Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education 9781501709739, 9781501712371

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Copyright © 2018. Cornell University Press. All rights reserved. Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education, Cornell University

Copyright © 2018. Cornell University Press. All rights reserved.

LAND-­G RANT COLLEGES AND POPU­L AR REVOLT

Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education, Cornell University

Copyright © 2018. Cornell University Press. All rights reserved. Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education, Cornell University

LAND-­G RANT COLLEGES AND POPU­L AR REVOLT

Copyright © 2018. Cornell University Press. All rights reserved.

TH E O R I G I N S O F T H E MO R R I LL ACT A N D T H E R E F O R M O F H I G H E R E D UC AT I O N

Nathan M. Sorber

CORNELL UNIVERSITY PRESS Ithaca and London

Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education, Cornell University

Copyright © 2018 by Cornell University All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in a review, this book, or parts thereof, must not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher. For information, address Cornell University Press, Sage House, 512 East State Street, Ithaca, New York 14850. First published 2018 by Cornell University Press Printed in the United States of Amer­i­ca

Copyright © 2018. Cornell University Press. All rights reserved.

Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-­Publication Data Name: Sorber, Nathan M., author. Title: Land-grant colleges and popular revolt : the origins  of the Morrill Act and the reform of higher education / Nathan M. Sorber. Description: Ithaca : Cornell University Press, 2018. |   Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018022113 (print) | LCCN 2018023461  (ebook) | ISBN 9781501709739 (pdf ) | ISBN 9781501712371 (epub/mobi) | ISBN 9781501715174 | ISBN 9781501715174 (cloth : alk. paper) Subjects: LCSH: State universities and colleges—  Northeastern States—History—19th century. | Educational change—Northeastern States—History— 19th century. | Education, Higher—Northeastern States—History—19th century. | United States. Land Grant Act of 1862. Classification: LCC LB2329.5 (ebook) |  LCC LB2329.5 .S67 2018 (print) | DDC 378.7409034—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018022113 Cornell University Press strives to use environmentally responsible suppliers and materials to the fullest extent pos­si­ble in the publishing of its books. Such materials include vegetable-­based, low-­VOC inks and acid-­free papers that are recycled, totally chlorine-­free, or partly composed of nonwood fi bers. For further information, visit our website at cornellpress​.­cornell​.­edu. Cover illustration: Detail from I Feed You All, a lithograph by American Oleograph Co., Milwaukee, c. 1875. Courtesy of the Library of Congress.

Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education, Cornell University

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For Ainsley McHenry-Sorber

Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education, Cornell University

Copyright © 2018. Cornell University Press. All rights reserved. Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education, Cornell University

Co nte nts

Preface

ix

Introduction: Reconsidering the Origins and Early Years of the Land-­Grant Colleges

1

1. Experimentation in Antebellum Higher Education

18

2. Justin Morrill, the Land-­Grant Act of 1862, and the Birth of the Land-­Grant Colleges

45

3. The Land-­Grant Reformation

84

4. The New ­Middle Class and the State College Ideal

120

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5. Progressivism and the Rise of Extension 136 6. Coeducation and Land-­Grant W ­ omen

150

Conclusion: Land-­Grant Memories, Legacies, and Horizons

172

Notes

189

Bibliography

223

Index

237

Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education, Cornell University

Copyright © 2018. Cornell University Press. All rights reserved. Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education, Cornell University

