IN that commencement of 1959, behind robe and ring and laughter, Malcolm's successor was a speculative presence, undefined, a focus for the hopes and doubts of all who felt a concern for the future of the College.

He was still a speculative presence in the Board of Trustees, although its committee, after more than a year in the consideration of forty candidates, had reached a unanimous decision seven weeks before. Doubts and hesitations, too, had lingered in the mind of the nominee himself. As usual, Spahr had worked with a committee of his own appointment: Frank Masland and Merle Allen of Carlisle; two Harrisburg lawyers, David Wallace and Judge Robert Woodside; C. Scott Althouse and Congressman S. Walter Stauffer. Althouse, suddenly incapacitated by a stroke, had been retained in deference to his large gifts and promised bequest. Stauffer, a Methodist, replaced Dr. Ketterer, the only Methodist clergyman named, who had died before he could serve. Pressures from the Central Pennsylvania Conference and elsewhere for the inclusion of Bishops Corson or Oxnam had been tactfully resisted.¹  Well-founded fears of Spahr's dislike of the Church affiliation were disturbing Corson, foreshadowing his withdrawal from the Board in 1967.² A faculty offer to participate in the selection had been rejected with a cool rebuff, insuring a long period of conjecture and unrest on campus.

Spahr's choice, Howard Lane Rubendall, '31, a Presby-

terian clergyman, had been Headmaster of the Mount Hermon School since 1944 and President of the combined Northfield Schools since 1955. On December 10, 1958, after his first interview with the Nominating Committee, he had written Spahr that he had sensed at the meeting an "air of extreme conservatism" which might hamper a new administration, one of whose aims should be to create an environment of "free and open inquiry." On March 4, 1959, he had asked that his name be withdrawn, pleading his commitment to a program of reorganization at Northfield. This sparked a flurry of promotion for other candidates, but Spahr adroitly fielded the names as they came in, and in April he obtained Rubendall's agreement to come at the end of a second year. Rubendall was elected at the Board meeting of December 11, 1959, to take office on July 1, 1961. This, however, was to be kept secret for a time, both Rubendall and Malcolm wishing to cut as short as possible any "lame-duck" period.⁴

But at Carlisle the interim character of Malcolm's administration could not be ignored. It was only to be hoped that these two years would bring a receptiveness to change beyond what Dr. Rubendall had observed at that first interview. Change there must be, and soon. Men's housing, dilapidated, over-crowded, with the ever-present peril of fire, was at a point of crisis. New buildings and the safeguarding of the fraternity system were interrelated, prime trustee interests, and at that December 11 meeting the Board had authorized two committees to work together upon it: one of five trustees, of which Spahr named Samuel W. Witwer of Chicago as chairman, and the other of representatives of the ten fraternities.

To faculty the crisis was even more apparent and vastly more complex—heightened on the one hand by the long period of conflict and repression, and on the other by their sense of an impending era of advance in the academic world as a whole. In the decade of the Sixties, responding to influences already well formed, the Dickinson community would become a coherent entity as never before. Old prevailing rules of status among students, teachers and even trustees had been disappearing from American college life as it became more representative of the population and less of elite groups. All four classes were merg-

ing into a lively, awe-inspiring whole. A similar change would occur in faculty, with rank and length of service diminishing in importance.

The Sixties would open also a new chapter in the long story of curricular adjustment to the individual student and to the world he must enter. There would be a new emphasis on the old dictum of learning to learn as superior to any mere marshaling of facts. A cycle of almost feverish innovation and experiment was coming in, recalling Mulford Stough's sardonic quip from the day of the Committee of Eight, "Stay right where you are, and every twenty years you'll be leading the pack!"⁵  The small colleges, once so complacently content with their smallness, now sensed dangers of inadequacy and isolation and were turning ardently to cooperative relationships at home and abroad.

To Malcolm, thoroughly committed to the older trustees' viewpoint, censure by AAUP was only one of a complexity of problems he must face, rather than a lever by which to restructure and strengthen the community. He had his own vision of the future, and his own profound regret that the opportunity to realize it had come so late. The long years had brought him confidence in himself as an "old pro" of academic management. He had been an undistinguished student in the Class of '15, and as a Sophomore suspended for his part in the first severe hazing incident of Noble's administration.⁶ It was in his nature to become friend and advocate of students wherever friend or advocate was needed—a troubleshooter at all levels—in addition to his work with alumni. He long remembered Morgan's reply to a query about the persistence of irksome presidential problems, "Young man, if we didn't have the trouble, we wouldn't need you." For years he served as advisor to pre-medical students, taking much pride in their numbers and success. His personal acquaintance with the whole Dickinson constituency became encyclopedic.

Throughout, he had been a hard worker in a breezy, easy fashion. The early and tragic death of his young wife had brought an aura of sympathetic interest. Whatever he himself felt was covered up in rough good nature, chain-smoking, a vein of cynicism. He was a loyal Lutheran Church member. His

cheerful human interests everywhere made him an excellent second in command to the Methodist clergymen in the presidential chair—a little too ready at times to say "Yes" to a petitioner, but on the whole an antidote to upper-level pontificating. When Spahr informed him that the co-ed author of a "damnable article" in the Dickinsonian should be turned over the knee and given "a thorough spanking," there could be no doubt of the genuineness of "Red's" ready offer to carry out the sentence himself .⁷

Now the President's House acquired a fresh charm from the paintings and other furnishings given from the collection of "Patsy" Potamkin, '31, whom its new occupant had befriended in student days.⁸ "Red" was happily aware that he had something here beyond what his art-conscious classmate and predecessor had achieved, but took it all in a mood of levity, stoutly refusing to surround himself with any hint of presidential grandeur. The image of his administration must be one of direct, no-nonsense application to practical problems.

