The University of Chicago: A History

The University of Chicago

The University of Chicago

A HISTORY

John W. Boyer

The University of Chicago Press

CHICAGO AND LONDON

JOHN W. BOYER is the Martin A. Ryerson Distinguished Service Professor in History at the University of Chicago. In 2012 he was appointed to a fifth term as Dean of the College. A specialist in the history of the Habsburg Empire, he has written three books on Austrian history, including, most recently, Karl Lueger (1844–1910): Christlichsoziale Politik als Beruf.

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637

The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London

© 2015 by The University of Chicago

All rights reserved. Published 2015.

Printed in the United States of America

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ISBN-13: 978-0-226-38120-6 (cloth: limited edition)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-24251-4 (cloth)

ISBN-13: 978-0-226-24265-1 (e-book)

DOI: 10.7208/chicago/9780226242651.001.0001

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015021573

♾ This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

THIS BOOK IS FOR

Olivia, Amelia, Sebastian, Lucy, Brijzha, Charlotte, Josephine, and Jocelyn

Contents

Introduction

* 1 *

Two Universities of Chicago, 1857–1892

* 2 *

William Rainey Harper and the Establishment of the New University, 1892–1906

* 3 *

Stabilization and Renewal, 1906–1929

* 4 *

One Man’s Revolution: Robert Maynard Hutchins, 1929–1951

* 5 *

The Age of Survival, 1951–1977

* 6 *

The Contemporary University, 1978 to the Present

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

NOTES

BIBLIOGRAPHY

INDEX

Plates

Introduction

This book is based in part on the seventeen historical monographs that I wrote about various aspects of the history of the University of Chicago between 1996 and 2013.¹ The monographs have an interconnected logic, and they reflect the political, cultural, and intellectual challenges I have faced as dean of the College during the radical transformation of the College and the University over the past two decades. The University of Chicago’s recent history has seen an acceleration of changes, accompanied by both conflicting memories and, for some, no memory at all of the deeper past that has defined and constituted the work and identity of the University and its several communities. There are dangers in a-historicism or even anti-historicism,² and it is hazardous for an institution to live simply in the present, with no sense of its past. Lacking a past, we have no plausible ways to understand the choices that previous leaders made about their (and our) future, much less to embrace and intelligently shape the futures that the present faculty wish to create. This book is an attempt to delineate the past of the University of Chicago, in hopes that readers will better grasp the deep complexity of its origins and development.

I began to write the monographs in the mid-1990s at a critical point, when institutional changes led by then president Hugo F. Sonnenschein and other academic leaders ran up against often clamorous opposition from faculty, alumni, and students. These expressions of ressentiment were often based on forcefully articulated conceptions of what the University should stand for, and many invoked an imagined noble past to justify a pleasing status quo. I was both fascinated and frustrated by the ways in which random (and often misunderstood) tidbits of Chicago’s history shaped these conversations, even when most observers acknowledged that they lacked knowledge of the institutional history. I could not help recalling Thucydides’s sense that traditions are received as they are delivered, without applying any critical test whatever.³ Out of vexation but also curiosity, I decided to find out for myself what had really happened. This book is the product of extensive archival research, and the topics that I have selected reflect certain basic themes. The University’s archives are unusually rich and varied, and they offer a vast array of fascinating information about many known and unknown events and larger cultural trends in Chicago’s history. Of course, an archive itself is not a history, and as Arlette Farge has noted, if archives have the ability to reattach the past to the present, the meaning of their story takes shape only when you ask a specific question of them, not when you first discover them, no matter how happy the discovery might have been.⁴

The University has an unusually complicated and often controversial history, which is shrouded at many points in layers of myth and hearsay. It is an institution that loves to generate and then to repeat myths about itself. Like all great universities, its history also encompasses a vast sea of private memories, friendships and enmities, personal conversations, individual stories, and fascinating rumors. A university’s history can be most accurately and fairly discovered by addressing questions to sources that can be authenticated and compared to other, similar sources. This is why a thick, archival source base is crucial to the logic and identity of this book.

This is not a history of every department and every school at the University, nor is it a running biography of the renowned researchers who have populated our campus. It is the story of the emergence and growth of a complex and diverse academic community, particularly the College, focusing on the nature of its academic culture and its curricula, on the experience of its students, on its engagement with Chicago’s civic community, and on the financial resources and developmental conditions that have enabled the University to sustain itself. This means that many noteworthy and even fascinating subjects are not included in this book. Edward Levi once observed that no single person could ever own the University of Chicago, and this is true of the history of the University and its historians as well.

This is also a history written by someone who has played a modest role in many of the events of the past twenty years, so the book consciously walks a delicate line between the principle of scholarly objectivity and access to sensitive and sometimes confidential knowledge. This position affords advantages but also hazards, and the reader should be aware of both. In writing about the contemporary University, I faced the special difficulty that many of the dynamics narrated in the final chapter are still unfolding, and cannot be consigned to a settled past. As the narrative moves toward the present, some elements are necessarily presented in broad strokes. At the same time, I have tried to account for the ways in which the University’s long-running themes have intertwined and resolved themselves in the recent past, in the process bearing upon issues that have aroused strong reactions. In general, I have striven to follow the red thread of the narrative while trying to respect the sensitive blend of issues and personalities implicated in certain episodes.

