JAMES ORTONJAMES ORTON1868
JAMES ORTON1868
Chapel service was at eleven o'clock, the same as now, with preaching by the President. A voluntary religious service was held by direction of Dr. Raymond in the chapel in the afternoon, and there were voluntary prayer meetings in the evening.
Sermons on those infrequent Sundays when a stranger was invited to preach amused us by the delusion the minister labored under of the obligation to have a discourse suited to the audience on woman's sphere and duties. So many sermons on "Martha and Mary"—seven in one year, I believe—that we disgraced the college by broad smiles whenever the familiar allusion began or names were mentioned. If it was not Mary and Martha, it would be the conflict between science and religion that was next fitting, and science had a hard time of it with the lurid dangers of scepticism set forth in no uncertain terms. Professor Orton was exceedingly noncommittal on this subject, and close was the watch on him by those occupying neighboring chapel seats to see how he "took it." But no one ever did find out what the professor thought. He bore it all immovably without change of expression—not the faintest sign of interest betokened.
We observed in February the "Day of Prayer for Colleges." It was a sort of second Sunday and not to be evaded. The library—then removed to the fourth corridor—was opened awhile before the eleven o'clock service, after which the doors were opened again the half hour before dinner. The librarian once found to her horror that she had locked a student in, and began profound apologies for her careless oversight. "Oh, not at all, thank you very much! You see it was to-day or never with my moral philosophy topic—my last chance to get at the reference books,—so I didn't disclose myself when the door was about to be shut."
Communication with the outside world was—as we should think now, very restricted. There was no regular telegraph station at the college until 1873, but an operator came out for certain hours to send messages, none at all being allowed in the evening unless in great emergency. A special delivery messenger came from town in the evening, if you were so unfortunate as to receive a dispatch, and this, however insignificant, cost from one and a half dollars to three, depending on what was expended for livery hire to bring it out—as I happened to know to my indignant cost, more than once. The telephone had not been invented. The short day of the bicycle had not begun; electric cars and motors were a Mother Shipton prophecy still. All the electric devices so common now were hardly dreamed of.
For amusements there were base ball clubs, croquet clubs and a chess club with "never too late to mate" its motto. A bowling alley was in the basement of the museum; there was horseback riding, driving, with excursions,—river and country, as now. There was no basket ball, tennis or golf. Dancing in the gymnasium was frequent, and some receptions with dancing took place there. There was no prescribed physical culture as now, light calisthenics after Dr. Dio Lewis' methods sufficed. Trips to the Catskills and Lake Mohonk were in order, and in the Easter vacations extensive geological excursions were taken to various places of interest.
A students' paper,—"The Vassariana," was established the first year, having one number only. In '67 the name was changed to the "Vassar Transcript," and was continued as a yearly number in the same form till 1873, when the "Miscellany" began as a quarterly magazine. In 1878 it was altered to a monthly, nine numbers as we see it at present.
Noticed both in the Vassariana and Transcript we find the Floral Society, the Cecilia Society, the Exoteric (preparatory students debarred from the Philalethean and doing very clever work), and the Society of Religious Enquiry like the Y.W.C.A. of to-day.
Much was made of the Floral Society in the earliest days. It was recreation, exercise and profit combined. Hardly any member of the college family but lent support to it, either by contributions or active work. A capable English gardener was always on duty, and one particularly in the procession of these was a most interesting character. We all delighted to talk to him and to hear him say,—"Ladies likes smilax for their 'air, it is so very light and hairy." A tramp came through the pine-wood path into the garden one day and tried to beg. "'E wanted fifty cents," said our man. "I told 'im I 'adn't any money, and wouldn't be allowed to give 'im any if I 'ad. Besides, says I, there's my boss a-coming," pointing to Miss Braislin approaching from the opposite point of the circle. "That your boss? Wal, before I'd have a woman for my boss," sneered the tramp as he hastily retreated. "Some folks is so 'igh minded," commented H. placidly.
A student once asked him where he lived in England. He answered, "About twenty miles from York, Miss, and I got up early one morning and walked the whole distance to see a man 'anged." "How could you!" exclaimed the girl much shocked. "Oh, I wanted to. 'E was a friend of mine. Yes," reflectively, "I've seen two 'angings and the Centennial."
One of the instructors had him at work over the window plants in her room one day during the visit of an old friend—a returned missionary—and sought to draw him out a little for her benefit, mentioning what was sure to start him, something about the "Old Country," and that Mrs. —— had just returned after several years' residence abroad. He snipped away at his plants unconcernedly, and without stopping his work inquired,—"Did you 'appen to go to Hingland?" She answered, "Yes, but I was very unhappy there; I lost my husband in that country." He turned instantly, surveying her comprehensively and compassionately, shaking his head slowly,—"Oh! Oh! and so 'ard to get another."
