DARTMOUTH IN THE SEVENTIES

II

For nearly a half century Professor Sanborn was a member of the College Faculty. He exercised a large and lasting influence upon the student body. He was a man of vigorous intellect and of a rugged, forceful character. His knowledge of literature was broad, and he was an accurate student of the history of eloquence. The department of which he was the head brought him into close contact with the students, and afforded him ample opportunity to impress his personal views and opinions upon the pupils. He could analyze character with marvelous accuracy, calling attention to the strong and weak points which he had observed in the student, ending the interview with some wise and wholesome advice which rarely ever failed to be of lasting benefit. He was a typical New Englander,— the blood of the Websters flowed in his veins. He entertained positive views on the political and religious issues of the day, and was not lacking in courage to defend them. He possessed all the essential qualities for eminent success in public life,—courage, strength of conviction, wide knowledge of history, a forceful debater, and a natural leader of men. His inclination was to advise young men to enter political life, in the expressed belief that they could be of more service to mankind in that field of service than elsewhere. We boys called him Professor "Bully", which was a term of endearment and high regard.

Professor Noyes, who was at the head of the Department of Philosophy and Economics, was a college classmate of Sanborn, in the class of 1832. Their graduation was at a time when Dartmouth was educating men to become leaders in the educational world. President Smith was of the class of 1830. Among the men who were in college during his course six became college presidents and thirty-two professors, and this list does not include those who became college tutors. We must also bear in mind that the classes graduating at this time were of very limited numbers, the average being about thirty-three to a class.

Professor Noyes was a man of scholarly tastes, by nature sensitive and shy, and quite easily imposed upon. He assumed that all the boys were as sincere and honest as himself, which at any time, or in any college, would be a rather violent assumption. I recall an incident in my senior year which well illustrates his confiding nature. He was giving a lecture on some subject relating to mental philosophy, and was speaking of the relation between the nervous organism and the brain, and how the nerves conveyed at times false impressions to the brain. He gave as an illustration the case of a person who had his hand amputated, and yet for some time after the operation the patient had sensations which the brain located in the fingers of the amputated hand. Sampson Reed of our class, who had a tendency toward harmless mischief, raised his hand for recognition, and Professor Noyes said, "What is it, Reed?" who replied, "I once knew a case which came under my personal observation which may throw some light on the subject you are now discussing"; to which Professor Noyes replied, "Will you be good enough to relate the case, Reed? We are all seeking the truth, and both the class and myself will be under obligations to you for any new light on this interesting subject." "Well", said Reed. "I once knew a man who had his right leg amputated about half way between the knee and the hip. The. surgeon buried the amputated member in a wooden box, and the patient continued for weeks to have the sensation that his right leg was in a bent posture. The surgeon told him this sensation would probably disappear, but weeks went by and the sensation persisted. Finally the surgeon decided to dig up the buried box, and found upon examination that the amputated leg was in a bent position. He straightened it out, and called upon his patient, who told him that the sensation had disappeared at a certain hour and minute, which was the exact time the surgeon had straightened out the amputated leg. Now, Professor, how do you account for that?" "I will tell you,

Reed, how I account for that. I account for it by saying that your story is an outrageous falsehood. My belief is that you have been honestly deceived by some designing person." The Professor's face became flushed with excitement, and it was some time before he could compose himself. He was sadly lacking in that saving grace of humor, which so often relieves an embarrassing situation. He was, nevertheless, a good teacher, earnest and even enthusiastic in his work,—of strong religious convictions, and those who were on terms of intimacy with him bear testimony to his delightful companionship.