The history of the University of Chicago has been marked by extraordinary continuities of normative values and educational practices, despite stormy ruptures and discontinuities. Both continuity and change are inevitable features of the lives of individuals and of institutions. These patterns of change and continuity are not simply heuristic devices that a historian imposes on the messy details of the past.⁵ Rather, they involve fundamental approaches to educational policy, administrative structures, and normative rhetorical traditions that have endured over many generations, in the midst of often disruptive changes, to define the workings of the University. Institutions like universities have an embedded, historical reality and a baseline organizational logic, which makes histories of them different from those of cultural phenomena like national identity, taste, and religious prejudice. This book discusses various facets of the University’s commitment to educational innovation and its capacity to sustain its core values while sponsoring (or enduring) significant change. As Robert Maynard Hutchins once observed about the long-term welfare of universities, The real question is how do you get a place to be continuously vitalized and re-vitalized.⁶

This book also focuses on two issues particular to undergraduate liberal arts colleges that are set within larger research universities. First, the University’s engagement with the College and undergraduate education has varied and often been unpredictable, but that relationship has had enormous influence on the intellectual identity and fiscal health of the larger institution. When the College has been neglected, underresourced, or treated as of a lesser priority, the result has meant a near-death experience for the entire University, at least as an institution of the first rank.⁷ Second, Chicago’s history reveals a different chronological flow in that its Golden Age, a term most often deployed to describe the fiscal bounty and rising ambitions of American higher education in two decades after 1945, came earlier than that of most of its peers. Indeed, the tendency to elevate the 1920s, 1930s, and early 1940s is very clear in President Edward Levi’s speeches in the late 1960s and early 1970s. This reflected genuine pride that Chicago had achieved suddenly and with great intellectual style what few other universities could possibly have accomplished before World War II. And yet, as we will see, these successes proved fragile and were subject to great stresses after 1945 precisely because Chicago ended up on a different (and disastrous) demographic trajectory apart from almost all of its peers, with an unintended and unplanned collapse of its undergraduate enrollments in the 1950s that, in turn, profoundly disadvantaged the longer-term welfare of the University over the next forty years.

The claim of this book that the University’s ambitious present and future are anchored in the decisions of its past is captured by a phrase that President Ernest DeWitt Burton used in 1924 in his eulogy in honor of Charles L. Hutchinson, an early trustee and leader of the University. Hutchinson was deeply involved in the design of the neo-Gothic buildings that still form the aesthetic nucleus of the early University’s built environment. Burton argued that Hutchinson had a keen sense of the influence of architecture on the formation of taste, and a strong desire, happily shared by many of his associates, that what the University built should be so built that it would stand and be worthy to last. He built for a long future.⁸ Today’s University lives in its own time, but that present is an intricate cultural and intellectual ensemble shaped by the continuities and changes wrought by previous times. Chicago lives in the long future that scholars and trustees like Burton and Hutchinson created, but it is also obliged to re-create that future for its successors.

* 1 *

Two Universities of Chicago, 1857–1892

The anniversary of the University of Chicago’s refounding 125 years ago, in 1890, invites us to consider how the University has sustained itself over the decades and how it has acquired its identity as a great research university. Founded with revolutionary ambitions in the late nineteenth century, Chicago aimed to become a model university for the city, the region, and the nation. Now, when the public understanding of universities’ core mission is less clear than ever before and when universities and their faculties face competing challenges on many fronts, it is useful to recount the odyssey of one institution from its inception, focusing not only on its academic values and practices but also on the efforts to sustain its welfare, intellectual and otherwise. Such an understanding is needed to answer the critics, some friendly, others not so, who challenge the operational assumptions of American research universities like Chicago.

Fifty years ago, Christopher Jencks offered a pessimistic and perhaps familiar evaluation of the future of American undergraduate education. For Jencks, the problem was twofold: at the elite colleges and universities, most faculty cared only about teaching specialized knowledge, in the hope that they would persuade their students to embark on academic careers and become professors like themselves. Jencks argued that Harvard had essentially become a cram school for graduate study and that the Hutchins College experiment at the University of Chicago had been savaged by graduate departments that wanted to cannibalize its faculty. At major public colleges, in contrast, most students cared little for ideas or learning, which made their faculty despair of doing a responsible job in trying to educate them. For Jencks, students at these institutions did not take ideas seriously, and faculty had no way to force them to do so. What was missing, in Jencks’s account, was general intellectual education, which would develop critical analytic skills and present students with a broad perspective without trying to make undergraduate students into mini doctoral candidates.¹

The past fifty years have seen a continuation of the concerns that Jencks articulated, with many new ones added.² Even if many critics came to see the period from 1945 to 1975 as the golden age of American higher education, this era of optimism was soon fractured by uncertainty in many domains of intellectual and pedagogical practice.³ But Jencks’s pessimism did not hold true at the University of Chicago, for the Chicago faculty never lost sight of the fact that students who are generally and broadly educated usually make the best young academics, just as they make the most effective young lawyers, doctors, and businesspeople. Both long before and long after 1960 the University of Chicago tried to sustain a system that had general education at its core and, equally important, to create a campus culture of learning, egalitarian merit, and academic rigor that challenged all highly motivated and talented students, whatever their ultimate professional career goals.

From the University’s inception in the 1890s, its conception of higher education as a public and private good was unusual in the marketplace of American higher education. If anything, Chicago’s golden age came before 1945, when the University marshaled enormous and sudden wealth and managed to combine it with extraordinary levels of intellectual seriousness and academic achievement. In this sense Chicago anticipated many features of the academic revolution that underwrote a profound shift in the self-understanding of the top American research universities after 1945.⁴

But the University of Chicago did find its academic culture at risk in the decades after World War II as it struggled to sort out the social, cultural, and intellectual tensions generated by Hutchins’s revolution in the College, among other crises, and to maintain financial solvency for the university at large. The fiscal and developmental underpinnings proved inadequate by the 1940s and 1950s in view of the University’s outsize ambitions, and the inadequacies led to ongoing frustration in explaining itself to its own alumni and other potential supporters. As a consequence, the history of Chicago became a fascinating exercise in principled intellectual ambition constantly butting up against stubborn and unpleasant social and economic realities.

How and why was Chicago able to sustain its educational success amid such pendulating fiscal fortunes? How did it maintain its unique campus culture in the face of often self-destructive policy decisions about its future? This culture and the (often competing) curricular practices that have both informed and divided it have, in turn, depended on the dedication of generations of faculty to excellence in teaching. But those same faculty also aspired, indeed felt compelled, to be outstanding scholars for whom teaching might easily have been a useless distraction. Chicago’s prolonged success in promoting teaching and research was never easy to attain, and it was subject to severe internal tangles, controversies, and debates. The stories underlying these struggles are complex and knotty.

