University of Virginia Library

CHAPTER XX

Professors—Personal Characteristics and Traits

Francis Henry Smith—It was my privilege to receive
two years of instruction from this gentleman, a period sufficient
to observe and study his delightful personality. No
one could come in contact with him, for ever so short a time,
without favorable impressions, such as implied manly instincts,
moral rectitude and sincereness of purpose—the true Christian
character. And as the acquaintance became more extended
and intimate these traits appeared manifestly a part of his real
nature. He was only forty-three years of age, but, in spite
of a smooth clerical face, seemed considerably older—possibly
from his quiet serious bearing and kind gentle manners.
He was already the father of a half-dozen children, some about
grown, others very small, and the health of his wife, frail,
petite and highly cultured—a daughter of Gessner Harrison—
had given him some concern. As "into each life some rain
must fall," his had been no exception, but he passed along
life's journey with smiles that frequently broke into audible
laughter. His stature was of the smaller type—about five feet
seven inches high and one hundred and fifty pounds in weight;
face without beard revealing a clear healthy complexion and
a gentle refined expression; forehead high and broad; nose,
upper lip and lower jaw strong, more or less positive; eyes
bright, bluish and of good size; step quick, firm and elastic.
He possessed a beautiful flow of language and a voice that was
clear, musical, sonorous with volume and power—qualities
that made him an exceptional conversationalist, an attractive
and engaging speaker. He had a heavy suit of dark-brown

hair, frequently worn long, which with his benign countenance
suggested the ministerial cloth. He was careful to be cleanshaven
and well-dressed, often lecturing in a frock coat and
on the street with a silk hat. I think beyond doubt he was the
most oratorical and polished lecturer then at the University,
an impression not only shared by the majority of us, but of
assured outside recognition to attract frequently to his lectures
strangers and former students upon return visits. The secret
of this high distinction lay in natural gift of voice, phraseology,
ready impressive convincing manner, facial expression
and a masterly knowledge of his subjects—not upon scraps of
paper or manuscript, but at tongue's end. At times he wrote
syllabi on the blackboard, incidentally working therefrom,
but such were chiefly for the students' benefit—in a measure
taking the place of text-books—as he himself never followed
them strictly. Then again his subjects appealed to most persons,
being susceptible of great or small possibilities according
into whose hands they fell for treatment and he fortunately
was capable of making much out of them. He was void of
sarcasm, resentment, vindictiveness and that element ungenerously
used by some persons in trying to appear brilliant—
especially at another's expense. Be conditions and attitude
what they may he never lost his dominant individuality and
nature—the gentleman; nor did he ever try purposely to embarrass
students, although this was accomplished in no uncertain
way by his searching and intricate method of class interrogation—that
which was accepted by us to be in the line
of gaining most knowledge in his departments, and by him a
moral duty even though at the expense of our personal discomfort.
His class-room was immediately under the rear half
of the Public Hall, the space under the first half being divided
in the center by a six-foot hall-way, having on the left (west
side) his laboratory and apparatus room and on the right (east
side) Professor Minor's lecture room. Here he knew no distinction
of personages, as every one of us was subjected practically
to the same trials and tasks. When calling at his
home, third pavilion from the Rotunda, West Lawn, he was
affable, agreeable and seemingly with abundant time at our
disposal. Upon the highway he never passed by us without
a bow and smile, and if need be made a halt for a pleasant exchange
of words. Thus under all circumstances he was urbane,
kind, considerate, helpful and cheerful, disliked by none,
liked by all—characteristics that went far towards encouraging
and benefiting those with whom he came in contact. We
gave him no nickname, as might have readily been coined—
"Old Frank" or "Old Smith"—but spoke of him always as
"Professor Smith" or "Professor Frank Smith." He was a
close and persistent reader with a quick retentive mind, from
which little escaped having value; his powers of observation,
inference and deduction were well cultivated and accurate.
The ridiculous and serious alike appealed to him—for his
liberal caliber accepted all conditions philosophically, those regarded
necessary for a full development of manly character.
Although his duties were many, having little time for other
than preparing and making ready class experiments and lectures,
yet he was also a good resourceful citizen to his community
and State, serving both well when occasion called.
He could become so absorbed in thought as to lose sight of
immediate surroundings, and possessed, therefore, that power
of concentration accepted by some psychologists as belonging
alone to great men. During the hour before lecture, especially
towards its latter portion, while the class gradually assembled,
I have often seen him so thoroughly absorbed in the preparation
of apparatus and syllabus that he was lost apparently to
the outside world. He might happen to see one of us enter,
but the sight was semiconscious, as he seemed almost possessed
by a charm or spell, and even though his attention be diverted
by one of us approaching to ask a question, yet he did not relinquish
himself entirely from the serious condition until the
lecture was over. It was during such a mental halo that we
always expected beautiful expressions and descriptions in English—masterly
oratorical efforts—and usually there was no
disappointment. He was an ardent admirer of Newton, occasionally
speaking of his genius in brilliant and glowing terms
—once I distinctly remember his concluding words to have
been Pope's beautiful tribute:

