Elis of Two Centuries Shun Ways of Crimson's Radicals

"The founders of the New Haven colony, like those of Massachusetts Bay, cherished the establishment of a college as an essential part of their ideal of a Christian state, of which education and religion should be the basis and the chief fruits."

Thus in 1700 AD the citizens of New Haven, tired of contributing to the support of an institution of decided Crimson hue in far-off Cambridge since the year 1644, decided to "educate ministers in their own way," and ten clergymen, Harvard graduates all, convened to do the job. Not until 18 years later, however, in 1718 when a certain Governor of the British East India Company saw fit to contribute his fortune to the Arts and Sciences, did the embryo college become financially secure, and in gratitude they immortalized the name of Elihu Yale.

Reactionary from the outset, in comparison to "their radical neighbors in Cambridge," the Elis in 246 years have fought off such liberal trends as dismissal in 1722 of President Timothy Cutler for "Episcopism," the abolition just prior to the Revolution of corporal punishment ("cuffing" of an offender's ears by the President), and an early nineteenth century uprising against the present student government, known mysteriously as "the Conic Sections Rebellion," to emerge in the twentieth century as the richest corporation in Connecticut, over the second-place Skull and Bones.

This all too brief history is furnished by the Encyclopedia Britannica, and brings us to the present day, with the emphasis in great centers of learning no longer on the problems of right and wrong, but rather on the problems of right and left. Let us look at conservative Yale today, with the Skull and Bones and the Book and Snake hinting of the secret caucus, and the New Haven Railroad still running two hours late.

Architecturally, unlike the long sequence that led from Harvard Hall to the Houses on the river and produced such works along the way as Memorial Hall and the Indoor Athletic Building, Yale stands almost entirely as the result of a mammoth 100-year plan laid down in 1924 to promote unanimity of design.

Of course, there remain the original college buildings like Connecticut Hall, where abode such luminaries as Nathan Hale, Yale '73, but the bulk of Eli construction has taken place in the past two decades.

The plan first produced the central quadrangle, built in Gothic style, with its maze of passageways and courtyards and its myriad of minute designs in stone, over which reigns the Harkness Memorial Tower. Here we find a peculiar liberal trend, for the Tower sexton mounts thrice daily to sound the chimes, not at the hours ordinarily prescribed for the sounding of chimes, but at noon, 6, and 10 o'clock. Those accustomed to the bedlam let loose over Cambridge every quarter hour, and sometimes at 20 minutes to the hour, might note this with approval.

Also in Gothic is the Payne-Whitney Gymnasium, a cathedral-like structure which houses among other things, the original Handsome Dan, stuffed and mounted, and one of the country's finest indoor swimming pools with excellent seating accommodations for spectators. So numerous are the tiers of seats, placed almost vertically one above the other, that from the bottom one feels sunk in an enormous pit and from the top one has the sensation of an aerial view of the water below.

Tacked onto these and other Gothic edifices are several buildings in Colonial style, an incongruity heightened in the courtyard of one particular College which is half Colonial and half Gothic. And one finds, too, in the midst of the University buildings, a plain red-brick New Haven high school, from whence sprung Levi Jackson.

For Scholars of Distinction

On the sudsier side is Mory's, cited as a center of gentility and wealth as opposed to the rowdier patronage of the Oxford Grille and Cronin's Bar. White-coated waiters circulate through small smoky rooms amidst photographs of athletic greats of years gone by, and generations of Elis have left their marks on the old wooden tables. Focal point of the club, of course, is the Whiffenpoof table, where congregate those who made Mory's famous, the names of all past Whiffenpoofs being stylishly inscribed thereon.

Highly conservative, the establishment from the outside is a plain unmarked building save for the small inscription "Mory's" on the door. Inside, money rarely changes hands, payment being made by the signing of checks. To enter this exclusive group, an Eli pays only a small fee, but must be nominated by two present members and voted on by the board, a process which usually takes several weeks, or even months.

The Squeaking Doors

Conspicuous around the "campus" are the mysterious sanctums of the secret societies. No living soul, supposedly, knows the membership of these organizations save the members themselves, and no person of the outside world has even seen a member in the act of entering the building. The Book and Snake sanctum, as an example, is a plain white stone cubical structure surrounded by a massive iron fence and having no visible means of entrance. Meetings it is rumored, are held at midnight, but that's only hearsay.

Most secret of the secret groups, perhaps, are the Followers of Hogan, of whom little is known. Some say their patron saint is a common domestic animal, maybe even a cat. Be that as it may the clan, though it rarely convenes, is summoned with the immortal words: "The Followers of Hogan will meet at Hogan's Grave at midnight tonight. Hogan would want it that way."

Turning to the social aspects of life in New Haven, let us touch first on a matter of some interest these days -- the weekend football games. Princetonians slip quietly across their backyard to Palmer Stadium, Cantabrigians cross a river on a picturesque bridge to reach Soldiers Field, but the Elimen on the way out to the Bowl have a system all their own.

A brief digression on the nature of the New Haven trolley is first necessary. Open on both sides, the cars have seats extending across their full width from one side to the other. There being no center aisle, each passenger steps from the street into his seat, as in a European railroad coach.

Battle of the Trolleys

Here, then, is the picture on Saturday afternoon, when huge crowds are besieging the New Haven Street Railway. Travelling in large groups, the Elis attack the waiting streetcar in flying wedge formation and contrive to place their dates in some available seat. They then retire to the outer extremities of the car and seize upon some handy appendage from which they hang for the rest of the ride. As this handy appendage is frequently the collar of another Eli who in turn is hanging over the side of the car, it is possible to make the mile and a half trip to the Bowl without ever actually touching the trolley.

Adding to the general fun is the conductor, who swings Tarzan-style from Yale to Yale in an effort to collect his fares. The girls meekly surrender their dime, as a rule, but the male element jumps off and runs for a while (if he hasn't already been swept off by a passing car), regaining the trolley after the conductor has passed or has given the whole thing up as hopeless.

Numerous small boys on the street contribute to the confusion by calling "scramble," a cry calculated to bring a hail of currency from the passing trolley to be "scrambled" for by the eager bystanders, the resulting fracas being about as mild and gentle as a Boston College-Georgia Tech football game.

Actually, it is much quicker to walk to and from the Bowl, but any individual reckless enough to try it might get caught in a "scramble" or run down by a fast-charging trolley.

Bang-Up Times Are Rare

Although the nearest source of female talent is the Connecticut College for Women in New London, most Elis prefer the offerings of Smith, Vassar, or the vast and varied resources of New York City. New Haven is a poor town for entertainment, night life being limited to beer drinking at Mory's for members and at the Old Heidelberg for non-members, chow at George and Harry's, and indoor athletics at the Hotel Grade. On weekday nights the students must content themselves with a movie, an occasional play, or a racy meeting of the Political Union.

This account must necessarily be incomplete without a word on post-war conditions. Classes are crowded naturally, some unfortunate creatures are still bunking on the floor of the basketball court, and the average Yale man living at one of the Colleges finds himself much more crowded than his Crimson counterpart, with four men frequently inhabiting an ordinary double.

Married veterans, if they were fortunate, got themselves a room or several rooms in nearby homes, such as those of the Faculty. Others are living in the inevitable Quenset Huts several blocks from the center of the University. How rough this life is or isn't varies undoubtedly with the individuals concerned, but a definite ray of light was east by a New Yorker correspondent recently, who on passing a Quenset Huf and "glaneing through a window, saw a maid in apron and lace-cap briskly shaking up cockfails."