EARLIEST YEARS AT VASSAR

EARLIEST YEARS AT VASSAR

PERSONAL RECOLLECTIONS

The more I recall of the early times, the more unwritable any account becomes by reason of the personal element. The charm and delight lay chiefly in the close confidence of mutual friendly relations. "A chiel amang us taking notes" would not have been tolerated in those days. I never expected to regret not keeping a journal, but I do now as I realize how much precious and interesting history has been lost in consequence.

One of the first teachers in the Latin department had to deal with a student so literal as to afford much amusement by her continual habit of asking, "What is the exact date of this event?" One day in class, allusion was made to the story of Deucalion and Pyrrha, when the girl unthinkingly began her usual query. The teacher despairingly interrupted,—"Thank heaven, Miss ——, there is a period in history in which there are no dates."

So you are invited to look back with me to the time in Vassar history when it began,—when practically there were no dates; the time when the word "female" was still carved over the entrance, and had not yet been stricken from the spoons. As to that word, there seems to have been much discussion about its use from the first and objections made to it, for the Evangelist in 1860 had a long article in defence, summing up the matter in this wise:—"We hope the college will not be persuaded to change the title on account of any prudish antipathy on the part of a few who entertain a false prejudice against the word female, and who are utterly unable to find a substitute for it, or suggest any graceful circumlocution by which it can be avoided."

It may be interesting to the student of to-day to know the sort of setting in which her eldest Vassar sister was placed. The course of study laid out here was substantially what was prepared for her brothers in colleges for men at that period, and requiring the same proficiency in grade to enter. But of this the purpose is not to give record of what the early catalogues testify. It is rather a little picture of the life and customs at the beginning, over forty years ago, when all was new and we were all young. It is not from the students' point of view. That side ought to have a chronicler from one of themselves. If only all the letters written home from the college for the first dozen years could have been saved, the narrative would be of far greater interest than this can hope to be.

With the interest attaching to great enterprises hardly anything is too small or insignificant to be counted. How the Founder first got his idea to do something for women, what the highest opportunities were for women nearly fifty years ago, are on record and need no further chronicler. All the various steps in development of the great enterprise, the discouragements of building in the face of civil war, the lack of enthusiasm in public opinion,—all this is familiar history.

The sketch by Benson J. Lossing entitled "Vassar College and its Founder" tells the story of the beginning, describing the equipment—rich for that period,—giving a picture of that proud and happy first Founder's Day, when with a line of students each side his carriage, with flags and songs and banners Mr. Vassar was escorted up from the lodge, and, in the enthusiasm of his triumphal procession and welcome, perhaps first realized what he had done for women—what he had instituted for all time. Let us hope in the general gladness and gratitude he had the richest sense of reward, a consciousness that he had done wisely and well, felt, in short, that in the fullest Yankee sense "it had paid."

When a full history of the college comes to be written—as it will be—of this great epoch in educational history, we shall realize still more what it was to have faith to establish the first properly equipped college for women, and the wonder of Dr. Raymond's work in its organization. No one can read the history as given in his "Life and Letters" without increased appreciation of what it was to evolve out of chaos the educational life and policy of the college with the social as well. In this latter part he was incomparably assisted by Miss Lyman—a power, too, in her day and time.

It is interesting to trace the record of growth and development from the beginning, and to notice the change from sceptical opinion or amused tolerance to belief and acceptance. The Founder began collecting press notices, and the treasured annals of the library collection owe their start to him.

In the main, the notices were dignified and commendatory:—"A munificent enterprise. With the progress of our civilization, the sphere of personal activity enlarges for women as well as for men, and education must keep pace with its progress…. The institution is intended to be all that the term college imparts; to be ultimately what Yale, Harvard, and Brown are to young men."

The New York Evening Post of 1860 says:—"It is not to be for a moment supposed that this plan of instruction involves a departure from the field of activity which nature has for the female sex, or of unfitting them for the duties which their own tastes as well as the requirements of society indicate them to perform…. No institution of note has yet ventured to admit females much further than into the mysteries of the rudiments." (Female delicacy, female industry, female mind, female college were terms hard worked in those days. A belief of sex in mind was universal.)

Now and then an attempt to be facetious was made. The New York Times in 1860 also had its say of the new enterprise as follows:—"What do you think of a woman's college? And why not? After Allopathic, Hydropathic, Homeopathic and patent pill colleges, universities and all that sort of thing, why not let the girls have one? For the life of me I do not discover any very valid objection, but objection or no objection, the thing is to be. By a bill introduced this morning, Matthew Vassar, William Kelly, James Harper, E. L. Magoon, B. J. Lossing, S. F. B. Morse and a dozen or more gentlemen among the Knowing and the Known are authorized to be the body corporate of a female college. The said college is to have full power to educate feminines and to grant them sheepskins the same as any other college is authorized and wont to do."

