University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XIX

Professors—Personal Characteristics and Traits

"You know we have all, from the beginning, considered the
high qualifications of our Professors as the only means by
which we could give to our institution splendor and pre-eminence
over all our sister seminaries. The only question, therefore,
we can ever ask ourselves, as to any candidate, will be,
is he the most highly qualified? The college of Philadelphia
has lost its character of primacy by indulging motives of favoritism
and nepotism, and by conferring the appointments as
if the professorships were entrusted to them as provisions for
their friends. And even that of Edinburgh, you know, is
also much lowered from the same cause. We are next to observe,
that a man is not qualified for a Professor knowing
nothing but his own profession. He should be otherwise well
educated as to the sciences generally; able to converse understandingly
with the scientific men with whom he is associated,
and to assist in the councils of the Faculty on any subject of
science on which they may have occasion to deliberate. Without
this he will incur their contempt and bring disreputation
on the institution." Thus wrote Mr. Jefferson to Cabell,
February 3, 1824, a year before the University opened.

Passing over the brilliant array that prior to my day held in
hand the destiny of the University, according to this high ideal
of Mr. Jefferson, I approach with a respect most profound that
noble band of faithful teachers I personally found in command
—those that impressed and taught me facts as well as principles

which have served as useful guides throughout my life.
Yet with this pleasurable task there is associated intuitively a
slight but certain hesitation, since it enforces to a degree an
undue liberty with the personalities of the minority that live,
as well as an inadequate tribute to the majority that sleep.
To both in life such estimation from pupils would no doubt in
a measure prove distasteful, but towards only the helpless, if
need be, should protection be extended. A third of a century
has not effaced in the least their earlier impressions upon the
youth, as to-day they stand out precisely where we left them—
the embodiment of wisdom and knowledge, the students'
exemplar and guide, the possessors of ever helpful and willing
counsel for all those entrusted to their care. Some were
known only during my university life, others have been seen
occasionally at long intervals, gradually growing old as I have
been growing older, but to them all remain in strongest light
the simple personal contact of student days.

The Faculty of that period consisted of fifteen members,
each an active, healthy, enthusiastic and inspiring leader in his
department—all competent masters of the ground they trod.
For it those of other institutions entertained the highest regard
and respect, since they recognized it to be composed of
the broadest-typed scholarly men—such as were too magnanimous
to be interested in, or laboring for other than the
general good. In the South it was accepted to be the center
of higher thought and knowledge, especially learned and fitted
for training those who were to occupy honorably the leading
professional and professorial positions. This flattering recognition
of our Faculty, be it to its credit, did not cause an
assumption of stately arrogance, but on the contrary rather a
courtly humility—that so well calculated to inspire an abiding
faith in the honest desire to serve others without stint or favor
in the hour of need, and never to abuse knowingly a reposed
confidence. Here truly the comity of interest and intentions
seemed centered and complete, ever void of jar and friction,
in consequence of which, whenever any teaching corps became
depleted by death or resignation, it was chiefly to the University
and her well-trained sons that the eyes of those interested
were turned, in the hope of finding a solution in some suitable
personage.

Most of its members were in their forties, several just beyond;
none youthful, only two or three whom we considered
advanced—a commendable quality in our young eyes, as these,
somehow or another, were accepted to be the most learned and
distinguished teachers—so that as a capable teaching body we
regarded it with scarcely an equal in our land, certainly without
a superior. As a fact we recognized that a few of the
higher institutions had one or more equal shining lights, but
we felt convinced of our superior numbers—proud that no
other was so fortunate when considering all departments.
This sentiment was so strong that it made some of us intollerant
of others' views which differed from or tended in the
least to make our Faculty suffer by comparison, even though
we bore in mind times when we thought this or that professor
made his exactions and requirements unnecessarily severe, indeed,
tempered with little mercy. At the same time we believed
that they dispensed to all concerned justice as they saw,
read and interpreted it, and as a result I never heard of any
student upon failing in examination, be it ever so dependent
and vital, visiting the professor of that department for the purpose
of giving some elucidation and explanation that might
possibly help his cause, or with even the request of re-reading
the paper, alone or together. No more would this have been
resorted to than would an attorney appeal to a judge after his
rendering an adverse decision. When the lists were posted
from time to time and our names failed to appear we accepted
the situation manfully—without repining, with no reproach to
others and very little censure to ourselves. Under the existing
conditions we knew whether or not we had done our best,
our whole duty towards any given course during the year—
for nothing less would pass us successfully—and generally we
could size up our attainments in the respective subjects sufficiently
well to predict final results, consequently placed criticism,
if any was needed, exactly where it belonged—upon
self. Even when inclined to accord ourselves passing credit
we did not wish that unless our teachers, after a careful weighing
in the balance, adjudged us thoroughly deserving. For
what was a diploma without its sine qua non—knowledge—
except a lamentable mockery, a deception upon its face—that
for which we had little tolerance, and from which we were