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P r e fac e

This book began during an alumni weekend at Bucknell University in 2006. While leafing through works on the history of higher education in Bertrand Library, I encountered The American College in the Nineteenth ­Century. A ­ fter spending some time with the volume, I reached two conclusions: first, I wanted to learn more about how the social and economic changes of that c­ entury transformed higher education; and second, I needed to get myself to Penn State to work with the book’s author, acclaimed historian Roger Geiger. It is difficult to mea­sure the influence that Roger Geiger has had on my thinking—­having researched, read, reread, critiqued, and taught his work over the last de­cade. Through his formidable example, I honed my craft and found my own voice as a historian of higher education. While I did not know it at the time, the historiographical debates introduced in The American College in the Nineteenth C ­ entury would be critical to my scholarship. A previous generation of revisionist historians had challenged traditional interpretations of higher education in the nineteenth ­century, including the origins and early years of the land-­g rant colleges. I had the fortune at Penn State to connect with revisionist historian Roger Williams, whose book George W. Atherton and the Origins of Federal Support for Higher Education was most responsible for displacing the land-­g rant canon. It soon became apparent to me that while the historians that came before me had broken the old consensus on land-­g rant history, nothing had taken its place. P ­ eople had been writing about land-­grant colleges for a ­century and a half, but at the dawn of the one hundred fiftieth anniversary of the movement, ­there was remarkably no working interpretation of the origins and early years of the land-­grant colleges and universities. Filling this void has been my lofty goal. When I learned of the grange campaigns against land-­grant colleges in New ­England, I knew I had found a historical event that had promise in elucidating the tensions over the original purpose of the Morrill Act. When I discovered documents outlining Justin Morrill being roasted by farmers at the University of Vermont, I came to believe that, in the words of Karl Marx, land-­g rant

ix

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x P RE FACE

history needed to be “turned off its head, on which it was standing, and placed upon its feet.” It also became clear that t­ here was no straightforward progression that could give some linear clarity to the land-­g rant movement, and thus I have tried to capture the dialectics of competing visions of the Morrill Act to explain the ambiguous and at times contradictory purposes and forms that land-­g rant colleges have taken throughout history. I am thankful to have worked at excellent institutions that have made this proj­ect pos­si­ble. The Center for the Study of Higher Education at Penn State allowed me the opportunity to travel and research land-­grant colleges throughout the Northeast. Along with the support of an incredible faculty, gradu­ate students in the higher education program ­were a constant source of intellectual stimulation. Much of this book was written at West ­Virginia University, and I am indebted to my colleagues for supporting and celebrating my scholarship. This includes excellent gradu­ate students who helped me expand my thinking as I defended my land-­g rant ideas to multiple cohorts of my history of higher education classes. In 2017, I became the founding director of the Center for the F ­ uture of Land-­Grant Education at West V ­ irginia University, the only higher education research center in the country focused exclusively on land-­ grant institutions, policies, access and success, leadership, and engagement. This book contributes to the center’s mission to advance knowledge of land-­ grant colleges and universities and to preserve ­these unique organ­izations for ­f uture generations. I am deeply appreciative that my fellow education historians ­were willing to take time from their busy schedules to consider my ideas and provide commentary. This book was not just polished through this feedback; insights from fellow historians opened my eyes to new directions and helped me capture missing themes. In short, they made this a much better book. I wish to thank the following persons for help along the way on this book or on related papers or pre­sen­ta­tions: Roger Geiger, Roger Williams, Chris Loss, Scott Gelber, Ezekiel Kimball, John Thelin, Philo Hutcheson, Christine Ogren, Adam Nelson, Tim Cain, Christian Anderson, Alan Marcus, and Scott Peters. I was also fortunate to work with Cornell University Press, especially Michael McGandy and his staff. His guidance, professionalism, and enthusiasm for this proj­ect w ­ ere essential and very much appreciated. I would also like to recognize the considerable research support that was given by my gradu­ate assistant Lorena Ballester. My ­daughter Ainsley, a fine writer in her own right, was born at the beginning of this proj­ect, and my son Oliver was born at its conclusion. I love them dearly, and I hope I did not miss too many moments in their lives while finishing this work. I also thank my parents for giving me a r­ unning start by providing for

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P R E FACE xi

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my education and nurturing my interests, and I give thanks to my in-­laws for their support of my growing f­ amily along the way. I reserve my final and most heartfelt thanks to my partner at home, at work, and in life—­Erin McHenry-­Sorber. She has not only taken time from her own scholarship to give me notes on my book but has also been a bedrock of support during all the difficult moments that come with such a journey. She is my inspiration, the source of my passion, my reason for being. This book, like so many ­things in my life, was only pos­si­ble ­because of her.

Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education, Cornell University

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LAND-­G RANT COLLEGES AND POPU­L AR REVOLT

Land-Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt : The Origins of the Morrill Act and the Reform of Higher Education, Cornell University

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Introduction

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Reconsidering the Origins and Early Years of the Land-­Grant Colleges

In the winter of 1888, President Matthew Buckham of the University of Vermont faced relentless criticism for failing to serve farmers. The university had been founded in 1792, and ­under the terms of the Morrill Act, the Vermont legislature designated it a land-­grant college in 1864. The law provided states with federal land to be sold as a permanent higher education endowment, and it stipulated that the land-­grant colleges make provisions “to teach such branches of learning related to agriculture and the mechanical arts . . . ​in order to promote the liberal and professional education of the industrial classes.”1 The 1860s ­were years of prosperity for Vermont farmers, and they largely ignored the Morrill Act and the land-­g rant arrangement forged in their state. During the economic depression of the 1870s, however, displaced and discouraged yeomen joined the Patrons of Husbandry (hereafter referred to as “the grange”) in large numbers. Through this organ­ization, farmers developed a unified po­liti­cal consciousness and came to view banks, railroads, and land-­g rant colleges as sources of their economic woes.2 Grangers argued before state committees that the liberal arts and science curriculum at the University of Vermont was contributing to the rapid population decline in rural counties as young men tended to use their collegiate credential to leave the farm for the white-­collar world. Instead, the grange pressed President Buckham to purchase a campus farm and offer vocational studies, which grangers hoped would limit students’ ­career choice to farming. Grange leaders 1

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complained that high academic standards and tuition costs kept poor youths with only a common school education out of the university, and they demanded ­free, open-­access land-­g rant education.3 ­Under siege, Buckham penned University of Vermont trustee Justin Morrill, the ­father of the land-­g rant college movement, for assistance. ­After months of prodding, Senator Morrill agreed to defend the beleaguered university and publicly declare that the curriculum and academic standards of the University of Vermont conformed to his land-­ grant vision.4 On October 10, 1888, Morrill, by then eighty years of age, delivered an address before the Vermont legislature. A ­ fter a brief history of the law, Morrill revealed that his “fundamental” purpose in crafting the Morrill Act “was to offer an opportunity . . . ​for a liberal and larger education to larger numbers, not merely to t­hose destined to sedentary professions, but to t­hose needing higher instruction for the world’s business, for industrial pursuits.” It was “not manual education,” he argued, “but intellectual instruction [that] was the central object,” and the legislation was intended to “elevate science” throughout higher education. The advance of scientific knowledge and the production of highly trained gradu­ates ­were required to ensure the competitiveness of the United States, Morrill argued, as land-­grant colleges needed to produce gradu­ ates ready “to guide and lead the industrial forces of a ­g reat nation.” He exclaimed that sons of farmers need not return to the farm but had the same right to social mobility as any other class: “­There is no assumed heredity in the vocation of the farmer, and his son has all the world before him where to choose his calling as much as the son of the minister or the ­lawyer.”5 By October 1890, state grange leader Alpha Messer was pleading with the state legislature to reject Senator Morrill’s interpretation of his own law. According to Messer, land-­grant colleges had a responsibility to reverse the falling fortunes of rural communities by channeling students back to the farm. To achieve this, the grange leader contended that t­ hese “schools for the industrial classes” should instruct the “mind, eye, and hand” to perform the skills of a “specific line”—as “farmers, blacksmiths, carpenters, roadmen, and stone-­ cutters.” Convinced that the University of Vermont could not be reformed to ­these ends, he presented a petition from five thousand farmers supporting a new land-­grant college for Vermont. Upon its submission, Messer praised “successful” agricultural schools in Michigan and Kansas, where students learned practical skills like “judging and breeding stock” and where “boys w ­ ere taught to make joints, use blacksmith tools, [and] do cabinet work.” Such practices ­were not pos­si­ble at the University of Vermont, he asserted, since t­ here was no farm or machine shop, and the faculty remained beholden to traditional liberal education.6