Of these it had a plenty. Faculty committees, appointed by Edel in October, 1958, were preparing for the visit of a Middle States reaccreditation team early in 1960. This group could scarcely be expected to concur wholeheartedly with the view that AAUP censure had been imposed by a "union" plotting to usurp the power of the trustees, though hope lingered in some hearts that it might do so.⁹ Much faculty time and thought was being given to the drafting of a statement on Academic Freedom and Tenure, and its submission to the trustees.¹⁰ This issue could be pursued in a spirit of tact and compromise, but not that which suddenly arose beside it—the non-Communist affidavit required under the loan program of the new National Defense Act. A majority of the faculty voted to join the other colleges refusing to participate under that condition. The vote was checkmated as Malcolm invoked that bylaw on fundamental policy which transferred the decision to the trustees. " On its part, the Board had had faculty salaries under consideration since Malcolm's accession, using (tacitly) the AAUP scale and hoping to raise Dickinson's standing from the low-level D to a C.¹² It was having second thoughts about the Refresher Year program and its costs.¹³  It had become disillusioned with the

Allison Church agreement, bemoaning the chariness of the Allison trustees to permit student use. A plan to acquire the old Carlisle Opera House ("The Bucket of Blood," in student parlance) for concerts and assemblies fell through.¹⁴  On top of all this, the trustee-faculty dinner of January 9, 1961, still the one point of rapport between these groups, was given over to the showing of an anti-Communist movie, "Operation Abolition." Afterward, responding to faculty protest and persuasion, "Red" issued a disavowal of the film's authority.

In 1959 George Shuman, heading Development, had sought to create unity and excitement with the announcement of a $15,000,000 financial campaign; a trumpet call which had only emphasized the disjointed character of an interim regime.¹⁵  The students once more were demanding liberalized rules on drinking to replace those now constantly ignored.¹⁶  A student "Committee on Racial Integration" took up the challenge offered by an incident of co-ed snobbishness, demanding liberalization and unity in this fundamental area.¹⁷   This was in the spring of 1960, with trustees and administration pondering the final report from Middle States. It had, they agreed, "an AAUP undertone. "¹⁸ At least accreditation was not denied. The Association had merely voted to defer that final decision until April, 1962, requiring the submission of two interim progress reports. The critique had specified needs for greater efficiency, liberalization and unity, with recommendations for achieving them. Happily, the report was not kept in a semi-secret category, as had been the case a decade before, but went out at once to faculty, trustees and press.

At the close of Malcolm's first year Dean Frederic W. Ness went on to greater responsibilities, and was replaced by Admiral Roger E. Nelson, a professor of mathematics with a record of distinguished service in the Navy through World War II. Old hands are well enough, but a new administration needs a new verve and this one now had it in quarterdeck clarity of command. The College Purpose must be redefined, as a first basis for action. More to the point, faculty committees must be reconstructed toward simplicity, directness and genuine participation. Their number was cut from fourteen to six, and membership became largely, if not wholly, elective. It was a long step

forward in policy and management, and the grudging trustee agreement something of a triumph. Voting rights were extended to instructors, the trustees acceding to this, interestingly, on the ground that these young persons would prove more amenable than "the hard core of A.A.U.P. members with tenure."¹⁹  The faculty was becoming, as was the student body by an equally inevitable evolution, a community of peers. Malcolm, who seems to have anticipated some "hard core" opposition to this packet of reforms, wrote jubilantly of their prompt acceptance at the Faculty Meeting of November 7, 1960, "It exceeded our fondest dreams."²⁰  This to Rubendall, who had visited the campus shortly before, and was following developments with lively interest.

At that same meeting, along with the College Purpose and in line with the whole concept of mission and mission control, a Steering Committee of trustees, administration and faculty was approved.²¹ This group could make a synthesis of findings and opinion available to Witwer's Special Committee on Fraternity Housing, to the fraternity representatives and, finally, to the Board. It could also press action on that oft-fought issue of unified living arrangements against the separate entities of the fraternity houses. A national trend was running strongly against the fraternity system, and at Dickinson its defenders were, again, making ready to hold the line. All agreed that some campus expansion, with new and modern houses, would be necessary. As to land, that on the west of Conway Hall owned by the Pennsylvania Railroad and by trustee Merle Allen's firm could be easily acquired, though one segment of the tract, the Lawrence property, was being held for an exorbitant sum.

A year went by, and Spahr proposed an alternative build the new houses on Biddle Field. One may guess the rationale: remote from main campus and any new commons, fraternity men would live and dine together as before. He put this plan, prolix and persuasive, to the Executive Committee in Philadelphia, January 5, 1961, and carried his point as he had so regularly done. Witwer's plea for the railroad and Allen property was to no avail. At the same time the Committee authorized acceptance of the "Indian School Farm" from the Federal government. Those sixty-five acres, a mile to the east of the campus, would provide a new athletic field.²²

Here was a decision certain to bring its own train of doubts, problems and delays. It is memorable only in marking the end of the pattern of carefully prearranged Executive Committee decisions, automatically endorsed by the Board. Witwer, whose committee had faced "filibustering and dilatory tactics" rather than the "full and careful debate" he sought, was in a mood of understandable asperity: "the problem has been shunted back and forth for the last two years between various and sundry groups to the extent that Tinker, Evers and Chance were pikers. I am too busy in my office to establish a pattern of flying East vice a month to participate in a round robin, never-ending procedure."²³

The Executive Committee met again, February 10. Witwer moved for a beginning of five houses, to be built on the railroad-Allen site. It was defeated, 6-3, and the whole matter referred back once again to the Steering Committee. Witwer, returning once more from Philadelphia to Chicago, resigned his chairmanship. The Steering Committee on its part also met the Spahr opposition head-on, with recommendations to acquire the railroad and Allen tracts immediately and start fraternity house construction there.²⁴  This was confirmed at a Special Meeting of the Board, held on campus, April 8. In the aftermath, Spahr continued a proponent of the Biddle Field site. Champions of the old order watched with anxiety, fully aware of the wretched condition of men's housing and the need for modernization, yet fearful of the changes it might bring, and alarmed by Dean Nelson's driving hostility to delays, to threatened disruption of the athletic programs, to fraternity traditions and power.²⁵  But with this, more than ever before, trustee rebellion against Spahr control was emerging—in much the same progressive spirit that had been Spahr's three decades earlier.²⁶  The Board's regular meeting, June 1, 1961, brought one new factor into the issue, the authorization of Howell Lewis Shay and Associates, a Philadelphia firm of architects and engineers, to survey the entire college plant and recommend a program of building and renovation.