For most who arrived after 1892, the new University of Chicago was the University of Chicago. Robert Herrick, an early recruit from Harvard, wrote a remarkable appreciation of the newness of the University in 1895, as if it had been created de novo out of ambition, openness, a penchant for risk taking, and seriousness, with Herrick taking particular pride in the phenomenal birth and growth and the material side of the new institution.⁵ For Herrick, the new University was an almost providential act that was bound to be hugely successful, set in the dynamic West and in a burgeoning city whose hardworking people were eager for a rich intellectual and cultural life. This image of a new, hyperinnovative creation, brilliantly launched by William Rainey Harper in 1892, dominates most historical accounts of the origins of the modern American university, alongside the opening of Johns Hopkins University in 1876. Images of instantaneous creation also dominate much of the fund-raising literature that the University produced in the twentieth century. The Responsibility of Greatness, the lead publication for the capital campaign of 1955–58, proudly recounted, "No other university ever began like Chicago. Its founders quite literally knew what they were doing. Other universities grew from small colleges, but Chicago started as a university. It was founded for leadership sixty-five years ago, and in ten short years it had become a leader. Similarly, in the lavish campaign book of 1925, the authors noted, In 1892, Mr. John D. Rockefeller, inspired by a deep impulse to advance civilization and to meet more specifically the needs for intellectual leadership of a population exceeding 50,000,000 people, founded a great university in the center of the Middle West. . . . [He] called it The University of Chicago."⁶

Neither of these statements is inaccurate. Yet there was a titular predecessor, the first University of Chicago, which had been founded in 1857 and collapsed in 1886, and the historical threads connecting the two institutions were complex. The image of newness was not an accident. The men most closely associated with the reestablishment of the University in Chicago in 1888 and 1889, Frederick Gates and Thomas Goodspeed, were acutely aware of the misery and public humiliation that had accompanied the collapse of the first institution, having had considerable difficulty raising the $400,000 needed to match John D. Rockefeller’s historic offer of $600,000 to re-create a first-rate Baptist college in Chicago. Much of the rhetoric they deployed was designed to negate the long, dark shadow cast by the old University. But the new University of Chicago was also deeply indebted to a group of leaders who were profoundly influenced by the old University and its educational goals and pedagogical ideals.

The Founding of the First University

The first institution to bear the name of the University of Chicago began as a modest denominational college founded by Senator Stephen A. Douglas in 1856–57. The Baptist denomination in Chicago was small—with about 5,500 members in 1872—and the Baptist communities in the western states had long wanted an institution of higher education to educate ministers for their region.⁷ Between 1849 and 1851, Stephen Douglas purchased seventy-five acres of lakeside land between Thirty-First and Thirty-Third Streets on the South Side of the city. Douglas sold part of the land to the Illinois Central Railroad and planned to build a large mansion on the rest.⁸ Douglas’s tomb at Thirty-Fifth Street and the lake is the last vestige of this estate, which Douglas called Oakenwald. Douglas was a strong advocate of the commercial and cultural development of Chicago, particularly federal investments in infrastructure. He was also a strong believer in practical science and was one of the prime supporters of the creation of the Smithsonian Institution in 1846, as well as of the transcontinental telegraph system. His enthusiasm for the development of Chicago led Douglas to proselytize younger men, and he helped persuade a young lawyer from frontier Illinois, Paul Cornell, to purchase three hundred acres in 1853 in what would become the core district of the township of Hyde Park. Ironically, Cornell sought to lure an institution of higher learning to his investment area, offering Presbyterians free land to build a seminary, though this gambit failed.

Douglas’s awareness of the importance of higher education in the rapidly growing west led him to want to found a college in Chicago.⁹ Douglas’s recently deceased wife, Martha Douglas, was a Baptist, and his willingness to give land to the Baptists was said to reflect his desire to honor her affiliation. But the real motivation to found a college may have come from a trip that Douglas took in 1853 to Europe, where he visited several leading universities; according to John C. Burroughs, the pastor of the First Baptist Church in Chicago, who knew Douglas’s motives well, while [Douglas’s] main errand abroad was political, his quick insight had not failed to discover the bearing of its universities on the social and political development of Europe, and he had returned, full of the idea of a university at Chicago, which should be for the Northwest what he had seen those of England, and Germany, and France, and Russia to be to their States. This was the real main-spring of his project.¹⁰

Douglas was grateful for the support that Burroughs had given him in the mid-1850s during the heated controversy surrounding the Kansas-Nebraska Act, of which Douglas had been the principal architect.¹¹ Yet when Douglas decided to create a college in Chicago, he first opened negotiations with local Presbyterians in the spring of 1855, offering them ten acres of his South Side land if they could raise $100,000 by December 1 (which Douglas later extended to March 1, 1856). At the urging of prominent Baptists in Chicago, including Charles Walker and Daniel Cameron, Burroughs visited Douglas in November 1855 in Terre Haute, Indiana, where Douglas was staying at the time, and proposed that Douglas give his land to the Baptists if the Presbyterians were unable to meet his stipulations. When the Presbyterians decided not to exercise the option, most likely because of opposition to Douglas’s unresponsiveness on the slavery issue, Douglas informed Burroughs in April 1856 that he was willing to offer the Baptists a site on Thirty-Fourth Street between Cottage Grove and Rhodes Avenues.¹² Working with Mrs. Douglas’s former pastor, Dr. G. W. Samson, Burroughs fashioned a proposal that was acceptable to Douglas, including a commitment to construct a building on the land within one year at a cost of not less than $100,000. Douglas’s motives in making this gift have been variously interpreted, but it seems clear that he viewed the addition of a college not only as an asset to the fledgling city, but also as a way to enhance the value of the land that he intended to develop on the South Side.¹³

Burroughs also agreed to organize a fund-raising campaign for the construction of the new building. He was able to secure oral endorsements from many Baptist leaders and collected pledges well beyond $100,000, but when the time came to persuade donors to honor their commitments he ran into difficulties. Douglas’s name and his close association with the project were controversial among antislavery factions within the Baptist denomination, especially in eastern states and in Chicago. All told, Douglas proved to be more of a hindrance than a help to the Baptists, and he certainly provided no support to the fledgling University beyond his original donation of land. In August 1857 Douglas sent a public letter to Burroughs, offering to withdraw his grant of land and instead give the University a gift of $50,000.¹⁴ Burroughs and his fellow trustees unanimously rejected Douglas’s offer, also in a public letter, which presented an idealistic statement of the goals of the founders and argued that since the University was a nonpolitical institution, it would never engage in partisan political activity, whatever Douglas’s views on any given issue:

