that
they are educated.

The fact that the analytic mind is establishing itself, in a greater or
less degree, as the sentinel in college life of the entire creative
literature of the world is a fact with many meanings in it. It means not
only that there are a great many more minds like it in literature, but
that a great many other minds--nearly all college-educated minds--are
being made like it. It means that unless the danger is promptly faced
and acted upon the next generation of American citizens can neither
expect to be able to produce literature of its own nor to appreciate or
enjoy literature that has been produced. It means that another
eighteenth century is coming to the world; and, as the analysis is
deeper than before and more deadly-clever with the deeper things than
before, it is going to be the longest eighteenth century the world has
ever seen--generations with machines for hands and feet, machines for
minds, machines outside their minds to enjoy the machines inside their
minds with. Every man with his information-machine to be cultured with,
his religious machine to be good with, and his private Analysis Machine
to be beautiful with, shall take his place in the world--shall add his
soul to the Machine we make a world with. For every man that is born on
the earth one more joy shall be crowded out of it--one more analysis of
joy shall take its place, go round and round under the stars--dew, dawn,
and darkness--until it stops. How a sunrise is made and why a cloud is
artistic and how pines should be composed in a landscape, all men shall
know. We shall criticise the technique of thunderstorms. "And what is a
sunset after all?" The reflection of a large body on rarefied air.
Through analysed heaven and over analysed fields it trails its
joylessness around the earth.

Time was, when the setting of the sun was the playing of two worlds upon
a human being's life on the edge of the little day, the blending of
sense and spirit for him, earth and heaven, out in the still west. His
whole being went forth to it. He watched with it and prayed and sang
with it. In its presence his soul walked down to the stars. Out of the
joy of his life, the finite sorrow and the struggle of his life, he
gazed upon it. It was the portrait of his infinite self. Every setting
sun that came to him was a compact with Eternal Joy. The Night
itself--his figure faint before it in the flicker of the east--whispered
to him: "Thou also--hill