Such was the uneasy state of affairs when Rubendall came into the president's office, and Malcolm retired, as Provost, to the opposite end of the West College hall, his long rapport with the alumni still an immense advantage.²⁷  It is significant that

two alumni of the Nominating Committee, Spahr, '00 and Spahr's friend and fraternity brother, Woodside, '26, were closer in viewpoint than the man they had selected. There could be a wide gap between '26 and '31. At Rubendall's graduation the full impact of the Great Depression had come, and a pre-ministerial student would see and feel clearly its effect on human values. He was teaching at the American University in Cairo, Egypt, 1931 to 1934, its "blonde" player of rugby. There one observer noted what was to be central to his character as an educator throughout:

Bud immediately caught the fancy of the fellows in college, and with that spontaneity of good fellowship of which only "Rube" is capable, he quickly became a friend of the students. Not to mention his other valuable contributions to the life of the College, Bud has done his best work in the field of student relations.²⁸

Cairo was a broadening experience. Even more so was the influence of Reinhold Niebuhr and others at Union Theological Seminary, where he earned his B.D. in 1937. Ordained in the Congregational Church, his pastoral work before going to Northfield was Presbyterian. Now, finally, some parts of the Dickinson community were cherishing a lively hope that a tenuous Methodist tie would reassert itself—but Bud had "never been much attracted to denominational Christianity," least of all its political aspects.²⁹

At about the same time word had seeped back from Northfield to Carlisle that Dickinson's new President had brought new life and dedication into the Northfield board of trustees. Be that as it might, Dickinson's Board would watch and wait. A leader of its denominationally-minded old guard, Robert F. Rich, looked sharply askance at the appointment of Arthur D. Platt as "Executive Assistant to the President" in 1961. Presidential authority must be watched and controlled. "We learned our lesson from Dr. Waugh and Dr. Edel and I am not interested now in having it happen the third time, so we should approve step by step the actions of the President before we give blanket authority at the College."³⁰  Cool and efficient, knowledgeable and experienced, Platt would be a mainstay of the Rubendall years, remote from controversy, a determining factor in all its successes.

Let it be for some Froissart of the future to chronicle in full the victories, retreats, the zealous counterthrusts of these years, the battling in background and shadow. Advance toward academic and social maturity was achieved. Religion, so long a matter of banal acceptance on campus and of emotional concern in the governing body, was there, in the vaward, with banners. To be effectively "church-related" a college should, as Durbin's young faculty had shown, enter this realm with wide-open and exploring eyes, relate principle to life with frank consistency and bring to the Church elements of progressive strength not to be expected from the congregations.

The Dickinsonian, supporting the new President, called for "critical judgment" and challenge of the relevance of Christian faith.³¹ Inevitably, the "double standard" of conduct, with the venerable and explosive issue of alcohol, appeared. Trustees Corson and Rich, who had made short work of an Edel proposal to restudy the drinking problem, were still present and more firm than ever.³²  One June, 1, 1961, responding to an appeal by Dean of Women Barbara Wishmeyer, the faculty went "on record as being willing to receive with interest and objectivity proposals about possible liberalization of the drinking rules." A constructive liberalization of the entire religious program, meanwhile, was under way—to hostile eyes a process of deterioration which reached its climax in the social rules of the spring of 1963. To bring the old problem into line with sophisticated adult mores, it had been conceded that social drinking among students over twenty-one would be acceptable. Those under age must abide by state law. Upon every occasion there must be freedom of choice. The students would regulate this new order themselves, faced with the alternative of security police to do so.

The Philadelphia Conference, meeting at just this time, reacted instantly. The income from the old endowment funds would be withheld "until such time as the College shall revoke any permission for the use of alcoholic beverages in Fraternity Houses of the College." Rubendall, first learning of the action in its blaze of newspaper publicity, protested in vain. In vain was the offensive permission withdrawn. The Church funds would remain in implacable escrow for six more years while further concessions were sought—application of the money only

to the education of Methodist students, Conference right to appoint trustees, division of the money among other causes. These were resisted successfully. What began on the moral issue of alcohol ended on the moral issue of breach of trust, that point conceded at the last with the payment of all accrued interest.³³

The Methodist National Board of Education had been on the scene in these years, notably with substantial gifts to the growth of the Library. Its University Senate, by invitation, had sent a survey team in the spring of 1962, supplementing that of the Middle States. Both reports, as an objective mirror of current problems and conflicts, prefaced the full-scale Academic Study launched by the faculty in September, 1962, and continuing for two and a half years. Ben Horlacher was its Coordinator, with a Steering Group of three others: Howard Long for "The Liberated Student," its committee on curriculum; Warren Gates chairing that on the learning process; and Bruce Andrews, that on the academic community. Under these, faculty, administration, students, alumni and trustees all were involved. The Study's major recommendations, adopted at the faculty meetings of March 16 and April 13, 1964, included trial of the 5-5, 4-4 course plan, "Independent Study options for all Dickinson students" and raising the graduation requirement from 1.75 to 2.00 credits.³⁴  In addition, it had brought to all the community a sense of self-realization and new health with which to meet the removal of AAUP censure that April and the final Middle States reaccreditation in July.

