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little above the grass. On either side a narrow and treacherous board sidewalk led up the slope to University Hill, and an obviously new two-plank-and-clay sidewalk led over the hill past the low wooden gymnasium to the president's house on the more distant hill. This was my first acquaintance with the practical board sidewalk, practical but treacherous. In later years it happened that inmediately after meeting, with immense and shy respect, a distinguished Scandinavian geologist I flung him prone upon Mother Earth by the simple device of stepping upon the end of a loose board in the sidewalk.
The president's house was at that time the only building on the hill, with an orchard on the northern slope just west of the house, and a vineyard of Concord grapes on the southern slope. Those luscious Concords were a wonderful product of a dry soil, and a temptation to generations of students: my brother and one of his most distinguished classmates were, I recall, caught purple-handed in this vineyard. The linden trees, the linden driveway, the groups of evergreen trees, and the seats at commanding points, all came later, and also the stables, which from my point of view were a very essential addition to a home.
There never was anything the matter with the site of the president's house, except that only half of the house could be heated at one time, which half depending upon the direction of the wind-that in those telephoneless and deliveryless days housekeeping required foresight and patience, and that only hardy petunias would survive the summer droughts which annually baked our lawn a crisp yellow. A legend spread, to my foolish distress, that the petunia was the president's favorite flower. But the sunsets, which we watched from the housetop whenever climatic conditions permitted, were a marvelous and complete compensation for every inconvenience. Such sunsets, with a low horizon and a sheet of water whose surface momentarily changing
under the impact of stirring air variously reflected the delicate and glowing colours of the sky, were never seen in the Berkshires and were a source of never-to-be-forgotten enchantment. When the astronomical observatories were completed in 1878 and the house of the sunsets became the astronomer's residence, the more commodious and comfortable character of Governor Dewey's old home (620 State Street) with all the conveniences and distinction of a location on the "Pennsylvania Avenue of the West" quite failed to compensate for the loss of views and ample spaces. The local center of my affections always remained the house on the hill. I used to go back occasionally on a Sunday afternoon and sit with Professor Watson on the north porch, watching the shadows scudding across Mendota and my quondam pet rooster strutting on the lawn with his snowwhite flock.
It was not until after 1887 that the house on Langdon Street became the home of the president and the lower campus was added to the University grounds. Between 1874 and 1887 there were "vacant lots" between Langdon and State streets traversed by paths and sometimes used for baseball practice.
The University grounds, which owe their unmatched natural advantages to prodigal unloading during the Ice Age, were losing during these years their unkempt character and acquiring something of their present aspect: the fence with the ornate white posts disappeared, the beautiful east slope was kept as a lawn, the driveways were lengthened and trees planted.
The students in the meantime were benefiting by the simple life of a small institution: we knew and admired all of our ten professors and resented any additions to their number by the introduction of "wise men from the East." On the faculty which we knew in 1874 were men of character and scholarship: Professor William F. Allen and Professor
Roland D. Irving were distinguished men in their profession and their names will live among investigators in their subjects. Professor Allen, with the scholar's oblivion of the trivial incitements to mirth which move an ignoble class, used to regard us over his glasses with a puzzled gaze when a ripple of laughter followed his rapid roll-call, "Green-Horne-Howe." Professor and Mrs. Allen quite unconsciously exerted a finely cultural influence in those days of immaturity: their home had the intellectual atmosphere of eastern New England and the liberal spirit of the Middle West.1
Professor Irving, distinctly a New Yorker and lacking the austerity of the New Englander, an aristocrat in tastes and of a generous and noble nature, was known by a smaller number of students. He was a rare teacher and a great geologist. By training and temperament disinclined to coeducation, in his classroom coeducation was carried out with almost startling consistency, typified by the seating of his students alphabetically without distinction of sex. It might be noted that in those days the somewhat opprobrious epithet "co-eds" had not yet been fastened upon the women. It may have been introduced with other and more desirable accessions from eastern institutions. It certainly is not indigenous to Wisconsin and does not fairly indicate the attitude of the student body toward the young women in my day.
It is necessary only to name Professors Sterling, Carpenter, Feuling, Nicodemus, Parkinson, and Daniels to demonstrate the strength of our faculty in 1874. Professor Carpenter died in 1878 before many of us knew him as a teacher, but an oral entrance examination in English grammar, which he conducted, made an impression on me of force and ability which I have never forgotten.
1 Mrs. Allen's reminiscences were published in this magazine in September, 1923, under the title "The University of Wisconsin soon after the Civil War."
Professor Feuling, whose chair was limited to modern languages and comparative philology, had an uncommon personality. The story is told of him that finding himself the only member of the faculty upon the chapel platform (this, I believe, antedated 1874) he announced that in so much as he was the only officer there and he was an "infiddle" there would be no chapel that morning.
Professor Davies, with the reputation of a scholar in his subject, physics, was never able to put over his instruction. Upon request we went to the board and occupied ourselves very busily in putting down equations, which we quickly erased at the sound of the bell and escaped, neither student nor professor any the wiser for the hour. Professor Kerr will always be remembered as the mild and gentle scholar who put at ease the most timid and backward student and was in turn ungratefully hectored in the classroom. Professor Anderson, whose autographed translations of Björnsterne Björnson's novels, seven in number, are among the cherished volumes in my library, was an enthusiastic instructor in 1874, later becoming professor of Scandinavian languages and literature. "To bee or not to bee" that is the question now-a-days" is inscribed on the flyleaf of Magnhild. It was Professor Anderson who inveigled me into the hot and healthful task of beekeeping, an experience not to be forgotten, nor to be regretted, nor to be repeated. Of all that early faculty Professor Anderson is, I think, the only one still living.' May he enjoy life for many years to come.
To this faculty came the wise men from the East, among whom we all remember with high regard John M. Olin, Edward A. Birge, Edw. T. Owen, Captain Charles King, Edw. S. Holden, William Trelease, Storm Bull (alias Tempestuous Taurus), and John William Stearns. No less distinguished men were added to our staff from the alumni
The writer is mistaken in this, for Professor Parkinson is still living at the advanced age of ninety.
of the University: C. R. Van Hise, F. J. Turner, Julius E. Olson, G. C. Comstock, Allen Conover, D. B. Frankenburger, L. M. Hoskins, Milton Updegraff, and others.
No reminiscences of old days would be complete without mention of Patrick-janitor, doorkeeper, and messenger to the president. There is an old story which I have heard told by one of the chief actors. When the incoming president, newly arrived in the spring of 1874, established himself in his office in University Hall, he expressed to Patrick some hope that they would get on well together. "Oh yes, Sor, I think so, Sor," replied Patrick, "for I have inquired into your charactor, Sor." When there was illness in our home Patrick appeared at the door in the early morning with a bottle of medicine, the efficacy of which had been tested and established in his household. He was very earnest that we should accept it, and of course we did.
The nonchalant "Mr." Ashby, janitor of Ladies' Hall, who could always be found leaning languidly against a wall with folded arms and crossed legs, ready for conversation, was of quite another and a more Dickensonian type.
The discontinuance of the preparatory department soon depleted our numbers advantageously, and the increasing subdivision of subjects meant stronger contacts with a larger number of directing minds. There were no candidates for higher degrees in those days, and textbooks and recitations were the order of the day, though in some classrooms considerable material was added by the professor. Courses were for the most part required, and specialization such as can be secured through the group system and electives was not thought of. There was only too little general or collateral reading and no manifestation, I should say, of the spirit of research. On the other hand, the majority of us were in earnest about securing the training which the University offered, and were neither captiously critical of nor antagonistic to our instructors. Nor were we distracted