YALE COLLEGE AND YALE CUSTOMS.
BY GEORGE H. VINCENT.
The good people who, in 1638, came over from England and settled New Haven, came with a definite purpose. They aimed to establish a model community in church and state, and, as an important means to this end, they proposed to found a college. At first, events conspired to keep the classic groves from taking root on the bleak Connecticut shore. A capricious government in England was granting and annulling charters with alarming frequency, and the colonies were in a corresponding state of uncertainty and apprehension, while the ravages of the Indian wars did much to occupy and distract the thoughts of the New Haven people. Finally, in 1660, a bequest of Governor Hopkins induced the colonists to found an institution which they called a “Collegiate School,” lest a more pretentious title might make it difficult to obtain a charter. The Governor’s will, however, was contested by the legislature, which finally obtained a part of the bequest. This fact, together with the depression caused by the compulsory union of New Haven with the Connecticut colony, prevented any marked advance in the prosperity of the institution which, under the title of the “Hopkins Grammar School,” still prepares students for the various departments of Yale.
After the peace of Ryswick in 1697, prosperity returned to the colonists, and a second time the subject of a college was agitated. Ten trustees, most of them ministers from New Haven and vicinity, met some time in 1700 at Brandford, a small town near New Haven. Each trustee presented a few volumes with the declaration: “I give these books for the founding of a college.”
The next year a charter was granted to the new college, which was located at Saybrook, with the Rev. Abraham Pierson, a metaphysician of some note, as president. The students, eight in number, and “put into classes according to the proficiency they had antecedently made,” lived in the president’s house, under his supervision and instruction. The first commencement was held at Saybrook, September 13, 1702.
The French war of the same year had its effect upon the college, and when in 1707 Rector Pierson died, it was found impossible to support a resident professor at Saybrook. Consequently the senior class was sent to Milford and placed under the Rev. Samuel Andrew, while the other classes remained at Saybrook with two tutors. At this time Yale College extended from the senior class at Milford to the juniors, sophomores and freshmen at Saybrook, a distance of forty miles.
In 1714, the death of the Rev. James Pierpont, who may be regarded as the founder of the college, struck another blow at its prosperity. At the same time complaints about their accommodations from the Saybrook students made it evident that if the college was to become a permanent institution, some active measures were required. At a meeting of trustees in 1716, after a protracted discussion, and not a little to the dissatisfaction of Hartford, it was decided to locate the college permanently at New Haven. Hartford was appeased by building there a new court house, and the scattered students were gathered at New Haven, which that day became a college town.
Among several donations to the college, the most generous was that of Elihu Yale, a former resident of New Haven, and at the time a wealthy London merchant. In view of his munificence, the trustees called the new building which his donation had enabled them to complete, Yale College.
It would be superfluous for our purpose to trace the history of the college from this permanent foundation in 1718 to the present time. Among its presidents we find such names as Elihu Williams, Ezra Stiles, Timothy Dwight, Jeremiah Day, Theodore D. Woolsey and Noah Porter—grand men of the orthodox school, some of them rigid and severe in administration, but all respected and honored. The character of the presidents is an index to the institution, which has developed under the severe discipline of New England. The students who of late years have come from distant states have modified the general character of the college, but have not destroyed the old influence. The recognition of religion, which in some universities has well-nigh disappeared, still holds its own, and the same bell which, in years gone by, summoned sleepy and half-dressed students to the murky chapel, at five in the morning, now, at a more convenient hour, assembles in the handsome “Battell” those who have come to college from every state in the Union. Thus the old New England régime makes an impression upon the rising generation of the whole country.
It is not within the scope of this article to consider the development of the college curriculum; but, perhaps, in view of the radical changes which the Yale faculty have introduced for the college year 1884-’85, it may not be out of place rapidly to sketch the innovations. In 1786 the requirements for admission were “Virgil, Tully, and the Greek Testament.” This is characteristic of the college, which has always been remarkably conservative in its devotion to the classics. Charles Francis Adams’ oration at the Harvard “Phi Beta Kappa” dinner two years ago, aroused no little antagonism in New Haven. President Porter has written several articles defending the classics, and when Matthew Arnold and Lord Coleridge addressed the Yale students, both congratulated the institution upon its attitude toward the ancient languages. Heretofore Latin and Greek have been compulsory during both freshman and sophomore years. But under the new system German and French may be substituted for a portion of the classics. To the senior and junior classes even greater liberty is given. They are offered between twenty and thirty elective courses; so that now, instead of turning a whole class out of the same mould, the college permits men to select those studies which they find attractive, or which will best prepare them for their pursuits in life. Thus in one year Yale has made very rapid strides, and now stands a “golden mean” between the conservatism of the past and the rashly radical tendencies of the present. So much for the origin and curriculum of Yale.