From the beginning there was musical talent of high order among the students, and their recitals and concerts were far above the common. The women entering those first years had, many of them, received the best the country afforded from childhood, and came far advanced in musical training, a few even with some little experience in playing in public, so that slow, patient growth was largely eliminated, and Professor Wiebe, the head of the department, had effective material at the start to work with. He was ably assisted by the best foreign teachers procurable, as well as by American teachers who had either studied abroad or under good German masters in this country. The concerts exclusively by the teachers or assisted by artist performers from the old Philharmonic Society were, then and for years following, events to be looked forward to. Professor Wiebe's specialty was singing. He had a delightful voice and method, and organized the "vocal club" of that time. Succeeding him in 1867, came Professor Ritter to be connected with the college till his death in 1891. His historical lectures and recitals were famous. He organized the Cecilia Society in 1869, and in his lifetime continued the custom of a commencement week concert given Monday night.
FREDERICK LOUIS RITTERFREDERICK LOUIS RITTER1867
FREDERICK LOUIS RITTER1867
Professor James Robert had succeeded Professor Knapp as the head of the classical department the second year, and lived with his young wife in the college family. Their pleasant rooms were on the fourth floor of the north wing, and were a favorite place of meeting. He was very musical in his tastes, reading at sight piano music and delighting in four-hand playing. A club of the music teachers met often in these rooms, having sometimes an evening of singing as well as of instrumental music. I remember at one of these meetings almost every number undertaken had been transposed into another key. We were groping our way to our respective rooms late after the lights were out. "Don't you live on this floor?" one of the party was asked. "No, an octave lower," she replied unconsciously, and wondered why we laughed.
The music department was very large, "ex-collegiate" being the excuse. The dependence of the family on the department for entertainment, as well as for sound instruction in musical culture, was something tremendous, and the fame of the college concerts and recitals went abroad in the land. It would make a history in itself—the work done in those days—the programmes undertaken and submitted, records of which are carefully preserved in the college archives.
Dr. Raymond was fond of music, though not in an especially cultivated sense, and urged Professor Robert to use the familiar parlors of the President's quarters for some of the impromptu musical evenings. The grand piano stood in the front parlor, where only the performers were allowed. The few admitted besides the President's family and club were in the back parlor; lights were turned down, absolute silence the order, as one would listen to a reading for education and instruction. All was strictly classical music—nothing else was tolerated or permitted.
Acquaintance with the best was the design, and the old composers were gone over till some familiarity with them was common in case of the audience. Pretty dry and dull the pianola and Victor lovers would think those evenings in these days, but all the musical machine devices have "come in" since that time. What if the President did occasionally go to sleep while we were performing, we had no pride in popular music to keep him awake. One evening Professor Robert announced that he would undertake to read at sight a little known sonata of Beethoven—a composition by its length and absence of strong "color" not usually played. It seemed endless to us music people, I remember, monotonous and wearisome. Dr. Raymond peacefully slept through the three quarters of an hour to our envy and approval. By and by Professor Robert finished and came out as the lights were revived to know what the chief thought. "Did you get into it at all, Mr. President?" he enquired eagerly. Dr. Raymond glanced a little ruefully at us, his companions in distress, then answered in his droll way, "Yes, I got into it all right—submerged, in fact." The appreciative laughter that followed, I fear Professor Robert never understood as we did.
In Mr. Vassar's lifetime his birthday was observed on the day of the week it fell, the inaugural celebration being on Monday, April 29, 1866. It was put on the Friday nearest the 29th in 1873. The invitations were sent out in the name of the students and the hour was five o'clock. The Vassariana of June that year, the first number of the first paper issued, gives account of the "celebration," as it was called then. The first eventful "Founder's" has passed into history, but it may not be familiar to you of to-day so the account will bear repeating. A triumphal arch of evergreens spanned the avenue at the lodge, and upon it were the words "Welcome to the Founder." At the left of this was the date of his birth, April 29, 1791; at the right, April 29, 1866. The monogram V. C. was in the center, and over all, bright flags and banners. The entrance to the college was also decorated with flags and garlands of evergreen, and the chapel trimmed with wreaths of evergreen and bright flowers.