struggling to make an honest escape. Among us there was
not the slightest disgrace attached to failing, because sooner or
later the majority did this somewhere along the line and accepted
it simply as indicating deficient knowledge in the particular
department—the need of adding more thereto by taking
it over. Nothing savoring of unfairness was ever ascribed
to the professors, as we considered them nearly infallible, incapable
of doing any one of us a wrong, the impartial censors
and judges in assigning indisputable ratings, and whether we
passed or failed there was manifest rarely any dissatisfaction,
far less resentment, on the part of the students, while the professors
faced their decisions manfully, yet sorrowfully in our
temporary misfortune—which they considered small and capable
of easy correction in a subsequent year, possibly redounding
to an ultimate good.

No doubt every one is made a stronger individual by an
occasional adversity, experiences from misdirected effort, as
they usually teach a wholesome lesson that otherwise would
remain untaught—to be alert in anticipating and avoiding pitfalls
through the exercise of our best energies at the right
time. While the smooth and level road ever continuous, brings
passive satisfaction ending in ennui; yet the rugged and
slightly used leaves a more permanent mental impression and
better circulation upon those needing physical development.
If students along with all humanity would accept the good that
a failure holds out they would not look at it askant—with a
certain degree of despondency, possibly an irreparable loss.
Fortunately most of us made the best of accidental failure—
considering it a happy warning against laziness and the undertaking
of too much in a given time—and never in the least was
intimidated by it in completing our proposed university course
or in striving for success in the more strenuous walks of life.

The professors accepted us socially on a common footing
through direct or indirect acquaintance, personal letters, correct
deportment, inferred kindly nature or class standing, and
whenever we called at their homes any slight embarrassment
on our part was quickly relieved by them laughingly engaging
conversation upon some subject having a common or local interest.
While they inclined to keep class burdens apart from
such occasions, yet sometimes reference was made to them but

always with added words of counsel and encouragement. At
evenings when time afforded, and that was seldom, we visited
their wives, daughters and such lady friends from a distance
as were being entertained by them for one or more weeks—
there always being a few of these domiciled somewhere within
the University precinct. Some time during these two-hour
calls the professor would make his appearance, at least for a
short spell, and thereafter excuse himself on the plea of having
work and troubles of his own to solve. This tended to make
us regard the professors just as we did other human beings of
phenomenal talents and educational position—not with a degree
of austereness or frigidity so calculated to interrupt that
feeling of confidence and reliance absolutely essential for the
students' best advancement. In the class-room much of the
same goodly feeling existed, although both the teacher and the
taught fully realized this to be a thoroughly business place.
In the languages, laboratories and mathematics contact with
the professors was most intimate, as during each recitation and
experimental session many of the studious members were
singled out to make difficult explanations. In the sciences
where theories were taught by lectures as well as by personal
experiments the atmosphere was more formal. Those unfamiliar
with the existing conditions could scarcely imagine
the attention and respect accorded at all times when under
instruction—nothing less than that so universal in churches
on the Sabbath. Rarely was a whisper or a noisy movement
heard during the entire class-period, even the assembling and
dissembling was conducted with perfect order and dignity.
We sat through lectures as though spellbound, and when someone
thoughtlessly punctuated the nearing end with a deep
respiration it met with disapproval and served to interrupt
very little the undivided attention of the many. Every one
was the busiest individual unto himself, catching and recording
into note-books the professor's thoughts and explanations, and
for the best accomplishment of this the strictest silence had to
reign. A more faithful set of note-takers never existed, as
each student considered it necessary to record every fact
enunciated by the professors and strove to acquire a degree of
proficiency as early as possible. Those writing well and fast
did so with pen and ink direct into strongly bound note-books
of stereotyped size, nine by twelve inches and containing 2-4-6
quires of good quality ruled paper, while those less fortunate
took down in class with pencil, as best they could, into cheaper
and smaller books, and shortly afterwards made therefrom in
their rooms a pen and ink copy into the better style of books,
adding such matter as memory correctly carried.