The establishment of the University of Chicago was looked upon by the Board as a matter above and beyond all political considerations, not as a thing for the moment, but for all time, not as a thing which concerns you immediately, or any other persons, but of the youth of Chicago and of the Northwest generally, not only of the Chicago of today but of that Chicago which in the fullness of time, will become a city of which the sanguine can hardly tend for an adequate conception, to enable them to accomplish that high and literal purpose they have steadily sought and obtained subscriptions and donations from the men of all parties and of all denominations. . . . It would moreover be a little less than a betrayal of the sacred trust committed to their hands, accompanied by a loss of all self-respect on the part of the Board of Trustees, to yield their unanimous judgment to mere temporary, personal or political considerations.¹⁵

In its charter, the new institution was not defined as exclusively Baptist, and Burroughs later insisted that Douglas had deeded the land to an individual (himself) in trust who happened to be a Baptist, but not to the denomination as a corporation, in order to avoid the appearance that the new University was overtly sectarian.¹⁶ But the popular press and public sentiment in Chicago viewed it as such (the Christian Times proudly announced in October 1856, The subscription of $100,000 for the building of a Baptist university in the city has now been completed).¹⁷ Although a majority of the board and the president were mandated to be Baptist, the charter opened the school to students and faculty of all faiths, setting up a tension in institutional identity and pragmatic policy that would plague the new school.

The institution was incorporated in the state of Illinois on January 30, 1857, as The University of Chicago, and the board of trustees had its first meetings on May 21–22 of that year. The first board had thirty-six members, including little-known local Baptist ministers and also prominent business and political leaders like William B. Ogden and John H. Kinzie. Douglas agreed to serve as chairman of the board. Other prominent Chicagoans on the early board included William Jones, a hardware merchant and real estate investor; James H. Woodworth, a dry goods merchant and former mayor; Thomas Hoyne, US attorney and politician; Charles Walker, a major real estate and lumber developer; and J. Young Scammon, a prominent banker and newspaper publisher. Few on the board, however, viewed the University as their primary philanthropy. With the exception of Jones and Scammon, none gave the new University a major gift during their tenure.¹⁸ Upon his death in June 1861, Stephen Douglas was overwhelmed with debts, having long since disposed of most of the property he owned in Chicago, and was unable to leave the University any legacy.¹⁹

After some hesitation, John Burroughs agreed to become the first president of the new University in July 1859.²⁰ He served for more than sixteen years, and he left behind many staunch friends and advocates. The editor of the Standard, Justin A. Smith, later insisted, Dr. Burroughs had proved himself an instructor, a leader, and an administrator of marked ability, of course, patience, and resource. The affection and honor in which his memory has been cherished by those who were his pupils, and by those who knew him in such relations as to reveal the man as he truly was, are personal attributes whose emphasis is not to be doubted.²¹ That said, if leaders are judged on the long-term institutional consequences of their decisions, Burroughs’s legacy is an ambiguous one.

The University’s first building was a capacious structure designed by a prominent local architect, William W. Boyington, in a castellated Gothic style. The first section built was the south wing, named Jones Hall in honor of William Jones, whose support had helped to finance the laying of the foundation. The construction of the remainder of the hall required additional cash, and this was slow in coming. By mid-1858 Burroughs had secured pledges of more than $200,000 for the University, but in the aftermath of the panic of 1857 most of the pledges proved worthless. In July 1858, for example, he reported to the board that he had accumulated $112,600 in local subscription pledges but was able to translate that figure into only $20,000 of actual cash.²² Thomas Goodspeed later estimated that more than 75 percent of the early pledges were uncollectable and thus worthless.²³ It was only by persuading Stephen Douglas to transfer title of the land to the trustees in late August 1858 that Burroughs issued bonds for $25,000 with the property as security in order to start construction on the walls of the building. This act launched a debt-based financial strategy that, while typical in the West, soon proved disastrous. Then, three years later—in 1861—the board negotiated a loan of $25,000 from the Union Life Insurance Company of Maine to cover this debt, with the insurance company issuing a first mortgage on the property. In a stunning conflict of interest, the agent for the insurance company in Chicago was Levi D. Boone, a University trustee, medical doctor, and former mayor of Chicago, who happily negotiated a five-year-term loan at 10 percent per annum. The most elementary challenge faced by the trustees was to generate basic operational revenues while gaining support from the larger metropolitan community, and on both counts they proved inept and unlucky. Most colleges in mid-nineteenth-century America hovered between genial penury and unmitigated fiscal disaster, having to rely on ad hoc charitable contributions and often uncollectable subscriptions, as well as meager tuition revenues, and the new University of Chicago was typical in this regard.²⁴ What set the University apart was the disjunction between its inflated ambitions—represented by its expensive building program—and the realistic capacity of its leaders to sustain an institution worthy of such dreams.

At the ceremony for the laying of the cornerstone of Jones Hall on July 4, 1857, a crowd of several thousand heard a clutter of longish speeches, ranging from covert political critiques of Douglas’s ambivalence on slavery to pleas that education serve the cause of public morality. But Rev. Adoniram J. Joslyn of Elgin, Illinois, captured the moment best when he pronounced the new University’s devotion to the indissoluble trinity of religion, science, and liberty.²⁵ Douglas’s University had as its mission to be a decidedly Christian but not sectarian institution under the stewardship of the Baptist church. On the day-to-day level, this ideal translated into a university devoted to the customary fields: classics and grammar foremost, a more modern course of science for some, and scientific agriculture. The fact that the University offered a separate track in science reflected currents of reform that had begun in the 1840s that suggested the need to be both more professionally relevant and more reflective of modern needs, and thus move away from classical studies.²⁶ In many respects, the curriculum at Chicago reflected many of the concerns articulated by Brown University president Francis Wayland in his classic critiques of antebellum American colleges.²⁷ John Burroughs had visited with Wayland on his way to meet with Stephen Douglas in Washington, DC, in the spring of 1856, and Burroughs later recalled that for most of two days he continued the discussion of the merits and demerits of our project, examining statistics of population of the states and territories of the Northwest, the number and condition of the colleges, and especially the condition and prospects of Chicago, then rapidly rising into notice; and also the whole question of the work and influence of the colleges, particularly as a means of religious advancement. Burroughs acknowledged the force of Wayland’s ideas about the breaking up of the old conventionalism, and the widening scope of the college to meet the practical wants of the people.²⁸ The college founded by Douglas and Burroughs represented an unsteady compromise between traditional nineteenth-century educational values and calls for greater vocational pragmatism.²⁹