It is not the instruction alone that makes a college course desirable. The associations, friendships, and experiences in the college community are also important factors. It has been well said that a college is a miniature world, with its successes, failures, and temptations as real as those of the world without.
It is impossible, in an article like the present, to do more than give a few of the peculiarities of Yale. The writer disclaims any attempt to analyze critically the influences and tendencies of the college, but aims merely to present a few facts concerning its students, buildings, class spirit, and every-day life.
The college catalogue shows that in the academic department the classes average one hundred and fifty students. In the Sheffield Scientific School the aggregate number is about two hundred and twenty-five. The other departments swell the total to between ten and eleven hundred. It is probably unnecessary to state that co-education is not “dreamed of” in the Yale philosophy. The warm affection which the faculty feel for the dead languages seems only to increase their coldness toward the gentler sex.
Yale is eminently a cosmopolitan institution. When two years ago state clubs were being formed at Yale, some one remarked that if the same experiment were attempted at Harvard, there would be two clubs, one from Boston, and one from the rest of Massachusetts. While this statement is by no means true, it suggests the sectional character of the other New England colleges. A few figures will sustain this claim. In 1883-’84, out of 824 students in the academic and scientific departments, only twenty-nine per cent. were from Connecticut. There were nineteen men from California, six from Colorado, seven from Georgia, fifty-one from Illinois, thirty-three from Ohio, twenty from Missouri, and sixty-five from Pennsylvania. Almost every state, and many of the territories, were represented, and the very fact that Yale draws its men from so many widely different sources has an important influence upon the character of the students. The swift-coursing, tingling blood of the West is infused into the old, staid, New England institution, which restrains, modifies, and directs it. The enthusiasm of Yale is due in a great measure to this western element. There is a whole-heartedness about Yale students which you will find in no other eastern institution. Nor is money at Yale the basis of social standing. A man may command any position which he has the character or ability to attain.
It is generally supposed that in a large institution the numbers in a class prevent that personal contact with the instructors which smaller classes afford. This objection can be easily answered. Let us suppose that a freshman class numbers one hundred and fifty students, and that the curriculum includes five studies. The class will be divided into five sections of thirty men each, and will recite to five instructors in order. There are fifteen recitations a week, so that every member of the class recites three times a week to each of these instructors, and that, too, in a class of only thirty. This affords all the “contact” that either instructors or instructed need or desire. The divisions are arranged according to excellence in scholarship at the end of every term, so that each division has its own standard of attainment; hence the diligent are not retarded by their more leisurely classmates. Recitations and examinations are marked upon a scale of four. When one’s average standing falls below two, he is given the choice between leaving college or entering the class next below. This unpleasant experience is known as being “dropped.” For irregularities and tardiness in attendance, the penalties are inflicted in the form of “marks,” which have no influence upon scholarship standing. The penalty for “cutting” chapel on a week day is two marks, on Sunday, eight. As these marks accumulate, parents are informed by “letters home” when a certain limit is approached, which varies in the different years—more latitude being granted to seniors and juniors than is enjoyed by the lower classes. For seniors, the first letter comes at thirty marks; the second at about fifty; and the third, if there be one, informs the parent that his son has incurred sixty marks, and has been suspended for six weeks. This is “rustication.” The unfortunate retires to Milford, where he pursues his studies in interesting solitude. This marking system has many “defects,” which are especially patent to the down-trodden student, but it certainly has the merit of securing method and regularity in college duties. Other colleges, notably Amherst, have adopted new methods for which they claim great superiority over the archaic system. But it is safe to say that the Yale faculty must be thoroughly converted before they will discard the old system, which has been for years the bone of contention in every Yale debating club.