A good note-taker was usually popular as his talents produced
worthy products—books in demand by class-mates borrowing
them for either comparison or absolute copying—and
while every one was careful not to abuse this privilege, lest he
be considered an impostor or bore—short of the gentleman—
yet it was availed of especially by those missing an occasional
lecture through sickness or unavoidable detention elsewhere.

The necessity of note-books and rapid note-taking grew out
of the fact that few of the professors in those days were
authors of text-books, and when recommending those written
by others—chiefly Englishmen—so added to, changed or departed
from the contents as often to challenge recognition.
As a result we soon learned that the professors stood masters
of knowledge in their departments, imparting in class most of
the essential material for graduation, and were not slow in
realizing the necessity of possessing this in some tangible form
for future reference—to lessen the bitter sting of preparing
for examinations. It was no wonder, therefore, that we came
to place the greatest confidence in a complete set of notes—
not those taken by others in previous years but those having
the spark of one's own vitality through self-compilation from
lectures individually attended. Indeed, one's ability to record
acceptable notes brought a kind of assurance, comfort and reliance
in ultimate success at examinations and consequently in
graduating in the departments desired.

The professors recognized obviously that while text-books
told the truth they did not always tell the whole truth, and it
was the few last drops of the cocoanut-milk they often considered
so important for their students—an attitude very laudable
to assume but one quite susceptible of over-indulgement. Most
of them were thoroughly zealous in furthering the mental
development and progress of their students, resorting to many
extremes to stimulate, encourage and elicit co-operation. I
remember one day answering "Unprepared" when called upon

by Professor Peters to recite, whereupon his whole manner
visibly changed—as though he had another grief to bear—and
as the bell rang out the hour he boldly announced his desire to
see me. As the others filed down the center aisle I marched
up to his desk at the window on the platform, whereupon he
expressed sorrow and inquired the cause of my lack of preparation.
Upon telling him a forced absence from the University
the previous day had prevented me giving that hour's subjects
proper study and expressing a willingness to stand chances
of being called upon with negative results rather than miss the
lecture, he became somewhat reconciled but did not omit the
concluding appeal—try and not let it occur again—which I accepted
as a partial command and knew better than to violate
provided I wished to retain his favorable opinion.

The chief thing needed in any student was to evince signs
of comprehension—desire to learn—then one could rest assured
of suffering nowhere any neglect. The professors, however,
were only human and naturally lost patience sometimes
in their efforts at well-doing, because there were always a few
drones; some indeed delighting more in social than in student
life as they regarded the literary atmosphere and association
a compensating return for time expended; others starting out
brilliantly—studiously—would gradually become tired and discouraged
only to lapse into innocuous desuetude, while others
would be handicapped seriously by weeks of sickness. All
such were looked after faithfully, with the same persistent
care, until the student's indifference was recognized as intentionally
wanton, when the professors' interest would wane, resulting
in a seldom call for recitation—an easy escape all
around from embarrassment—but never omitted from roll-call
as this gave a record of attendance, that which was imperative
in order to avoid a request for withdrawal or final expulsion.