At six the students under direction of the Marshal and two aids marched on either side of the avenue to the lodge, forming a continuous line to the circle in front of the entrance. When the Founder's carriage appeared with him and President Raymond, it was greeted with wavings of handkerchiefs,—the college yell (shade of Miss Lyman!) being still unevolved. The lines turned instantly, marching back by the side of the carriage to the entrance where, in the vestibule, the Faculty and teachers were awaiting the procession. As the Founder went up the steps, the select band of singers stationed on the open porch sang the original song of welcome. Next, the officer of the day, Abby F. Goodsell of '69, was presented and escorted him to the chapel where the audience was waiting. As the Founder and escorts appeared at the chapel door, the organ, played by Professor Wiebe, began a triumphant peal, the audience rising and remaining standing till the party was seated. No one sat on the platform, but went up as occasion required. Prayer was offered by Dr. Raymond, then came piano music—a selection from "Der Freischütz"—by one of the solo performers of that time. A salutatory, or address of welcome as we say now, followed, after which came an original essay by one of the seniors which was followed by a song. This was preliminary to the principal part of the programme,—a series of recitations representing woman's social position in all ages, Swedish, Greek, Roman, Mediaeval, written or translated and adapted by those taking part, a modern selection from the "Princess" closing the recital. A brilliant musical duet for piano made way for a long original poem,—"A hilltop idyl," with local hits and description of the Faculty much appreciated. The closing lines were given with great effect,—
"And Vassar College stand through timeAn honor to the Nation."
"And Vassar College stand through timeAn honor to the Nation."
"And Vassar College stand through timeAn honor to the Nation."
"And Vassar College stand through time
An honor to the Nation."
You smile? How I wish I could put before you the earnest spirit of that time, each one wide awake to the recognition of a great privilege, and trying with might and main to express it!
However, this was not all in honor of the day. There was a floral tribute,—Flora, her attendants and chief representative student—an original drama—very pretty and pleasing, and, I may add, proper. A hymn for the occasion,—"Our father and our friend," closed the students' programme. Old Hundred and the Doxology sung by every one present ended the chapel ceremonies, a collation in the dining-room followed and a reception in the college parlors finished the day.
The second anniversary in '67 was as elaborate in original material of song, address, poem and essay as the previous one, and was further distinguished by the unveiling of the marble bust of Mr. Vassar—the bust we see to-day in the college parlor. A drama was written by one of '68, with Muse of the Past, Genius of Progress and her attendants, Science, Art, Religion and Music. As the Genius of Progress alluded to Vassar College and spoke of the Founder she exclaimed, "Behold his features!" the signal for the curtain at the rear of the stage to be parted, revealing the bust against a background of evergreens. In '68, the last time Mr. Vassar was present, the chief event was an original cantata with music by Professor Ritter, entitled "The Crown of Life," proving later of especially beautiful significance.
The following year it was purely a memorial service, the invitations given out for this from three till seven. There was no reception, simply tea served in the dining-room after the exercises. It was a most beautiful and appropriate service with Larghetto from Beethoven's Second Symphony, played on the organ by Miss Finch; eulogy by Miss Mary W. Whitney, class of '68; the Second Movement of Schumann's Symphony in B flat arranged for four pianos; a memorial hymn written by one of the seniors, the music by Professor Ritter. So from the first to the last, it was the students' tribute to Mr. Vassar and their loving honors.
In 1870 the exercises were changed to the evening with George William Curtis as speaker, having also an original recitative and chorus with music by Professor Ritter, ending as usual with a collation and promenade concert. The programmes henceforth were far less elaborate, confined chiefly to some speaker of distinction, his theme being eulogistic of the man Vassar and what his gift had done for the education of women. This changed gradually to topics of general educational interest or to some question of public affairs. A debate was sometimes introduced, a Shakespeare reading, or an address by an alumna student. (Robert Collyer was the speaker in '72, Phillips Brooks in '73, Edward Everett Hale in '74, Colonel Higginson in '75.) Prayer was dropped from the programme in '74. No dancing appeared on the programme until 1878, and then four numbers only—lanciers alternating with quadrille. In 1895, the change was made to permit two affairs, literary exercises in the afternoon with the distinction they deserve, the evening given up to a reception with dancing.
The home of the Philalethean Society for many years—until the alumnae gymnasium was built—was society hall on the second floor of the museum building. Here were given union meetings to which were invited the whole college family. The weekly chapter meetings of Alpha, Beta and Delta were held in the largest recitation rooms of the college building.
The aim of Philalethea—which no one was allowed to forget—was distinctively literary culture, and it is marvelous what was accomplished, and what was the ambition still further to do. Dr. Raymond assisted in the organization of the society in 1865, and was its president for that year. The first public meeting was on Class Day evening the next June, the quaint form of invitation reading,—"The pleasure of your company is invited to a literary entertainment." The programme was nearly identical with that of Founder's Day, in prayer, music,—vocal and instrumental, and address of welcome followed by original song, poem, essays and drama. In this last figured Alethia, Goddess of Truth, and the Goddess of Discord, with the three Chapter representatives—Alpha, Beta and Delta. A chorus by the vocal club ended the chapel exercises and a collation and promenade concert took up the rest of the evening.
The anniversary meeting in December of that year was also elaborate, and the second part for the principal attraction of the evening presented an original colloquy,—"Representatives of European Nations." This time we had recitations in costume of different European countries by thirteen students, each student writing her own part and setting forth the respective advantages of the country chosen. All came on the stage together, and as each finished her claim to superiority, she stepped back into pre-arranged effective position, making at the end a beautiful tableau when Europa entered, addressing her children, her closing words being, "Forever on towards perfect liberty."