Ten members constituted the Faculty in 1865-68, seven men with the President, and three women—Miss Lyman, lady principal, Miss Mitchell, director of the observatory, and Dr. Avery, the resident physician. The seven chairs filled by men could boast degrees and titles, but there were none for women those days. There were no associate professors, no instructors in departments ranking teachers, simply Faculty and teachers for many years. Nowadays, the catalogue bristles with degrees, and not to have A.B. or something after one's name is the rare exception.

The teachers numbered twenty that first year; the second, the number had increased to thirty-four and of these nine taught music, the largest department in the college and—as we that were in it thought—the most important.

The first catalogue, issued 1865-66, shows the whole number of students as 353, all unclassified, owing to the inequalities of preparation. Among this number were many very far advanced in general scholarship, but who had certain exceptional deficiencies preventing their entering a regular class at once. By the end of the second year, however, all were graded. It is not strange that at the outset so many should be unfitted to enter, when hitherto no preparation for women to take a college training had been provided for in the land.

It was a wonderful thing when Vassar opened for a girl to have the chance to go to college, and the contrast between then and now when it is quite a matter of course, and not at all an exceptional thing, strikes me rather sharply, as I see a privilege counted so precious once made light of in these days, or worse—wholly disregarded.

The numbers continued without much change, 411 in 1871, stretching to the limit suitable provision for them. If this seems pitiful to you, one of a thousand to-day, remember that at the first, 300 was about the highest number reckoned on, and for this number accommodations were none too plentiful with recitation rooms, art-gallery, library and museum all in one building. Many of the earliest students will recall making one of seven in a "fire-wall" parlor, other suites being crowded in similar proportion; but however uncomfortable and dissatisfied she might have been, the girl made little complaint, sustained, doubtless, by the proud consciousness of being a pioneer student in the first college for women ever established.

By the tabular statement with this will be seen the steady increase of proportion of students in full collegiate standing.

There was an importance attaching to the students in full standing, a sort of aristocracy, if you please, not defined or put in words, but none the less felt and appreciated. Even the teachers who had upper class work shared this, and those not so favored would say on occasion in mock grievance,—"I am only a Prep. teacher" or "only a music teacher," as the case might be.

In 1868-69 the first resident graduates were recorded, Louise Parsons and Mary Reybold.

The specials in art and music were required to pass the regular preparatory entrance examinations, and to take two collegiate studies in connection with their special work. This arrangement was abolished in 1892 when the history and theory of music and of art were made to count towards a degree.

The trustees voted to close the Preparatory Department, June 8, 1886.

The first class to graduate was in 1867. They were four in number—"the immortal IV"—as Dr. Raymond characterized them at the planting of their class ivy, for there were then no class trees by adoption. No diploma was given to the class on the day of graduation, the trustees hesitating to admit the propriety of the term Bachelor of Arts as applied to women. Instead, the four received a sort of special certificate stating their proficiency "in science and the arts." Later, the next year, when the matter was satisfactorily adjusted, they received the regular parchment document.

The early fortunate possessors of the degree of A.B.—once given only to men—were regarded with admiring awe, and they had not to strive much for any desired position coveted. A successful young woman teacher of experience entered college to go through the course in two years, to the wonder of some friends who regarded her as having no need of a degree. "I want it for commercial purposes," was her shrewd reply. She had her reward in advancement far beyond what hitherto had been perfectly satisfactory. It is now a matter of course that a candidate for any position should have a college education, and the well earned degree confers no special distinction. Indeed, it has come to pass that the almost indifferent comment is, "Well, what has she done since?"

A favorite question to the college girl was, "What good does this higher education do? Can you make a better pudding for it?" "I'll tell you what good the college does," laughed a certain bright student, "it is a great place to take the starch out of one! Why, at home I thought I was somebody; here I find the only somebody is the best scholar in the classroom."

The President taught mental and moral philosophy as the catalogue stated it. He also gave some lectures in history, as did the professor of ancient and modern languages and the professor of English. Under the term natural philosophy came mathematics, physics and chemistry, and the term natural history covered the wide field of science now separated into special departments. Biology was taught under zoology, and an amusing incident in class at one time was when one of the number (afterwards a surgeon and doctor) exclaimed in dismay at sight of the eye of an ox laid on her table for dissection, "O Professor, mayn't we have forks?"

