Bankers by the Reverend President McClelland; and on the evening of the last day there was a banquet tendered by the Commercial Club of Urbana, with all the big business potentates above-mentioned listed as “honored guests,” and preceded by an invocation to the God of Gastronomy.

The university traditions thus established have been reverently cherished. In 1916 the college put on three lectures, under the auspices of the Chicago Board of Trade, dealing with the art of gambling in the staff of your life and mine. A gentleman living in Urbana writes me:

Needless to say, such an institution is profoundly and reverently religious. It is at this place that the various sects have been able to get credits for their teachings. The laws of the state prohibit religious instruction in public institutions; nevertheless, you can go to the University of Illinois and study in the Bible classes of the Baptists, or the Methodists, or the Lutherans, or the Campbellites, or the Seventh Day Adventists—and some day, no doubt, the Holy Rollers; you may learn about how Jonah swallowed the whale, and how David killed Cock Robin with his little bow and arrow; and as a reward for these labors you may receive a university degree—having just as much cultural significance as if it were conferred by the king of Dahomey.

I visited Urbana, and took occasion to inspect a file of the student paper, “The Daily Illini.” A Jewish student had written to this paper a polite and respectful letter, suggesting that the university authorities should open the libraries and tennis courts on Sunday, for the benefit of such as might care to make use of them. The reply was a letter from the “dean of men,” a piece of insolent rudeness. With elaborate sneering he informed the heathen student that he lived in a Christian community, and must make up his mind that this community intended “to preserve the Christian traditions.”

Of course, there would be no use talking about a little thing like the constitution of the United States to so mighty a person as a dean of men in a state university. Nevertheless, I mention in passing that our forefathers put into the constitution a provision that “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion”; and this, according to decisions of the Supreme Court, means state legislatures and all bodies deriving their authority therefrom, including regents of state universities and their presidents and deans. Perhaps it will be more to the point if I quote the second letter of the Jewish student, who suggested that the dean of men should investigate how students really pass their Sunday afternoons and evenings at Illinois: “Shooting craps in the privacy of one’s room, playing cards amidst dense clouds of smoke, or shimmying to the strains of some horrible piece of canned jazz.”

The board of this university is distinguished in that it has a grand duchess, who makes her home in Urbana, and runs both the university and the town. She is Mrs. Mary E. Busey, wife of a former Democratic congressman; she is president of the Busey National Bank, and a large landowner, and in the year 1913, while a regent, she sold a tract of land to the university for $160,000 or $1,000 per acre, while land adjoining the tract was purchased for $600 per acre. Mrs. Busey herself attended these meetings and voted for this purchase from herself. (Attention Professor Brander Matthews of Columbia University!)

For president of her university Mrs. Busey selected an aged and venerable product of the university’s own regime, who began his career twenty-eight years ago as director of the School of Commerce. He is David Kinley, locally known as “King David.” I am told by several who have been his victims that he never fails to question an applicant for a position as to whether he is a Socialist. “This is no time for disloyalty,” he says; nor will it ever be such a time while King David reigns.

Before the war the university was not so careful, and agitators and disturbers of the academic peace crept in. There was one young member of the faculty who had acquired at the University of Oxford the evil habit of going without his hat, and in October, 1917, the dean of the Graduate School delivered an address to the graduate students, formally condemning this practice. Other members of the faculty were seen to be smoking on the street—whereas we have learned from the Jewish student that university smoking is done only at poker and jazz parties. Another member was reported to the president by the dean of the college, on the charge of having accepted an invitation to speak on the topic, “Philosophical Reasons for the Non-existence of God.” Fortunately, he was able to prove that he had not accepted such an invitation; also that he had not received it.

Another member of the faculty received an elaborate letter from the head of the sociological department, reporting several evil remarks he was said to have made to other professors, regarding his having taken some whiskey with him on a camping trip, and other such matters. This professor was placed on trial before his dean, and was acquitted of the evil remarks. Later there were dreadful allegations concerning members of the faculty having been seen to be drinking at a supper-party at the country club. All the servants of the club were interviewed by a faculty committee, and denied the charges, and the agitation died down. Nevertheless, the activities of the scandal bureau continued, and the grand duchess became fearfully wrought up. Another investigation was conducted, this time by secret service agents of the United States government. Five professors were summoned, one of them a lady, Miss Shepherd, and she was told that she was “a rank, rotten, vicious Socialist and Anarchist.” Mrs. Busey was terribly upset, and wrung her hands, exclaiming, “To think that members of my faculty should behave in this way!” “My faculty?” questioned Professor Tolman. “Do you mean to say we are your hired servants?” “Well,” replied Mrs. Busey, “you are in my employ!” This was one of the incidents I mentioned to Professor Robert Herrick, who lives in his ivory tower at the University of Chicago, only a hundred miles away, and thinks that college professors are controlled by “the tone of the house,” and never get direct orders from the plutocracy!

The upshot of the matter was a formal trial before the interlocking regents, with the dean of the Graduate School presiding. A great array of witnesses were summoned, and several of the victims described the scene to me. The affair was carried through with the utmost solemnity; the master of ceremonies would enter and announce: “Two witnesses wait without.” The two witnesses would be led in, and questioned as to what evil things they knew about the radical professors. One old lady, wife of a high-up faculty-member, had a dreadful charge: “Well, they sit next us in the Faculty Club, and it’s very unpleasant; Mr. Stevens laughs a great deal!”

The ceremonies lasted from ten o’clock in the morning until ten o’clock at night, and every now and then the accused professors would demand a chance to cross-question this or that witness, and they would be told: “Wait; you will have your chance.” Witness after witness testified as to their political and religious beliefs, but they themselves were given no chance to be heard, neither were they permitted to call any witnesses for their side. Late at night the proceedings were adjourned, and the chance they had been promised was never given.

Even with this one-sided procedure, nothing wrong could be found with them, and the report of the regents exonerated them completely. Nevertheless, two of them were let out at the end of the year, and a third, Professor Richard C. Tolman, resigned. It is amusing to note that the charge against him had been disloyalty to his government, and as soon as he quit the university he was taken by his government into its most difficult and confidential service—the Department of Chemical Warfare! Apparently he gave satisfaction, for his government made him a major, and later on put him in charge of nitrogen fixation work.