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Seniors in the class of 1873 were confronted with a long array of propositions in an examination in history. One read, "Explain the bearing of Physical Geography upon the support of population and the development of national industry and civilization. " A second challenge summoned the student to "give an account of the relation of Medieval cities to the Feudal Lords and the Royal Power, respectively." And another called for "illustrations of the various collisions between Asiatic and European civilization, and [state] the fundamental significance and justification of the Crusades." Since the paper contained ten more items of similar dimensions, it is small wonder that students protested that examinations were too long and too hard. By way of solace Janitor Withal, in keeping with custom, "furnished apples in both solid and liquid form" at the end of examinations. Cheating or "cribbing" was due, a student explained, to the pressure for high marks, and it was demanded that the faculty should protect honest men by severely penalizing cheaters. 11
Medieval and modern history and in 1878 Sanskrit, oldest of the Indo-European languages, were introduced to the curriculum; and as early as 1872, antedating Charles Eliot Norton at Harvard, Anderson started to offer lectures to Seniors on the history of art, and continued to do so until 1886. The public was welcome to attend and Rochester society ladies flocked to the class, crowding the room to capacity. Photographs and engravings were extensively used and the lectures involved discussion of aesthetic principles and the bearing of the fine arts on culture in general; as a by-product of the Anderson course, it appears, a group of Rochester citizens formed an organization to establish a public art gallery in the city.
Student spokesmen begged for more instruction in French and German, one heretic remarking, "Much of the time spent in study of Latin and Greek... after the Sophomore year is ... practically wasted." A second voice appealed for greater attention to English literature at the ancient expense of the Classics. "Eight term [courses] are devoted to math, more to the classics," a protestant complained, "while hardly one is given to literature." English study, it was said, would be more pleasurable than Greek and would have more practical value after graduation. Instead of having history taught as side-line, as it were, by professors who were not specialists, a chair in history ought to be created, it was urged. After a Rochester oculist gave Seniors a series of non-technical lectures on the "Eye," a cry went up for more of the same.
By faculty action in 1872, candidates for a degree in science were obligated to study as much Latin as was necessary for groundwork in modern languages and scientific terminology. About the same time, juniors and seniors were permitted to substitute for prescribed classes courses calculated to prepare them for graduate work, or for the vocation they had in mind. This modest measure of choice was spoken of in official U. of R circles as a concession to "the spirit of enlightened conservatism." And a scheme of "honors studies" in a particular department was announced for superior, competent students; the work emphasized independent investigation and achievement was tested in a searching examination. If successful, the student received special mention at the Commencement exercises and in the annual college catalogue. 12
To meet an insistent demand, a laboratory of chemistry was fitted up in the basement of Anderson Hall, although space was limited and it was necessary to apply a year in advance in order to be sure of a bench at which to work. Odors from chemical experiments impregnated the atmosphere of the mathematics room on the floor directly above, but the professor resigned himself to the inescapable--until he discovered that the noxious smells sometimes issued from the bottles of chemicals mischievously placed underneath his rostrum. Calling the attention of the trustees to the need for a building in which to teach chemistry and physics and to carry on research, the President reminded the managers of the University that it was "always desirable that every teacher be, to a certain extent, an original investigator... able to add somewhat to the branch of knowledge he professes." A student, experimenting with nitroglycerin, touched off an explosion that knocked out the windows of the improvised chemical laboratory, though no one was injured. In addition to the primitive chemical laboratory in the cellar of Anderson Hall, a private laboratory for the professor of chemistry was attached to his lecture room. "We had very little work in the laboratory," George E., Olds, 1873, recalled. "In physics there was no laboratory at all. All we saw was demonstration work, with the use of an old-fashioned air pumps some magneto-electric apparatus, an insulated stool, upon which in succession we took our stand, became electrified, and felt our hair stand on end."
Whereas the master's degree had traditionally been awarded almost as a matter of course to graduates (or as an honorary distinction), after 1878 it was restricted to U. of R. graduates of three years standing who gave evidence of "satisfactory progress in liberal studies," or after satisfactory performance of a year of graduate work, including preparation of a thesis on a piece of individual investigation. 13
IV
Expansion of campus facilities, crowned by the erection of Sibley Hall, and beautification of grounds moved modestly ahead. To heat rooms in Anderson Hall, coal replaced (1869) wood as fuel, but student complaints of insufficient warmth in the rigorous months of winter were common. "The stoves in the chapel are very ornamental, but a little fire every morning would add to comfort," an undergraduate wryly observed. After the President had devoted a chapel talk to the health hazards of cold weather, the students repaired, we are told, to a "fireless recitation room." In a fiery letter to the Campus, an undergraduate blamed the janitor for failure to keep rooms warm and recommended that unless he bettered his ways he should be discharged; "My feet are cold, but my indignation is hot," and the writer signed himself "Yours freezingly."
