Alumni Oration

"Speech, Dr. B.L. Jewett, Alumni Dinner" (22 May 1965): 1-14. (UA Case 67a, Box 2)

Introduction:

Judge Dickson stipulated that the length of this dissertation was to be no less than four and one half hours and preferably on a highly technical subject—a reasonable request.

My first thought—the research work performed by myself and other scientists on the incidence of dandruff among ethnic groups in the Saint John River Valley. Then I realized that those present had certainly read the published material in all its great detail and it should be quite unnecessary to repeat it here.

My next thought—I should speak on success—a subject of which I know little—but in 1965, no deterrent whatsoever—within twenty-four hours, anyone can become an expert on anything—for example, hospital affairs, at least in the greater Fredericton area. By my calculation, by the year 1991, Fredericton's total population will all be hospital experts, if "expertising" continues at the present rate—a most horrible thought.

However, if one is to discuss success, he must urge his audience to be more energetic, more intelligent, more helpful, more painstaking, and more loyal. If his audience has these attributes, they need no help. The group for whom this type of speech should be reserved is an audience below average intelligence, stupid, idle, careless, uncooperative, and ill tempered—certainly not the alumni of the University of New Brunswick.

So my next inspiration—a complete and unabridged history of the university and to inform you of the delegation that petitioned Governor Thomas Carleton in 1785 to establish a university. There may be some among this assembly who have heard of this famous date. Thomas and I are by now on extremely friendly terms. As you probably are no doubt aware, Governor Carleton did not immediately grant the charter, and there was some rather sharp criticism. It is most unfortunate that the old gentleman could not be here tonight to discover a method of declining the Charter without the slightest chance of criticism.

He merely had to set up a Royal Commission. This could have taken at least two years in bringing in its report and another year at least in changing the name from a Royal Commission on Establishing a University, to Royal Commission on the Establishing of a University or a College or a School. This makes the name so long as to be impossible to print, and therefore, the Commission quickly assumes the name of the chairman. This is not only a wily way of making one's name famous but also of insuring that it is pronounced correctly.

However, with all due respect to the delegation, they did initiate a most dangerous custom that is, when any group of Maritimers has nothing to do and too much to drink, henceforth they would establish a university. This continued unabated until the Deutsch Commission Report.

Now it is ray desire—rightly or wrongly—to attempt to speak on something which might be of interest to the audience. And so, after many hours of thought, after many sleepless nights, I came up with an answer to the dilemma—my topic, The University, Then and Now. Not everyone would have thought of that—a rather clever solution to a
very perplexing problem. I propose to discuss the university then and now principally because I attended then, and I am here now! This makes immediately apparent a distinct advantage over many of the experts who are presently advising us.

In our day, going to university was generally accomplished by the combination of three relatively simple ingredients—a normal human being, or to be highly technical as I was advised, homo sapiens; a passing mark in matriculation; and money, acquired by fair or foul means.

Today, no such simple solution exists. As a matter of fact, if the summer vacation were any less than three months, attending university would be an absolute impossibility due to the split second timing necessary to meet all the requirements.

Today, homo sapiens still writes matriculation which is still marked and graded. Depending on the mood of the university at that period of time and the state of Federal-Provincial relationship, the entrance requirements are moved inexorably higher to the ultimate exclusion of students. They still proceed "up the hill" as we used to call it, not to the old buildings as we knew them, but to a most breathtaking chrome and leather emporium, designed by Larsen & Larsen, lighted in all its brilliance twenty-four hours a day, festooned with signs all directed towards the exclusion of the student. Arrows point here and there—No Parking, Staff Only, Faculty Only. I am quite convinced that the arrows directing athletes point out another gate and towards some other universities in
our conference.

Now—university entrance examinations. These are made up by all who failed to gain entrance to any university in the previous few years. How else would they have garnered the information necessary? Why would they not otherwise be gainfully employed. Have you ever noticed forms? These people leave a space one half inch long for your mane and address, and four inches long for your age. The student, after using four side entrances has finally found a place to take the exams—happens to slip on the rug— ten per cent deduction—poor muscular co-ordination—noted on his exam form.

In our day, we made our own mistakes. Students counsellors do it all for you now. It has been my observation that most members of the Kindness Club are directed to the Biology Laboratory, the crippled, the maimed, and the infirm are directed to the Physical Education Department, while the Mathematical Congress prize winner is directed to take English 1000, English 2000, English 3000, English 4000, English 5000—all in his first year—a broad background is so necessary for a proper education.

Since Sputnik I, no person from grade one onward will confess—except on the rack or under the most intimate of circumstances that would be rather improper for me to reveal here—that he or she is a teacher. He is now "involved in research". Teaching is not even quite respectable. Professor John Kemeny of Dartmouth observed recently, "The absence of teaching has become a status symbol in the academic world. A man who manages to teach only one academic course in three years has 'arrived'."

Now it would appear to the uninitiated that institutions such as Rockefeller, Ford, Guggenheim, and Kellogg, would be most anxious to grant money, knowing that it must be given away, that the income will be taxable if not promptly allocated and spent. The uninitiated imagines too often therefore that the orginator of a scheme for expenditure would be welcomed with open arms.

Let us take an imaginary case. Let us propose a scheme for measuring the use of tennis shoes in psychoanalysis or some other worthwhile subject. This will be turned down immediately, not because the project is unworthy, but mainly because it did not originate with the Foundation. The whole key to extracting money from a foundation is to make them think they originated the idea.