The December meeting gave a scene from Henry the Eighth, the only time anything approaching theatricals was seen on the chapel platform. In June the entertainment consisted of Shakespearean recitations—women of Shakespeare—nine characters being represented. The third anniversary meeting an original drama was given again—"The Undiscovered Sphere," with the Spirit of Aspiration, the Spirit of Love, Vassar students and attendants.
There was uncommon literary talent in the society with ambition for a career in that direction, and some of the successful women authors of to-day tasted the first sweets of fame on the Vassar platform. "The Gospel according to Saint Matthew" appeared in '68, the unauthorized publication of a clever, fun-loving, brilliant student, to be quickly suppressed. It was a harmless enough production, but considered—as were all travesties—in questionable taste. Programmes were submitted to the Faculty the same as for Founder's up to 1874, but prayer was dropped in 1870.
Later the programmes were modified a good deal, but they never fell off in interest. Debates took the place of original dialogue and colloquy. Some of the subjects I recall—"Does the reviewer benefit literature?" "Has history a law of conquest?" "Are science and poetry antagonistic?" Then there were addresses by alumnae students, or else speakers from abroad chosen for some distinction in authorship. The first change from promenade concert after the literary exercises in chapel came at Founder's in 1878 when dancing was allowed,—lanciers, quadrille and Virginia reel. It took till 1896 to establish round dancing and it was opposed even then.
The Founder was the first presiding officer of the branch of the Lyceum Bureau in Poughkeepsie in 1863, and Trustee Cyrus Swan its corresponding secretary. We heard those first years many distinguished Englishmen by this means—Gerald Massey, Wilkie Collins, Richard Proctor, Charles Kingsley,—and a few were afterwards secured by the college for the Friday evening lecture, Charles Kingsley among the number. He was exceedingly reserved, indifferent and hard to entertain. The only interest he showed was towards Miss Mitchell, whom he called upon at the observatory. "My wife would never forgive me if I came home without seeing Maria Mitchell." Later came George Macdonald and his wife for a week with us. He was a charming guest, lecturer and preacher. The historian, Edward Freeman, gave a course of lectures, also Matthew Arnold's coming was an event in our life.
No general reception was held after any lecture, but members of the Faculty with a few especially invited teachers were occasionally asked to the lady principal's parlor where chocolate, coffee, little cakes or sandwiches were generally served. When asked if he would take some refreshment, Mr. Kingsley frankly mentioned that he would like a glass of beer. The situation might have been embarrassing had not Professor Backus come to the rescue and carried the guest off to his study for a pipe and chat and bottle of ale, ministering satisfactorily to Mr. Kingsley's wants.
It was either that same evening or when Freeman the historian stayed with us, that two teachers going by the guest room late after a little supper party, observed the great man's shoes outside the door. Knowing that no provision for this was then thought of, and that he would find his property exactly in the same condition the next morning, they softly stole near and carried off the shoes, polishing and returning them in fine shape, boasting ever after of the honor and privilege.
Almost every American author of note has been heard from our chapel platform. Wendell Phillips gave his lecture, "The Lost Arts," at the college in 1872.
The rare privilege of seeing and hearing Ralph Waldo Emerson was also ours. He read his lecture and fumbled with his papers, meantime casting apprehensive glances to the faint far-away lights on the gallery side. "I am a student," he began slowly, "and a lover of light." The hint was speedily taken and silver candelabrum with blazing candles from the lady principal's parlor was quickly forthcoming.
In those days we knew the trustees very well, and their paternal interest in the venturesome experiment of the higher education of women was something akin to the Founder's. Fourteen of the twenty-eight on the original Board were residents of Poughkeepsie; seven of them had professions, seven were simply close business friends, including his two nephews, John Guy Vassar and Matthew Vassar, Jr. Some of these men were rather hard to persuade that so large a gift of money invested in this way was not in a perilous cause, but each lived to witness the beginning of Vassar's grand success and the Founder's triumph. Once when there was a question of extension of the Christmas vacation and the Prudential Committee—as they were then called—had met to consider its advisability, one of them opposed the measure saying, "Pretty soon our patrons will be complaining that they don't get the worth of their money. We don't give them much over forty weeks of school now." Not one member of this first Board is living, the first break coming with the death in March, '69, of James Harper, senior member of the firm of Harper & Brothers.
Dr. Elias Magoon stands out vividly in my portrait gallery. Dear, kind, eccentric man! He looked, and we all thought him in his enthusiasm, mildly crazy, but we came to appreciate him and delight in his ardor. The college bought from him his whole private art collection of pictures, folios, books, armor, etc., to stock the Vassar gallery. The books—chiefly editions de luxe—were later transferred to the library proper, and it made the librarian sore at heart to discover how much Dr. Magoon had apparently read, pencil in hand, and how much patient work in eradication must result in consequence, impossible to accomplish wholly, as traces existing to-day testify.