Carriage drives on the campus were laid out and surfaced with gravel (1869) trees, shrubbery, and flower beds were added, and, inevitably, signs appeared imploring students to "Keep off the grass." Pleas were voiced for the removal of the residences along Prince Street which marred the attractiveness of the campus and for an iron fence to replace the neglected and unsightly wooden barrier encircling the college park. To show their feelings positively, students ripped down sections of the fence and placed the planks end to end over mud in front of Anderson Hall.
Thanks to a benefaction from Trustee President Trevor, a telescope, seven and a half feet long, was acquired (1876) primarily for class work in astronomy, though sufficiently powerful for research investigations; a small structure to house the telescope was erected, and eight decades later it was transferred intact to the River Campus where it remained until torn down in 1967. During a class period a student, who was asked to report on his personal observations of the heavens, replied that he had had a "date" on Saturday evening "and found an unusual halo around Venus." Near Anderson Hall, a small nondescript building was erected to store chemicals apparently, and subsequently converted into a tool-house; someone tagged it "Cutting Hall" in honor (?) of the professor of rhetoric.
Students appealed in 1870 to the college authorities to construct a dormitory, and once raised the cry never wholly faded away, though the appeal was not realized until 1913 and even then only in a small way. On behalf of a residence hall, it was argued that it would foster college esprit de corps, deepen friendships, and enable students to get to chapel on time; undergraduates living with private families; it was said, too often became enamored of daughters in the households to the neglect of their studies. Satterlee, the financial agent of the University, recommended that eating clubs should be organized and that student living quarter should be obtained either on the top floors of downtown buildings or in rented houses--all with the object of reducing the cost of getting an education. But Anderson was deaf to entreaties and proposals on a dormitory, and the trustees echoed his hostile point of view. The President contended that students lived more cheaply in private homes than was true of their contemporaries in colleges that possessed dormitories, and he believed that "the dangers incident to youth are always lessened by... residence in respectable families and by association with women." 14
Needs of a different sort were met by the erection of Sibley Hall to contain the library and (in time) the Ward Museum. In 1868 a faculty committee was appointed to devise plans for such a structure, and the same year Sibley became a trustee. At Commencement in 1871 it was revealed that Sibley--hailed as a "present-day Maecenas"--would finance the cost of a building, and on May 29, 1872, the donor, shovel in hand, broke ground on a plot to the west of Anderson Hall. The final plan was chosen by competition; the winner, a Rochester architect, John R. Thomas, designed the structure, in the shape of a Greek cross, two stories in height, though so constructed that if desired two more floors could be inserted. The building, made of Medina brownstone trimmed with white, would be capped with a cornice of Ohio sandstone and a mansard roof. On the ground floor, the principal library room would measure forty by a hundred feet and rise to height of twenty-five feet; galleries would surround it; on the floor above, the main area for the museum would have similar dimensions. A Rochester newspaper described the projected Hall as "the best planned and designed building of the kind on this side of the Atlantic."
Construction proceeded at a slow pace, for one reason because Sibley believed that foundations and the walls of each floor should settle firmly before another story was put in place. The donor personally hired the workmen for excavation, masonry and carpentry jobs, and made daily visits to supervise what was being done. When he decided that the windows planned for the north and south sides would not furnish, sufficient light, he ordered that they should be extended by six inches. Limestone used in the cellar walls and in the upper stories, behind the facing of brownstone, was dug from Sibley's own quarries a few blocks distant from the Campus.