Professor Young, the astronomer, was our most distinguished member of the Faculty in the Seventies. We called him Professor "Charley". The boys at Princeton, however, gave him the fitting name of "Professor Twinkle"> He certainly was a star, and his bright eyes always twinkled like a star of the first magnitude. As early as 1870 his reputation as an astronomer had already become international, and after the publication of his "Observations on the Transit of Venus" he was recognized by scientists as the foremost astronomer in the world. In personal appearance he was a small man, with dark hair, full beard, and snapping black eyes. His movements were rapid, both in body and mind. I do not think Professor Young was generally regarded as a good instructor. His knowledge was so vast and scientific that it was very difficult for him to bring his discussion down to the mental level of the class. He treated us as though we were fellow scientists in a convention engaged in exchanging views on the new discoveries of the day. It was his habit to go to a large blackboard, pick up a crayon, and tell us what a simple process it was to compute the distance between the earth and some particular star. He would then proceed to cover the board with algebraic characters, reaching the result in the lower hand corner, throw down the crayon, brush the chalk from his hands, and remark, "You see how simple the process is!" One day when he had performed one of these feats on the board, he called up our class leader, and said, "Haines, do you understand it?" Joe was a modest youth, and while standing he appeared to nod his assent in such a manner that the average auctioneer would have accepted it as a bid. "What do you understand?" said the Professor, and Joe was forced to admit that he did not understand anything. This incident made a most unfavorable impression upon Young as to the mathematical ability of the class. The following year our class voted to bury mathe- matics in accordance with an ancient custom which had fallen into disuse for many years. We ordered a coffin made by the cabinet maker, which was to be twelve feet in length and four feet in breadth. Professor Young chanced to be in the shop one day, and seeing the casket, which was nearly completed, inquired of Mr. Rand, what use was to be made of it. He was told that it was a coffin which the class of '74 was to make use of to bury mathematics. Young replied, "Why so large? A six quart tin pail would hold all the mathematics there are in that class." Professor Young was in every sense a product of Dartmouth. He was born at Hanover, the son of a distinguished Dartmouth professor, and he conferred great honor on his alma mater by his conspicuous career.

Professor Parker of the Latin department devoted the greater part of his life to the service of the College. He was educated for the ministry, served as chaplain in the Civil War, and retired from the pulpit and returned to the college where he had once been tutor shortly after his graduation in the class of 1841. He was a most interesting personality. His pale face, in striking contrast with his jet black hair, the tall silk hat, and in winter months the long army cape, the quiet, courteous bearing, the genial kindly smile, all combined to render him worthy to bear the "grand old name of gentleman." Without doubt .he was a very learned Latin scholar, and deeply interested in Roman literature. It was his habit, after a student had translated a passage, to give .his interpretation of how it should be translated, and this he did in such beautiful English as to excite the admiration of the class. There was a current rumor among the boys that Professor Parker was of such a sympathetic nature that he was incapable of giving a low mark however poor the recitation.

John C. Proctor was professor of Greek. He graduated in 1864 at the head of his class. He was a brilliant scholar, and was made professor in 1870, when but thirty years of age. He belonged to what may be called the student type, more so perhaps than any other member of the faculty of his time, with the possible exception of Young. He gave the full limit of his time and energy to the study of the Greek language. He was very popular with the high ranking men, who considered him an admirable instructor, but he failed to show much sympathy for those who were dull pupils. No doubt he, like many others, would gladly have applied the rule of the survival of the fittest, which would have lopped off the lower third of the class, and sent them back to the farm and workshop on the theory that they were not worth the expense and trouble of educating. The difficulty, however, is in determining which are the ones worth educating. I recall having a conversation with Dr. Eliot many years ago, when he was President of Harvard, on this very subject. He said that the policy of his college was to save the boys and give them such training as they were capable of receiving. The best scholars of good habits required no special attention. They would take care of themselves and Secure the full benefit of the college training. Not so with the other class. They must be supervised and watched over and disciplined. He considered it far better that a boy should sow his wild oats while in college, under such restraining influence as the college authorities could impose, rather than sow them later in life, in the absence of all restraint. He said that the outcome of the policy at Harvard had proved very satisfactory. It is undoubtedly true that during the past fifty years Harvard has graduated a considerable number of men who during their college courses were almost constantly under college discipline, and who today are among the most brilliant and useful of that period. But this is quite apart from Professor Proctor. He grew rapidly in learning and fame during his years at Dartmouth, and was on his way to become one of the foremost Greek scholars in America when his life came to a close in his early manhood, at the age of thirty-nine years.