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RECONSIDERING THE ORIGIN S A ND E A R LY Y E A R S

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A week ­later, fifteen students from the University of Vermont presented a petition in defense of the university. Three of the boys testified before the legislature, describing the advantages of having agricultural education connected to the University of Vermont and proclaiming that “aggie” students ­were treated as well as “regular” students. President Buckham agreed, saying “farmers’ sons ­were happy. . . . ​I have asked them myself!”7 The House was unmoved, and it voted to create a new land-­g rant college. Yet, in the upper chamber, senators rejected the separation bill by a vote of 18 to 12. Grange letters to the agricultural press decried the vote and belittled the senators for “dastardly obedience . . . ​to the behest of the ‘culture’ lobby!”8 Alpha Messer, dejected, wrote a friend that “the strug­gle . . . ​before our late legislature was a very hard one with popu­lar ­favor almost entirely on our side. For some reason, as yet unexplained, two or three senators went back on us which killed our bill.”9 The “unexplained” cause was Justin Morrill, who in addition to his address before the legislature, delivered an editorial to the Burlington ­Free Press explaining his liberal and scientific purposes for the land-­g rant act.10 Morrill also wrote numerous letters to senators and convinced wavering Republicans that passage of the bill would put a “lawsuit on [their] hands,” and with the “aid of the entire Demo­cratic Party,” the grange would take this legislative victory to mean they could “push what­ever legislation they may think proper.”11 ­After the senate vote, Morrill wrote Buckham, “I am rejoiced that the state has been saved . . . ​from the folly of exchanging its college at Burlington for a school in some town willing to bond itself for $50,000 to put up a Mechanics Shop.”12

Land-­Grant Colleges and Popular Revolt The attempted takeover of land-­g rant education in Vermont was not an isolated incident. It was but one example of a broader higher education reform movement that occurred across Yankeedom in the final two de­cades of the nineteenth ­century. Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island originally chose Yale College’s Sheffield Scientific School, Dartmouth College, and Brown University, respectively, as land-­g rant recipients in the 1860s. As in Vermont, grange leaders came to criticize the curricula, academic standards, and cost of t­ hese institutions. Between 1887 and 1892, state legislatures withdrew the land-­grant designation from Yale, Dartmouth, and Brown, and used the funds to establish three new land-­grant colleges: Connecticut Agricultural College, Rhode Island Agricultural College, and the New Hampshire College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts. Conforming to the w ­ ill of their grange backers, t­hese

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4 I ntro duct ion

institutions maintained vocational programs, practical instruction, broad access, and required ­labor on campus farms. Other regional land-­g rant colleges also confronted grange antagonism but, in general, ­were able to improve relations with farmers and prevent takeovers by introducing short courses for practicing farmers and outreach to rural communities. Indeed, it would be the extension innovations pioneered at northeastern land-­g rant colleges that proved most successful in curbing years of grange unrest. This book is a history of the social and po­liti­cal contest to define the meaning of the Morrill Act and control land-­g rant colleges and universities. ­There was never a singular land-­g rant ideal, but instead the meaning of the law was debated by ­people with diverging class interests. The grangers wanted practical studies and manual ­labor as the best preparation to work and live on a farm, where upon graduation, young men could return home to preserve rural communities, defend white, working-­class masculinity, and resist the growing cultural, economic, and social hegemony of white, middle-­class men. In contrast, a bourgeois co­ali­tion of professionals, businessmen, scientists, and statesmen viewed the Morrill Act as a way to promote social mobility, expand scientific knowledge, and spur economic development. So conceived, the land-­ grant college could move a surplus of rural youths into new middle-­class positions that served a modern economy.13 Standing betwixt ­these competing quests for social and economic power ­were ­women, who w ­ ere often relegated to separate institutions, programs, or classrooms. Yet w ­ omen dismissed arguments that land-­g rant utilitarianism (­either for middle-­class mobility or “work on the farm”) made the colleges inherently male, and they came to attend land-­g rant colleges in large numbers for diverse and idiosyncratic reasons. In a similar vein, the class solidarity of the bourgeoisie or farmers rarely crossed racial bound­aries, as social mobility was a white prerogative, and the black farmer was afforded no consideration in the grange’s romantic prophecies of how land-­grant colleges could resurrect a yeoman republic and a Jeffersonian social order. The competing land-­g rant designs expressed in Yankeedom w ­ ere tied to socially constructed, class-­ based images of white manhood, and female and African American students had to create or “negotiate” their own land-­grant purposes and spaces.14 This book traces a three-­decade conflict in the northeastern United States to uncover how the intersection of class interest and economic context had a decisive influence on the origins, development, and standardization of land-­ grant colleges. Although anchored in one region, this history provides an original framework for understanding land-­g rant development nationwide. This book reveals that the debates over the form and function of the land-­grant