Dr. Magoon was a lover and student of nature as well as of art. He was a frequent visitor at the college in the spring, coming from his Philadelphia home "just to get up at five o'clock in the morning for a tramp over Sunset Hill or around the lake to hear and see the birds." My table in the dining-room was near that of the Faculty, and it was a pleasure to see him come in to breakfast with face aglow from his walk, and to mark the interest and brightness he carried with him.
Now and then he gave us a talk in chapel. The frequent eight o'clock lecture was not quite so welcome always as it should have been, and when one evening at prayers it was announced that Dr. Magoon would talk on art at the usual hour, there were many reluctant feet hitherward. As we entered, he was already on the platform behind the desk, on which rested a huge bouquet of wax flowers. Of course attention was arrested, and as the last comer was seated he leaned over the flowers and gazing in mock adoring admiration began, "Now ain't that pooty?" A great wave of laughter went over the room, and if any one present had feared to be bored and grudged the hour from other duties, she forgot it all in the charm and delight of what followed this queer introduction. A hint of the true and beautiful in art, shown by contrast with ugliness that all could recognize, gave many of us our first wonderful lesson then and there.
Dr. Magoon and Miss Mitchell were warm friends in spite of difference in religious belief and opinions. She liked his unconventionalism and independence. They used to have great discussions, and he took very meekly her ratings for not being "more progressive." "But do me the justice to say I try," he would retort, and if he had occasion to write a note to her was fond of signing himself "your ever growing E. L. M."
Some curious letters were received at the college by Matthew Vassar, and his rage over one, I happened to witness. An untactful student, who had received the benefit of a full scholarship all through her course, conceived it to be her duty as soon as she graduated to remonstrate against the way the Founder had made his money, saying, "A college foundation which was laid in beer never will prosper." "Well, it was good beer, wasn't it?" shouted Mr. Vassar to his audience in the lower office. "I wonder where that girl would have got her education if it hadn't been for beer." Then the humor of it struck him and he laughed with us most heartily.
Among other queer letters received at the college, were requests to open correspondence "with view to marriage," the demand being for promising candidates to serve in the mission field. One such letter was addressed "To the Head Lady at Vassar." The writer was not backward about stating his requirements for his wife as home missionary. For one thing, she must be able to play the melodeon in church and to contribute the instrument also.
Perhaps this is as good an opportunity as any to tell the story of the bootjacks, about which so many conflicting statements have been made. After the Founder's death, a walnut tree on the Main Street premises had to be cut down, and Matthew Junior had a little sentiment about the use of the wood in some form for the rooms at college. Why he selected bootjacks nobody ever knew, but the lumber was sent to a factory in town to be made up in this fashion, and was distributed accordingly to the hilarious delight of all concerned.
Some friend in town chanced to remark to the Founder that the college parlors with only a few choice old engravings on the walls looked rather cold and bare; whereupon, in his eagerness to make good any deficiency, Mr. Vassar (without consulting anybody), betook himself to the leading photographer's in the city and bought the best he had in stock. The craze of the chromo was beginning, and several hundred dollars worth of these in most expensive frames were hung one evening as a grand surprise. The consternation and horror of Professor Van Ingen can be imagined, and the general amusement. However, the infliction had to be endured till after Mr. Vassar's death, and afterwards, there was Matthew Junior to be reckoned with and his sensitiveness to innovations. Professor Van Ingen was always on Founder's Day committee, and with much tactful diplomacy contrived to get consent to use the chromos in decorating the dining-room the second anniversary following. Here under a drapery of white tarletan with evergreen wreaths in profusion, the effect was really quite brilliant, and Mr. Vassar was much pleased. The art gallery was called upon to supply the places of the chromos taken from the parlor, and no one questioned that it was never convenient to change back. Gradually, in the wholesale kalsomining of walls in the summer vacations the offensive pictures disappeared, and portraits of trustees took their place.
Dr. Raymond's report at the end of the first year seems to have been printed in pamphlet form and issued to the world at large. Again press notices abound, all generally with appreciative comment.
