University of Virginia Library

XXVII. Diversions—Continued

But the Nippers in their turn,—no doubt, in consequence
of such disreputable acts as the one just described,
—ultimately sank into desuetude, and were succeeded
by the dykers. A profound question, which has never
been satisfactorily answered, has long been this: What
was the origin of the word dyke? The editors of the
magazine, in one of the numbers for 1877, discussed
this question with learning, and with moderation also,
for even previous to that time, it had often been a subject
of hot debate under the arcades. Unhappily, the
conclusion which they reached was not decisive, since
they were able, with equal plausibility, to trace the elusive
word back to two possible fountain-heads. It was
derived, they asserted, either (1) from Van Dyke, the
limner of portraits, in which the costumes were remarkably
elaborate and conspicuous; or (2) from the Greek
verb deiknumi, which meant to show, to make a show.
The word is said to have been first used by a daughter of
George M. Dallas, of Philadelphia, while visiting the
family of Judge Henry St. George Tucker, at the University
of Virginia.

The only purpose of the dyke seems to have been to put
out of countenance a collegian, who, having adorned his
person with his most becoming clothes, was on his way
to call upon some friend among the young ladies,
whether residing within the precincts, or in Charlottesville.
It was a very expanded form of the grinning ordeal
through which so many belated students had to pass
before reaching their seats in the lecture-hall or the
dining-room. "Our feast," says Judge Duke, in describing
one of these dykes, "was interrupted by a pandemonium,
—horns, drums, and coal scuttles thumped

with a poker, accompanied by a babel of noises. We
knew that it meant some youth had been caught on his
way to see his fair one. Lit by the glare of improvised
torches, the beau, with a fixed and set smile on his face,
walked ahead, a torch-bearer on either side, while behind
came the howling mob. Once we followed it to a female
school. The dykee was to visit a cousin there.
The principal implored them to depart. 'Two young
pupils have fainted,' he cried, 'and two are about to
faint.'"

It was some incident of this kind, perhaps, that
aroused to the boiling point the indignation of a certain
indiscreet Charlottesville editor of that day, and caused
him imprudently to censure all participants in a dyke,
without any discrimination whatever. He was an unmarried
man; and a few nights afterwards, it was rumored
along the arcades that he was calling upon a
young lady in the University. Before the visit was
concluded, one half of the entire body of students had
gathered in front of the pavilion; and there they patiently
waited for him to emerge. A profound silence
was observed, in order not to alarm him, as it was feared
that, if his suspicions were excited, he might endeavor to
escape by the backyard. When, hat in hand, and smiling,
and happy, he appeared on the threshold of the
opened door, accompanied by the young lady, ready to
wish him a pleasant walk to town, the very heavens
seemed to be shattered by the awful din that simultaneously
burst forth from several hundred vigorous
throats, and rapidly beaten drums and scuttles, and
fiercely blown tin-horns. At once a procession to Charlottesville
was formed, the editor at its head, with a long
escort of young men behind him, some of whom were
still in their dressing-gowns and slippers, some without

coats, cuffs or collars,—so great was their eagerness to
take part in the dyke,—and all with flaming torches in
their hands. The deafening noise was kept up until the
national bank in town was reached. There the procession
halted. The editor was forced to ascend to the
top step of the building and deliver a speech. This he
did in a spirit of humorous resentment, and its most
pungent paragraph was the one in which he contrasted
the cackling of the feathered geese that saved Rome in
an historical emergency, with the cackling of the unfeathered
geese in front of him, who could not be depended
upon to save the University in any crisis whatsoever.