Such bright lights as Leplas, Lavoicier, Cavendish, Kepler,

Galileo, Descartes, Davy, Franklin, Agassiz, Dana, LeConte,
Lyell, Fraunhofer, Thomsen, and scores of others in turn came
in for a song of praise. Happily he had enjoyed for years
a close intimacy with his gifted teacher and predecessor,
William B. Rogers, whose life had been to him an inspiration
and worthy of emulation—that which he strove manfully to
approach, if not to equal. Consequently of his own countrymen
none received such frequent mention or more loyal recognition
of gratitude, and inasmuch as no member of the
University Faculty, past or present, has ever enjoyed such
prominence in the scientific world and had such close fellowship
with men of letters throughout our country, it may be
pardonable to give a few incidents pertinent to this great
teacher. Professor William B. Rogers in August, 1835, then
thirty-one years of age, was called to the chair of Natural
Philosophy in the University. During the preceding seven
years he had presided over the same department, including
chemistry, at William and Mary College, where at an earlier
period his father had been professor many years, and where
he himself along with three brothers were educated—all to
become distinguished teachers and scientists. Owing to the
malarial climate of Williamsburg Professor Rogers regularly
spent vacations at remote points and continued so to do while
connected with the University. Here he became much interested
in geology, and with his brother Henry made many
summer expeditions in the Appalachian region, recording results
in numerous original contributions that caused his name
to be well known then throughout the scientific world. His
natural gifts as a speaker, beautiful control of thought and
expression, and unusual attainments in everything educational
brought him in strong favor with American men of letters,
especially members of the "Association of Geologists and
Naturalists," whose annual meetings he attended and there
usually enunciated something new and interesting. Thus he
became intimate with Longfellow, Lowell, Agassiz, Sumner,
Phillips, Pierce, Gray, Wayland, Silliman, Everett, Murchison,
Lyell, Sedgwick, Darwin, Huxley, Tyndall, Faraday, Parker,
Owen, Bailey, Henry, and dozens of others who spent their
summers more or less together in congenial latitudes. His
vacation of 1845 was passed for the most part in the White
Mountains in company with his brother Henry, and on the
latter part of the journey they became fellow travelers with the
family of Mr. James Savage of Boston, in whose eldest
daughter, Emma, Professor Rogers became much interested,
and finally married, June 20, 1849. His acknowledged ability
and popularity caused invitations to lecture before many large
educational bodies, including the Mercantile Library Association,
Lowell Institute, Smithsonian Institute, etc., while
other universities endeavored to possess him by tempting
offers. Such a large typed man of diversified knowledge,
family ties and scholarly associates could hardly be expected
to remain indefinitely outside of a great metropolis or citycenter.
Indeed, as early as 1846 he and his brother Henry
conceived the idea of establishing a Polytechnic Institute in
Boston, fashioned somewhat after the University of Virginia,
and even the year before Henry took up residence in that city.
Professor Rogers' frequent visits North convinced him of the
need and possibility of such an institution, and that coupled
with Henry's assurance, along with a desire to be with him and
other mutual social scientific friends, actuated a serious determination
to resign his professorship at the University—that
which he did several times, but finally with effect in the spring
of 1853, thence going directly to Boston. Although a few
years later Henry was chosen professor in the University of
Glasgow, Professor Rogers pushed forward his favorite
scheme with indomitable energy until he succeeded—Jefferson-like—in
founding the Massachusetts Institute of Technology,
becoming its first president, April 19, 1862.

While Professor Rogers retained a fondness for the University,
where he spent eighteen very active years, and continued
to hold a strong liking for Southern people, yet at the
outbreak of the Civl War he took a decided stand against
slavery. Thus in relation to the John Brown episode he
wrote: "The conduct of Wise has been I think weak and
absurd; the course of the Court of Appeals harsh if not iniquitous."
This antislavery sentiment also pervaded Mrs.
Rogers' family, even to the extent of her gifted brother, James
Savage, organizing a company, becoming its captain and a
part of the Second Regiment of Massachusetts Volunteers.
He was promoted to Major for gallantry at the Battle of Winchester,

and a short time afterwards, August 9, 1862, received
a wound at Cedar Mountain from which he died six weeks
later, October 22nd, at the Confederate hospital in Charlottesville.
Professor Rogers, upon learning of the injury to his
brother-in-law, set out on the hazardous journey to reach him,
but upon arriving at Culpeper and the battlefield found it
impossible to cover the remaining few miles. He, however,
wrote many letters to old friends and associates at the University
and Charlottesville imploring compassion and mercy
in his family affliction. Thus it seems passing strange that the
field of labor, once so congenial and delightful to Professor
Rogers, should from his view-point become his enemy's camp
and the death scene of one he recognized so near and dear,
where in spite of his known disloyalty kind friends did his
bidding by tenderly nursing and endeavoring to restore to
health an uncompromising foe.