The professors' individual characters, sincere, honest purpose,
interest in us and what they taught, their daily lives as
gleaned from continued intercourse and observation, engendered,
as it should, a kind of magnetism in us, an ambition towards
emulation—that which we felt near impossible to realize
in its fullness, but even in a partial degree a most worthy
possession. I sometimes question, which in a university training
counts for more—the restricted learning from the educational

lectures and books, or the more liberal learning, culture,
from the educational society and atmosphere? When both
are of the highest type it is by no means certain which conduces
towards better development or claims the strongest gratitude.
It is easy enough to possess the best text-books—those compiled
by most knowing, practical and conscientious scholars,
but it is far more difficult to find the most ennobling manhood
in professors, subjects as they are to worldly temptation and
vice, from whom the impressive example must emanate for inspiring
the young towards good or evil. Those at the University
in the seventies could well boast of a professorial association
of unusual distinction, morally and intellectually, for they
certainly so let their light shine that it continues yet to illumine
the pathway of thousands, who without that personal contact,
influence and inspiration would now be stumbling half blindly
or grappling slowly in the dark.

Charles Scott Venable—This kind paternal gentleman
was the first professor I met upon reaching the University—
he being the head of the mathematical department and Chairman
of the Faculty—an incident to which sufficient allusion
has already been made. From his serious, thoughtful and reflective
bearing he appeared to me at least fifty years of age,
although that mile-stone was not passed until my last session,
April 19, 1877. He was the only member of the Faculty
that inclined to be corpulent, but this was not to the extent
of interfering in any way with his active disposition or
physical demands. He had practically a height of six feet
and a weight of two hundred and twenty pounds, being built
strongly and compactly—broad thick shoulders, deep full chest,
slightly protruding abdomen, well-developed extremities;
rather large face of the roundish type covered mostly with
heavy brownish-black beard and moustache, the former worn
after the style, but slightly longer, of our then President, General
Grant. His head was well-proportioned and covered
with a fine suit of brownish-black hair at times allowed a
trifle long; forehead broad and bold; nose shapely and of
proper size; eyes bright, clear and bluish; voice deep but a
little thickish, yet penetrating and sonorous; manners easy,
affable, genial and sunshiny—filled with smiles and audible

laughter when occasion demanded, the kind indicating thorough
enjoyment, that which no one can ever forget having
experienced its ring and heartiness; step firm, rather quick
and elastic, serving well to cover distance speedily. He was
easy of approach, seemingly appealed for recognition from
even the stranger, and yet never lost a manly, dignified and
inspiring address. He was a little careless or non-conventional
in dress, wearing usually sack coats, turned-down collars,
simple-tied black cravats, broad-toed roomy shoes, broad-brimmed
felt or straw hats—I do not remember ever seeing
him in a derby or tile—but his linen was always immaculate.
He was generous with his knowledge, delighting to impart it
to the earnest and needy in and out of season; he was a freegiver
at all times of wholesome advice, such as benefited alike
the student, the friend, the stranger; he was keenly sensitive
and considerate for the deficiencies of others, never reprimanding
so as to wound feelings; he read quickly human
nature and character, so that it was not difficult for him to
gage by short contact the caliber of those he taught—a quality
of advantage to him and a blessing to his students when assigning
problems to any half-dozen of them at the blackboards,
as here the contingent that possessed inferential and
deductive minds had to pay the penalty of superior endowments
by receiving from him theorems and riders taxing their
utmost capacity, while the less favored by nature were given
usually something from the text, wherein partial or complete
solutions could be found. This intuition frequently converted
a "cork" into a "curl," produced untold satisfaction, stimulated
the sluggish to work as best they could—but never to
graduate—and in all prevented signs of discouragement. Although
recognizing thoroughly that many had very ordinary
mathematical minds, he chided them not in the least for that,
nor thought less of them so long as they were good at something
else—for of their general record, especially while Chairman,
he kept well advised. I was only under him my first
year, but he never lost sight of me or my work. Indeed, his
relative, Carrington, who boarded with him and became one
of my intimate friends, conveyed now and then throughout
my second year pleasant tidings—his delight at seeing my
very satisfactory progress in Latin, etc., as gleaned, I inferred,

Professor James L. Cabell, LL.D., at sixty-one
1813-1889

See page 416

FACING 374

from the monthly reports passing under his inspection. In
class-room, second floor of Rotunda, to the left (west), Professor
Venable was always quiet and meditative, never excited
or irritated. The first few lectures after his wife's death
were conducted by his assistant, Mr. Thornton, but thereafter
he appeared regularly, more or less depressed—visibly endeavoring
to conceal beyond recognition his mental troubles.
He kept himself busy and also those under him, and never
hesitated to tell us the necessity of putting more work upon
that in which he found weakness—always in a spirit of kindness,
however, far from any dogmatic edicts.