We come now to speak of the material world of Yale—its buildings and campus. Architecturally, Yale is inferior to both Harvard and Princeton. There are between thirty and forty buildings connected with Yale University; but on the college campus there are sixteen. Six of these are dormitories, occupied exclusively by members of the academic department, or Yale College proper. Four of these dormitories, together with three other buildings, the “Athenæum,” “Lyceum,” and “Old Chapel,” extend in a line along the east side of the campus, and constitute the “old brick row.” The dormitories are called “south,” “south middle,” “north middle,” and “north,” and are separated by the three recitation buildings mentioned above. “South middle,” erected in 1750, is the oldest building on the campus. Until within a few years, it was reserved for the use of the sophomore class, and many a trembling freshman has had his first experience of hazing within its ancient walls. The faculty concluded, however, that they would best consult the interests of good order and education by razing this sophomore stronghold. “South middle,” thoroughly renovated, is to-day as quiet as the seniors’ retreat—“South.” Durfee Hall, at the north end of the campus, is a handsome dormitory of brown stone, accommodating eighty students. Farnam Hall is a modern building of brick, furnishing rooms for an equal number. Battell Chapel, on the north-eastern corner of the campus, is a large stone building with a seating capacity of eight or ten hundred. Its walls contain many handsome memorial windows, and in one of its towers are the clock and chimes. Graduate’s Hall is a massive brown stone building, presenting the general appearance of a feudal castle. It is, in fact, the stronghold of the college, and must be taken several times during the course—it is the examination hall. Next comes the Library, a gothic building with low wings on either side. It is a repository for some one hundred and seventy-five thousand volumes. The Art School is one of the most expensive buildings on the campus. It is of brown stone, and, like the library, is overgrown with ivy planted by graduating classes. The Art School contains excellent collections of paintings, marbles, and casts, together with several studios and class rooms. The other buildings, known as “Old Lab.,” “Cabinet,” and “Treasury” are, it is to be hoped, as useful as they are unattractive. So much for the campus proper. Near by are the new Sloane Physical Laboratory, the gymnasium, and the Peabody Museum, which even in its present incomplete state is one of the largest buildings in New Haven. The collections are excellent, being especially complete in the departments of mineralogy and palæontology. Within the radius of a few squares are the Sheffield Scientific School, the Divinity School, and the departments of Law and Medicine.
Let us now turn to the composition of the college community. The four classes are separated by very clearly defined lines. While, of course, there are many friendships between men of different classes, as a rule men associate exclusively with their own classmates. When it is remembered that a class averages one hundred and fifty men, one explanation of this clannishness is obvious. It takes four years for a student to know his classmates, and among them he will find all the friends he needs. Until within the last year or two the elective system, which brings members of different classes into the same recitation room, has not been in operation, and men have always recited with their classmates exclusively. Another prominent reason for class feeling, as it is called, is found in athletic rivalry. Let one attend a class boat race, hear the shouting, observe the ecstacy of delight with which the winners carry their crew on their shoulders from the boat, and he will begin to understand the real significance of class spirit. This class spirit is warmest between the two lower classes, where the friction is greatest. Just here we may refer to hazing and rushing, which are objects of so much popular misapprehension. That in early years freshmen were subjected to rough, and often brutal treatment, can not be denied. But that order of things has passed away, together with early chapel and biennial examinations. A “rush” is nothing more than an attempt of freshmen and sophomores, arranged in solid phalanxes, to force each other back. Such a thing as a decision on a rush is unknown, and the whole affair has the advantage of leaving both sides assured of a “most decisive and brilliant victory.” Hazing is confined to the first few weeks of the term, and is harmless, not to say puerile, in its character. Sophomores wander about the streets, admonishing freshmen to “put out” their lights. If these commands are not complied with, the hazers ascend to the room of the audacious freshman, quiz him awhile, and then put him to bed, where he stays until his persecutors have left, when he resumes his interrupted tasks. The whole thing is a farce, and can not last much longer. Although the custom may be childish, it certainly is not the pernicious thing which the press would have the public believe.