Indeed, at the close of Professor Smith's course one could
not fail knowing considerable, and wishing to know more, of
the Rogers brothers.

In hydrostatics and other connections Mr. Jefferson's genius
was emphasized favorably, his many experiments recited, his
small telescope exhibited with which he daily watched the
progress of the University buildings from his home, four miles
distant, and his great part played in advancing general science
highly commended. Professor Smith during the session had
no way of knowing the progress of his students except by the
little quizzing of each day, and as our numbers were large it
required time to make the rounds. The remarks on the
monthly reports, outside of attendance, were few, but on mine
I find several of this style: "Very attentive. Highly commendable,"
etc.

Maximilian Schele De Vere—One had only to hear a
few sentences of the first lecture under this gentleman to recognize
him of foreign birth and tongue. The hissing s's, the
rolling r's, and a slight distinctive pronunciation of most words
gave evidence that he was neither an Englishman nor an American.
From his suave manners and personal tout ensemble
many of us in our earlier days believed him to be of French
descent—that which was found later untrue. Some years

after my University course I asked him the pointed question,
when he gladly emphasized being a pure Swede. To that I
remarked: "You then have the happy fortune of belonging
to that nationality which in my judgment has furnished the
greatest naturalist, Linnæus, that has ever lived." To this
he replied: "You certainly place a very high opinion upon
my fellow countryman—indeed, science not being my life's
work, I had not associated with him so great a distinction."

During my student life we never called him "Professor De
Vere," but either "Professor Schele" or "Old Schele," meaning
thereby not the least disrespect, for no professor seemed
more removed from criticism and dislike than he. In fact an
unverified rumor prevailed among us that he would not pitch
or throw any student with good class record unless his final
examinations were woefully deficient. This, true or false,
stamped him universally—professor cum laude. In spite of
his nativity he was a profound and well-trained linguist, speaking
fluently more than a half-dozen languages, possessing in
English a rich and choice vocabulary. His enunciation,
though clear, deliberate and distinct, carried a peculiar intonation
that required on our part a few lectures before becoming
satisfactorily intelligent. His voice was moderately heavy and
decidedly agreeable; delivery filled with quiet enthusiasm, well
calculated to give inspiration and encouragement even to the
laggard; manners refined and cultured, never losing courteous
instincts and gentlemanly bearing. He was then fifty-three
years of age, which he bore with unusual grace, heavy set,
possibly five feet six inches high, and weighing one hundred
and sixty pounds. His face was of the roundish type, with
florid complexion relieved by a thick grayish-black moustache
groomed with much care and precision; hair abundant and
black mixed with gray, always neatly arranged; nose well-formed
and proportioned; forehead broad and deep; step
quick, light and elastic, carrying the body straight or severely
erect; eyes dark, penetrating and of good size; feet small and
always clothed in neatly fitting shoes of light texture. He
wore a silk hat except in summer, when it was replaced by one
of high priced straw. I never saw him move slowly when
alone, always appeared in a little haste to reach the objective
point, but when walking in the afternoon with a colleague for

recreation and pleasure his steps were noticeably more deliberate.
Under all conditions he was well-dressed, observing
conventionalities in greater degree than any of his confrères.
Indeed, among us students it was understood he abhored one
indifferently clothed, as did nature a vacuum, while to be decorated
in a brilliant cravat (red) atoned in his sight for many
defects. For the accuracy of this legendary impression none
of us could vouch, nor did we know its origin, but the truth
was that few among us lived up to such a fancied ideal, and
the princely, few, as well as the modest clad, many, received
alike his approval for graduation.

He invariably entered the modern language room, in the one
story west wing flanking the Rotunda, a minute or two before
the hour, remained standing until "Henry" finished ringing
the bell, called the roll deliberately, and at once began
earnest work—being all the time either busy himself or energetically
hastening those under him in that direction. In his
rear was a good-sized black-board, and in front a small skeleton
table with stout rungs a few inches from the floor upon
which one or the other foot frequently rested while lecturing.
The benches to his front which we occupied were in straight
rows, each slightly elevated above the other from front to rear,
as was the case in nearly all lecture rooms, thereby affording
for all a commanding view. He was not so much given as
some others to writing set syllabi on the blackboard previous
to lecture, but when lecturing often turned around and wrote
such matter—rules, examples, etc.—as he considered most
important. He disliked all kinds of interruptions, and when a
student happened to enter late he would pause in order to
punctuate the discourtesy and to give the offender a look indicating
surprise and disapproval. His was rather a volatile
disposition, showing quickly dissatisfaction at one's recitation
not measuring up near to perfection—this being manifested by
insisting to the bitter end in a positive stern manner upon
having that which was correct. When this was not forthcoming
his displeasure was recognized readily, although he
never expressed madness outwardly. Perfect answering,
curl, always evoked his smile, and often the commendatory
words, "Very satisfactory."