At his home on Monroe Hill he extended to all visitors that
simple and sincere hospitality so characteristic of his generous
nature. On the highway and elsewhere he passed no one
without giving signs of recognition, usually calling your name
distinctly without hesitation, often with a halt, shake of the
hand and the inquiry: How are you getting along with your
work? I shall never forget witnessing as we all stood that
disagreeable afternoon by the side of his first wife's grave, at
a moment of most trying mental anguish and torture to him,
a manifestation of that never failing fatherly tenderness, when,
with a daughter cuddled under each arm, the son, Frank, occupying
next position, he slowly lifted the younger from the
wet muddy earth and placed her little feet upon the arch of his
goodly proportioned right foot, there to remain standing
through the interment service, thus removing her as far as
within his power from the ravages of exposure. And so he
lived—ever thoughtful of his own, never thoughtless of others.

Much to all the students' regret he resigned the Chairmanship
of the Faculty at the end of my first session, June, 1873;
consequently on Commencement Day, July 3rd, when conferring
the last few diplomas the Hall resounded his name from
many voices, and true to the call he stepped forward and gave
among others these inspiring sentences: "I sincerely hope
that these laurels may never fade, and that you graduates will
not strive alone to write on your banners that low idea, `Success
in life,' but will go forth with truth, honor and duty written
on your flags and in your hearts, having as one motive in
life to walk the path of truth, and the one guiding star to direct
you through life and to the port of peace. In laying aside the

office of Chairman of the Faculty I desire to thank the students
for the high sense of honor they have shown for me, and for
their courteous bearing in all their intercourse with me, and
I can do no more than express the perfect confidence that you
will extend the same in your future relationship with my honored
colleague, Dr. James F. Harrison, who is to be my successor.
I can say in no formal way, but from the heart,
`Farewell, God bless you.' "

We all felt it was chiefly the declining health of his wife
that necessitated this resignation, and hoped for his speedy
return to the helm of the University—that which he did, but
only for two years, a decade later.

After completing my University course, still retaining
friendly relationship with a number of students, clubmates
and families within the University circle, I returned to the
Commencements of 1879 and 1881, and then enjoyed talks
with various members of the Faculty, including Professor
Venable. In 1888 he spent several days in Baltimore, stopping
with his life-long friend and war-time companion, Colonel
Charles Marshall. The occasion of this visit was to deliver
the annual address before "The Maryland Line"—those having
been in the Confederate service—which took place at the
Lyceum Theater, in the presence of a large and deeply interested
audience. In preparation and delivery I did not think
Professor Venable reflected laudable credit upon himself, as
he recalled now and then the precise position and doings of
certain commands, which must have left in the minds of some
a little uncertainness in events and facts as even related by an
eye witness. Indeed, was convincing that the lapse of twenty
years suffice to efface mental accuracy of details unless they
are studied over, worked out and reduced to definite writing.
At that reunion General Wade Hampton and Hon. C. R.
Breckinridge were present, while General Bradley T. Johnston
introduced Colonel Venable as a member of General Lee's
staff at the surrender of Appomattox, and at the then present
a professor in the University of Virginia, therefore eminently
fitted for the subject he was to discuss, "From Appomattox
to Petersburg," the story of the last days of the war. Colonel
Venable reviewed at length the situation of the two contending
armies during that final week—Grant having one hundred