The second year of the college was little changed from the first, and so the distinction of being "an aborigine," as Miss Mitchell dubbed the officers that came in '65, was bestowed on a few of us who had just missed that date. She always brought some little present for the band on her return to college each year, and it delighted her to add a fresh anecdote, told as we walked down a corridor, her large, serious eyes twinkling with fun.

"How did the college look when you came in '67?" is a question often asked me. It was a February night after a day of snow, rain and sleet, when the six o'clock train from New York landed me at Poughkeepsie. Then came the long drive out to the college over the heavy muddy road, unlighted beyond the city limits, which were not built out as thickly as now, and from Bull's Head (Arlington) at the turn, hardly at all.

The driver ushered me in at the old lower entrance, and, as a matter of course, gathered up my hand-baggage and preceded me up the central stairway to the messenger room. This would be an unusual proceeding to-day, but was most friendly and grateful then in the strange place. My handbag had a defective lock with a trick of unexpectedly flying open, and I recall its unhappy click, click, as I nervously followed him up the stairs. My name was given to be sent to Miss Lyman, whom I awaited, very ill at ease, in the parlor. Soon a tall figure appeared in black silk dress, white fleecy shawl, white hair in curls under black lace cap, both hands extended in smiling greeting as if an old friend had arrived. "We have been looking for you all day, and had just begun to fear we must give you up for to-night." A relative could hardly have been received more cordially, or with more entire absence of inspection.

I had been summoned in midyear to fill a sudden vacancy in the music department, the preliminary formalities having been waived somehow in my case, and I was not looking to be received so perfectly as a welcome guest of honor. Needless to say, all misgivings vanished and I felt at home at once. A teacher with whom I had been associated elsewhere was sent for to take me to my room, supper ordered served there, teachers rooming in the same corridor came to greet the newcomer, and the evening that promised to be forlorn and dreary changed into a gay reception with friendly warmth and good cheer. Professor Wiebe, in whose department I was to teach, lived in the north wing near my room, and soon presented himself with his wife to welcome me. Madame Wiebe also taught in the department—was a musician herself of no mean ability. Really, it seems as I live it all over that the sunshiny outlook has never dimmed.

The next day, Washington's Birthday, was a holiday, and opportunity given to inspect the grounds and building. A narrow gravel path each side of the avenue led up from the lodge—the one old landmark exactly the same as now. Evergreens, so small one could almost touch the tops with the hand, bordered those paths. The first catalogue contained an engraving of these walks and front of the building, and a framed copy of one with photographs of that year is preserved in the library.

What we know as the museum was then the riding school with a German nobleman in charge, and groups of his pupils might be seen every pleasant day, riding around the great circle laid out for the purpose beyond the flower garden. Parties of more advanced riders were taken by the Baron outside the grounds, to the envy of the less skilled. The experiment of the riding school proved too expensive with its horses, grooms and master, and had at the end of six years to be given up.

The observatory was the only other building outside (with the exception of the boiler and engine house), and a gravel walk led up to its doors also. There were none but soft paths and few of these anywhere at that time. Later, an unsightly wooden walk replaced the gravel ones from the lodge to the front entrance. It was several years after this that the flagging was laid, and asphalt pavement here and there around the grounds begun.

The museum collections at the beginning were all in the main building, some occupying the space of the fifth center corridor, and it was in this long gallery that I had my first meeting with the Founder. I had gone one day by myself to wander about looking at specimens of minerals when the door opened and a benevolent white haired old gentleman entered. There was no mistaking the man of the portrait with his old time dress,—ruffled shirt front, diamond pin and wonderfully kind expression—and I went forward to pay my homage. He seemed familiar with the collections, pointing out whatever was especially valuable and curious as we walked around together. "I often come up here to see these," he said smilingly. He gave a reception at his house in town that second year for the Faculty and teachers of the college to meet the trustees and friends of his living in town, and I recall a delightful, genial host who made us all feel as if we belonged to him—were a part of his family.

On the fourth corridor—the whole west front below, was the art-gallery with Professor Van Ingen as director. The library was under this in the center of the third corridor, more like a room of the kind in a gentleman's house, and conducted somewhat in the same delightful free and easy fashion. Newspapers and periodicals were in this room also, open for daily use, but books could be drawn only at recreation period, Wednesday and Saturday, though they might be returned whenever the library was open. In a college community the library is destined to be an important factor, feeding the whole group of departments, and it is not hard to see how the small beginning here should go on by leaps and bounds, keeping pace with the wonderful growth in other directions, till it reached the stately structure which is its home to-day.