Students inclined occasionally to take advantage of his

impulsive nature by pulling in rapid succession his front doorbell
during the late hours of night, thus arousing him from
slumbers and annoying him into calling out the window in
rapid excited phrases. One night a small goat was tied to
the bell-knob, only to have the little fellow rush frequently to
the end of his rope giving vigorous pulls, when those rooming
near and into the secret, in order to harbor the miscreants,
affirmed the scene to be highly amusing as the professor appeared
at the front-door and released the captive amid excitement
and a pyrotechnic display of dialectical English. At his
office, room north of home, I visited him occasionally, where
he was affable and friendly, with the exception of one call
made the day prior to our Junior French examination, when
my mission was to ascertain definitely whether or not we were
to be held accountable for all the irregular verbs given in his
grammar. To this he quickly affirmed: "Most assuredly,"
and in manner, I thought, indicating provoked surprise—
equivalent to a reprimand for asking what appeared to him
such a foolish question. At his home, second pavilion from
the Rotunda, East Lawn, he was a most charming host, as
was his wife a hostess, and therein dispensed to a select
coterie a decidedly beautiful and sincere hospitality. Usually
one evening during the "Finals" they gave a large reception,
and those students whose presence was desired received written
invitations delivered far in advance through the mail. Indeed,
those of us thus singled out considered ourselves rather favored
and fortunate, as he was recognized somewhat seclusive
in drawing the social line. He was a fine teacher, having the
rare faculty of getting work out of almost every student,
chiefly through commanding great respect and tolerating nothing
that was trifling—qualities that reduced his class-failures
to a minimum. His classes were moderately large, but in
quizzing made the rounds in quick succession, thereby being
enabled along with the weekly exercises to keep pace with each
one's work and progress. My monthly reports contain mostly
the simple words, "Doing well," relieved occasionally by,
"Doing very well" and "An excellent student."

My last visit to him was in company with my wife, September,
1894, when we spent the evening delightfully—both he
and Mrs. Schele being at their best. As one of the collaborators

Professor William H. McGuffey, LL.D., at seventy
1800-1873

See page 423

FACING 392

of the Standard Dictionary he had been busy some months
and then was about finishing the portion assigned him. We
talked not a little of the University, discussed the value of his
own efforts and faithfulness in educating the youth of the
South, while I endeavored to impress his merits as comparing
so favorably with Whitney and Marsh. His modesty, however,
was pronounced, disclaiming any relative position for
himself—that which I was equally firm in maintaining. In
appearance he had changed considerably since my student days
—more fleshy, less shapely and distingué, but that gracious
mannerism, courteous deference and open-handed friendship
remained just the same. He was loath to see us go, exacting
another call in the morning, that which we gladly lived up to.
His mind was still strong and resourceful, his body active,
healthy and responsive to will, while he expressed the hope and
expectation of performing professorial duties for years to come
—a desire unfortunately never realized. In fact he almost
quoted the language used on another occasion: "I may venture
the hope that God, in his great mercy, will permit me to
devote my life and my work to my beloved new home—the
land of my choice and the people of my love—till it pleases
Him to summon me to my eternal home." A few weeks later,
September 23rd, he completed his fifty years of active service at
the University, an event that received appropriate recognition
in the form of a testimonial gift from a number of his past
and present students. This consisted of a large punch-bowl
of solid silver lined with gold, and a ladle to match, all enclosed
in a handsome quartered oak case mounted with brass.
The bowl bore this inscription: "M. Schele De Vere, University
of Virginia, Professor of Modern Languages. Appointed
23rd. September, 1844. Presented by his colleagues
and former pupils, on this fiftieth anniversary of his appointment,
in recognition of the lasting value of his Half Century
of distinguished service, and in testimony of their enduring
regard." A letter of congratulation accompanied the gift
from which a passage may be quoted: "When your graceful
contributions to literature are reviewed, your fame seems well
grounded and abiding. But your renown does not depend
upon these, for your reputation is safe in the affectionate and
grateful remembrance of your old pupils, who recall with
pride your eloquent lectures and acknowledge with gratitude
their indebtedness to your faithful instruction." The account
of this occasion would not be complete without a few paragraphs
from Professor Smith's tribute: "I knew him as his
students knew him, as a professor, and as his colleagues know
him, in the courtesies of social life. When I was a student
here he was in the vigor of manhood, a master of English, but
speaking it with a foreign intonation, to which becoming accustomed
it was delightful to attend his lectures. After an
unsatisfactory tussle at taking notes under a rapid talker, it
was exceedingly pleasant to pass into the modern language
lecture-room and listen, pencil in hand, to the clear and not
too fast utterance of the perspicuous teacher, who frequently
paused, of purpose and yet naturally, to pass to the blackboard
and write down an illustrative word or sentence in that
well-remembered beautifully distinct and elegant chirography
of his, thus giving even the slow writer ample time to jot down
every word, both spoken and written. It was my opinion
then, and is now, that Dr. Schele was, on the whole, the best
teacher of modern languages with whom I was ever brought
in contact. He taught four languages at that time, and had
classes in all. He showed the same points of excellence in
each, as I judge from the remarks of friends who attended the
classes I did not. His bearing on the lecture platform was a
model of propriety. In the years during which I attended his
classes I recall not a single disagreeable incident. It seemed
to us students as if Dr. Schele was by general consent regarded
as the arbiter of `good form.' What he indorsed was questioned
by no one else, and what he did not indorse was, ipse
facto, of doubtful fashion. His appearance in the social circle,
his tact, his command of English, which one would have
thought to be his native tongue but for the slight intonation,
his easy polished manners, indicating habitual contact in his
early life with people of culture in his native land, all conspired
to make him a social leader, and endowed him with that
strange influence which culture often gives to men of less
talent than his over strong intellects."