Elihu T. Quimby was at the head of the Department of Mathematics and Engineering. He was a graduate of the College in 1851. He had the characteristic traits of the engineer rather than those of a college professor. He was a rather striking personality,—broad shoulders, black hair, full beard, an olive complexion, and dark, luminous eyes. It was his habit to wear a broad brimmed soft felt hat of a cream color, which was in striking contrast with his complexion. He was what is called a "good mixer" among men and boys, and could always hold his own in a "give and take" discussion. For many years he was connected with the U. S. Coast Survey, which was a service more to his tastes than that of the class-room. The boys gave him the nick-name of "Quibe", and in 1873 there appeared in the mock program of the junior exhibition the following lines: "If ever I cease to love, May Bully grow hair, And Quibe play fair, If ever I cease to love."

The inference from these .lines was that these two things were impossible of performance, but I feel sure that so far as Quibe was concerned the reference to him was a gross libel. Professor Quimby's son Charles was a member of the class of 74, -and one of our very best men. He became a distinguished physician in New York City, and throughout life was a loyal son of Dartmouth.

Professor Ruggles was in charge of the Department of Modern Languages. He was an excellent teacher, of scholarly tastes, of a modest, quiet demeanor, and thoroughly devoted to his work. The time allotted to the study of Modern Languages in the Seventies was altogether too limited to be of any considerable value to the student. I feel sure that no one became so proficient in the French language as to have been mistaken for a Frenchman while in France, or acquired enough of German to pass for a native of the Fatherland. The knowledge acquired, however, was sufficient' to stimulate a desire in many to continue the study later in life.

Professor Hitchcock was at the head of the Department of Geology for nearly forty years. He was a graduate of Amherst in 1856, and came of a family eminent in the study of the science of geology. He received from Amherst and other colleges the highest academic degrees, but Dartmouth for some reason never conferred any degree upon him until 1908, when the Trustees conferred upon him the rather moderate degree of Master of Arts. He was thorough master of the subject he taught, and there was about him a charm of manner that was most attractive.

Dr. Leeds was the college pastor, and attendance upon church was compulsory. Sunday was a very busy day,—a Latin Bible lesson at 9.30 in the morning, and two long church services, one at 10.30 and the other at 2.30, and a vesper service in the chapel at five o'clock in the afternoon, which occupied about an hour. It was at this vesper service that we saw President Smith at his best. He impressed everyone with his eloquence and the beauty of his extemporaneous address.

Dr. Leeds was a preacher of the old school. He kept well within the articles of the church creed, was satisfied with the belief of the fathers, and was not easily led astray by new views on theological questions. He knew the student body better than they knew him. . In January, 1902 I attended the annual banquet of the Washington alumni, and Dr. Leeds was present. He was standing at the head of a receiving line, near the door through which we entered, and surprised me by calling me. by name. Shortly afterwards I met Captain Nesmith of the Army, who was a member of our class at Dartmouth, and told him that I had been recognized by name by our old college pastor. He replied by saying that he surely could not recognize him, as he had never spoken to him in his life, and that when he attended church at Hanover he always sat behind a post and read a novel. I then took the Captain up to Dr. Leeds and said, "Here is a member of the class of '74; can you call him by name?" "Wait a moment", said the Doctor, and he shaded his eyes with his hand, meditated for a moment, and replied, "Otto Andreae Nesmith, San Antonio, Texas." The Captain was simply amazed by this feat of memory, and said to the Doctor that he was surprised that he should recognize him, for the reason that he had never taken any active part or shown any interest in religious affairs while in Hanover, to which the Doctor replied, "That is why I remember you; I remember the sinners far better than I do the saints."

The last time I ever saw Dr. Leeds was at Hanover. It must have been about the year 1908. He was talking with Judge David Cross, near the entrance to the Inn, and they were discussing habits of life conducive to old age. They were then both well advanced in years.

The Doctor said to the Judge, "I believe you have always been a temperance man, Judge." "I have always been a temperate man", said the Judge. "Ah!" said the Doctor, "I fully appreciate the distinction you make", and the conversation turned to other topics.