ACADEMIC PROGRAMS, FACULTY, AND STUDENTS

The site on which the University was built was largely uninhabited in 1858. Thomas Goodspeed, a student at the early University, later remembered the site as an isolated, semirural place on the deserted outskirts of the town:

The street cars, then horse cars, ran on Cottage Grove Avenue only as far south as Thirty-first street, nearly half a mile north of the University. On Thirty-fifth street, just west of the Avenue, was a small, dingy saloon, appropriately named The Shades. There was but one building, a small one-story cottage, on Thirty-fifth Street between The Shades and State Street, nearly a mile west. There were a few houses to the southeast—Cleaverville—but none to the south or southwest, and only two or three between the University and Thirty-first Street. Across the Avenue from the University was Oakenwald, the Chicago home of Senator Douglas. A fine oak grove covered the ground for several hundred feet on both sides of the Avenue and the whole country south of the University was a region of oak openings, every slight ridge being covered with trees.³⁰

The University of Chicago opened its doors for the fall term of 1859. There were twenty students, twelve freshmen and eight sophomores, though the University also ran a preparatory academy, first housed in the basement of St. Paul’s Universalist Church at the corner of Wabash and Van Buren. The academic year was divided into three terms, a fall term of fifteen weeks, followed by winter and spring terms of thirteen and twelve weeks, respectively—a structural innovation that offered a strong precedent for Harper’s decision to create a quarter system in 1892. Students had to be at least fifteen years old and demonstrate prior knowledge of Latin, Greek, mathematics, geography, US history, and English grammar. The curriculum was divided into two tracks, a classical one that was heavy on ancient languages, and a scientific course that stressed modern languages and the natural sciences (chemistry, zoology, physiology, meteorology, civil engineering, etc.) and had a reduced classical component. By 1870, candidates for the science track were excused from any prior knowledge of Greek, and they were held to a less rigorous Latin requirement. Both tracks resulted in a bachelor’s degree, of arts or of science.

The University’s two-year course of study in scientific agriculture, begun in 1859, was adequate of itself to meet that claim for liberal culture which the sons of farmers, not less than other young men are asserting for themselves.³¹ Its two-year curriculum encompassed mathematics, the natural sciences, and some history and philosophy, as well as bookkeeping and surveying. This program never took root, however, and catalogues from the 1870s and 1880s made no mention of it. Instead, the University tried programs in astronomy and practical chemistry, but these too failed to gain matriculants. The University also announced that it would award master’s degrees to students who had successfully passed its baccalaureate program in the arts and who had over the course of (at least) three additional years pursued either a literary or a scientific calling.

Burroughs added a law department, which was located in a downtown commercial building adjacent to the federal courthouse. The department offered a two-year curriculum over six quarters in which students studied common law, constitutional law, equity, commercial law, international and admiralty law, and the history of jurisprudence of the United States. Upon passing an examination at the end of three full terms, students received a bachelor of law degree. Unlike students in the undergraduate program, law students did not have to meet age or knowledge requirements, being expected only to demonstrate a good, common English education. The law department lasted until 1873, when it was merged into the Union College of Law, which was also supported by Northwestern University. That experiment lasted until 1886, when upon Chicago’s collapse the law department became part of Northwestern. It was immediately successful there—in the 1859–60 academic year, 48 students matriculated in law, and by 1884 it had graduated 745 students, compared to 290 in the collegiate programs.

On the whole, the University of Chicago’s curricular structures were progressive for their time. They offered students various options toward the baccalaureate degree, while also sustaining the charges to civilize the young by building moral character, to educate gentlemen as future leaders of a frontier society, and to offer substantial opportunities for social mobility.³² The academic quality of these programs varied. Instruction in the arts and humanities enjoyed a certain traditional esteem and rigor, whereas instruction in the natural sciences was perceived by many students as less impressive. In 1873 the student newspaper slammed the science programs as being loose and jointless and a fraud on the student and a disgrace to the University, insisting that teaching was poor, the students were unmotivated, and a shorter and more effective practical science curriculum should be developed.³³ But such comments may have reflected the cultural bias that still hindered nineteenth-century colleges from developing creditable programs in the natural sciences, as well as a chronic lack of resources (one faculty member at the University of Chicago was responsible for teaching chemistry, geology, mineralogy, and agriculture).³⁴ Given that the advancement of scientific knowledge was not part of the mission of midcentury colleges and in some quarters was even looked upon with suspicion, it was natural that experimental science felt itself an orphan.³⁵

For its first two decades, the University admitted only male students, but in 1873–74 women students were admitted on equal terms. The first woman to graduate was Alice Boise, the daughter of Professor James R. Boise. Ms. Boise was referred to as the Entering Wedge for her revolutionary achievement in securing a BA.³⁶ Coeducation was a national and regional trend after 1860—women were first admitted to the University of Wisconsin in 1867, to the University of Michigan in 1871, and to Cornell University in 1872—and demonstrated a capacity at Chicago for modest innovation, even in the face of opposition from the male students.³⁷

For an urban university Chicago’s enrollments were quite small, with typical graduating classes of 10 to 20. By 1884 the University had approximately 1,035 living alumni, more than 700 of whom had attended the Union College of Law. Of the 200 plus arts and sciences graduates, 74 chose careers as ministers, 72 went on to law schools, 55 became businessmen, 35 became schoolteachers and professors, 15 were physicians, 13 were journalists, and 6 were farmers. Geographically, the alumni were distributed across the United States, but 90 remained in Chicago.³⁸

Between 1870 and 1880 the undergraduate school averaged 102 students per year. While the average size of a US college in 1870 was only 112 students, the University’s student population did not grow as the population of the city of Chicago mushroomed between 1870 and 1880, increasing from 298,977 to 503,185—a sign that the University had failed to take advantage of the metropolis.³⁹ During the next decade, in which the city’s population more than doubled, annual enrollments at the University declined steeply, from 107 in 1880 to 67 in 1883 and 73 in 1885.