AAUP censure had ended just before the official displeasure of the Philadelphia Conference had been imposed. Association and Conference were alike in procedure—having acted in response to a single incident, each then took all activities and attitudes of the offending administration under review. Professor LaVallee had gone his way, making no demands for compensation, but the demand for clearly acceptable and affirmed policies of freedom and tenure, for full faculty participation in all educational matters, were being pressed to make sure that no repetition would occur. Trustee and administration response to overtures from local chapter and national office had come slowly. One sees the ice of cold defiance gradually thawing. In Feb-

uary, 1960, Herbert Wing, Jr., senior member of the faculty and so often an intermediary between opposing camps, had visited Washington to discuss the matter.³⁵  A year later we find Spahr reading in the Dickinsonian of Dr. Peggy Heims' talk to the chapter on salaries, and then writing cautiously to Malcolm that something should be done to raise the level and correct the inequities.³⁶  Dean Nelson had moved into direct negotiation. A committee from Washington visited the campus, October 17, 1961.

"Perhaps," Ken Bowling of the Dickinsonian had editorialized, April 28, 1961, after removal of censure had been denied, "the fundamental problem has been, and is, the unhealthy relations between the faculty and the administration and the faculty and the Board." This the Board would warmly deny, while agreeing nonetheless to further liberalization.³⁷  These concessions brought the certainty of success a year later, with an immediate easing of tensions and sighs of relief that the long hassle was over. Soon after, the Admiral, taut and purposeful, stepped back into the classroom, and the Rev. Samuel Hays Magill, red waistcoat and large cigar, stepped boldly forth from the Chaplain's office to the Dean's.

All these changes had been anticipated by the resignation of Boyd Lee Spahr as President of the Board, December 15, 1962, ending an era of thirty-one years of close personal control in the office he himself had created. His place was taken by the affable Sidney D. Kline, '24, banker and lawyer of Reading. Spahr had held onto the position only until he could feel assured that the new President of the College was firmly in the saddle. That, surely, was an optimistic view of the situation of a Dickinson President committed to progress in an environment of "free and open inquiry," or of any college president in this era of campus unrest. Yet the Rubendall program would go forward, responding to its own forces and the issues of the day.

"Set your sights high," trustee Roscoe Bonisteel had said, advising the Librarian to distribute a brochure on Yale's new Beinecke Library to every Board member—if only to startle them with the idea that Dickinson might conceivably, one day, possess and maintain such a treasure house. That old, long-prevailing concept of sound ideals within a framework of little-

ness and parsimony fell with the Rubendall years—an historic change underlying all its other achievements. For the first time a fully staffed Development Office appeared where in the past there had been only a presidential assistant or the redoubtable George Shuman rising with the dawn to stir his mixed brew of projects and duties. Shuman, with his experience and contacts of many years, continued an effective parallel effort in Development. In its first decade, 1961 to 1971, total assets nearly quadrupled and endowment rose from 6,000,000 to 11,000,000.

In 1964 the old Ten Year Development Program, with all its ups, downs and extensions, was replaced—these things always are, and should be, launched with grandiloquence—by The Third Century Development Program, with an initial goal of $6,000,000 by 1970.³⁸ Two years later came the Ford Foundation Challenge Grant—$2,000,000, if it could be matched three to one, by an additional $6,000,000. Its target date, June 30, 1969, was met successfully. The Ford Challenge Grants were not given on a basis of need, but of merit and promise. As intended, this award stimulated the whole forward movement.

Observers of the future will see the transformation of Dickinson College first of all in its most obvious manifestation, the new gray limestone walls. Adams Hall honoring a great supporting trustee and his wife, opened in 1963, a new dormitory for women adjoining Drayer. A year later, the newly acquired campus to the west with its ten residence halls for men was occupied, completing that long-fought reform in fraternity housing. A volume of significant social and educational history could be written since the Kuebler Report on Fraternity-College Relations had been adopted by the faculty, June 2, 1953, and sent on to the Board of Trustees. At the same time, and as an integral part of the same plan, the Holland Union Building brought dining and recreational facilities for the whole College.³⁹  Homer C. Holland is gratefully remembered by the author of this chronicle as a donor whose benefactions began with a truckload of books for the Library—expanding thence to this long-sought achievement.

Two new dormitories, Malcolm and Witwer Halls, came in 1966. The Charles A. Dana Biology Building of that year coincided, by a happy circumstance, with the establishment of the

Florence Jones Reineman Wildlife Sanctuary, three thousand acres in Perry County, held by an independent trust but under the management of Dickinson's Biology and Geology Departments.⁴⁰  In the next year came the climax of the longest-projected effort of all, the Boyd Lee Spahr Library, appropriately dedicated as the College's center of scholarly activity at all levels. Through all his years as President of the Board, the Library had been that trustee's first and most constant concern. Librarian Emeritus May Morris had helped to break the ground, but did not live to see the structure in which her competence and devotion to the College are likewise memorialized.

A new dormitory followed in 1969, honoring a married couple of the Class of 1908, Helen Kisner and Hugh B. Woodward, from whose estate the largest gift ever received by the College would be coming. Its two wings would stand together as a monument also to Dickinson's acceptance of the idea that young men and women might live healthier and more congenial lives without the rigid separation once thought so necessary.⁴¹

That government and foundation aid, for so long and over the whole national scene, had been concentrated on stimulating scientific advance, stirred a reaction at conservative Dickinson. Students and faculty began in 1962 an annual drive for their "Dickinson Humanities Fund," moving toward an undetermined goal at about a thousand dollars a year.⁴²  This small effort, and the far more formidable Ford Humanities Grant of 1968, were followed by a separate, culminating project, the transformation of East College into the Bernard Center for the Humanities.⁴³  It was completed in 1971, and soon after the traditional liberal arts were again reinforced by the opening of the Anita Tuvin Schlecter Auditorium.

