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.