The "Round Table," an ambitious weekly, 1863-1869, saw fit to be funny and I give a few paragraphs in illustration:
"We confess to an unfavorable impression by the style in which the Report is made. It is in bad taste, florid, turgid and pedantic. The author has written it on the back of Pegasus and the winged horse does not bound beneath him…. This modern system of female education has grown out of the miserable philosophic dogma of the mental equality of the sexes, the offspring of the combined weakness of the weaker sex and the greater weakness of the stronger sex. Woman isnotthe equal of man. She is immeasurably his superior…. In her appointed sphere woman walks a queen, but she claims neither the prerogatives of man nor the ability to use them. Drag not the young girl into the wide orbit of Jupiter, but lead her in the narrower and more befitting sphere in which moves the silvery car of Venus. Banish the barbarous curriculum proposed by your committee! Let not the time be ruinously spent in the attempt to master the dead languages, the higher mathematics, metaphysics, political economy and similar studies. The rudiments of these branches might be taught, but for them we would have no "chairs." The belles lettres department is the appropriate field for the well educated woman…. Having thus put out of the college door four out of the nine chairs—and very deferentially and respectfully we have done it—we have a word to say regarding the occupancy of the remaining ones. We strongly object to havingmenseated in them. The Report does indeed speak of lady assistants, but we insist on a reversal. The ladies should be the principals and the gentlemen the assistants. The proper educator of woman is woman. Vassar Female College is the sphere of Venus and no Jupiter has any business there. Who but Flora should preside in her own garden where the rosebuds and young lilies grow, inviting her choice still in their culture."
This is quite enough and unbelievable now, but absurd as it is, it voiced a large part of popular opinion then existing.
Another vexed question in the earliest days was that of health,—that women were unfitted to take the higher education and that their health would be undermined in consequence. The speakers on our commencement stage afforded convincing argument by their looks of the falsity of the argument. I remember hearing one June an enthusiastic person in the audience say of an "honor girl," of exceptionally attractive personality and vigorous health, as she left the platform,—"She had a capital essay and delivered it well, but if she had done nothing more than stand up there and let the people look at her for five or ten minutes, it would have paid, and buried this health discussion forever."
Dr. Avery.
Among those who contributed so much to the early life of the college and its success, the name of Alida C. Avery cannot afford to be overlooked. She came in 1865 as the resident physician, was a strong member of the Faculty, high in the confidence and trust of Dr. Raymond and Miss Lyman and sharing with them the responsibility of that important formative period. So close were the friendly and confidential relations among these three "powers that be"—hardly ever one appearing without the other—that some irreverent students dubbed them "The Trinity."
DR. ALIDA C. AVERYDR. ALIDA C. AVERY1865
DR. ALIDA C. AVERY1865
It was a good deal to organize and maintain such a department as hers in the face of popular opinion at that time, and I think much of her stiff professional etiquette resulted from the idea of upholding the equality of women physicians with men in the same calling, and being over sensitive to indifference and snubs. The early women pioneers in medical work did not find it a bed of roses, but they persevered. When the Boston Medical College for women was started in 1858, there was not a single graduated woman physician in the country. In 1863 there were two hundred and fifty.
Dr. Avery began her medical studies in 1857 at the Pennsylvania Medical College, and finished them at the New England Medical College in Boston, taking her degree from that institution. She seemed to take, in the practice of her profession, an antagonistic attitude as granted, and, indeed, she had much reason for doing so. None of us would have dared to approach her professionally out of her office hour, or to make the slightest personal wish as to treatment. She was as inflexible to her peers as to the students in her uncompromising adherence to discipline and hygienic regulations. Her seat at table was next to Miss Mitchell, who asked at dinner one day what to do for an inflamed eye. Without looking, the Doctor replied, "My office hour is at half past two." "Oh, come now," said Miss Mitchell, "you don't mean that you would make an old woman like me go way up to the fourth floor to your office hour?" The answer came same as before. "My office hour is at half past two," and that closed the incident.
To those who came to know her well she showed a lovable human side, a big heart, capable of most generous affection. She upheld the cause of woman as zealously even as Miss Mitchell, and their personal relations were most friendly and pleasant. She was passionately fond of flowers and an expert in their cultivation. Under her direction the Floral Society was established and the flower garden laid out and carried on.
Three years after Miss Lyman's death the Doctor resigned to go to practice her profession in Denver, later removing to California. With her death last September, and that of Professor Knapp quite recently, has gone the last one of that first Board of Faculty and Instruction, over forty years ago.
Professor Backus.
Truman J. Backus succeeded Henry B. Buckman as head of the English department in 1867, and for sixteen years held this position. It was said of him, "He is a born educator," and this was true. He had been educated for the ministry, but had never been ordained, and his first sermon was preached in the college chapel.
TRUMAN J. BACKUSTRUMAN J. BACKUS1867
TRUMAN J. BACKUS1867
He was only twenty-six years old when appointed to this post, had little or no experience, claiming only great enthusiasm and love for the work of his choice. If age has the courage of convictions, there is also the indispensable courage of youth. Unhampered by ruts of traditional methods of education, he dared to try experiments hazardous often in the estimation of his older, more conservative colleagues, and much of the progressive, far-seeing policy that insured the success of that early period is due in large measure to him. There were no smooth paths beaten out for safe walking in the higher education of women in the beginning of his career, and President Raymond relied a good deal for counsel and help on this youngest member of the Faculty, who was quick to see and quick to act. Professor Backus appreciated this trust, and always warmly acknowledged it.