An air-space of some five inches was left between the limestone and an inner screen of brick, so that the entire wall was about three feet thick. The first "fireproof" structure to be erected in Rochester, Sibley Hall had beams and staircases of iron; only the floors, laid on sand over brick arches, were made of wood. A panel in the arch over the entrance contained the date " 1874 " , though in fact construction proceeded from 1872 to 1876, and grading and other finishing touches were not completed for several years more. From Italy, Sibley shipped to Rochester eight female statues, symbolizing as many areas of knowledge, to occupy niches in the exterior walls, which was interpreted in some quarters as indicative of his views on coeducation, and he also gave two sphinxes to keep watch and ward at the front of the structure. 15
This last feature inspired an undergraduate versifier of extremely modest talents to sing:
How fit it is that there should be
Two sphinxes guarding Sibley's door
Without our precious library.
How fit it is that there should be
Those emblems of perplexity.
Each day I go I think the more
How fit it is that there should be
Two sphinxes guarding Sibley's door.
On June 28, 1876, the dedication of Sibley Hall took place, Rossiter Johnson, 1863, reading a poem, and the annual class day exercises and alumni dinner were held in the building. It was not, however, until the summer of the next year that the book collections were transferred from Anderson Hall, and along with them came a desk at which books were charged out, which is believed to have done service in the original home of the college, and the desk of the librarian. (A section of the former library quarters in Anderson was set aside as a reading room with newspapers and magazines.)
Assisting in the job of removal was Herman K. Phinney, 1877, who filled the office of assistant librarian from 1880 to 1930, and he, probably more than anyone else, collected and preserved materials pertinent to the early history of the U. of R. At the end of nearly forty years service, the librarian described Phinney as a mixture of information and misinformation, not at all quarrelsome, but long-winded and devious, he had made himself a veritable mine of information not only on the library and the college, but on the city of Rochester as well. Phinney was regarded as "a good reference tool," but experience dictated that he should not be consulted if the desired information could be secured from any other source.
In the Interpres of 1878 an engraving of the new hall appeared under the caption "Sibley - $150,000" (which was something of an exaggeration), standing hard by Anderson's "Scholars to Order Factory." Undergraduates of later generations sang the praises of "Sibley Hall," to the tune of "Clementine:"
On the Campus is a structure,
Where the Muses ever dwell,
Where the ages fill the pages
With a charming mystic spell.
Chorus:
'Rah for Sibley, 'Rah for Sibley,
'Rah for noble Sibley Hall.
Thou dost charm us, never harm us,
Magic spot, our Sibley Hall.
Placed in the hall (1879) was a much admired bust of Frederick A. Douglass, Negro antislavery lecturer and journalist, who, for a time resided in Rochester. In 1968 when the men's dining center was named the Frederick Douglass Building in honor of the great Negro leader, the bust, after varied vicissitudes, was put on display there. For a brief period a collection of paintings owned by Hiram Sibley were exhibited on the second floor, but they were removed in 1881 to make room for the Ward museum. 16
It was estimated that Sibley Hall could house 90,000 volumes, or substantially more than seven times the size of the library when the building was first occupied. Gifts of books from the estate of Professor Dewey, from Hiram Sibley, and from alumni enhanced the resources, but only about $200 a year were allocated to purchases until the income from the Rathbone fund, mentioned earlier, became available. The Rochester public--or at any rate "all well-behaved persons"--was welcome to read in the library, but borrowing of books was restricted to college personnel.
After an apprenticeship as assistant librarian, a teacher of mathematics, Otis H. Robinson, 1861, took over the management of the library in 1868 and kept at it for twenty-one years. He pioneered in improving service, making it easier to carry on reference study, and encouraging greater recourse to the library by students; elaborating a system of cataloguing books that had been worked out by an undergraduate assistant, Robinson perfected what was called "the dictionary plan." Instead of listing holdings in large folio volumes, the title and author of each book was written on an individual card. Cards were filed in boxes, and to prevent removal of cards holes were punched in the bottom of each one and wire rods were inserted running through the boxes. With some advice from faculty colleagues, Robinson classified the books into forty-two categories, and similarly organized pamphlet materials.