While students, we did not look upon Professor Schele as
our most distinguished scholar, but simply one among the four
or five strongest lights. In the retrospect of years, however,

an acquaintance with his writings, the versatility of his knowledge
and subjects, and his mastery of so many languages incline
one to recognize him as the most liberally educated and
cultured member of the Faculty. He was so active and industrious
that his mind and hand were creating always some
contribution to literature that brought to himself and the University
immeasurable distinction. Passing over his Spanish
Grammar (1853), several French books, and translated novels
from the French and German, his first work that attracted
attention was, "Comparative Philology," 1853; then followed
as important companions, "Stray Leaves from the Book of
Nature," 1855; "Studies in English," 1866; "Grammar in
French," 1867; "French Readers," 1876; "Wonders of the
Deep," 1869; "The Great Empress," 1869; "Problematic
Characters," Spielhagen, 1869; "Through Night to Light,"
Spielhagen, 1869; "The Hohenstein," Spielhagen, 1870;
"Americanisms," 1871; "Romance of American History,"
1872; "Modern Magic," 1873.

Professor Schele outlined some religious views in his "Modern
Magic" to which no doubt he attached faith, and whose
summary here may be of interest: "I believe that our inner
life—including memory, imagination and reason—continues
after the body's death; that the living soul can commune with
the outer world only by means of the body, with which it is
united in this life, but at times it may act independently of the
body—developing the forces called magic powers. When the
body becomes an instrument unfit to serve the soul the tie
formed before or at the moment of birth is gradually loosened.
The soul no longer receives impressions from the outer world
such as the body heretofore conveyed to it, and with this cessation
of mutual action ends, also, the community of sensation.
The living soul possibly becomes conscious of its separation
from the dead body and the world, but continues to exist in
loneliness and self-dependence. Its life becomes only more
active and self-conscious as it is no longer consumed by intercourse
with the world, nor disturbed by bodily disorders and
infirmities. The soul recalls with ease all long-forgotten or
much-dimmed sensations. What it feels most deeply at first
is the double grief of its separation from the body and its
sins committed during life. After a while this grief begins to

moderate and the soul returns to a state of peace; sooner by
those having secured righteous peace on earth, later by the
worldly and sensuous. At the same time the living soul enters
into communion with other souls, retaining its individuality
in sex, character and temper, and proceeds on a course of
gradual purification, till it reaches the desired haven in perfect
reconciliation with God. During this intermediate time these
living souls may continue to maintain some kind of intercourse
with the souls of men on earth, with whom they share
all that constitutes their essential nature, save only the one fact
of bondage to the body. Reciprocally the souls in man may
perceive and consort to a degree with souls detached from mortal
bodies. Man leaves behind his dead body but continues to
live a soul with peculiar powers in another world. This soul
has no longer earthly organs of sense to do its bidding, but it
still controls nature which was made subject to its will; it has,
moreover, a new set of powers which represent in the higher
world its higher body, and the character of its new active life
will be all the more elevated, as these organs are more spiritual.
Man cannot continue to develop, grow and ripen in the next
world as he did in this; his nature and destiny are alike incompatible
with sudden transitions and with absolute rest.
The soul must become purer and more useful, its organs more
subtle and powerful yielding a life of gradual improvement
and purification."