He felt the restraint of constant association with others so much older than himself, and a certain whimsical humor would sometimes break out, defying all convention, putting him often in a place to be severely criticised, and which he rarely troubled himself to explain away.
He had a genius for discovering latent and unsuspected talent and the best work that one could do, and never grudged generous recognition when another overtopped him. He had a dislike for the obvious answer to the obvious question; liked to mystify, keep you in doubt as to his real opinion. An essay was once brought in at department meeting with great pride by one of the critics as especially clever, and far above the average in grace and felicity of diction. Perhaps the teacher showed too plainly her counting upon his approval, for he read the paper aloud, slowly, critically, without the faintest sign of appreciation, rather as if deadly bored. At the end, when her enthusiasm had ebbed and she supposed herself entirely mistaken, he remarked, "If I could write as well as that girl writes, I should be proud, and I would never do another stroke of teaching as long as I lived."
Interest was aroused by him in current topics, and I well remember one day in his English literature class, when walking up and down with head bent, as was his wont, listening to a brilliant recitation, he said to the student as she finished, "That is fine. Now can you name the three men most prominent to-day in the political life of this country?" She hesitated, faltered. "Can any one of you in the class?" Still silence. "How many of you are in the habit of reading carefully a daily newspaper?" No response. Then followed a lecture such as no one ever forgot and which prompted the formation of clubs which exist to-day. There were no dry bones of any subject he handled. He made it fresh, living, vital.
"I suppose these young women have some difficulty in keeping up to the high college grade?" said a visitor in classroom one day. "On the contrary," replied Professor Backus, "the students are the ones who make us all work hard to keep pace withthem."
His knowledge of civic affairs led him often to be asked to stand as candidate for some desirable public office, to leave college for what promised higher promotion. "No, I have but one ambition, and that is to be a good teacher."
In 1872, he began giving an interesting course of lectures to the seniors and juniors on the national and political topics of the day. His Chaucer readings were very popular, and he gave several before the Literary Society of Poughkeepsie, awakening as much enthusiasm in his crowded town audience, as among his students in Room J. It pleased him to get the many inquiries as to the best editions of Chaucer, and how to study this author, from those whose acquaintance with English literature had hitherto been very limited, and who he knew would never bring to the subject the love he did, or find in it the same beauties.
He took keen interest in the development of the Philalethean Society, and was one of the early speakers chosen to give the address at an anniversary meeting, having for his subject, "Evolution in the purpose of education." His lecture on Alexander Hamilton brought him into notice, and he was often called upon to give it in various places; but it was more his originality and power in the treatment of public questions that caused him to be invited far and wide, and to which invitation he oftenest responded. His Garfield eulogy was a most beautiful and fitting tribute with its eloquent, impressive close.
His hold on his old Vassar friends never weakened, as scores of loving testimonials after his death abundantly testify.
Into the dusk and snowOne fared on yesterday;No man of us may knowBy what mysterious way.He had been comrade long;We fain would hold him still;But, though our will be strong,There is a stronger will.Beyond the solemn nightHe will find morning-dream;The summer's kindling lightBeyond the snow's chill gleam.The clear, unfaltering eye,The inalienable soul,The calm, high energy,—They will not fail the goal.Large will be our contentIf it be ours to goOne day the path he wentInto the dusk and snow.
Into the dusk and snowOne fared on yesterday;No man of us may knowBy what mysterious way.He had been comrade long;We fain would hold him still;But, though our will be strong,There is a stronger will.Beyond the solemn nightHe will find morning-dream;The summer's kindling lightBeyond the snow's chill gleam.The clear, unfaltering eye,The inalienable soul,The calm, high energy,—They will not fail the goal.Large will be our contentIf it be ours to goOne day the path he wentInto the dusk and snow.
Into the dusk and snowOne fared on yesterday;No man of us may knowBy what mysterious way.He had been comrade long;We fain would hold him still;But, though our will be strong,There is a stronger will.Beyond the solemn nightHe will find morning-dream;The summer's kindling lightBeyond the snow's chill gleam.The clear, unfaltering eye,The inalienable soul,The calm, high energy,—They will not fail the goal.Large will be our contentIf it be ours to goOne day the path he wentInto the dusk and snow.
Into the dusk and snow
One fared on yesterday;
No man of us may know
By what mysterious way.
He had been comrade long;
We fain would hold him still;
But, though our will be strong,
There is a stronger will.
Beyond the solemn night
He will find morning-dream;
The summer's kindling light
Beyond the snow's chill gleam.
The clear, unfaltering eye,
The inalienable soul,
The calm, high energy,—
They will not fail the goal.
Large will be our content
If it be ours to go
One day the path he went
Into the dusk and snow.
Professor Van Ingen.
Dear Professor Van Ingen! Why does everybody who knew him well say this at the mere mention of his name?