Athletics have a very prominent place in the college world. Youthful vitality finds a safety valve in athletic exercises. Inter-collegiate rivalry is a most natural thing. University foot ball teams, crews and ball nines follow as a matter of course. These contests are of absorbing interest, and are eagerly anticipated. Alumni of many years’ standing are carried away with enthusiasm at a college match. The public is led to suppose that athletics monopolize the student’s thought and interest. It is true that students do talk of a ball match more frequently than of Greek particles. The one belongs to the recreative side of college life, the other to the recitation room. When relieved from his regular duties, the normal student seeks recreation. Beside affording exercise, athletics engender a college spirit which helps to bind together the Yale alumni all over the land. Whatever may be the excesses, the advantages are manifold. The faculty declare that athletics have never been more prominent, nor the standard of scholarship higher than at the present time.
One trace, at least, of the good, old, puritanic days is found in “compulsory prayers.” At seven every morning, except Sunday, when there are regular services at 10:30, the old bell in the lyceum tower disturbs the peacefully slumbering student. At eight it gives a second warning, and at about seven minutes after it rings again, until, tolling the last minute, it stops at 8:10 precisely. The students who have been dropping in one by one since eight, come in increasing numbers as the time approaches. As the bell and organ voluntary cease, a few stragglers drop into their seats. If it is the last of the term, there are often a few men who, having only two marks between them and the cold world, appear in conspicuously superficial toilets.
The chapel has two transepts, one occupied by the juniors, the other by the sophomores. The seniors fill the seats on either side of the center aisle; while the freshmen are consigned to the gloomy region under the rear gallery. The deportment of the students during chapel exercises is, without exception, dignified and respectful. President Porter reads a selection from the scriptures and announces four verses of a hymn, which are sung by the choir. Then follows the “long prayer,” during which almost every head is bowed. It can not be denied, however, that many a lesson is rapidly scanned during this part of the devotions. At the close of the prayer all stand until the president and instructors have left the building. The seniors face the center aisle, and as the president passes make a low bow, bringing the body into a horizontal position. The effect from the galleries is ludicrous, and affords visitors no little amusement. Immediately after prayers the classes repair to their recitation rooms. Although compulsory prayers are not universally popular, yet if regarded merely as a means of securing regularity, and, by assembling the classes, of fostering a spirit of college unity, they are undeniably valuable.
It would not do to describe Yale customs and neglect the “fence.” The uninitiated can not read of the “fence” and its traditions without a smile. To one who has not been a member of the Yale world, the customs of the fence seem as ridiculous as the antics and gambols of brokers on ’change. But having once, as a freshman, felt the joy of balancing on that “fence,” after defeating the Harvard freshman at base ball; as sophomore having displayed the wonders of the tailor’s art from the next higher division of the same perch; as junior having sung there the college songs, and watched the people “pass on the other side of the way,” and at last, as senior, having parted from one’s classmates there, the Yale “fence” must be to him more than any other dingy-brown, two-railed old structure can be.
Among several privileges which are withheld from the freshman when he begins his course, is that of sitting on the “fence.” Most readers would not regard this in the light of a serious privation. But such it really seems to the new comer. As soon as the Yale freshmen defeat the Harvard freshmen at base ball, they are rewarded by being permitted to sit on the freshmen fence. A man on taking his seat in the United States Senate can not feel any more real satisfaction than a Yale freshman perched for the first time on the “fence we’ve won.”
One of the most amusing exercises of commencement time is the presentation of the sophomore fence to the freshmen. A sophomore makes the speech of presentation, to which a freshman replies. These speeches are often bright and witty, and are received with great applause.
The “fence” is the forum, the market place of the college. Here appointments are made. It is here you look for a student before you seek him in his room. Here in the twilight, and far into the beautiful evenings of May and June, you may hear the college songs—now a lively air or snatch of opera; now a warble, loud and clear; again, some plaintive plantation melody. This is the time when the magic of the fence is most potent in its influence. There are more romantic things with which to associate the delightful memories of college life, perhaps, but nothing can bring a pleasanter throng of recollections to the Yale alumnus than the mention of the fence.
Fond as they are of being “on the fence,” Yale men are by no means undecided or vacillating. Yale is a positive institution, strong, orthodox, and conservative. Its alumni are prominent not so much in letters as in the affairs of state. Yale College is yearly sending out into the world enthusiastic, practical, sensible young fellows to strive, as the grand old song has it,
“For God, for country, and for Yale.”
New Haven, Conn.