Squire Duncan was still in the active practice of law in the Seventies. He was a graduate of the College in the same class with President Smith in 1830, and I understand was the leader of that class. His Hanover law office was unique. During his many years of practice he had never destroyed a paper that came into his possession. His system of filing papers was also unique, which consisted of throwing them on the office floor, and after they had become too deep for comfortable walking he arranged them in windrows, with narrow paths between them. He had one wide road, or boulevard, running from the entrance door up to his desk, which was located in a distant corner. The Squire usually sat at his desk, with his tall hat and French cloak on, prepared to respond with alacrity to any emergency call. He took his meals at the Dartmouth Hotel, which was then under the excellent management of Mr. Horace Frary. It was currently reported that during the many years this relation of landlord and guest had existed between Frary and Duncan no exchange of money or lawful currency had ever passed between them. There was a story current in my day at Hanover that Mrs. Frary had finally induced her husband to make formal demand upon the Squire for the payment of Board money, and that when he did so the Squire informed his landlord that it was not his custom to pay bills until they were presented, and that whenever Mr. Frary should present a correct bill, showing in detail his indebtedness, it would be promptly liquidated. Within a few days Mr. Frary did present his bill, covering table board for the six years preceding. The Squire said he would be glad to examine the bill, and if correct it would be his pleasure to pay it. The day following the Squire called upon Frary, and having at sundry times acted as his legal adviser, presented his bill for legal services for the six years which the board bill covered, and said to his landlord that whenever that bill was paid it would be his pleasure to pay Mr. Frary's bill. When Frary examined the bill he discovered that the Squire's charges exceeded the amount charged in his bill by about $75. Never again in the many years that followed did the hotel manager call upon the Squire to make payment of a board bill. The discussion of that subject was forever over, and the relation of landlord and guest continued to the end. The entire affair was creditable alike to each,—Mr. Frary had the benefit of able counsel at all hours, to guide him in the hazardous business of conducting his hotel, and the only compensation for this valuable service was a modest fee of three meals daily.

There came to us now and then during the fall and winter months famous lecturers, who relieved the monotony of college life. Dr. John Lord's lectures on historic subjects were most interesting and instructive. Wendell Phillips' oration on Daniel O'Connell gave the students an excellent example of the power of eloquence. "Adirondack" Murray's lecture on "Deacons" was a fine example of facetious wit, concluding with a great moral lesson. Gough's appeal in behalf of temperance was forceful and convincing, even though there was little occasion for temperance appeals among college boys in those days. On several occasions we had the privilege of listening to political spellbinders. The most notable of these was Theodore Tilton, who came to Hanover in October, 1872 to advocate the cause of his friend, Horace Greeley, in the national campaign of that year. The rally was in the college church, and the reputation of the speaker was sufficient to fill the church to its fullest capacity. As Tilton came on to the platform we saw before us a tall man, with a pale, careworn face, his long brown hair combed well back, and reaching to his shoulders, clad in a black Prince Albert coat and light gray trousers. I believe I can recall the exact words of his opening sentence in that very remarkable speech. It ran as follows: "After fifty-six days and nights of arduous toil the oil in my lamp is burning low, and yet my love for the cause leads me on, even though it be with slow and halting pace." It was a marvelous address by a great dramatic orator, filled with classical allusions aptly adapted to his college audience. His retorts when interrupted were strikingly dramatic. The audience was aware that Mrs. Greeley was seriously ill, but did not know that she had passed away that very morning. When Tilton first referred to Greeley by name the friends of Grant hissed. Instantly Tilton held up his long arms in a beseeching attitude and exclaimed, "Oh, boys, don't hiss the poor old man as he bends over the dead body of his wife." A deathlike hush instantly came over the audience. Later in his speech he caused an uproar among the students by some remark he made, and quick as a flash he pointed his hand in the direction of Dartmouth Hall, and exclaimed, "On yonder chapel bell the founders of this college inscribed the words, vox clamantis in deserto. Will you, in this enlightened day, deny me the privilege of free speech?" I have always regarded that speech as one of the most eloquent and fascinating I ever listened to. Tilton was a man of remarkable genius, and if he had been of a stable character he would have been one of the great men of his generation.

Professor Sanborn

Professor Noyes

Professor C. A. Young

Professor Parker

Professor Proctor

Professor Quimby

Professor Ruggles

Professor Hitchcock

Doctor Leeds

"Squire" Duncan