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Umw: the Early Years

January 31, 2009 12:36 am

FOR THE FREE LANCE-STAR

VIRGINIA, like most Southern states, gave little attention to public education until well after the Civil War; indeed, it was not until the early twentieth century that the Commonwealth began to provide opportunities for the academic development of its children. With the growth of public schools naturally came the need to train more teachers for the elementary and secondary levels, a function that was being only partially filled by the State Normal School at Farmville (later Longwood College), which had been founded in 1884.

By the time the General Assembly convened in 1908, there was widespread support for the creation of another teacher-training (or "normal") school. Inasmuch as such a facility was generally deemed both a civic adornment and an economic benefit, the prospect of attracting the new school precipitated spirited jockeying among various localities for the honor.

From the outset, Fredericksburg pursued the opportunity aggressively, as did Harrisonburg. One example of Fredericksburg's effort was a petition to the General Assembly from the City Council listing basic advantages of the area, such as the availability of rail and steamboat transportation to the city. In addition, in the words of the pamphlet:

Fredericksburg is free from the malaria of the lowlands and from the typhoid type of fever of higher latitudes. No city in Virginia has a better health record than Fredericksburg [which] has never had an epidemic in its history.

The water is equal in purity to any in the world.

The food supply is equal to, and cheaper than, any other city in the State.

There was also, the document pointed out, another significant consideration: that Fredericksburg was "the most historic city in Virginia. Its Revolutionary history is familiar to every schoolboy and girl in this country. Its Civil War history, and that of the country adjacent, was more tragic and still more heroic."

'Normal' school is born

Championing the cause of Fredericksburg most effectively was C. O'Conor Goolrick, who was then a thirty-two-year-old freshman member of the House of Delegates. His advocacy proved successful, as the General Assembly voted to establish a college in Fredericksburg. In a Solomonic decision, the legislature simultaneously chartered a school (later James Madison University) in Harrisonburg as well. Both were officially established when Governor Claude Swanson signed the bill into law on May 14, 1908.

The location chosen for the Fredericksburg school was Marye's Heights, an area that was rich in history and beautifully situated overlooking the city, but one that presented considerable logistical problems. Lying on the outskirts of the city, it was separated from downtown by a swampy area unconnected by either streets or sidewalks and bisected by a canal. Yet the site had undeniable potential, as was recognized by a member of the original faculty, William N. Hamlet. He later recalled that he had been initially inclined to reject the employment offer owing to its low salary but, he explained, "Before declining, I decided to come and look over the ground. I came, I saw, and was conquered. For when I looked upon this beautiful hill, I saw in perspective what glorious things might be accomplished."

A day to celebrate

On July 4, 1911, the cornerstone of the first building was laid. The festive affair was very much a community celebration--to the extent that the local newspaper urged that residents contribute a dollar apiece toward defraying the expenses of the event. The rail and steamboat lines serving the city made additional provisions for services and offered special rates to accommodate those attending from afar.

Appropriately for Independence Day, the event began with a parade, nearly a mile long and complete with brass band, that proceeded from the downtown courthouse through the city to the hilltop site. There the large audience was treated to a program consisting of instrumental and choral music, as well as speeches by an assemblage of educa-tional, political, and civic dignitaries, culminating in an address by Virginia Governor William Hodges Mann.

The last governor of the Commonwealth to have served in the Civil War, Mann was a distinguished figure with his white beard and mustache. Resplendent in full dress uniform for the occasion, he delivered a passionate and flowery speech that, in both style and substance, recalled the rhetoric of an earlier day. It was his vision, he declared, that the nascent school would soon produce "teachers, who, strong in body, pure in heart, and vigorous in intellect, will go out with abounding youth and enthusiasm to carry abroad the teachings, standards, and ideals of this institution--teachers who will go throughout the length and breadth of the State sowing good seed, to blossom into an abundant harvest of beautiful lives which will raise higher still the standard and ideals of this institution."

Construction under way

The race was then on to complete the facilities, meager as they were, in time for the opening of the first session in September, 1911: an administrative and academic building (later Monroe Hall) and a dormitory and dining hall building (later Willard Hall). Though there was considerable doubt in some quarters that everything would be ready in time for the opening on September 26, it turned out that the first day went smoothly, much to the relief of college officials and townsfolk alike.