The cost of tuition for a full academic year in 1860 was $50. Many students lived at home or in boardinghouses, but the University did provide rooms for those who wished to live on campus. Room charges were $15 a year, with $2 a week required to eat in the dining hall. Students also had to provide wood for heating and oil for their lamps. The total cost of residential attendance at the University was estimated at approximately $150 a year. Attendance was possible for only a very small minority of young people at this time (in 1869–70 only 1.3 percent of the US population between the ages of eighteen and twenty-four was enrolled in one of the 563 existing institutions of higher education).⁴⁰ Most of the very wealthy families in Chicago sent their children to the East for college, so the University did not have a deep reservoir of patronage from alumni with ample family resources. In 1869, the only year in which the occupations of the parents of University students are known, 25 percent of those who sent their children to the University were farmers, 25 percent were merchants or other businessmen like bankers, and 21 percent were ministers. Physicians and lawyers made up another 20 percent, with a few teachers, real estate developers, and artists thrown in. A small minority of students came from wealthy social backgrounds, but the great majority seem to have been children from enterprising middle-class and lower-middle-class families whose parents were willing to allow their children to leave the labor market for an extended period of time, and some of whom were also able to offer partial support to their children while they were in college. Still, many students had to work to meet their expenses, which made it possible (in theory) for a student of modest means to attend the University.

A student culture began to cohere, and a student association was created to give voice to student concerns and interests, along with several honor societies (including the Tri Kappa and the Athenaeum) and four Greek letter fraternities (Delta Kappa Epsilon, Phi Kappa Psi, Psi Upsilon, and Zeta Psi). By the early 1870s a student newspaper, the Volante, was being regularly published, its editors elected by the senior class. Beyond ritualistic expressions of school pride and confidence in the liberal arts, the newspaper offered valuable insights into student views about the institution and its financial peril, including analyses of students’ religious beliefs, curricular improvements, and the school’s enrollment problems. Other ad hoc groupings of students also came together—during the Civil War, students helped prisoners at nearby Camp Douglas and also created a student militia group. What was most curious about the early student culture was what it lacked—there were no recorded conflicts between the fraternities and the university administration, no formal athletic leagues (a student baseball club—the College Nine—played an annual series with Northwestern University, and the students also had an amateur boating club), and few reports of the petty violence, alcoholism, hooliganism, and social hedonism that marked much of undergraduate life at nineteenth-century American colleges.⁴¹ A later memoir on student life suggested that competitive oratorical contests between Chicago and neighboring colleges served the role of football games as occasions for student entertainment and sociability.⁴² The majority of students had to find part-time and even full-time jobs to cover their expenses, reducing the temptation and the opportunity for socially aberrant behavior.⁴³ Describing the cultural differences between leading eastern colleges and the University of Chicago, one student wrote in 1873, "In boating, at the bat, and in other sports we may not be able to compare with the Eastern clubs; but while these are of benefit in themselves, they are, or should be of second rate importance to the student. To drill and strengthen the mental faculties is the prime area of college life; and the school that does this the most thoroughly is the most successful."⁴⁴ In all, the academic culture of the old University was serious, engaged, and (literally) sober, worthy of its Baptist origins, although the trustees’ minutes do record one incident in 1883 in which a student threatened the president with a pistol over the award of a prize for an oratorical contest, with the student being summarily expelled.⁴⁵

In a typical year the arts and sciences faculty numbered about a dozen (including the president, who regularly taught classes), with four to five additional faculty in the Law School. Some were regionally prominent, like James R. Boise in Greek literature and John C. Freeman in Latin, and a few former faculty ended up in prominent professorships elsewhere. When faculty published books, these were usually grammars or other pedagogical texts, including selections from ancient authors and from the Bible.⁴⁶ Occasionally a faculty member might gain wider recognition, as did William Mathews, a former lawyer turned publicist, financial writer, and rhetoric professor, who published a remarkable success manual in 1872 called Getting On in the World, or Hints on Success in Life that sold 70,000 copies.⁴⁷ For the most part, the majority were competent instructors with no significant professional reputations as scholars. Their academic backgrounds reflected the intellectual attainments expected of faculty: they were intelligent and dedicated pedagogues, fiercely loyal to the idea of the liberal arts, not original thinkers, writers, or scientists. In 1875 none of the faculty had an earned doctoral degree.

The University had difficulty retaining faculty, and the records of the board are filled with notations of departures for better-paying jobs elsewhere. Far too often the trustees struggled to meet the regular payroll, with the result that faculty were often forced to appeal to the board to honor their contracts—though many nineteenth-century colleges had feeble records of compensating their faculty, sometimes not meeting salary payrolls at all and assuming that faculty would either work for free or have family members who would otherwise support them.⁴⁸ In his comprehensive survey of the state of Baptist colleges in 1888, Frederick Gates discovered that faculty at most western Baptist colleges were paid salaries about half the value of those earned by teachers at more prominent eastern colleges.⁴⁹ Haphazard payrolls also meant that faculty had to take on part-time jobs outside of the University to make ends meet. In 1878 a young instructor of botany, Edson S. Bastin, explained to his sister that he was still living on the hope that the University will be able to throw off the incubus of debt & that better times will come to us when salaries will be paid promptly & fully; still hoping that I shall not always be required to teach so many different things, & do such a variety of work that I may have the chance to do some one thing well.⁵⁰ By the mid-1880s the University was able to pay its teachers only 59 percent of the nominal value of their annual salaries ($885, as opposed to their official pay of $1,500).