The first organ to be placed in the chapel had no case. Instead, there was an arrangement of heavy red curtains across the back of the platform, with the large portrait of the Founder in front, concealing all unsightliness. The music rooms were back of the organ, on the third and fourth floors used now by the steward's department. Professor Wiebe had his large classroom and office on the upper floor and there were held the departmental meetings. Access to these rooms was through the doors each side of the chapel platform and through the small doors at the farther end of the gallery. The office where the music supplies were stored and given out was in the little room opening from the south end of the platform. The conservatory method obtained at first, the ensemble playing being conducted in the museum, in a large room near the gymnasium, capable of holding the several pianos necessary.

Professor Mitchell had her classroom at the observatory, but with that exception all other recitations were in the one main building, in the center each side of the main entrance. The President's classroom adjoined his office, now the senior parlor. In 1865, Room J was Dr. Avery's recitation room, and later was famous as the English literature and logic classroom in the day of Professor Backus. This is now the officers' parlor. There was no students' room for dancing. This was done at the gymnasium sometimes in the evenings, permission to go over first having to be obtained.

On the first corridor, where are now the stationery department, offices of the superintendent and resident physician, were three connecting rooms assigned to the chemistry department,—laboratory, classroom and lecture room. Across the corridor to the east where the express office and janitor's office are now were the two rooms of physics, a large classroom with smaller one adjoining for the apparatus. Dr. Avery had her office in her private suite on the fourth south, with the infirmary in near proximity at the other end of the hall. Mr. Wheeler, the first janitor, who was on the college ground from the time the first spadeful of earth was dug up for the building, had for his office the small room close by the center stairway on the first corridor.

Professor Farrar's chemistry and physics courses were extremely popular, and days when special experiments were in order the lecture room would be crowded. The teachers all had the privilege of attending lectures, and many did regular work in some one department other than her own, supplementing boarding school training and taking the college degree after a time.

I remember one day his holding up a small vial in each hand, explaining elaborately the contents of each, and what the chemical effect would be when the two should be poured together. The class watched in breathless attention. "Now, young ladies," and the bottles were lifted high that all might see, "you will observe"—repeating the formula—and then pouring them with quick, deft movement together. Nothing happened. Who that saw it but must remember the blank amazement of the professor's face and the hearty laugh all round in which he joined. "Well, that never turned out so with me before."

Beyond the center south where are now the candy-kitchen and day students' parlor was the natural history lecture and classroom. The cabinets of minerals were beautifully arranged in a long gallery on the fifth center and consulted there as occasion required. The story goes that a student busy with her topic one day was interrupted by the entrance of a visitor who patronizingly asked, "Well, what are you so absorbed in?" She raised her eyes. "The odontology of the bison, sir." He fell back a few paces, gazed at her in silence a moment, and then left the room.

The collections of birds, shells, etc., were placed on the third corridor center in rooms now devoted to student use.

A domestic in employ of the college, whose special charge was the natural history classroom, was noticed gazing at the wall where hung engravings of some huge mammals of prehistoric time. "Were those rale bastes, Professor?" He assured her that such once lived, whereupon she commented complacently, "Well, I s'pose the men and women then were equal to 'em."

The Venus of Milos stood in the gymnasium, and two workmen had been sent to change slightly its position. One was overheard asking why the surface of the statue was so chipped and rough. His companion answered with an air of finality, "The Doctor uses this to illustrate her lectures on skin diseases."

Space fails to recount all the little jokes. "Bacchanalian Sunday" a young student called Baccalaureate in perfect good faith.

"I am glad the old Main looks unchanged inside as much as it does. I should say those were the same old water tanks, had you not told me otherwise. I used to room in this parlor here, and wonder if I could find my name with those of my roommates still written on the inside shutters?" And she did.

But the alumna returning after a long period of years does find many changes, concerning chiefly the routine of daily life, manners and customs, what was known in her time having disappeared almost entirely. Let us begin with the first schedule of the college hours:

For a few years, chapel prayers were held both morning and evening. Miss Lyman officiated in the morning, taking this occasion for her wonderful talks to the students with such notices as were required for the day. In the first catalogues issued was a long list of necessary equipment, including a waterproof cloak, a long woolen garment popular in that time. This article of attire was much in vogue at early prayers, and I think it was her disgust at the sight of so many black robed figures in the procession filing into chapel that caused the change from prayers at 6.45 to directly after breakfast. So in '68 the service was at 7.45—an adroit device we considered—of getting the family up in time. How thankful many were for the fashion of trailing princesse wrapper, and I believe no college inmate was without one. The day of the short skirt for walking had not come, only very young girls having that comfort and luxury. The grey woolen gymnastic suit was "en rÉgle" for excursions to Cedar Ridge and country roundabout, but it was not considered quite proper even there or to be seen outside the gymnasium.

