One warm morning last July, a small group of people to whom Michigan is dear, were sitting by a spring, famed in the valley for its clear waters. It was in a hollow among Colorado foothills and mountains, six hours by stage from town, and so little known that visitors expected to see no one but their neighbors from town. Our rencontre was therefore unusual. As we sat about on the rough benches a friend hailed a strong, bronze-faced man.
"Good morning, Mr. Elliott. Come up here."
It was a command which could not well be disobeyed in spite of the pre-dominance of the feminine element, so after a moment's hesitation he came up—with a resolute expression—and was introduced as H. W. Elliott, '73. He called himself a wanderer on the face of the earth, but he was glad to pause on the hillside for a morning of Michigan gossip. So much did we enjoy his reminiscences that we tried to induce him to write them down for his classmates; but he "would rather take a dose of arsenic," and so the task has fallen on other shoulders.
Entering the University as a special student in '71, Mr. Elliott chose to interpret that designation as permission to take whatever work he wanted in as large quantities as he wanted, the time of recitation being the only point in which he was limited. Professor Elisha Jones once called him up for reciting seven hours every day of the week, but dropped his case on the plea that Elliott was to be examined that very week in four of his subjects, thus reducing his work to the normal amount. It seemed strange to us of a later day to hear of Professor Walter as examiner in botany, and Professor Morris as instructor in German. As young instructors Mr. Elliott remembers Professors Beman and Pattengill, the latter like a young Viking in stature, coloring, and length of beard. Under Professor D'Ooge was a class in "Demosthenes On the Crown," whose work evidently made an unusual impression, so readily were the names recalled,—Charlie Thomas, Jameson, Matthews, Lane, and Mary Sheldon, all of '74.
"Professor D'Ooge will remember them," he said; "it was better than eating to hear them read the Greek and translate."
We were given a brief character sketch of Professor Watson. Once Mr. Elliott earned his momentary contempt by reeling off some theories swallowed whole from Professor Winchell's books; but upon learning that it was a case of swallowing, but not digesting the objectionable ideas, Professor Watson was mollified and dismissed him with directions to choose more wisely in the future. Professor Watson was so merciful to beginners that he would look at the ceiling and whistle half audibly to avoid seeing open books during an examination; but to advanced pupils in astronomy he was a most severe teacher,—severe as he was beloved. But woe to the unlucky pupil who ventured to quote Professor Olney! Then came the quick retort, "What are you talking of Olney for He knows just enough to teach arithmetic or beginning algebra."
Under such instructors Mr. Elliott, after a two years' residence at the University, was able to graduate with '73, "the brigands," as President Angell called them. It was '73 men who early in their career, tore up five hundred dollars' worth of sidewalks, and later, upon learning that President Haven had deposited that sum from his private account to reimburse the city authorities, went down into their pockets and paid every cent. On the occasion of a debate between the students of the Ypsilanti normal school, they kidnapped the speakers, and carried them to the pump on the Campus at Ann Arbor. There the ''brigands” poured water down the back and up the arms and legs of the faultlessly attired youths, and finally told them to run for their train if they wished to escape. Great efforts were made to fasten this, as many other misdemeanors, upon the innocent freshmen and sophomores, but '73 was never suspected. The men of '73 seem to have been rather an ungallant lot, too, for they authorized a certain dapper member to wait upon Miss Hapgood, the one lady in the class, with a petition that she withdraw for a year in order that they might have the honor of being the last unpetticoated class. They saw that the three lower classes were invaded beyond redemption, but perhaps they could yet save themselves. However, the Faculty, hearing of their action, declared that Miss Hapgood should graduate if she never made a recitation or passed an examination; so '73 was petticoated.
During the senior year of '73 occurred a grand rush, in comparison with which all others pale into insignificance. On the northeast corner of the Campus, at that time given over to athletics, there met about two o'clock, Nov. 7, 1872, the literary students against the allied forces of the laws and medics. It is hard for one who has not participated to describe such an event. The layman can only say that the battle raged furiously from 2 p. m. until midnight, when the literary boys held the Campus as victors, their vanquished enemies having been caught one by one, passed from hand to hand over the heads of the tallest men, and dropped over the Campus fence. Next morning the scene of action presented a good field for collectors of studs, scarf pins, and cuff buttons, all belonging to the laws and medics, who, not expecting so early an attack had not come accoutered for the combat.