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RECONSIDERING THE ORIGIN S A ND E A R LY Y E A R S

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colleges w ­ ere part of a larger contest to define the po­liti­cal, social, and economic foundations of American society. Born amid a civil war that confronted irresolvable visions of the f­ uture of the United States, the land-­g rant colleges assumed a role in facilitating the rise of a cap­i­tal­ist, industrial economy and a modern, bureaucratized nation-­state. Through the advancement, dissemination, and application of useful knowledge, the land-­grant colleges contributed new ideas, technologies, and technical specialists that supported emerging industries (including scientific agriculture) premised on mechanization and scientific princi­ples. Indeed, the postwar economic order demanded professionals that land-­g rant colleges could supply: individuals with scientific training and verifiable competencies who, upon mastering a set body of knowledge, could develop and manage complex tasks and pro­cesses. The land-­ grant colleges also nourished an increasingly active and encompassing federal government. Although land-­g rant colleges ­were primarily funded and overseen by the states, they w ­ ere entwined with the nation-­building goals of the victorious North. By supplying technocrats for a professionalized bureaucracy that replaced antiquated patronage staffing, the land-­g rant colleges provided intellectual tools for systematizing and rationalizing government responses to social, economic, and po­liti­cal issues. To some early supporters, the land-­grant colleges could transcend the local control of po­liti­cal and economic life that had defined the United States since its founding by producing generalizable and transferable knowledge and practices that could promote national cohesion and development. During the populist revolts chronicled in this book, the land-­g rant colleges became a battleground for resisting many aspects of this transition to modernity. An awakened agricultural population challenged the movement of ­people and power from the rural periphery to urban centers and worked to reform land-­grant colleges to serve the po­liti­cal and economic needs of rural communities. ­These populists embraced a vocational, open-­access land-­g rant model as a bulwark against the outmigration of rural youths from the countryside and as a vehicle for preserving the farm, the farmer, and the local community at the center of American democracy. The land-­g rant colleges would exhibit impressive malleability in the face of ­these competing demands, sometimes adopting incongruent purposes and programs—­spread across lecture halls, laboratories, campus farms, football fields, and extension offices—in an effort to be both national and local, to be meritorious and widely accessible, to advance disciplinary knowledge and to distribute useful knowledge, to promote individual mobility, and to uplift communities. Through the po­liti­cal conflict that defined the origins and early years of the movement, the land-­g rant college

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6 I ntro duct ion

developed its tripartite mission of teaching, research, and ser­vice, and, in ­doing so, channeled and tempered the class warfare of the late nineteenth ­century.