and sixty thousand men against Lee's thirty-nine thousand—
and then continued: "Lee looked to a junction with Johnston
across the Roanoke and tried to make preparations for
leaving the lines, either by being forced or to join Johnston
and strike a blow at Sherman. But sad to relate the desertions
to our army averaged one hundred a day—all brave men, yet
without sufficient devotion to keep them at the front under
such existing conditions. Lee even then said: `If the people
were in earnest they might yet win.' Then came the necessary
retreat from Richmond and Petersburg along the south and
north banks of the Appomattox; the misfortune of the wagon
train falling into the hands of the enemy, but happily rescued
by Fitz. Lee's cavalry in the handsomest saber fight of the
war; the disaster of Sailor's creek, where we found ourselves
without artillery to answer artillery, ours by mistake having
been allowed to pass along, for which we reaped untold criticism.
But it was a question of minutes and not of hours.
When such men as Ewell, Kershaw and a Lee surrendered,
the time for surrender had come. It was Lee's endeavor to
reach Farmville thus bringing the troops to the Cumberland
hills, but failing to burn the bridge across the Appomattox
after passing over it allowed the enemy to seize and use it to
our disadvantage in reaching Appomattox Court House. Onward
we marched to Lynchburg, where was found in its defence
three or four batteries of artillery. There we may say
was the last battle of the Army of Northern Virginia. The
men immortalized themselves, but were overwhelmed, suppressed
by numbers. Lee slept that night on a hill a mile from
Appomattox Court House, and asked me for a light by which
to read Grant's letter from Farmville. I was shocked. I
thought no one would have dared to ask the surrender of
that army. I went off to sleep and I am glad I was not at
the council of war. I will give one or two pictures to illustrate
the grand character of our commander. He said: `I
must go to see Grant, but I would rather die a thousand
deaths.' He was thoughtful of others in the midst of the great
disaster. He told me to get my parole and go home to my
family, and send word to President Davis. He knew that the
Confederacy consisted of his army and that of Johnston's,
and that there was no Confederacy if they could not be united.
Then came the thought of home and family, of the children
who did not know you, of the wife left behind so long, the
idea that there would be peace; we went home. There was
peace, but in it a great deal of bad blood and bayonets. It
was such a peace as one brother having another by the throat
and lecturing him. We went home to obey Lee. After a
lapse of a quarter of a century I hope another peace is coming."

My last interview with Professor Venable was in September,
1894, when my wife and self called at his University
home, fourth pavilion from the Rotunda, East Lawn, occupied
in my day by Dr. John Staige Davis. Here we had a very
pleasant hour's talk upon University matters, educational subjects
and portions of his service in the war—the latter being
near and dear to him, and equally interesting to me, as it included
personal experiences and characteristics of his great
commander, General Lee. His mind, however, reverted several
times to his physical infirmities and decline, especially that
of one eye, whose sight was much impared owing solely, he
thought, to wartime exposure. This he pathetically affirmed,
defied all medical treatment and would in all probability necessitate
in the near future his retirement from active service as
a teacher. While his stately form and outline had changed
little by time, except in visible wrinkles and silvered strands,
yet it was sad to realize that powerful physique and frame
weakening under the ravages of years and pain—that beyond
which he realized the help of fellow man was without avail.
With it all, however, he still remained that same sincere, genial
gentleman, safe and wise counselor as of former years—qualities
that endeared him to every student and entitled them to
use with profound respect the sobriquet, "Old Ven," or with
more dignity and frequency, "Colonel Venable." Every
student knew his military record and delighted during social
visits to hear his vivid descriptions of various encounters and
personages. He, however, was no idle talker—simply for
amusement—but thought seriously and expressed himself deliberately
with justice and mercy to all. He died August 11,
1901, and was buried in the University Cemetery.