The surviving records of the University’s fund-raising efforts reveal a constant effort to seek small contributions from local and regional Baptist congregations, many of which made subscription pledges that they were in no position to honor. The financial files are full of accounts such as those of Lincoln Patterson, who was found to be dead and family destitute; worthless, while I. R. Gale was old & sick & will not pay as he has no property, and S. S. Davis was reported as having gone to California[,] has no means, probably worthless.⁵¹ In spite of efforts to persuade wealthy men of Chicago to give contributions, the University was bereft of any significant capitalist support in the 1870s and 1880s. The alternative was to rely heavily on Baptist clergy to undertake fund-raising, but this was a mixed blessing, given that the ministers were complex personalities with budgetary claims from their own congregations who required a great deal of hand-holding and who could easily lose focus and undermine broader institutional priorities.⁵² This was the case with William W. Everts, who claimed to have raised $150,000 for the new college and who was touted in an early biographical sketch as someone who used his marvelous faculty for ‘raising money’ with great effect, but who spent years feuding with many of his fellow trustees.⁵³

FINANCIAL CRISES IN THE 1860S AND THE 1870S

The University was severely caught up in the strains and dislocations of the Civil War. The northern boundary of the campus was across the road from Camp Douglas, which housed thousands of Confederate prisoners of war. But the war’s most serious effect on the University was a severe loss of financial resources. As in the aftermath of the panic of 1857, many donors found themselves unable to honor their pledges, creating a balance sheet overwhelmed with red ink. Enrollments in the undergraduate and law programs remained steady, but dipped in the preparatory school.

Ignoring the financial gloom, however, the board of trustees started construction on the main section of the University building in 1864, which was designated as Douglas Hall, at a cost of $120,000. A subscription campaign was mounted to cover these costs, but it fell short. Rather than delay construction, the trustees proceeded with the venture, since the hall was needed for an astronomical observatory that was urgently wanted.⁵⁴ In order to complete the building—the roof was missing—the trustees voted to deploy $14,000 from an endowment of $23,000 that had recently been given to establish a professorship of Greek.⁵⁵ This professorship had been raised by William W. Everts, the outspoken pastor of the First Baptist Church of Chicago, from Baptists in New York City, and Everts happened to be out of town when the board voted to appropriate the funds.⁵⁶

As the institution’s financial plight worsened in the 1860s, some trustees faulted Burroughs’s financial assistant, James B. Olcott, for financial ineptitude and poor decision making. Olcott resigned in disgust in July 1862, resentful that Burroughs had not only failed to defend his reputation but had sought to take credit for successful pledges that Olcott himself had engineered.⁵⁷ Burroughs’s most significant critic on the board was Everts, who was convinced that Burroughs was a weak leader engaging in financially irresponsible activities, such as booking pledges from potential donors who had neither the capacity nor real intent to pay, and then using the existence of such pledges as a kind of moral collateral to justify the University’s increasing accumulation of debt. Without consulting his fellow trustees Everts invited Burroughs to his home in the summer of 1863, urging him to resign and promising (as a not-so-subtle bribe) to send Burroughs to Europe, free of charge.⁵⁸ Burroughs refused, and thus began a nasty and increasingly public feud between the two men that festered and worsened over the years.

That same year, the Committee on Finances was asked to report on the University’s finances, yet it had little understanding of the real state of budgetary affairs. The trustees, in another risky act, took out a second loan of $15,000 in October 1864 from the Union Mutual Life Insurance Company, adding a second mortgage to the University’s physical property.⁵⁹ The trustees hoped to complete the main building by adding a north wing. In 1864 they had obtained a pledge from board chairman William B. Ogden to cover the $50,000 cost of that wing, but only if sufficient funds—$100,000—were raised to eliminate the debt and to provide for the permanent operating costs of the University. Failing to meet Ogden’s stipulation because of more feuding (including the sudden dismissal of the two men who were charged with leading a canvass for the building), the board was unable to get the north wing built.⁶⁰

After the cessation of military hostilities in 1865, financial distress continued to plague the University. At a meeting on June 30, 1865, Thomas Hoyne offered a resolution to the effect that this Board deemed it essential to a clearer apprehension and understanding of the present condition of the Institution, pecuniary and otherwise, that there should be some clearer and well digested report of all its affairs, embraced in a single Report to this Board.⁶¹ When a summary of the University’s finances was produced a few weeks later, it revealed that the institution had vastly overreached its available resources.⁶² In August 1866 the trustees again appealed to the Union Mutual Life Insurance Company, this time requesting $25,000 to cover (among other things) unpaid bills and assessments that the city had levied against the University for street and lighting improvements. By 1866 the University owed the insurance company $75,000 in principal and interest.⁶³

In 1869 the board hit upon the idea of asking other Christian denominations to fund individual faculty positions. When the incumbent chair in mathematics, Alonzo J. Sawyer, was asked to solicit the Presbyterians for the costs of his salary, he refused and threatened to resign. Sawyer complained that if the Trustees will also keep in mind the great aversion which every literary man must have to begging for a matter in which he is personally interested and which he cannot do without sacrifice of his finer feelings, they will perceive the exceedingly unpleasant nature of the task they wish me to perform.⁶⁴ The board, while regretting to part with so old and faithful a professor, felt compelled under the present pecuniary necessities of the institution to accept the tendered resignation.⁶⁵ Most fascinating about this incident was the board’s strange conviction that selling off professorships to other denominations would plac[e] this institution among the most useful and commanding Universities in the country. Yet the resignation of Sawyer in fact showed how marginal the faculty were in the life of the institution. Rather than viewing the faculty as key human capital resources to be protected, and as agents who would give a lustrous identity to the University, the trustees viewed them as (at best) genial teachers, respected by their students but eminently replaceable or exchangeable if there were some financial necessity.