Miss Lyman was very particular in matters of dress, insisting on change for supper, as if going out for the evening. No one was allowed to wear the same costume all day. "You may take off one calico frock and put on a fresh one of the same kind, if you can do no better, but some sort of change is essential." Also in the matter of gloves she held us all up to wear them at every college function. It was thought extremely elegant for even the one who was to deliver essay or poem on the chapel platform to wear white gloves. Happily this custom was not long lived. "If there is a student here who cannot afford white gloves—even of lisle thread, I shall be glad to provide a pair." The last year of her life she wore gloves constantly to conceal her wasted, emaciated hands.

Now and then her edicts had no force, as when she gave out that no one must go on the grounds after sunset without wearing a wrap. To the general delight, that same summer evening saw Mrs. Raymond guiltless of shawl, strolling around the flower garden with the President, both bareheaded, so afterwards we pursued our way as we pleased.

She could not tolerate anything slovenly or slipshod, and no careless person escaped her watchful eye. On all Commencement occasions each member of the graduating class had to be inspected beforehand, attired in the gown to be worn that day. A heavy black walnut table—such as was placed in every student parlor—stood in Miss Lyman's bedroom, with steps beside it, which Winnie, the maid, assisted each student to mount. Then, sitting in her arm-chair near, Miss Lyman criticised the slowly revolving figure on the table, and any slight alteration desirable to make, the maid in waiting was ready to do.

She was keen to see anything out of the ordinary dead level, as two teachers, who had started to walk to town one afternoon through the thick spring mud and slush, found out. Their aim was to have something besides the regulation exercise, and they were getting it by literally wading near the stone wall of the college grounds, when Miss Lyman came in sight returning from her daily drive. "This settles our fate," said one, fishing up her overshoe from the depths and mounting the wall to restore the hideous article. "She will never respect us again." Miss Lyman did halt her carriage near with concern, and could hardly believe there was no urgent necessity for an undertaking so foolish, but smilingly reassured them, "The road is nothing here to what it is lower down. But do go on if you like it." I am sure she envied the rude health that could start on such an excursion, for she added lingeringly, "How I wish I were strong enough to do that sort of thing too!"

The corridors were designed by the architect to be suitable as promenade places in inclement weather, and were so used a good deal. There was a tradition of a distinguished senior regularly taking her walk in her special corridor like a nun in a cloister, her eyes bent on a little black morocco book in hand, which some curious person contrived to find out to be a Greek Testament. Students waiting for recitation signal often strolled up and down just beforehand. Miss Lyman came along one morning, joining a young freshman waiting for her class, and taking the girl's arm, paced with her slowly up and down a few times to the student's embarrassed pleasure. Not a word was spoken till the bell struck and Miss Lyman turned to leave,—"My dear, you do not walk quite properly. You should turn your toes out a little more."

What a power Miss Lyman was and what a presence! The evil doer shrank before her biting sarcasm, and when the matter of establishing any change came up, it was her felicitous phrase that generally settled the business. Alluding to the custom at one time of loading the wall of students' parlors with photographs of young men friends: "If you must have your—er—Julius Caesar up where you can see him constantly"—a ripple of laughter went round the chapel and the sentence was not finished, but the photographs disappeared.

She practiced what she preached in matters of personal attire. Of slender, tall, imposing figure, always beautifully dressed,—black silk in the evening, lavender muslin or soft grey cashmere in the morning with dainty cap, the long streamers floating over the filmy shawl she was rarely seen without, her white hair curled, as was the fashion for elderly ladies of that time, and around her pale face,—she made a picture as if she had stepped out of some old portrait. Notman's photograph taken at the same time as others of the Faculty in the spring of '67 does not convey the etherialness, the delicate spirituality of her looks. She seemed in her pallor and invalidism extremely venerable to us, and as if she must be well along towards eighty, but she was only a little over fifty when she died.

It was pre-eminently a family in the old days, not a community as now. The distinction between Faculty and teachers was rather sharply drawn, but this was more than made up by the close personal relations between officers and students. The teachers were made to feel a part of the social life. They had a definite place in receiving and entertaining guests at all public functions, and could not stay away without their absence being noticed and for this called gently to account. It was not considered exactly as "getting permission," but no teacher went out of college for the night without signifying her intention both to Miss Lyman and Dr. Raymond. It would seem as if Miss Lyman alone was the person to receive all such requests, but she always answered cordially,—"Certainly, and will you speak to the President also?"