These are the high points in a program of campus expansion and modernization such as no previous Dickinson administration had dared even to imagine. The whole, or most of it, may be found set forth with statistical restraint in the final appendix to this work. Its lesser aspects extend from the acquisition of town residences for use or demolition, to facilities such as the locker and training building at Biddle Field—that last a long-felt need financed from contributions made by the Wash-

ington Redskins football team in return for pre-season use of the field.

A foundation for these accomplishments and the academic growth that would come with them was laid by the trustees in the two-year presidency of Sidney Kline. Such a beginning could not have been made under a Board preoccupied with fears of Communist infiltration or declining Church influence. Kline was succeeded in June, 1964, by Samuel W. Witwer of Chicago, Class of 1930, Harvard Law, 1933, he who had already been so instrumental in setting the pattern of future campus expansion. Prominent in law and politics, he had, since that time, seen his many years of effort for the reform of the Illinois court system crowned with success. An active and distinguished Methodist layman, he would now watch over and foster the growth of his college in a bland, engaging spirit far removed from the parochialisms of the past. The trustee-faculty relationship was blessed, at long last, with mutual confidence. As the Dickinsonian of September 18, 1964, announced in reporting the year's opening convocation, "the era of the New Dickinson" had arrived.

The Board, to be sure, had still that impediment to working efficiency which Benjamin Rush had fixed upon it—its large size. The good Doctor had been aiming at state-wide influence and his quorum of nine shows what he expected the working body to be. In the Spahr years there had been frequent complaint of trusteeship without sense of responsibility. Now, as had rarely occurred in the past, a concern with constructive action was felt throughout. The charter revision of February, 1966, set the membership at between twenty-five and fifty in a step toward reduction. It also eliminated the triple vice presidencies of 1955, conceived originally as a firmer tie with campus affairs. More open communication had brought a far better, unformalized, rapport.⁴⁴

Yet the campus, faculty and students, had been changing more rapidly through the years, in ways that were forcing readjustment everywhere. That faculty which once had been as settled and permanent a body as the Board itself had vanished. Since the war, comings and goings, new faces and ideals, had become frequent, the size of the whole slowly increasing with that of the student body. Dickinson's faculty of the Fifties was

often critical of administration—not so much against the concentration of authority, for that left the teacher more free with the concerns of his discipline, as against the manner in which it was exercised. The faculty of the Sixties, at Dickinson as elsewhere, was involved in the total operation to an extent that would have been inconceivable at Carlisle in the Spahr years. Innovation and planning had become necessary virtues followed compulsively almost everywhere in academe, and in all graduations from the profound and original to baton-twirling imitation.

Other basic changes accompanied the experimental curriculum developed in the Horlacher study. A division of the Sociology Department into Sociology and Anthropology came in 1963; a major and minor in American Studies, first projected many years before, in 1965; and in 1966 the division of Philosophy and Religion into two departments, a Middle States recommendation of 1949. Compulsory chapel ended its anguished existence in 1965, to be replaced by a College Church and a Lecture Series, both voluntary.⁴⁵  But already a proliferation of departmental lecturers and other special events was emerging, among which the Public Affairs Symposium, scheduled annually by the Chaplain's Office, would have a front place. Here was a broad and flexible enlargement of the curriculum which recalls, in a way, the activities of the old literary societies in maintaining student contact with the issues, and the public, of their own time.

Even more characteristic of the Sixties was the reaching out to new disciplines, new alliances with other institutions, new direct contacts with foreign lands and civilizations. In 1959 the faculty approved a course in Comparative Non-Western Cultures, to include "racial and cultural backgrounds of the current nationalistic movements and social conflicts in Asia and Africa."⁴⁶  Two years later, three Dickinson professors joined with others at five neighboring colleges in a program to develop teaching competence in Far Eastern studies. The group received Ford Foundation support in 1962.⁴⁷

Looking back on institutional cooperation to the time of World War I, we find President Morgan becoming aware of binary programs with professional schools, "much the same as we

have done in connection with the Law School." He told the trustees, "Frankly, I do not know what to recommend," but had asked that faculty be given power to act.⁴⁸  There the matter rested until the engineering program with Case Institute of Technology, 1950, and those with Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (1951), University of Pennsylvania (1953) and Massachusetts Institute of Technology (1957).⁴⁹  The Curriculum Committee of the Fifties viewed these alliances with both interest and caution.⁵⁰  In another category, a "Tri-College Project for the Greater Harrisburg Area," worked out in 1951 by the Presidents of Dickinson, Elizabethtown and Lebanon Valley Colleges, had been dropped when it became apparent that the State University was not immediately setting up a Harrisburg branch.⁵¹

The Area College Library Cooperative Program initiated at Dickinson in the spring of 1964, made the resources of ten south-central Pennsylvania colleges, a total of over a million volumes, mutually available—with the support of the State Library's active program and great collection. When the Central Pennsylvania Consortium—Dickinson, Franklin and Marshall, Gettysburg and Wilson—came into being in 1967, again with Ford support, its most solid uniting factor was ACLCP, with its inter-library truck service worked out by Herbert B. Anstaett of F. and M. bringing a still wider range of libraries into the central orbit.⁵² The Consortium was itself heir to the expertise developed under the Ford Institutional Service Program of 1962. The "India Institute" of its first year was followed by "South Asia Area Studies"—and then a new departure with its "Harrisburg Urban Semester," offering opportunities for study and direct involvement in urban problems.