In the face of such problems, President Burroughs was tempted to sanction extreme and unorthodox measures, such as the so-called land scheme of early 1871. Two laymen from the First Baptist Church obtained a guarantee of $50,000 from Burroughs to purchase 160 acres of land near the stockyards, which they then proposed to sell at a high profit, sharing the difference with the University. Burroughs acted without the board’s official approval and in fact had no money available to join in the plan. The scheme soon collapsed, with the University gaining nothing except another blemish on its name.⁶⁶ Once again, the trustees returned to the Union Mutual Life Insurance Company in July 1869 for an additional $25,000 loan, making the total indebtedness now $100,000.⁶⁷ Squabbling on the board over how to deal with the debt continued, and then the University was hit with the dual blows of the fire of 1871 and the depression of 1873. The board noted in October 1872 that a large part of the subscriptions for the University obtained in Chicago, within the last three years, have been rendered uncollectible by the fire of last October.⁶⁸ Even the usually optimistic student newspaper was forced to admit that the losses in the wake of the fire were incalculable; many men of wealth in the city had declared grand intentions, and some had made generous provisions for large things for the college, whose fulfillment is now hopeless and impossible. The institution was seriously crippled—[it] labors now under great embarrassment, and therefore needs the support of all its friends at home and abroad.⁶⁹

William Everts continued his campaign to force Burroughs’s dismissal, even ghostwriting attacks on Burroughs that were published in the Chicago Tribune.⁷⁰ Everts was forced to resign from the board in October 1872, having been accused of impudence, dishonesty or infidelity in leaking damaging material concerning University finances to the press, although he denied wrongdoing.⁷¹ Burroughs finally agreed (in principle) to step down from the presidency as soon as a suitable successor could be identified. But in fact he refused to abandon his position, and by the time a new president was elected in July 1874—Dr. Lemuel Moss, a respected professor of theology at Crozer Seminary near Philadelphia—Burroughs had engineered his own appointment to a newly created office of chancellor of the University, with specific responsibility to supervise the finances of the institution.⁷²

The problem with this arrangement was that no one had consulted Moss about it, and he had assumed that his appointment as president involved the whole of it, with all of its duties and prerogatives.⁷³ Within a few months Moss was at daggers drawn with Burroughs over the authority vested in the presidency—Burroughs insisted that Moss could not make any decisions involving money without his prior consent, while Moss sought to persuade the board to eliminate Burroughs’s position. The board then became badly polarized. Among Moss’s supporters were Francis E. Hinckley, George Walker, and E. Nelson Blake, donors who were to play a major role in the development of the Morgan Park Seminary and, eventually, the new University of Chicago. The anti-Burroughs faction proposed that Burroughs’s office be vacated and that he be retired with every expression of honor and respect on the part of the Board and all interested in the University.⁷⁴ This motion was met with one that proposed firing Moss. The consequence was that Moss was fired by a 16–8 vote on July 13, 1875, for spreading dissatisfactions and undermining a harmony of interests in the administration, and Burroughs was put back in charge of the University until an interim president could be identified.⁷⁵

The Moss scandal proved to be a turning point in the history of the institution’s governance. First, it generated a huge cloud of negative publicity about the University, with the majority of the board being accused of undignified, petty, and irresponsible behavior. The Standard, the main newspaper of the Baptist communities in Chicago, reported, The action of the Trustees of this institution, at their last meeting, has called forth an indignant and almost unanimous protest on the part of the general public and the denominational press. We have met, personally, no man during this week of anxiety and agitation who has not declared the act alike unjust and suicidal; while the utterances of the press, both denominational and secular . . . is to the effect that the course of the Board is wholly without justification.⁷⁶ Second, it became clear that the motives behind this putsch had everything to do with Burroughs’s unwillingness to surrender his status and nothing to do with the welfare of the University. Levi D. Boone emerged as the public spokesperson for the anti-Moss faction and published several explanatory letters in the press, insisting that the issue was one of formal honor—Moss had agreed originally to live with the dual system of governance (which Moss denied) and he now found it unworkable. This made the situation worse, since Boone offered no substantive reason why Moss had been terminated, and, as trustee J. A. Smith observed, throughout the letter [from Boone] . . . scarcely one word of allusion appears to the University considered as an institution of learning, representing the great interest of higher education. It is nowhere implied that any other point is at issue save the one personal to Dr. Burroughs.⁷⁷ Smith, who tried to mediate between warring factions on the board, publicly characterized Moss’s dismissal as a signal injustice and rightly predicted that it probably puts an end to all hope that the University will become, at least in this present generation, what so many have hoped to see it, and labored to make it.⁷⁸ Moss landed on his feet, for he was immediately hired as president of Indiana University, where he served with distinction from 1875 to 1884.

The public scandal frightened the board. A Moss supporter and former senator from Wisconsin, James R. Doolittle, was persuaded to serve as acting president while the board searched for a replacement. In mid-1876 Alonzo Abernethy, a University alumnus who was the superintendent of public instruction in Iowa, was chosen to become the permanent president, but Abernethy himself doubted that he was up to the rigors of the job and served for only two lackluster years.⁷⁹

Reports of dissension among members of the board made fund-raising appeals virtually impossible.⁸⁰ In December 1875, the Chicago Tribune wrote in an editorial, The University is probably now in a worse condition, pecuniarily speaking, than at any time during its history. . . . It has been difficult to get money from the members of the Board of Trustees, and from friends of the University in the city, for the reason that they have been paying steadily for years to support what seems to be a failing institution, and they are at last getting weary in good-doing, seeming to imply that the financial misery was owing to poor administrative control by university leaders and not errors by the board.⁸¹ Yet substantial responsibility for the University’s dismal performance has to lie with the board’s erratic behavior. Even though the trustees had pledged in October 1872 that no liability shall be contracted by the trustees above the cash resources for the fiscal year in which the same matures, in February 1876 they took out an additional loan of $13,200 from the Union Mutual Life Insurance Company to cover unpaid faculty salaries. The company used this opportunity to consolidate past debts and unpaid interest into a new mortgage note for $150,000, at 8 percent interest, but with the stipulation that if the interest were unpaid, the rate would increase to 10 percent.⁸² An attempt to gain support from the educational fund associated with the Baptist Centennial Movement of 1876 failed when Burroughs refused to allow agents of the American Baptist Educational Commission to inspect the University’s financial records.⁸³

Between 1862 and 1878, the University graduated several hundred students, yet it remained underfunded, paralyzed by tensions