The general exodus from any college affair promising no personal interest was unheard of. I remember once after an unbroken succession of Friday evening lectures there was an universal feeling of weariness and indifference when it was unexpectedly announced at evening prayers that we were to have a lecture on Shakespeare at the close of the evening study hour. How Dr. Raymond suspected that the audience would fall off—that there might be many absentees—we never guessed, but word went round to each corridor teacher to inform her domain that everybody was expected to attend. That such a proceeding should have been necessary gave rise next evening to a quiet rebuke,—"I have been a student of Shakespeare for more than twenty years, and I have never found any lecturer on this subject yet from whom I could not get profit and instruction."

Those were tremendous occasions when Dr. Raymond felt moved to reprimand. Merciless and all out of proportion to the offence, we sometimes thought the talks then, but who shall say what was not checked of lawlessness in the beginning and disgrace in the end? The old chapel has seen and heard a great variety in its day, and if the walls could speak, what histories might be unfolded! Two weddings have been held there, one in June with daisy decorations, the other in autumn with brilliant hues and warmer coloring. Dr. Raymond had never performed the ceremony till he did so for his daughters. He wrote a special service, and very beautiful and impressive he made it.

A set of rules, drawn up by Miss Lyman and known as the "Students' Manual" was printed in pamphlet form, and a copy placed in each parlor. She also read to each entering class certain other rules concerning deportment. If these rules caused some rather indignant amusement, as being absurd and childish, unfitting college students, now and then a case was apparent where the "cap fitted," and a hint was given without offence.

Students studied in their rooms, and visits to and from rooms at any time during study hours were not allowed except by permission from the lady principal. Special permission also had to be obtained for going out of the building after dark, except when due at the gymnasium or the observatory. Students' visitors were received in the college parlor by Miss Lyman or her assistant, and students were not expected to enter there till summoned. Neither were they allowed to make use of the main entrance hall, but must go out and come in by the rear doors, and through those in the towers in either wing.

It was impressed upon the whole family that the higher education of women was an experiment, and that the world was looking on, watching its success or defeat. The good of the college was the watchword, and not mere gratification of individual preferences. Many a girl has admitted that her first sense of the importance of law and order came from the rules she often rebelled against. If too much paternal government was whispered even thus early, a student with several roommates in a small parlor, and subject to intrusive friends in study hours without protection of rule, had some reason to be thankful for it. There was only one building, and no escape from it to a quiet place to work under better conditions. All had to live up to a tremendously high standard—the ordinary one not enough for those days. It was difficult to keep on this mountain peak continually, but if we fell off now and then it was from no lack of admonition. "The good of the college!" "The good of the college!" was reiterated constantly. Light-hearted law breakers caught visiting in study hours or in silent time, or in some other equally innocent, reprehensible proceeding would gravely parody in excuse, "We did it for the good of the college." But nobody had daring sufficient to let this answer reach the "higher powers."

Frequent absence from college was not thought advisable. Even the student whose home was in town was restricted, once in three weeks when she went home to spend the night, being the rule, but not strictly enforced. Holidays and times when there was any special festivity there was no escape. You were made to feel so essential in the family life as to consider it a little disloyal to evade any function. Rarely did any one other than the student living in town go away for Thanksgiving Day. A great deal was made of this festival, the dinner and the entertainment afterwards.

The Christmas vacation was not the cheerless occasion of wholesale departure, as in this day of large numbers. The students, who from necessity had to stay over, or who preferred to—as many did—could hardly have had more done for their pleasure and entertainment if they had been visiting in a private family. In addition to the various plans among themselves, the college gave them masquerade and dancing parties, musical or theatrical entertainment, candy pulls, and sleigh rides, so no girl had reason to complain of dullness, or envy her fortunate roommate at home. One Christmas, the idea of an original play was started, but would have fallen through if Dr. Raymond had not come to the rescue with advice and ready pen. He entered into the spirit of the thing immensely, taking a part with other officer volunteers, making a brilliant success of what at first promised forlorn failure.

Three minutes were allowed after the last stroke of the gong signal for meals. Those entering the dining-room later had to stop at Miss Lyman's table and give explanation of tardiness before taking their seats. At dinner and supper, all remained at table until the bell was struck as the signal for rising, but at breakfast each withdrew at her own pleasure, excused by the teacher presiding at her table.

The food was abundant and excellent. We had a substantial breakfast, and dinner at one. Supper was a light meal, with an occasional hot dish of some sort. Miss Mitchell coming to the dining-room late one evening inquired as she took her seat,—"What is the meaning of the unusually happy faces I see around?" "Baked potatoes for supper." "How pitiful," was her comment. There was the disgruntled one among us—as there always is—but no one could take exception in earnest to the meals set before us.