Professor Schele, owing to physical infirmities, resigned his
connection with the University in 1895, and accepted linguistic
work under the government at Washington, where he died in
Providence Hospital, May 10, 1898. He was buried in Rock
Creek Cemetery, where a few months later was laid to rest by
his side that accomplished companion in life whose social
charm and exquisite refinement had dominated so many years
their University home and atmosphere. When considering
his long connection with the University, and the thousands of
sons trained in part by his knowing hand, it may be said in
truth that few of her professors have brought her more renown
or made a greater impress towards scholarly attainments
and gentlemanly culture. It is sad that in death he failed to
find the resting place deserved—within the sacred precinct of
his life's work, under the shade of its trees.

Basil Lanneau Gildersleeve—It was my intention to
take the "green ticket" upon entering the University, in fact
so matriculated, but after attending three lectures in each
school and hearing discouraging comment by older students
upon the many inevitable difficulties of the combination, I
accepted the substitution privilege, granted alike to all, and
replaced Greek with Natural Philosophy, thereby deferring
for a year the renewal of Hellenic study. The slight contact
of that initial week with Professor Gildersleeve seemed sufficient
to establish me in his memory, at least, to courteous recognition
ever thereafter, so that when in my second year I
came under him in reality we appeared somewhat acquainted.
He was a very familiar personage in and around the University,
being thoroughly democratic in his ways and doings,
and showing himself without reserve at all functions of an
educational character—those calculated to bring out the
student-body and improve the literary atmosphere. He
worked hard but with method, recognizing that exercise played
no little part towards satisfactory mental activity. Afternoon
walks, therefore, were indulged in daily, weather permitting,
sometimes along one of the divergent roads, again
on the highway toward town, in company with one of his
several colleagues—usually Professor Peters, apparently the
most congenial and healthful companion, due possibly to their
life's work being along kindred lines. Occasionally he would
be alone and then frequently absorbed in thought as to lose
sight of other than general surroundings, thus allowing those
en passant to be unnoticed. This habit evoked some little
criticism from students, giving occasion for the prevailing idea
that "Old Gil," as he was often called—but in no spirit of
opprobrium—would only speak to those standing well in his
department—an idea, although thoroughly false, that served
well in stimulating some to study in order to merit and receive
his coveted approbation. He was just forty-three years of
age, but seemed to us youthful fellows at least fifty—due
possibly to his sober reflective manner, general bearing,
favorable reputation, and what he had accomplished already in
the world of letters. He was about six feet high and weighed
one hundred and seventy-five pounds. His face was full but
mostly covered with a good growth of jet-black beard and

moustache, worn rather long and giving thereby a decidedly
distinguished appearance; forehead broad and high; nose
shapely and of good size; hair black, thin towards the occipital
front and center; voice of the upper gamut—clear, distinct and
penetrating; delivery thoughtful, rather slow but not tedious;
eyes darkish, clear, penetrating and of full size. His gait was
interrupted, for during the Civil War he performed double
duty—taught the sessions and fought the vacations—so that
while serving on General Gordon's staff he received a severe
wound during Early's campaign of 1864, resulting in making
his left leg slightly shorter. This, however, was not without
an element of compensation growing out of a happy romance
—if the then current impression among us students could be
credited—in that the pretty daughter of her who so tenderly
ministered to his tardy recovery found a cord of interest that
ripened into life companionship. Fortunately this halting
step was little noticed, from the higher heel worn upon that
shoe, but was sufficient usually for recognition in the distance.
Truly like Tyrtæus, in body only was he a lame
schoolmaster. In an address made at Princeton in 1899, on
his fiftieth anniversary of graduation, when he was honored
with the degree of Doctor of Humanities (L. H. D.), he said
in part: "For all the kind words that have been said about
my career as a scholar and a man of letters, for the high honor
with which you have crowned that career, I am deeply grateful.
How far short my achievements have fallen of the aims
and aspirations with which I set out from Princeton fifty years
ago need not be recalled. I learned early from the Bishop of
Hopkins, whose teachings molded the Princeton of my time,
that it is better to limp in the right road than to run in the
wrong, and thanks to the glorious Princeton spirit, I have not
been trodden down or faltered in all this time. For that
reason, it is a great gratification to me that my Alma Mater
has found me fruitful. The sweet memories of my college
days are the cherished ones of my life."