The occasion, according to the front-page story in the local newspaper, was "the most interesting educational scene this section of the State has ever witnessed." Among the noteworthy aspects of the opening, the paper found it "rather remarkable, but nonetheless gratifying, that in starting the electric machinery, the boilers, the kitchen ranges, and all the plumbing, there was no accident of any sort."

This was not to say, however, that everything was in spruce condition. Neither Willard nor Monroe Hall was completed, and both were, according to Professor Hamlet, "surrounded by stables, mud, and flies." Only one classroom in Monroe was usable, and even that one had "no door except movable boards which each teacher pulled down and replaced at each class period. Almost touching its only finished window was a mule stable and a constantly running concrete mixer ever ready to furnish flies and unutterable groans if one dared to attempt ventilation."

But in the euphoria of the moment, such inconveniences seemed negligible. As the Free Lance-Star reported with obvious pride, "the school is filled to its utmost capacity. Every room in the dormitory is taken. Some applicants could not be accommodated." The paper was particularly effusive in its assessment of the entering class, noting that "the student body consists of as bright, attractive, and earnest an aggregation of young women as can be found in the State. . . . They are jubilant over the prospect for a happy and successful session. They are contented and satisfied."

Lifestyle on campus

The social life of the students during the early years was largely a function of limitations imposed by lack of convenient transportation. Though trains and steamboats could provide a way to travel between home and school at the start and close of sessions and for holidays, the absence of automobiles (and reliable roads on which to drive them) meant that most social life ordinarily had to take place on or very near the campus.

Social behavior was also greatly influenced, of course, by the mores of the times, resulting in a campus lifestyle that later generations of students would have found restrictive beyond comprehension. Mandatory chapel services, for example, were held three times each week, on which occasions devotions were led by faculty members, local ministers, or Sunday inspirational speakers.

In one of the earliest handbooks, a section called "Bits of Advice" provided insight into the social mindset of the campus. Among the homilies were: "Cultivate the habit of gentleness"; "Make it a rule of your life to think kindly of others, no matter what they may think of you"; and "Cheerfulness is contagious." Several admonitions revealed the religious orientation of the time and place. "Go to church as often as you can," read one. "It's a privilege after six days of studying." Another urged, "Don't forget your Bible; you will need it every day."

The student handbook also addressed matters of student attire, noting in the 1918-1919 edition that "there is no necessity for, and this school distinctly discourages, the wearing of either costly or gaudy clothing. Neat, simple, inexpensive dresses fully meet all requirements. Especially to be avoided is the appearance by students in public wearing extreme styles in dress. Simplicity and modesty should characterize the dress of all students."

'Few iron-clad rules'

General discipline was based mainly upon an appeal to the students' better instincts. As the School's 1911-1912 bulletin put it, there were "few iron-clad rules," but instead "every student is expected to exhibit the demeanor of a gentlewoman and to show considerate regard for others. Such a disposition should be the desire and life habit of a well-poised and refined woman."

However, should any student interpret such genteel jargon as an invitation to license (a most unlikely scenario, to be sure) the bulletin made it clear that there would be serious consequences, warning that "the management will not hesitate, in deserved cases, to administer admonition and reproof. Should the conduct of any of the students justify it or the general good of the school require it, students will be dismissed."

Though later generations of students fought strenuously, and successfully, against the concept of in loco parentis, students at the time probably did not find the strictures so abominable, as they were likely no more draconian (and quite possibly less so) than the rules they had known at home. Parents expected the College to enforce decorous behavior, a situation that the daughters--while no doubt preferring (in the immutable fashion of all young people) greater laxity--apparently accepted with little or no overt complaint.

The young women who attended the Normal School recognized that, in the early twentieth century, theirs was not by any means an opportunity granted to all. Most were first-generation collegians, some quite likely the children of parents who could neither read nor write. To such young women, it was a godsend to be able not only to go to a college, but to one that would equip them to teach others--this at a time when teaching was looked upon as the ne plus ultra within the limited constellation of professions to which women might reasonably aspire.