There is a great demand in this busy age,'' Robinson dared to write in 1874, "for knowledge in nutshells." To make access to periodical literature quicker, he devised a scheme for indexing articles that appeared in twenty current reviews and magazines subscribed to by the University. But that procedure stopped in 1882 when the well-known Poole's Index to Periodical Literature began publication. By employing student assistants, Robinson was able to keep the library open for three hours in the afternoon as well as in the morning. After the Saturday morning class, undergraduates were allowed unrestricted access to the library shelves; some of them abused the privilege by sub-coat tailing," or concealing a book under one's coat without charging it out. Faculty regulation permitted students to borrow only two books at any time. The practice of imposing fines if books were returned late began in 1878, with the professors exempt from penalties. Robinson acquainted librarians at other colleges with his innovations through reports in journals and addresses at professional meetings. 17
V
Student enrollment gradually recovered from the effects of the Civil War. Whereas only 100 students attended in 1867, there were 115 by 1870, three years later a peak of 173 was reached, and throughout the 'seventies, the average figure was around 160, or about the same number as at Hamilton College and a few more than at Madison University. As of 1871 approximately a quarter of the undergraduates came from Rochester or within commuting distance (some of them travelling on horseback), an equal number within a radius of fifty miles, and nearly half from a greater distance. Although the records are incomplete, it is evident that the percentage of "dropouts" was very high; for example, fifty-three Freshmen entered in the class of 1877, the largest to that time, and nineteen more were added later, yet only, thirty-five obtained degrees, three of them baccalaureates in science.
Competition from other institutions in Upstate New York, especially the new Cornell and Syracuse Universities, the feeling in some Baptist circles that Rochester was insufficiently denominational in tone, the absence of a dormitory, and the repercussions of current events like the depression of 1873--all militated against faster growth of the undergraduate body. It ought also to be pointed out that collegiate education was still limited to a privileged few in the United States; in the entire country the college population as of 1871 stood close to 22, 000 (of which about 1,500 were women), and that year fewer than 2,000 bachelor degrees were awarded--indicating, parenthetically, a very considerable academic mortality:
"The students [at the U. of R.] belonged to a single social class," one of them tells us. "Apart from the local Rochester residents, they came from Baptist homes, widely scattered throughout the North. They were usually poor, a year or two older than college students generally, serious in purpose, studious and of excellent character... " 18
As seen by an undergraduate, the peculiar advantages of the U. of R. lay in its location in a suburban setting on the edge of a middle-sized city, the attractiveness of the Rochester community itself, the opportunities that were available in churches and home missions for youths pointed toward a Christian vocation, the expanding facilities of the college, and, not least, the traditional absence of tight regulation of the lives of students by the University officers. "The discipline of the University, " a slightly gilded official publication proudly proclaimed, "is that of the family rather than of the police station. Young men are put, as far as possible, upon their honor... '' [and] "in place of the time-honored antagonism between teachers and pupils, relations of personal friendship" prevail. 19
Though several efforts were made to revive the defunct literary societies, they invariably failed. Enthusiastic student mass meetings favored (1876) entering an Intercollegiate Literary Association which organized contests between colleges in eastern cities; not much information on the Association has been found, and in any case the frown of "the powers that be''--a common euphemism for the President--prevented Rochester from joining. "The Cicadas," a literary society of Juniors, disintegrated after a few years.
As a sort of variant of the literary society, a "great spelling match" between collegians and Theological school students attracted a capacity audience to Corinthian Hall. Rochester celebrities graced the platform, the mayor presided, the Glee Club sang, and the original group of fifty contestants was gradually whittled down to one man on each team, and they just could not be floored. So the judges ruled the battle a draw.
It was often complained that competitors in the annual Sophomore Exhibitions expressed themselves badly, and it was recommended that poor speakers should be wholly barred from participation. An undergraduate essayist after a searching inquiry into "The Prize System" concluded that prizes should be abolished. While acknowledging that they lent an incentive to individual study, recognized superior ability, and perhaps even induced some youths to enroll at the U. of R., the writer felt that there were too few competitors and that preparation robbed men of time better spent in general reading or in extracurricular activities. Yet oral examinations for prizes acquired a reputation for stiffness; an aspirant to the Stoddard Prize in mathematics, for instance, remembered that he had to review all the mathematics, physics, and astronomy he had learned and the examination "thoroughly exhausted the length and breadth and height and depth of my acquaintance with science." After 1878 prize winners were given cash instead of books.
To assist alumni in carrying on graduate studies, two scholarships with stipends of about $350 a year were established in the 'seventies. On the basis of competitive examinations, the income from the Sherman Scholarship, endowed by Isaac Sherman, was awarded to the outstanding Senior in Political Economy. And John Pomeroy Townsend of New York City set up a graduate scholarship for "constitutional law and political institutions;" an annual stipend was furnished by the donor until his death in 1898 and then his son, Charles J., 1879, permanently endowed the scholarship.