Professor Gildersleeve dressed well but not conspicuous,
favoring the cutaway or frock coat, the derby or silk hat. At
his home, first pavilion from the Rotunda, West Lawn, he
gladly received and gave help at all available hours to those
students who called. His wife possessed personal charm and

popularity, so of evenings was not neglected by those of us
that vied in social pleasures. During these visits the Professor
would usually show himself in the parlor for a few
minutes, and those not under him, therefore unacquainted with
his ready wit and repartee, often recounted their discomfort,
not to say embarrassment, at something bright gotten off at
their or another's expense, while those familiar with his characteristic
gifts and inclination in never losing a good opportunity
for witticism, accepted the situation with greater resignation.
His class-room was that usually called the "Moral
Philosophy Room," Rotunda basement, right hand (east)—
it serving conjointly the two departments—and here we found
him always serious, frequently relieved, however, by a vein of
wit, a little sarcasm, or a mild (?) criticism of some article,
book, or author that breathed imperfectly, from his viewpoint,
the Grecian atmosphere and spirit. His humor seemed
never studied, but spontaneous to the occasion—often
prompted by immediate conditions—and always found a happy
response in the class; his joking proclivity was famed, his
jokes numerous, often new, rich and laughable, going far
towards lightening the gravity of the moment by a mirthful
application to the manners, personalities, or localities of the
passages under consideration. The classes being of medium
size allowed the rounds of individual recitation to follow in
quick succession—a fact that not only marked soon for us the
good, bad and indifferent members, but gave him opportunity
for encouraging and helping along the needy. This he did
faithfully for such that showed inclination to profit, but those
willfully and persistently neglecting duty met with a reciprocal
apathy that permitted them to remain in their seats—uncalled
and unnoticed.

Somehow or another we considered Professor Gildersleeve
our best English scholar, in spite of his having nothing to do
with that department—possibly owing to his acknowledged
beautiful equivalents of Latin examples throughout his grammar—while
of Greek we believed him the most profound master
in our broad land. As a teacher he required correct translation,
but inclined rather to the free than the literal, thus
preferred rain to water from the clouds, as the Greeks would
have it, and in every connection an interpretation conforming

best to our language. In exercises (composition) he was
liberal in giving credit for paraphrasing his English when the
same sense was preserved, even though it evaded an idiom
or construction he desired—that from which we endeavored
to escape as a result of insufficient knowledge. I think he,
as did the other language professors, placed more importance
upon the exercises than all else combined, and certainly it
was these that gave us most concern and trouble.

A frequent posture while lecturing was to lean easily upon
one elbow resting on the desk in front, stroke his long beard,
roll his eyes upward, and slowly enunciate that which was
either serious, pathetic, or extremely amusing. When so
positioned we felt sure that extremes, or something beyond
the ordinary, were likely to happen, and as a rule we met no
disappointment. The "twinkle of the eye" along with a
smile—sometimes an audible hearty laugh—was a delightful
solace that frequently followed some slight reprimand. I do
not recall the slightest unpleasantness to have ever passed between
us, although some others were not so fortunate—those
who took exception to certain manners or methods. I was
rather a faithful student, by no means brilliant, and he seemingly
appreciated honest effort, even though it fell short of the
highest and best results. In my monthly reports he employed
occasionally such remarks as, "Doing well" or "A good
student," but nothing more commendatory—indeed, quite all
I deserved, but sufficient to encourage me and to show that
he recognized I was doing work—not idling away time and
opportunity.

We all were very loath to have him leave us in 1876, to become
identified with the Johns Hopkins University, and on
Commencement Day of that year, June 30th, after the diplomas
had been distributed and Dr. Harrison was about taking
his seat, a wild cry for Gildersleeve rang throughout the Hall
—an appeal that brought forth a sad response including these
sentences: "In this Hall years ago I sat and heard Gessner
Harrison read his farewell because he could not trust himself
to speak it, and even then he scarcely could proceed for the
blinding tears. I thought at that time how glorious it must
be for a man to stand as he then stood, with such an audience
sobbing at his departure; but I little dreamed that I too would

one day stand on the same spot and say good-bye to the same
audience; I had not thought of saying farewell to you till I
should bid the world good-night. Here to me love, labor
and sorrow have found their keenest expression, while friendship
for these colleagues around me has become the strongest
—as dear as between brothers—and the thought of separation
saddens my heart. I may have spoken many ill-advised words
since coming here, but have spoken naught in malice. I
think I may say without fear of contradiction that I have
striven faithfully to do my best; I hope some of my old pupils
are not altogether ashamed of their preceptor; for them, at
least, my heart swells with pride, and if I have turned out in
the twenty years of my professional career only the one
noble scholar who is to succeed me, I shall not think my life a
failure. To the University I shall give my allegiance, her
fame is mine, and her lofty standard of morals, her unswerving
adherence to truth and purity, and all high and noble
learning shall be my standard forever." It surely was a most
pathetic scene—himself very quiet, with partially bowed head,
slow, deliberate expression, evidently feeling the pathos of
each sentence, seemed all that was needed to bring tears to
many and to suppress in all a mirth that an instant before had
been so pronounced.