It is said that, in the course of the eighth decade, when
the dyke had entered upon the stage of its highest popular
favor, no student ever left his dormitory to call upon
a young lady that he was not fearful of being followed
by a motley tail of horn-blowers and drum-beaters.
Long before he crossed his own threshold, on his way
out,

When a ball was about to take place in one of the professor's
pavilions, every student invited was perfectly
aware, while standing before his mirror preparing for
the festival, that he would be accompanied to the door by
all his less lucky comrades, eager to shake his self-possession
before he entered the drawing-room. "The
guests in their best garb," says Professor Raleigh C.
Minor, "would scurry to their destination like frightened
rabbits, and take to the alleys and dark roads. If
caught, the visitor was required to furnish a sample of
his oratory from the Rotunda steps. Having made his

speech, he was escorted to the door. There he had to
run the gauntlet between rows of hooting students; and
hastened by paddles and pushes, he would land within
the mansion breathless and disheveled."

In 1872, a contributor to the magazine ventured to
assert that the popularity of the dyke was falling away,
and the reason which he gave for this opinion proved
that he was a nice observer. He affirmed that he had
noticed of late that the participants in these noisy demonstrations
were not willing to accompany their victim
further than the gate at the postoffice. This was the
limit of the precincts on that side of the grounds. The
writer regretted this evidence of languishing interest, because
he was convinced that the dyke had, as he said,
"the happy effect of bringing the students together,
and knitting them in the bonds of a common feeling."
This boisterous recreation was about to pass into the
province of an intermittent, if not entirely defunct, custom,
when its fading coals were fanned into a new flame,
—certainly for the time being,—by the introduction of
what was admiringly called the "Big Horn of the
Range." This mighty instrument of blatancy has been
made famous in the University's annals by one of the
most brilliant poems that was ever printed in the pages
of the magazine. A few lines quoted from these stanzas
will give a more accurate impression of its size and the
terrifying scope of its sound, than any prose description
which can be offered for the same purpose.

But not even with this Goliath among horns to increase
the delightful pandemonium of the dyke, could
the custom be kept from falling away. An incident
that occurred in 1888 seems to have precipitated the
coup de grâce. "One night," we are told by Professor
Raleigh C. Minor, "a dyke being in progress, the
hunters, gathered around the place of entertainment,
snatched a man from his girl, leaving her alone within
the door. There was a fight next day. But the indignation
of the student body was aroused by this breach
of decorum; and by a mass meeting, the custom of the
dyke was solemnly abrogated." After this event, every
endeavor to get underway a demonstration of this character
ended in failure.[20]

The Sons of Confucius were not more compactly organized

than the dykers; and as with the dykers also,
their single object was to bring confusion into the mental
machinery of some unlucky victim. This society was revived
in 1867, and held its meetings,—whenever there
was an occasion for one,—in the basement of the Rotunda.
It assembled always under the veil of darkness,
and only for the purpose of initiating a green new member.
The "goat," blindfolded, was first led around the
grounds with the view of mixing up his impressions of
localities; and when this end had been accomplished, he
was brought into the rear of the Rotunda. Here the
order was loudly given, "Take your shoes off, sir, for
this is holy ground"; and when the "goat" had done
this, with fumbling fingers, he was pushed along the corridor
uniting the Rotunda with the Annex. In this passageway,
where every footstep resounded, and where the
Sons who had not served as an escort had gathered, with
dim lights, beforehand, the ceremony of initiation was
held. The initiate, still blindfolded, shoeless, and sockless,
was compelled to listen to a preamble which set
forth elaborately the terrifying penalties that would fall
on him, should he disclose the awful secrets of the order.
A coal scuttle was then placed on his hatless head, and he
was sternly commanded to answer a series of unearthly
questions. His guides would prompt him with equally
ludicrous and preposterous replies. If he hesitated to
repeat them, the chief officer would call out "Reverse
him across the sword of justice." The grand scribe recorded
each answer, but before doing so, would strike
two coal-scuttle blowers violently together. One of the
interrogatories put to him was: "Do you believe that
the union of the American red bug with the African elephant
will produce a dilemma, which will inevitably rival
the authorship of Junius?" When the series of questions,
all of the same tenor, had been exhausted, the order
was given: "Remove the helmet (the coal scuttle),"
and as soon as the initiate could discover what was
around him, he found himself confronted by a living
donkey. In the midst of yells and screeches, the lights
were suddenly extinguished, and the crowd, with a rush,
dispersed.