Prettyman, as professor, had brought German plays and music to Carlisle, using the proceeds to send selected students to Germany for a year. After 1928, this had developed into a program of exchange scholarships.⁵³  Edel had moved at once to reopen this program, and in 1948 was exploring "area training," to be based upon reciprocal agreements with foreign univesities.⁵⁴  It was not until the turbulent Sixties, however, that Dickinson followed the lead of other institutions and set up an educational enclave overseas. On November 2, 1964, the faculty

approved the plan for "A Center of International Studies in Affiliation with the Johns Hopkins University Bologna Center." Its first year would be under the direction of Professor K. Robert Nilsson, and its students (like those of the Washington Semester at American University) would be "qualified political science majors" in their Junior year. The decade ended with four off-campus programs in operation: the old Washington Semester, Bologna, The Asian Studies program with the University of Pennsylvania, and the Institute of European Studies. Conducted tours by faculty members, sometimes sponsored by more than one college, had been on the Dickinson scene since the Fifties. Yet in the Summer Classical Institute of 1971 (a month in Greece and Italy under professors from Dickinson and Franklin and Marshall), the idea had become formalized with daily lectures, final examination, term papers three weeks after return and two course credits as laurel wreath at the end of the race.

Those academic prizes which flowered so conspicuously in the last century are now seen as an effort to stimulate the particularly desultory student scholarship of those days.⁵⁵  One can wonder how historians of the future may view Dickinson's two new and munificent prizes of the Sixties—both not for students, but for faculty. The Lindback Award for "distinguished teaching," the recipient to be selected by the President, was first given in 1961.⁵⁶  The Ganoe Most Inspirational Teacher Award, supported by a bequest of some $9O,000 was first made in 1969. Its winner must be chosen by a secret ballot of the Senior Class, taken just before commencement.⁵⁷  Here is something new indeed, a student-to-faculty prize. Perhaps the recollection of familiar and beloved professors of the past had inspired the idea, bringing a hope of turning student attention once more to professorial virtues. Yet it is surely in tune with the spirit of the Sixties, when the student moves to center stage, becomes critical of faculty domination in the classroom and tends to identify himself with academic management.

The population explosion had reached college level, and this massive new generation looked out upon the world beyond with little of the old light-hearted hopefulness, with much disfavor and with an insistence not to be denied. The draft in-

volved it in a brutal conflict without appeal to the ideals of youth. The old college joie de vivre was little seen. It was for the colleges, then, not only to inform, but to transform that blind, Luddite resentment into an understanding of ideals and a passion for rebuilding.

Russell Thompson's report of 1944, with its determined emphasis upon the students' central place, might have been held against him had he been considered then for the presidency of Dickinson. The student demands of 1945 and 1952 brought the idea sharply forward. By the close of the Fifties, Malcolm spoke for many when he confessed to Spahr his weariness with continuing hassle and resistance. "I can understand that faculty who haven't had their own way or students who haven't had their own way should be rebelling against some decisions that have been made."⁵⁸  Six months later, the wave of young discontent swept right into Spahr's Philadelphia office. The Student Senate was formally demanding that it be informed precisely what criteria "are employed in rewarding, retaining or dismissing faculty members," and citing evidence to show that no criteria existed. It was a delegation of six young men, with the Secretary of the Senate, Ruth Kean, "who also had a good deal to say."⁵⁹  Between the lines of his account of the affair to Edel one can see the venerable President of the Board standing, firm as ever, upon the legal prerogatives which these invaders held in such slight regard—inwardly bridling against their presumption, but loving them as flesh and blood of Dickinson. Their complaints, he suspected, were AAUP-inspired. As to that, it need only be observed that in the professors' long search for security, freedom and a right to determine educational policy, and then in the students' similar revolution, each had support from the other.

Slowly, a new coherence was emerging. At Dickinson as elsewhere, the traditional class "scraps," those wild convulsions of group rivalry and unity, had vanished in the serious mood of the Great Depression. The singing and the yells faded with World War II. Freshmen rules and hazing diminished after the student clamor for "a new spirit" in 1945, a change welcomed by Edel and his faculty.⁶⁰  There were resurgences, but Freshman indoctrination had become vestigial by the early Sixties

and had vanished entirely at the end of the decade. Every student, every faculty member too, then had equal voice.

With this came the erosion of the fraternity system. Faculty had been long harassed by the problem of regulatory rules, constantly changed, never wholly effective. But now, at last, the envy of outsiders was turning to disdain. Racial barriers in national charters made the whole picture of selectivity offensive. Brotherhood had wider boundaries. From 1960 to 1962, years of the Freedom Riders, of the Bay of Pigs, of gathering crisis in the East, the old small values fell rapidly. The publication at Dickinson, 1959-60, of The Journal of Student Research attracted much interest and underlined a new student feeling for scholarship.⁶¹  After 1964, when the pouring of military might into Vietnam began, the old campus issues seemed petty indeed. Fraternity membership was declining—85 percent of the men in 1960, 45 percent ten years later. In 1964 an independent was elected President of the Student Senate, and a new constitution was drawn, ending its domination by the Interfraternity Council.⁶²  Holland Union was completed in that year, followed by the fraternity men's prolonged but futile boycott of its use as a social center.