Since those University days I have seen far more of Professor
Gildersleeve than any other of my old teachers, as for
the past thirty years we have trod daily the same streets and
by-ways. Even our homes approximate a stone's throw, and
yet our lines of work are so divergent, our interests seemingly
so little in common, that we seldom interchange more than
passing salutations—never beyond a short hurried conversation.
On one occasion he related an incident that had occurred
in the then near past, so illustrative of a phase in his personality
as to deserve repeating here: "When returning this
summer from the Old Sweet Springs, as our train neared the
University, I walked to the rear platform of the Pullman in
order to view better the scene of more youthful years. A
young man soon joined me, evidently desiring to convey information,
who remarked, pointing with his hand, "That is the
University of Virginia"; to which I replied, "Yes"; whereupon
he added, "I used to be a student there," only to receive

the same monosyllabic reply, "Yes." Thus leaving the personal
identity of both unrevealed."

On his seventieth birthday, October 23, 1901, I extended
him congratulations by letter, to which the following is a
reply:

Dear Dr. Culbreth: Nothing could be more gratifying to me in this
season of good wishes than your assurance that you owe something to
your old teacher. Few echoes come to the professor from those who have
sat under his teachings. Only when a memorable occasion arises does he
learn how his teachings have told on the world and his pupils. The completion
of my seventieth year has brought out many expressions of good
will and many kindly remembrances not only from those whom I have
trained for my own calling but from those who think they owe more to
the man than to the Hellenin. And if it be a weakness, let it be a weakness,
for I prefer to be remembered as a personality than as a teaching
machine of so and so many donkey powers. I have no quarrel with those
who have not kept up their Greek studies, but those who will recognize
the idealism of the School of Greek, I hold to my heart as I have ever
done. I have read your letter to my wife who pronounces it beautiful
and who unites with me in thanking you for your tribute to your old
teacher, to whom you have ever shown a loyalty and affection that are
exceedingly precious in a forgetful world.

Since then, as a feeble mark of personal appreciation, I
sent him one of my medical works, and in acknowledgment
received the following:

Dear Dr. Culbreth: You may not be aware that in my youth I had
seriously considered the study of medicine as a profession. At college
there was no course that I enjoyed so much as the lectures on anatomy
illustrated by a manakin, and I have always had a fancy, though nothing
more, for botany and materia medica generally. So you see that I am
not altogether unprepared to appreciate your valuable gift, which I expect
to consult very often. But above all I prize the manifestation of your
continued interest in me and your kind remembrances of the old times.
Nothing comforts me in my old age more than the affectionate regard of
my former pupils, and I pardon most readily their exaggerated estimation
of their obligations to me as a teacher. At all events I rejoice in their
success as if it were my success, and surely the fourth edition of a good
work means success of a high order. With renewed congratulations, best
thanks and best wishes.

On October 1, 1906, he had been professor of Greek fifty
years, an event allowed to pass unobserved until a year later
—his seventy-sixth birthday, October 23, 1907—when he was

Professor John B. Minor, LL.D., at fifty-eight
1813-1895

See page 431

FACING 402

accorded by his many educational friends a befitting golden
jubilee. Teachers of Greek and other classical scholars contributed
beautiful testimonials of his life's worth and work,
while newspapers noticed the event at length in the local
columns and in brief editorially. I wrote him personally,
receiving this reply:

Dear Dr. Culbreth: Some years ago I published a criticism of a translation
from Lucian. When I met the translatrix a few months afterwards,
she said to me: "You reflected on my moral character and bore lightly on
my Greek. So I suppose I must thank you for I am certain of my moral
character; of my Greek I am not certain." Now I am just the other way
except that no Greek scholar is very certain of his Greek. At any rate
I am glad that in your congratulatory letter you emphasize the value of
my example, for when we reach the age of maturity we lay more stress
on character than on talent. And if my old students think that I have
exemplified any of the cardinal virtues I become reconciled to the part
I have played despite the many shortcomings of which I am conscious.
Accept my best thanks for all the kind words you have written to your
old teacher and friend, and all the kind thoughts you have cherished of
him and his colleagues of the University of Virginia.

Of all my teachers, Professor Gildersleeve has lived to gain
possibly the greatest distinction. Many degrees and honors
have been conferred upon him by various institutions, and
to-day he undoubtedly stands in our country the leading exponent
of the Hellenic tongue. While not following literally
the example of the more ancient Greek scholar—who, spending
his life's work on the article, admitted a mistake in not
restricting himself to the dative case—he has been wise enough
to heed the fact that no person can do well more than one
thing, consequently has adhered chiefly to his chosen department,
Greek, allowing little mind-diversion in pursuing deeply
other avenues of knowledge. This strong factor fails to be
observed frequently only to lessen the possibility of renown—
for certainly the mastery of one crowns the slavery of many.