Woolf knew this guy. Harvey Mansfield, regrettably, existed in her time too, and she nailed him in A Room of One's Own:
"The most transient visitor to this planet, I thought, who picked up this paper could not fail to be aware, even from this scattered testimony, that England is under the rule of a patriarchy. Nobody in their senses could fail to detect the dominance of the professor. His was the power and the money and the influence. He was the proprietor of the paper and its editor and sub–editor. He was the Foreign Secretary and the judge. He was the cricketer; he owned the racehorses and the yachts. He was the director of the company that pays two hundred per cent to its shareholders. He left millions to charities and colleges that were ruled by himself. He suspended
the film actress in mid–air. He will decide if the hair on the meat axe is human; he it is who will acquit or convict the murderer, and hang him, or let him go free. With the exception of the fog he seemed to control everything. Yet he was angry."
What is this Mansfield character so angry about? And what does the Globe think it's doing running a column that presents him in such a positive light, with barely a whimper of dissent against his Neanderthal views? The tone of this column makes me sick. Mansfield is presented as being such a rebel, so brave in his insistence upon promoting his own special brand of bull at Harvard.