Under "rocky" Reed, students in the mood of that delegation to Spahr's office might have been called before the faculty for Conspiracy and Insubordination. President Morgan had from the first "encouraged student participation in the conduct of the College," and by 1923 could assess the result with pride.⁶³  It largely consisted, to be sure, of a well-ordered student activity budget financed by the students themselves. Student self-discipline as a premise to genuine participation in the conduct of the College came slowly and late. In 1953, in a motion which reviewed the historical background and concluded that the faculty as a whole was "not organized to administer discipline," Roger Nelson proposed giving the Dean entire responsibility.⁶⁴  This was done, and Dean Ness created what was to become the Student-Faculty Judicial Council. Six years later, a still more responsible group was proposed by John W. Dixon on the principle that "self-government and self-control are a part of the rights and privileges of mature persons as well as an essential part of the process of attaining maturity." This was returned to

committee on Edel's objection that it would take discipline entirely out of the hands of the incoming president.⁶⁵

Students had long held some regular committee memberships—one on the Board of Athletic Control since 1934 (increased to two, a Junior and a Senior in 1955), others on Shuman's Development Council of 1954 and the Cultural Affairs Committee, where in 1952 student protest and financial assessment had brought so sudden a transformation from the drab offerings of the past. In Cultural Affairs students would move—as Nelson had insisted from the first they should—from participation to the decisive role. Not until 1966, with other college faculties admitting students to regular faculty committee membership, did Dickinson follow suit.⁶⁶  Voting privileges waited three years more.⁶⁷  On November 7, 1969, ten years after Ruth Kean and the others had said their say in the Spahr office, student leaders met with a committee of the Board, some fifty individuals in all, for a pioneering discussion of campus affairs.⁶⁸

At last it had become possible for students to move on from the resentfully negative attitudes of the past into constructive participation. As with other liberated groups, to be sure, negative criticism came as a first impulse from the new position with students casting a doubtful eye on faculty in course evaluations and raising questions as to the right of tenure.⁶⁹  Again in 1964, year of the Berkeley turmoil, Dickinson's new curriculum had brought sharp condemnation of the enlarged classes in certain core subjects, a wide deviation from the boasted faculty-student ratio of 1 to 14.⁷⁰  At that same time, aroused students forced a change in the Spahr Library architecture, a much improved (and more expensive) exterior design.⁷¹  Dickinson students were in the South that summer, working for civil rights.⁷²  Racial equality had its eminent champion on campus in the newly-appointed Chaplain, Joseph Reed Washington, Jr. The number of black Americans in class was increasing until in 1971, it was exceeded in Pennsylvania only at Swarthmore.⁷³  Protest against the Vietnam war was bitter and profound, with a downgrading of ROTC not long before the nation-wide student protests of the spring of 1970.⁷⁴

In all this, students and President were standing together in

a manner unique at Dickinson, where "rocky" in the past had received only a patronizing or conditional affection, if any at all. Here now he moves in a glow of admiration and gratitude. A letter to Rubendall, 1970, from a young alumnus thanking him for "your tremendous leadership of and love for Dickinson," might have been one voice speaking for all:

As Dickinson prepares to graduate another class, we find it is an ever more increasingly difficult world into which they enter. It has been only two years since I graduated but in that short space of time the situation in this country has changed tremendously. Not only that but it is my generation which I believe is the most greatly affected by these events. It is we who must go to fight in Southeast Asia, it is we who in the next twenty years face the results of today's pollution. It is we who must still face a race that has been discriminated against and still is. It is we who face a world in which millions are starving yet we can afford to spend billions upon billions of dollars to wage a war and destroy homes, a country and a people. This is a bleak picture that Sunday's graduating class have to look forward to.

There is a bright side or at least a gleam of light to this dismal and frustrating situation. There are such institutions as D'son and such administrators as you and your staff. This past year most especially has been a difficult one for the colleges and universities of our country. In this period I have been most proud of the stance Dickinson has taken in regard to these pressing issues. You are a concerned college that desires peace in the world, that is concerned about ecology and is not afraid to stand up for those principles in which it feels it is right.

I know that the college and you have come under attack for the position that has been taken by Dickinson in these matters. I know that there are very disgruntled alumni (to use a mild adjective) and a very angry town of Carlisle at this moment. I'm also aware that it will be a most trying Trustee meeting this weekend. . . .⁷⁵

True it was that there were those, in a town so traditionally conservative as Carlisle and in so traditionally conservative a Board of Trustees, to whom this new Dickinson seemed to sound the rumbling tremors of a broken world. The Students for a Democratic Society, having torn one great university asunder, set up a Dickinson chapter. We can only wonder how an earlier Board might have received the explanations so candidly offered to this one. President Rubendall pictured the SDS as "not a group of Communists or Stalinists, rather it is a group of

interested and concerned humanists who are intrigued by the philosophy of the early Marx." And the President of the Board:

Mr. Witwer stated that as distressing as the present situation with SDS may seem to some, it represents nothing really new in Dickinson's history, as revolution was in the air on the campus from time to time since the earliest days.⁷⁶

Dickinson's "Declare Day," March 3, 1969, had brought a concerted outpouring of opinion and emotion based upon perennial student concern with the grading system—all sparked by the unsubstantiated belief of one young professor that if he announced in advance an A for every member of one large class, all would respond by matching performance to evaluation.⁷⁷  The Haverford College professor who at this same time and in a more restrained expression of the same spirit regarded "teaching in the light not so much of knowledge imparted as of the mind and heart made larger," was uttering words familiar to educators long before his time. The difference lay in his new concept of "self-scheduled examinations, a modified grading system, student presence on standing committees of the faculty," all to bring about a transmutation of the college into "a true community."⁷⁸

That goal had come to Dickinson, as elsewhere. Student unity encouraged, even enforced, unity of the whole. Administrative officers were urging faculty to assume larger responsibilities and yielding them also to students. Either would have been incredible a few years before. The Sixties had become an era of change and emergence, of concern with both the small immediate and the great issues, of realization that all issues are one web. Release from class distinctions was bringing not only the little campuses but the stubborn nations of the world a little closer to that ideal of "true community."

"Tuta Libertas"—rampart and counterscarp safeguarding the treasures of mind and spirit against surrounding wickedness. In the broad picture, that protective impulse has been a Dickinson College trait from the first—marked out long ago in those sharp lines of cancellation drawn by some unknown hand across certain venturesome passages in Dr. Rush's Plan of Education.