William Elisha Peters—I was only at the University

three days before meeting Colonel Peters—called more generally
but affectionately "Old Pete"—in his Latin classroom,
second floor of the Rotunda to the right, opposite that used
for mathematics. The first hour's contact sufficed to convince
me of his seriousness—a thorough painstaking teacher tolerating
nothing in class except business. Although then only
forty-three years of age he certainly seemed to me more than
middle-aged. His height was about five feet ten inches and
weight one hundred and fifty-five pounds; walk erect and
graceful with a quick easy step; eyes dark and penetrating, of
normal size; hair, moustache and beard jet black; voice mild,
clear, a little thin; nose of good size and proportion; forehead
rather broad and full. He saw the mirthful and ludicrous
side as evidenced by an occasional smile or subdued
laugh which never ventured into absolute heartiness. He was
partial to plain simple dress, but his small shapely feet were
clothed always in neatly fitting shoes, which in winter might
be considered thin, certainly affording much less protection
than those worn by most of us students. I never saw him
wear rubbers, that which became a necessity to most of us.
His manner was always quiet, thoughtful and reflective, but
in class he did not hesitate to reprimand in a few poignant
words whenever he considered them deserved and likely to do
good. I distinctly remember the first gibing shaft sent in my
direction the second or third week, when asking me some rule
in grammar I concluded my supposed correct answer with the
words—and so forth—whereupon he quickly retorted: It may
be the and so forth, but it certainly is not the rest you have
said. He was a very literal but beautiful translator of Latin,
rendering it, owing to his perfect knowledge of linguistic
equivalents, absolutely smooth and satisfactory without the
necessity of any additional English words. Nothing provoked
him more than slovenly translation, and explaining one's self
with the subterfuge of certain words being understood incited
his disgust, sometimes with the reminder, "you understand
nothing in Latin." When any such blunder was perpetrated,
he with a positive air of disapproval would quietly say: "That
will do, sir," and immediately call on him for the case, tense
or point of grammar with which liberty had unnecessarily been
taken, thereby disconcerting the individual and making a lasting
object lesson to the entire class. In exercises he was
equally exacting, if possible more so, not allowing the slightest
paraphrasing of his English, which was not always the best,
even though the same sense and sentiment were preserved.
He wrote for a certain construction and point of syntax to be
covered and nothing short of that would satisfy him. The
wrong use of the infinitive, subjunctive, fore ut, etc., in the
final examination was accepted by us as fatal to graduation.
No one who came under him can fail to recall his unyielding
precision, and when discussing our exercises (composition)
how he would throw his right hand around to what he had just
written on the black-board as the best possible form, saying
with his characteristic smile, "But gentlemen, this is the
Latin!" Nor can we forget the promiscuous use of that long
pointer, and the abundant material he would write daily upon
the black-board for us to copy—that which we did as religiously
as take our daily food, both being absolutely essential
to live and master the course. The task of note-taking, however,
was spared the seniors my second year, when for the first
time these notes were printed. This was done in Charlottesville,
and each week, although the printers occasionally disappointed,
a single folder of four pages—the two first numbers
being of smaller size—was given to the class. Of these there
were thirty-one numbers, each bearing the same title, "Senior
Latin Class. Outline of Lectures," along with its specific
number. Unfortunately they contained many errors, owing
to the poorly formed letters of the Professor and imperfect
proof-reading, so that a little of each hour was consumed in
making necessary corrections of the part discussed and covered.
Later these "Notes" were published in a more creditable
form under the editorial management of Professor W.
Gordon McCabe, Petersburg, Virginia.

Somehow or another Professor Peters was always very
friendly to me, and my monthly reports sent to parents, yet
preserved, contained usually such pleasant remarks as: "Doing
well. Doing very well. Has much improved. A faithful
student and is improving. A fine student, improving rapidly.
Improving rapidly, is a fine student, etc." He, however, had
little use for those who did not try to stand well with him, and
very seldom called on such after knowing their short-comings.

He had always abundant good material in the classes to answer
promptly and correctly, in whom he took the greatest pride—
a sentiment he could not avoid showing by kind and gentle
expressions of satisfaction in and out of class. As a teacher
he was ever ready to help those who would help themselves,
but there it ended. When sick in the Infirmary for a few or
more days he invariably came to see me, sometimes more than
once, and after his second marriage whatever general functions
were given by his good wife I received formal invitation.

During my first year he roomed at Professor Smith's, but
in the summer of 1873 he married a sister of his first wife,
Miss Mary Sheffey, and thereafter occupied the McGuffey
pavilion, last or fifth from the Rotunda, West Lawn, where
he remained up to a short time of his death. At the little
office, south side of his home, I used to call whenever his
subject gave serious trouble, and there I invariably found him
most willing to supply needed help. Sometimes he would introduce
irrelevant subjects in order, I dare say, to drawn from
me whatever information or ideas I happened to possess pertinent
thereto; again he would simply inquire: "Is there no
other point you wish cleared?" If I should say no, he would
arise and impress the desire of my calling whenever in need of
assistance. This I accepted to imply—he was busy—that
I must extend thanks and bid adieu. I frequently found him
correcting exercises with a liberal use of red ink—a duty that
consumed not a little of his time, but one against which I
never heard him utter a complaint, for he considered that a
part of his work and conscientiously performed it. My last
visit to him was on the afternoon of April 15, 1904, about a
year after he had retired from teaching. I found him pacing
the pavement south of his home, as was his custom so to use
his side of the triangle in my student-day, and after introducing
myself he at once insisted upon me spending an hour with
him in the sitting room—that nearest the Rotunda—and there
in the face of a dying open fire, for it was rather warm and
sunny without, we talked pleasantly on various matters. His
wife was quite sick and he more or less apprehensive for her
recovery, but he would not listen to a shorter stay. He was
very solicitous of the University's future, as it so badly needed
money, and thought possibly that some Baltimoreans might