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Land-­Grant History The events in Vermont challenge the long-­standing my­thol­ogy of Justin Morrill and the land-­grant colleges. The stark image of the “­father” of the “­People’s Colleges” opposing the w ­ ill of farmers runs c­ ounter to public memory, where this son of a blacksmith is celebrated in campus memorials and biographies for expanding higher education access to the “the industrial classes.”15 Popu­lar dissatisfaction with land-­grant colleges also cuts against the grain of land-­grant historiography. Historians have depicted the land-­grant movement as a rebuke of the elite and aloof classical colleges and as a response to popu­lar demands for expanding opportunity and utility in higher education. Land-­g rant college histories are often framed within the social milieu of Jacksonian democracy, and the origins of the movement are represented as an outgrowth of the increasing participation and influence of the common man on American education, politics, and culture.16 Yet, as evidenced by Justin Morrill’s chilly encounter with the grange, this thesis does not fully explain the origins of land-­ grant education in the northeastern United States, nor does it clarify the motivations of Justin Morrill and other land-­g rant leaders. The traditional interpretation of the land-­g rant college movement has its genesis in Earle Ross’s Democracy’s College. He argued that the movement’s motivating “influence . . . ​has been that of popu­lar determination and direction—­a demo­cratic system according to the expanding conceptions of the term.”17 The nineteenth-­century college is caricatured as inaccessible and useless to the working masses, and, as such, the Morrill Act becomes the culmination of public pressure for a more egalitarian and utilitarian education system. Democracy’s College provides rich details of land-­g rant colleges across the nation, but Ross’s popu­lar demand conclusions are at best limited to a subset of western institutions in agricultural states. Indeed, Ross’s interpretation seems to follow the histories of the Iowa and Michigan land-­g rant institutions (on the former, he wrote a stand-­alone history), which w ­ ere ideal types of the “narrow-­gauge” model, with vocational curricula, open access, and practical farming faculty. For thirty years, historians like Edward Eddy, Allan Nevins, and J. B. Edmonds relied on Ross’s framework. Eddy exclaimed that the land-­ grant colleges emerged from “a gradual public awakening to the promise of higher education,” and Nevins describes ubiquitous opposition to the

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RECONSIDERING THE ORIGIN S A ND E A R LY Y E A R S

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classical colleges and ardent support for federal intervention in higher education. ­Behind each work is the linear, evolutionary march of demo­cratic pro­ gress, where the common man achieves increasing access to the power centers of society.18 In the more skeptical 1960s, Frederick Rudolph suggested that demo­cratic pressure may not have been central to the Morrill Act’s origins. ­After consulting numerous institutional histories, he argued, “All t­ hese [land-­g rant] activities owed ­little if anything to the views of dirt farmers and workingman associations. . . . ​They ­were the work of ­middle class reformers.”19 In a similar vein, in a 1981 article, Eldon Johnson wanted to clear up “misconceptions” about the early land-­g rant colleges. If ­there was broad popu­lar demand for land-­g rant colleges, he pondered, then it should be reflected in enrollment data. But Johnson counted few land-­g rant students in the early years, and almost none studying the “practical subjects” of agriculture and mechanical arts.20 In George W. Atherton and the Origins of Federal Support, Roger Williams moved land-­g rant history decidedly away from the democ­r atization thesis, contending that land-­g rant colleges existed “not ­because the institutions ­were destined to do so in response to some vague national demand, but ­because certain individuals w ­ ere resolved to create the means.” Williams gave names to Rudolph’s “­middle class reformers”—­George Atherton, Henry Alvord, Henry Goodell—­and illustrated how a network of scientists, academics, and statesmen influenced the movement at the federal level.21 His book proved to be a significant contribution; it explained the pro­cesses by which the Morrill Acts of 1862 and 1890 garnered federal support, and it exposed the flimsy foundation of the traditional narrative. In addition to t­ hese shortcomings, the traditional land-­grant canon provided few insights into the experiences of African American and female land-­g rant students. Ross and Nevins largely ignored the separate land-­g rant system for African Americans in their analyses, and Eddy tried to fold the historically black land-­g rant colleges and universities (HBCUs) into the demo­cratic narrative. He stated that the Morrill Act of 1890 “accomplished for Negroes of the South what the first act in 1862 had accomplished for the men and ­women of other races.”22 This is a dubious conclusion. The Morrill Act of 1890 seems progressive on race at first blush, in stipulating that federal funds would only be dispersed to states that made accommodations for African Americans. However, the law did not require racial integration and therefore gave passive acquiescence to a separate and unequal southern land-­grant system. A portion of federal funding was delivered to land-­g rant HBCUs, to be sure, but state legislatures then deprived them of appropriations that ­were flowing to white land-­g rant colleges. Nevertheless, the land-­g rant HBCUs w ­ ere often the only providers