Private benefactors, you will find, have an unspoken preference for buildings as contrasted with salaries or expenses. A building after all can have a foundation stone. Previously, the most a foundation director could hope for would be a grave and headstone in a cemetery on the Nackawick. Now, as director of a foundation, he can insist on a building. The right plan is to have one designed as a gatehouse of an existing building or a commerative archway with the research building on either side including a nice apartment for himself—absolutely essential to be near your work you know. Now the merit of this layout is that the tablet over the archway can be so worded as to suggest, without actually stating, that the benefactor paid for the whole complex. The wording is better left to an expert in ambiguity, and remember a place like a university can have more than one set of gates. No charge will be made for these small lessons in "Grantmanship". However, for having me write the plaque, I would of course demand a modest fee—well, not too modest.

Today, is it not true, to paraphrase, "Breathes there a man with soul so dead, who never to himself has said, 'If the Canada Council would just give me enough money, I could carry out research in luxury.'"

The Federal Government handed the Canada Council the sum of ten million dollars. The prime minister seemed to regard this bundle of loot as a mere bagatelle, a gay trifle. The government, he declared roundly, and I quote, thought the Council should have a bigger endowment and that this was only a temporary measure of assistance—end of quote. Full of encouragement, he noted, and again I quote, we know that this money will be well spent, and will serve to promote the arts, the humanities, and the social sciences at a time when it has become imperative to foster Canada's development in these fields, and thus strengthen the identity and the unity of our country as we approach our Centennial,—end of quote.

The second press release listed some thirty-four research projects that the impoverished Canada Council had found it possible to sponsor, even though understandably pressed for the funds to do it with. Among them were these nation-building projects:

A study of Arab agriculture in the Middle Ages. ([ ] and thus strengthen the identity and unity of our country. . .)

A study of the relationship between Mannerism and 17th-century English poetry. ( … as we approach our Centennial.)

Research on German Peasant War. (… the unity of our country.)

A study of the intellectual-religious position of Christopher Marlowe. (…our country...)

At this very university not so long ago, I was asked to comment on a paper which was presented, not, I might add, by a member of this faculty. This very eradite young gentleman, with the help of a National Research Foundation grant, had proven beyond a shadow of a doubt, complete with graphs and charts, that if a muscle is exercised in competition with good coaching, it does better than if it is not—a most profound observation.

The increasing number of journals in every field has long baffled the scientist and it is with some satisfaction that I am able to reveal why this multiplication occurs.

Let us suppose that the oldest and most respected journal in the field is Journal A. Now, every journal must have an editor and he was a very distinguished one. The editor of Journal A had a fault---and which of us has not?—he rejected all the contributions except those of his former pupils.

Professor  put up with this for one year or until the next research grants were given out. Then, enraged by his rejection, he founded his own journal, Journal B. Now Professor  started out in a most liberal manner—small 'l'—but as more and more of his students began to write more and more about less and less, found that he had to reject all of Professor C's students which he had done since its inception.

Now Editor C who during the previous year had had jaundice—and I hope no one recognized this man—had always objected to the yellow cover on Journal A and Journal B, so Journal C started—and on and on we go.

It is this recurring cycle which causes the present multiplicity of journals—over eighty in Dentistry, one hundred forty-two in Radiology. As you can see, the amount of time spent in research is actually reduced by the number of hours spent in academic journalism.

It is interesting to reflect finally that the few people who do research of any significance usually keep each other informed by private correspondence. This being so, we can scarcely avoid the conclusion that actual progress must vary inversely with the number of journals published. I know of one university library not very distant from where we are meeting tonight which receives some 33,000 journals each year and can scarcely find the staff to get them all entered and catalogued. That is to me a sobering thought.

In a relatively small country which I will refrain from naming for fear of the mass exodus of my patients as well as those of most of the other doctors in Canada, there are preserved types of flora and fauna which have disappeared from what we are at the present time pleased to call the mainland—wild, shy creatures of the woodland and cliff. Among these vanishing species, carefully protected by local legislation, is the almost extinct general practitioner, his place being taken on the mainland by the mediclerk. The mediclerk is a newly invented term to define the person with medical qualifications who makes no use of those qualifications but spends his time filling in forms. I have come to believe that some wider natural reserve should be found for the nearly extinct GP. Shy and timid, except in the mating season, with drab plumage and plaintive cry, this interesting creature is a more useful bird than many folk have been willing to admit. He may have too long a bill, he may feather his nest too lavishly, he may eat the berries before the more specialized birds can arrive. But there is something to be said for the creature who sees the problem as a whole.

It has been my experience that the criticism one receives from members of his own family, many times unsolicited, many times unwanted, are the criticisms that have no ulterior motive and are in one's best interest. Now if the university has a family, and indeed I feel that it has, it rests in the alumni, and it is in this spirit I offer my observations. The ills befalling universities are so like those that have already befallen medicine, it makes the diagnosis so simple. However, the treatment is quite another thing. Medicine and universities alike must ask themselves What is our function? Doctor Nils Wessell stated: "Teaching and research are not mutually exclusive, not competitive, not antithetical…We should not choose between them. We choose them both." Most times, teaching and research are not embodied in the same man. We need great teachers. Scholarship without the means of conveying it from one generation to the next is sterile. It will be a most tragic day if the "publish or perish" dictum drives a teacher from his calling. When the campus has no room for teachers it will be in sorry shape indeed.

Suppose for example, that this were a conference of specialists. Suppose, further, as you well might, that these words of heresy have given the gravest offence to one among them who as a result suffered a fit of apolexy during the course of this address. To some this might not seem improbable and we should hear the familiar, "Is there a doctor in the house?" It would be sad indeed if we looked around such a conference the members of which gazed at one another and answered a little sadly "no".

It is my hope that if at a conference of university professors from the University of New Brunswick if the cry ever goes up, "Is there a teacher in the house?" a proper proportion of our people would rise and say proudly "YES!"