We had our little jokes of course. One evening at sunset as two teachers stood at a window gazing at the blaze of color in the western sky, one exclaimed rapturously, "Isn't this glorious!" "Yes," sighed the other, "how I wish I could eat it!" Another time was after the early breakfast as we were assembling for prayers. In Miss Lyman's increasing feebleness the service devolved on Miss Lepha Clarke acting as assistant lady principal. We music teachers sat in the choir and the organist often chose the hymn. One of our number asked the privilege of selection that morning, and gravely presented the book to Miss Clarke, the hymn chosen beginning,—

Miss Clarke's composure remained unmoved, and she forgave the audacity of the offence, but laughingly begged the experiment not to be repeated.

The Founder's friend, Mr. William Smith, of Smith Brothers, was connected with the college for two years, one before the opening in equipment of the steward's department, and the next year in superintending its successful operation. There was no separate laundry building, and the basement was fitted up with proper machinery for this under his direction. Every detail of his important department was instituted and established by Mr. Smith. He also arranged for the system of steam heating—a new thing in this city at that time—through the entire building.

The tables in the dining-room were alternately a short one seating ten, and a longer one seating fourteen, with a teacher at the head of each. The small rooms near the entrance were designed by the architect as cloak-rooms, but were utilized at once for practice at table of French and of German conversation. The corresponding rooms above near the chapel door were also diverted from the original plan, and still do primeval duty as linen closet and storage place. Notices given out at morning prayers in Miss Lyman's time, later were read in the dining-room up to 1892, when a bulletin board was placed in the second corridor center, doing away with the custom.

The Students' Manual stated, "Direct traffic with the Steward's Storeroom is forbidden." The student wishing to purchase fruit and crackers—about the only articles obtainable—brought her money for purchase to her corridor teacher at breakfast, with a list of what was wanted. The teacher made the purchase and the articles were delivered by messenger to the student's room.

There were corridor teachers in those days. They had the large rooms facing the corridor at each end of the building and commanding full view of the domain in charge. The duties of this teacher were to see that the rules as laid down in the Manual for lights, exercise, study-hour, silent time, and, yes,—baths, were kept. She also held a short office hour daily for the benefit of those wishing to consult her. She taught a Bible class and had a weekly prayer meeting, besides the special Sunday evening service.

Twenty minutes daily, morning and evening, were devoted to silent time, by which every student was absolutely sure of some part of the day entirely to herself. It was no easy task to provide places for the observance of this custom or to enforce it, and reluctantly, after some years it was dropped.

All meetings opened with prayer, corridor meetings as well. At these meetings—every Monday evening after chapel—the students reported perfect or deficient, as the case might be, and also received such general admonition as the teacher deemed advisable. Later the same evening all the corridor teachers met Miss Lyman in her parlor to give their respective reports and to receive her counsel and direction. This meeting was also opened with prayer.

The lights in the corridors had to be extinguished promptly at the stroke of the ten o'clock bell. The President's office was under the student rooms, and some officer there in business conference one evening saw him lift his hand in salutation to the ceiling, saying as the gas over his study table flared up suddenly at the sound of the gong, "My faithful daughters!"

Others were not quite so prompt. "It seems," said a witty teacher as we walked slowly down her corridor long after the bell had struck one "laundry-bag night," waving her hand to the long row of lights in full force, "it seems it is never too late to mend!"

One joke played on the teachers who had to look after the lights was hugely appreciated by them as well as those who played it. Some trouble with the gas had come up, and candles and candlesticks had been furnished to each room for temporary use, the word going round that lights must be put out at ten as usual. And so they were "put out" and on exact time, but on the floor of the corridor near each door, candles still blazing. The teachers patrolled as usual, making no sign that the proceeding was at all unusual, greatly enjoying the scene, and appreciating the giggles and whispers of watchers from inside bedroom windows. The watchman had double duty, as he went his rounds, but that was all.

The only means of conveyance to town, unless one ordered a special carriage, was by the omnibus—a vehicle something like the old Fifth Avenue stage—which made stated journeys back and forth every forty minutes, the price of the trip, thirty cents each way. The city railroad was built in Poughkeepsie in 1870, but that was not extended to the college till the autumn of 1872. Before this date, however, the fare by omnibus had been reduced to ten cents, and was continued at this rate after the adoption of street cars.

Students under twenty had to have a chaperone, so it was, for some, quite an expensive journey, and most shopping trips were made by "clubbing," one student going for several. Until 1872, before their separation from the college classes, preparatory students went to town with a teacher.