There is a refreshing breath of escape from it in the intellectual vigor of the first Methodist faculty, though Durbin and his young men were very conscious of Dickinson's past and willing to deviate only in what stood out as static or unsteady educational practice. George Edward Reed's visions of a university, of a Department of Peace and Public Service, shine through a mist of dead pan parochialism. Even here in the Sixties, Dickinson's greatest era of advance and change, Dean Wanner could speak to the trustees of a pattern of progress achieved without the disruptions of experimentation.⁷⁹  There has been a solid continuity of growth—the years of stagnation balanced by forward surges full of storm and promise.

The ancient dictum that education without religious guidance and restraint is a force of vast potential evil was strong in the mind of Benjamin Rush. Jim Henry Morgan echoed it long after. "The selfish tool sharpened by education may prove very dangerous"—and he saw the dangers multiplied by the moral relaxation of his time.⁸⁰  Morality had been coupled too long with the idea of automatic adherence to a religious society. The Dickinsonian of Morgan's day bubbles and flashes with the students' cynical rejection of just that. Yet the old correlation of morality and learning is with us still, fundamental and refreshed. We have learned that unimpeded truth has its own moral and persuasive force, more sure, less malleable than any other. It will not only produce techniques of destructive exploitation, but prove the need for controlling them. It can pose a new morality against the self-perpetuating, brutalizing accompaniments of military power, a new unifying force for the fusion of nations and races.

It is the essential duty of a college to preserve, impart and increase knowledge. Turbulence and ferment are needed from time to time to clear off traditional patina and give a new clarity to the old design. This has occurred again, and the student's mind and will are more free than ever in the past. "Self-taught" is a phrase that has long been applied to learning or skill as a badge of honor. Yet learning and skills are always self-taught. The teacher can only stimulate by word and example, by discipline and demand, and then, as best he may, assess the result. The ultimate success or failure is the student's own.

Dickinson's young men and women, pondering this, have joined others in questioning the value of grades, and even avowing that the degree itself might be discarded.⁸¹  Partisans of that idea should look back to Charles Nisbet, who emerged from the University of Edinburgh as one of the most learned men in Britain's isles, disdaining, as did many others of his day, to take its degree.

Education in this century, in grade and high school, has assumed more and more of the preparation for life once expected of the family. The college Senior is taking leave of a school system as much as of home ties, and one can sometimes see in student attitudes of the Sixties some of the young adult emotions of resentment, rejection, demand, transferred from parent to college. Graduate school protracts the term for many. This long involvement will increase. The students' new influence on campus augurs a closer, more reciprocal relationship as alumni. At Dickinson there is a long background here. One sees it moving from the first alumni associations of the 1830's to the election of alumni trustees in 1890, and the expansion of the process in 1930. Some cautious restraint follows that, but by 1950 Boyd Lee Spahr must needs couple a firm affirmation of trustee ownership with an avowal that the "equitable owners" are the great body of alumni.

One of the student demands of December 7, 1945, had been for vocational guidance and placement, services in which Dickinson had fallen far behind the pace-setting institutions. A response, alas, with a policy statement that "the interest of the College in its students does not terminate with graduation," was nine years in coming.⁸²  It was not until still later, in that crucial year 1964, that the College's Placement Bureau acquired a Director of Counseling. Here was a foundation, at least, supporting both choice of careers and continuance in them.

Continuing rapport with alumni in the perennial learning process is one only of the new frontiers. It is supported by the advancing trend in institutional cooperation. The interlocking systems with points of specialization such as the state colleges have been developing strengthen it. The foreign programs, too, are becoming a constellation all around us—broad ideals lighted also by the allure of escape and adventure. A world system of

education is still far indeed from reality—yet what a vision for the volatile heart of Benjamin Rush!

Back to the microcosm on the campus at Carlisle, and one sees the widening circle reaching out to enfold both the wide and far, the small and near. This expansion of our new community has come (inconceivable as it would have been in former administrations) from the Chaplain's office. The Public Affairs Symposium was one of the innovations of 1964. It has involved the curriculum and the whole College community in larger issues of the day far more effectively than the literary society debates or the old chapel programs were ever able to do. Student participation has been an essential feature. Speakers have included figures of national and international importance. Its planners, finally, have been singularly successful in scheduling in advance topics headed for front-rank urgency in public discussion:

1964, The American Purpose in World Revolution.
1965, Urbanization and the American Society.
1966, The New Morality?
1967, The Power of Persuasion.
1968, Television: The Eye that Never Blinks.
1969, Dissent.
1970, Science and Public Policy: Environmental   

          Pollution.
1971, Privacy?

That of 1970 led on to the interdisciplinary courses, "Environmental Studies," and to constructive student action in neighboring lands, waters and politics.

On a quite different level came PEER, in 1968. President Rubendall had appointed an ad hoc committee to explore the possibility of a student-staffed program to aid disadvantaged elements of the Carlisle community. Children of the eight to twelve age group were selected as the least well provided from other sources, and with the best promise of success. PEER, the summertime lessons and games of the "Program of Enrichment, Education and Recreation" have a foundation, of course, in the social service projects long, and still, fostered by the fraternities, yet with a vastly greater impact on student body and community alike.

These newcomers to the campus scene are symbols of change and of a coming era. They are new ranks in the unending march of life, philosophy, exploration. After PAS the old controlled voices will not be heard again. Those PEER children, too, little groups, wide-eyed, are (where they would love to be) part of the parade. They move with us forward. They are one with the faculties of the past, the black broadcloth, those faces, stern, benign, amused, one with the flow and overflow of student life, the aspiration in all its variant hues and flame, timeless as the shining rivers.

The academic procession! Out from the shadows and on beyond us it will go, the generations of the young, the lords and prophets, mimes and pipers, bearing the banners of battles won before, bringing the color and the music out beyond the ramparts of the world.