Mr. Elliott was a Phi Gamma Delta in Tennessee, before entering the University. Our interest in the fraternity vs. independent question, led us to ask his opinion. "I ought never to have joined," he said. "A fraternity man thinks his own brothers are all right, and everybody else wrong, and I can't stand that. No, and it doesn't help a man in the world. No one is going to ask whether you are an Alpha Delt or Psi U. Why, two thirds of the men I've been thrown with don't know what a degree is, and would think I was crazy if I got my diploma out of my tin box."
The Students' Lecture Association was a fixed institution by this time. The twelve lectures were bunched in the first six months to accommodate the law and medical students, who at that time were graduated in March. It was a rule that members paid fifty cents every other lecture, non-members fifty cents every lecture. Trouble arose over financing Henry Ward Beecher's lecture, for $1500 was the sum he asked. A motion was put to ask Mr. Beecher whether he meant to hire out for one night or sell himself for life. Fortunately for Mr. Beecher's feelings this motion was downed. Then came the question of admission. Since the sum to be realized was so large, the price was raised to $1.50 even for members, whereupon an indignant minority of three hundred, who felt that their rights were infringed upon, agreed to swamp the finances of the association by absenting themselves from the lecture. The regular fifty cents they would pay, but no more. It was a case of principle vs. their great desire to hear Beecher. On the night of the lecture they formed in line and marched through town, stopping here and there for beer, and singing college songs at the top of their voices; but in spite of their distraction the lecture was not disturbed, and the association came out a few dollars ahead.
The college audiences, said Mr.Elliott, were by far the hardest to please. When Mr. Sumner at the end of two hours impressively said, "There are two more points —," a hiss arose from the weary audience,—a hiss which grew and grew until the disconcerted orator backed off the stage. In vain did the president of the association assure him that it was simply student factions hissing one another. Mr. Sumner would not touch the five hundred dollars, which he was to have received for delivering the lecture.
Mr. Elliott told us of a chance meeting, which may interest members of the class of '63. It was in the wilds of New Mexico. Elliott and his partner, a little Scotchman unused to roughing it, had traveled thirty-five miles, and in the late evening were making for the one spring in the neighborhood. Suddenly he saw a glow about half a mile away, not the glow of flames, but that which appears in the air a few feet over a fire, which is smoldering. This, they supposed, meant Indians, but since water was a necessity, Mr. Elliott hid his partner in some brush, telling him that if there was firing and he himself did not return, the course over the hill and due west would take him to Silver City. Mr. Elliott crawled up to within a few yards of the fire, and though he could distinguish no words exchanged by the two men crouching over the embers, he thought that one spoke with authority, as if he were a superior officer. Trusting to this, Mr. Elliott called, "Are you Americans” The answer showed him that they were United States soldiers, through whose pickets he had crawled, and on approaching the fire he shook hands with a Lieutenant Smith. The next day as he and the lieutenant were riding ahead of the company, the latter happened to speak of his medical training.
"Where did you study"
"In Ann Arbor," was the answer.
And then and there the two men dismounted and had a "regular hugging match with no one around to care.” Lieutenant Smith was a student in the medical department, in the early sixties, "a brave man but reckless,” says Mr. E. In '81 or '82 in the southwestern part of New Mexico, Indians had made a raid on a farmhouse. Lieutenant Smith started in pursuit. In the Gavalon Canon on the western slope of the Black Range, the Indians were in ambush, as the cavalrymen knew almost to a certainty. Lieutenant Smith hesitated.
"Come on," said a companion, "if you don't, I'll report you for cowardice."
"No you won't," came the answer.
"Let's see who can ride to death quickest."
They were shot together—before they could even unstrapped their guns. If memory and time allowed, other incidents might be recalled, such as the descent of the famous rooster of '73. As it is, the best we can do is to refer to the yarn-spinner himself, Mr. H. W. Elliott, whose permanent address is Hillsboro, New Mexico.
J. P. W., '97
The Michigan Alumnus
December 1903, page 134