Undergraduate musical activities oscillated uncertainly. Class glee clubs flourished when enough men were sufficiently interested, and the same was true of the University Glee Club. At the mid-seventies after years of somnolence, the Glee Club, formally organized in or about 1875, presented well-received concerts in towns in the Rochester area. After a performance in nearby Canandaigua, the local hosts entertained the singers at "one of the most royal repasts ever tasted since Esau sold his birthright for a bowl of bread and milk," A University Orchestra, a Männerchore Society, and a Johann Strauss Club (organized just after the famous Viennese composer of light operas conducted concerts in Boston and New York), each had their day and ceased to be.
Writers bombarded student publications with earnest requests for more and better college songs--the scarcity of songs, like so much else in undergraduate life, was attributed to the lack of community spirit, which only the erection of dormitories could overcome. "If we can't sing, let's go out on the campus and yell," one correspondent wrote. "Anything but this awful silence." Meritorious melodies for class parties were often composed, but they soon passed out of vogue without ever being collected. The president made it clear that he disapproved of drinking songs, though he was favorably disposed to songs "worthy of use among Christian gentlemen." Jacob Spahn, infused the spirit of German student songs into a musical composition with a verse for each class in the college, the first of which ran:
Twinkle, twinkle little Fresh,
What faith and guileless face you bring,
What midnight oil,
And patient toil,
You waste on books, oh simple thing.
At a time when secular currents were gathering headway in American institutions of higher learning, there is little evidence of that trend at the U. of R. Under the auspices of the University Y. M. C. A., a weekly prayer service was conducted and each Saturday morning class closed with prayer. Besides encouraging youths to undertake pulpit or missionary careers, the "Y" cooperated in the traditional day of prayer for colleges, intended to quicken commitment to Christianity and to elevate the moral tone of the undergraduate body. At these annual occasions, men from the Theological Seminary united with the collegians in a morning of worship, Anderson normally delivering a sermon, and an afternoon of discussion. For three weeks in a row in 1876, Christian concern surged so high that daily religious meetings were held, devoid of excitement but marked by "profound earnestness." 20
Students also frequented public lectures in the city, musical performances, the theater for some, along with less sophisticated entertainment--the circus with but a single ring and a solitary clown, minstrel shows, visits to a popular German beer garden, or watching horses race on turf or snow. On the lighter and extracurricular aspects of the collegiate experience an undergraduate who came from a Baptist ministerial household has written, "I took almost no exercise... and too little recreation of any kind. ...Occasionally, I went to a professional ball game, once to a horse race... But I never went to a dance or to a students' card party or to a theatre. With my earlier training these in fact were taboo....My habit of hard and continuous mental work became a joy to me and so deeply inwrought as to last me through life.... I heard many orators of national distinction.... My musical taste was quickened by not a little good music. I was able to spend many hours with the pictures in the Powers Art Gallery, a fine selection of paints open to the public...." If students chose not to walk to places of entertainment, they traveled into the city on horse cars, whose floors were strewn with straw in winter to keep the feet of passengers warm. 21
Greek letter societies occupied a significant, doubtless an enlarging place in the extracurricular life of many undergraduates. Sixty years after graduation, "an old boy" remarked that he "owed more to his fraternity than to any one of the departments of the college, except that of the president." "I found it highly useful in literary criticism,'' another remembered of Alpha Delta Phi. "The social element... in the Greek letter fraternities was in Rochester in my time subordinate to helpful mutual criticism, mainly literary, addressed by the higher classmen to the lower." Lodge rooms in the city were frequently changed to more spacious quarters or where rentals were more attractive. Ill feeling between fraternities flamed up time and again due to rivalry over "pledging" of members and the election of class officers and other positions of distinction.
And "bad blood" reappeared between the secret societies and non-secret Delta Upsilon. As one consequence, this fraternity attracted so few new members that it looked as though it was fated to succumb, but revival soon set in. At the Delta Upsilon national convention of 1875, the Rochester delegate, George W. Coon, 1876, reported: "Morality, scholarship, and social culture are prime requisites for membership. Debates and literary meetings alternate. At the former we have an essay or an oration, two declamations, and a select reading; at the latter, an oration or an essay, three declamations, a paper, and music." "Our men stand high in the respect of the Faculty and the students generally," Coon told the conven