reach Mr. Morgan through his associate Mr. Charles Steele,
one of our distinguished graduates. We discussed the part
played by the University towards higher education; the great
men she had sent forth in various avenues, when he concluded
that such representatives as Hunter, Dabney and Broadus
were sufficient lights to establish forever a creditable record.
I referred to the strong Faculty I found at the University upon
entering, affirming it "hard to beat," to which he gave a
hearty assent. He alluded to his fondness for Gildersleeve,
and to the separation being a blow from which he had never
recovered—"for we were so congenial." "I would rather have
given him five hundred dollars a year, yes a thousand, from
my own salary than to have seen him leave us. I offered to
take the revenue from our two chairs and divide it equally
between us, but he would not listen to that—he seemed possessed
to go. I wonder if he is really as well satisfied or
better off by the change. I doubt it." I distinctly remember
at the time (1876) hearing that Professor Peters used all
known persuasion to retain Professor Gildersleeve, such as
loyalty to the South and her great University, the urgent
need therein of the very best classical scholars, and that personally
the only way he would forsake the University would
be as a dead body—an assertion afterwards verified. He also
inquired affectionately after Professor Garnett, expressing regret
at seeing him go from the University. He enjoyed not
a little my repeating the conversation that took place in the
Museum a few years before, when my wife and self were making
a somewhat close inspection of certain specimens, and the
janitor noticing the unusual interest came forth and inquired:
"Is you a graduate in dis department?" Upon my answering
yes, he asked: "How long ago?" And when I replied about
twenty years, he indifferently remarked: "It was nuffin
den." In reciting this circumstance to the Professor, I
queried: "Of course this implication holds good in all departments—that
the requirements for graduation in my day and
generation were nothing compared with those of the present!"
He smiled, and ridiculed the idea, saying: "I assigned the
same sets of parallel my last ten as I did my first ten years,
and my course after the first five years has always been practically
the same." During our student days we were acquainted

Professor James F. Harrison, M.D., at sixty
1815-1896

See page 420

FACING 382

thoroughly with his brave war record, from which
he was called occasionally "Fighting Pete," and above all
wondered at and repeated often the Chambersburg incident—
when ordered by his superior officer to burn the town, positively
refused on the ground: "He was not in the war to destroy
the homes of helpless women and children," an act of
disobedience approved by General Lee.

Professor Peters died of pneumonia at the University,
March 22, 1906, and was buried at Marion, Va. Of his death
The Sun (Baltimore) had the following editorial: "A
Soldier and Educator.—The death of Colonel Peters, emeritus
professor of Latin in the University of Virginia, will be regretted
by his large circle of friends, particularly by the
thousands of former pupils who are scattered throughout the
world. A teacher of unusual excellence, earnestness, Professor
Peters spared no pains to interest students in Latin and
was very successful. Extra hours and extra lectures were
given without stint to those who wished to make good their
shortcomings in his specialty. During the Civil War he was
similarly indefatigable, leaving his professorship in Emory and
Henry College for the tented field. Entering the army as a
private, he rose to the rank of colonel of infantry and later had
command of the Twenty-first Regiment of Virginia Cavalry.
He was thrice wounded and once left on the field for dead.
But his vigorous constitution, fortified by years of active campaigning,
pulled him through, and he survived to do thirty-six
years of splendid work in one of the first educational institutions
in the land. As an educator and as a soldier he
held a deservedly high place in the esteem of his contemporaries."