Permission had to be obtained of Miss Lyman at her office hour Saturday morning and the name of the teacher given who had consented to accompany. A list also of purchases had to be submitted and left with her. The chaperone received this list, signed by Miss Lyman, with strict injunction not to permit any extension of the privilege given. "It teaches a girl to be systematic and exact in her accounts, and curtails trivial and foolish expenses. If she misses once to get some coveted article, she will be the quicker next time to remember." All excellent doctrine, but so disagreeable to the teachers to carry out that they combined to have the rule rescinded.

Taken from fifteen years as head of an English boarding school, what wonder that the family and social life at Vassar was formed by Miss Lyman—as we think now—on strict and narrow lines. Hardly a trace of the earliest regulations exists. The chaperone was once much in evidence. A girl was not allowed to go alone even to church without one, if under age. A young student that first year tells her experience the first communion Sunday. Miss Lyman gave her very cordial permission to attend the service, providing, as was customary, a teacher of the same denomination as escort. At the outset the teacher seemed unwilling to go to this particular church (Methodist), and when they entered made her charge sit far back by the door. Three times she ignored or refused a suggestion about going forward to the altar, and finally the student rose and started off down the aisle by herself. She wore a white sailor hat with long black ribbon streamers, and suddenly felt a quick jerk on these by the irate teacher in pursuit a few steps behind. "We knelt together at the altar," laughed the victim, "but you may fancy how much good the service did me."

"What are your requisitions for a teacher?" Miss Lyman was often asked. Her reply was characteristic:—"First she must be a lady; second, she must be a Christian; third, she must have the faculty of imparting knowledge, and lastly, knowledge." "Why, Miss Lyman, would you consider being a lady the first essential of all?" "Most certainly. I know of good Christian women I should not, on account of their manners, like to place any girl under. Then, too, everybody knows that the finest teacher is not necessarily the best scholar. I have known many who had fine attainments, but were absolutely unfitted to impart knowledge to others."

A credulous young freshman was told by her roommates that Miss Lyman, if asked, would give out at morning prayers any hymn a student wished sung on her birthday, that it was her custom to do so. Not stopping to consider, the girl betakes herself to the lady principal's office and makes known her wish for the day soon approaching. Miss Lyman, perceiving the perfect good faith of the child, did not explain she had been made a victim of a hoax, but left that to the friends who had played the joke. Of course, the student was mortified. However, on the morning of her birthday, the hymn Miss Lyman gave out was the one asked for, and the girl never forgot the kindness that obliterated all chagrin.

Miss Lyman's tact was unfailing in many other ways. A week or so after my arrival, I met her one morning coming out with a bundle of papers in her hand on her way to her regular appointment with Dr. Raymond at his office. She greeted me cordially, asked me how I was getting on in my work, and if I was comfortable in the room assigned me, adding, "I think you have never been in my office to see my window garden?" opening the door and ushering me in as she spoke. The flowers were really lovely, but more to me was the delightful friendly chat for five or ten minutes. Some time later a teacher high in authority asked me if I had ever had my official interview with Miss Lyman. "No, but I am expecting to be called up any day." "Are you sure? Have you never been to her office?" "Oh, yes, but not officially," and I related the window garden episode. Miss Clarke smiled. "How like her! She is apparently satisfied, then, for her only comment about you to me, because I had known you before coming here, was 'Do you think her Unitarian influence is likely in any way to be pernicious?'"

Among the many things outgrown at Vassar is mention of "Unitarian" with bated breath, as of something tabooed. It was a great bond with Miss Mitchell when she discovered religious preferences akin to her own, and she often admonished, "We must stand by our guns—must show our colors." You would not think, dear Vassar girl of to-day who can hear now unchallenged your own beloved minister of that denomination in chapel, that forty years ago he would not have been allowed to preach there?

On Sunday, morning and evening prayers were omitted. Bible classes at nine o'clock were held by professors and teachers in the recitation rooms, each corridor teacher having her own students in her class. The Bible teachers conducted their classes according to personal belief and opinion. Students had no choice whose class they should attend, but were assigned as seemed best to Miss Lyman. She herself taught the freshmen, and was said to be wonderfully interesting. Professor Farrar's class was very popular, and the teachers thronged to hear him. He was fresh from Elmira and Thomas K. Beecher, of whom in boldness and originality he was a worthy disciple. Professor Orton was also an interesting teacher of the Bible, but whatever keenness was employed to draw him out on the debatable questions of evolution, special creation and the like, he knew well how to set aside all discussion, and nobody ever heard his personal opinion. Pinned down for a statement of some kind, his invariable introduction would be, "It is said."

JAMES ORTON
1868