He was a Hollander who had come to this country in the studio of an artist friend in Rochester about the time the college was completed, and was the accepted candidate in 1865 for the art professorship. A clever artist; an inspiring teacher; a true gentleman; a good friend. Tennyson's lines once quoted of him express most nearly the common sentiment concerning him,—"One too wholly true to dream untruth."
He was here at the opening of the college, and made one of the resident (unmarried) members of the Faculty that year. In the summer vacation of 1866, he returned to Holland to be married, and brought his wife back with him.
HENRY VAN INGENHENRY VAN INGEN1865
HENRY VAN INGEN1865
He had rooms in the north wing the first year of his coming, and used to relate in his characteristic quiet, humorous way many amusing anecdotes of that chaotic time. One I recall enjoying keenly. It was midwinter and intensely cold weather. His room was on the west side in the north wing, and one night the high wind and raging snow storm combined to make his quarters uninhabitable. Towards morning he could stand it no longer but got up and dressed himself, and putting on hat and overcoat thought he would spend the rest of the time before breakfast in the college parlors, trusting to find some heat in the registers. Making his way through the dark corridors two flights down, he reached the parlor, where in the dawning light he saw a group of students huddled close to the register that happened still to have comfortable warmth remaining. The experience of cold and discomfort in the students' rooms had matched his, so they had anticipated him in dressing and with shawls and cloaks were spending the rest of the night down stairs. He knew them all, had a cordial welcome, and the party began in subdued tones to talk and laugh and have a merry time. An hour, perhaps, went on this way, when a timid cough from the doorway arrested their attention. Winnie—Miss Lyman's maid—stood there. "If you please, Miss Lyman heard the voices in her room above, and sent me down to inquire what was the matter." The situation was explained briefly and the maid retired. With Miss Lyman's strict notions, how she was going to take this independence of action was the question, but they had begun to forget it when the jingling of spoons and cups heralded approach of Winnie a second time,—"Miss Lyman sends her compliments, and as you have been up so long, she had me make a little hot coffee for you which she hopes you may enjoy." There was a big tray with equipment of her own lovely china and silver service, and a heaped up plate of crackers, and this was all the notice the gracious lady ever took of the matter.
His studio and lecture room were in the old art-gallery on the fourth corridor and here, surrounded by his devoted disciples, he held sway. He had a large band of followers all his life here, and every one of them will testify he taught them more and higher than the art he loved so well.
Dr. Taylor in his remarks at the funeral service of Maria Mitchell said aptly that the word "genuineness" conveyed the truest impression of her. Transfer the same characterization to Henry Van Ingen, and you have the perfect expression also of the man.
Professor Van Ingen continued in the service of the college for thirty-six years, or until his death in November, 1898.
"He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of earth;E'en as he trod that day to God, so walked he from his birth,In simpleness and gentleness and honor and clean mirth."
"He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of earth;E'en as he trod that day to God, so walked he from his birth,In simpleness and gentleness and honor and clean mirth."
"He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of earth;E'en as he trod that day to God, so walked he from his birth,In simpleness and gentleness and honor and clean mirth."
"He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of earth;
E'en as he trod that day to God, so walked he from his birth,
In simpleness and gentleness and honor and clean mirth."
Professor Mitchell.
It was a privilege to know her, and the highest praise one could have would be that Maria Mitchell called her—friend.
The outline facts of Maria Mitchell's life, written by her sister, Mrs. Kendall, together with selections from journals and letters appeared in 1896, and leave nothing to be desired further in that direction. But everybody who knew her at Vassar finds in that record much left out of the dear, delightful, original, human side, and it is impossible to live over the portion of time spent here with her without putting into these random recollections some hitherto unpublished fragments about her. I trust she will forgive me.
Some old lines always expressed her to me,—"A soul that scorns the vain, holding the world but at its due;" and, "Who saw life steadily and saw it whole." How one wanted to peep in that note-book of hers—usually carried in her pocket. An abstruse calculation jotted hastily down on one page, side by side with the latest anecdote or joke, a fact in regard to woman's education, an intimate personal reflection,—what a mine of riches it contained!
"If thee has any secrets, thee musn't tell them to Maria. She never could keep one," said dear old Mr. Mitchell, playfully. We understood what he meant. While she would not reveal special confidence reposed in her, or give out in advance any college matter of importance, she simply was unable to bind herself to the petty and the trivial, and as a friend stated, "thought and word with her came pretty close together."
However interested you might have been in woman suffrage and all the other subjects concerning the "cause," you felt that in comparison with this grand woman you hardly knew the alphabet. She judged everything from the standpoint, "How is this going to affect women?" I remember her indignation at being overlooked with the other two women of the Faculty by President Raymond in his demand for a list of what the members had published. "We may not have done so much as some of the men, but we all have done something." It took a good deal of apology on his part to soothe her wounded feeling and restore her natural good humor.