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8 I ntro duct ion

of elementary, secondary, and higher education in many southern locales, and although underfunded for the monumental task at hand, ­these institutions contributed to advancing African American literacy and developing the foundation of a black m ­ iddle class.23 In the North, African Americans attended land-­g rant institutions in token numbers before the turn of the nineteenth c­ entury. Although ­these pioneers confronted racist attitudes, they did have full access to the curriculum and university facilities and w ­ ere able to participate in literary socie­ties and athletics. As their numbers grew in the twentieth ­century, however, black students encountered increased hostility, including blackface, minstrel shows, the presence of campus KKK organ­izations, and exclusion from campus activities, housing, and dining halls. The land-­grant college clearly was not a romantic, demo­cratic utopia of racial harmony but was instead a mirror of the racial and social prejudices of society.24 The traditional land-­g rant historiography also fails to capture the movement for coeducation and the experiences of w ­ omen at land-­g rant institutions. As I have stated previously, “historians have strug­gled to integrate the utilitarian foundations of the Morrill Act with w ­ omen’s aspirations and expe25 riences.” Historians have been puzzled as to why w ­ omen would have attended “utilitarian” land-­ g rant institutions. For example, Edward Eddy posited that the “new education” was structured to prepare men for the workforce and offered l­ittle to w ­ omen, whose “place was considered to be in the home.” Older works framed all land-­grant colleges as primarily vocational enterprises, and since ­women ­were barred or discouraged from many c­ areers, it was assumed that land-­g rant colleges would be unattractive to female clientele. Ross argued that land-­g rant colleges tried to accommodate w ­ omen’s interests, but the “difficulty was to provide a technical education adapted to ­women’s needs and opportunities.”26 Although ­women have not often fit into historians’ a priori constructs, the fact remained that female students attended and graduated from nineteenth-­ century land-­g rant colleges in substantial numbers. First w ­ ere the pioneering ­women who arrived in the 1860s and 1870s to face a hostile environment. No accommodations ­were made for the young ­women’s arrival, male students resented their presence, and faculty worried that coeducation would tarnish the prestige of the institutions. As a wave of second-­generation w ­ omen arrived across the region, demands for equal access to curricula and facilities grew. Heartened by growing numbers, the young w ­ omen or­ga­nized their own extracurricular activities and worked with deans of ­women to improve housing, academics, and social opportunities. Andrea Radke-­Moss explains this phenomenon well, stating that the experience of land-­g rant w ­ omen was a

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“negotiation of gendered spaces,” where female students pursued both inclusion and “separate spaces” to meet educational and social needs. This resulted in their increased entry into the full breadth of the collegiate curriculum and the reor­ga­ni­za­tion of the separate “domestic courses” into science-­based home economics.27 Common to all the critiques outlined ­here is a healthy skepticism that the Morrill Act can be interpreted as a uniform expression of the popu­lar w ­ ill. Revisionist scholars like Eldon Johnson found ­little evidence of grassroots pressure from white working farmers demanding the creation of the land-­g rant colleges, and the legislation was hardly crafted as a response to the educational desires of w ­ omen and African Americans. Frederick Rudolph and Roger Williams appear closest to the mark by, in the words of Rudolph, linking land-­ grant origins with “­middle class reformers who w ­ ere prepared to advance some theoretical and ideological notions of what popu­lar technical education should be.” However, this argument has been pushed too far, as Roger Williams’s George W. Atherton and the Origins of Federal Support seems to remove the ­people out of land-­g rant history altogether. While reformers George Atherton, Henry Alvord, and Henry Goodell played critical roles in shaping the movement at the federal level, histories of “­g reat men” of the land-­g rant movement do not answer how the fledgling land-­grant colleges w ­ ere built and sustained at the local level. How did the ­people—­the farmers and workers of mid-­nineteenth-­century Amer­ic­ a—­respond to the Morrill Act? How did they interpret its key provisions? Since 90 ­percent of building funds had to come from the states, how did the masses respond to requests for state appropriations to support the land-­g rant experiment? How did ­these popu­lar views of land-­g rant education diverge from or coalesce with the pronouncements of Rudolph’s “­middle class reformers?” Popu­lar demand may not have been the progenitor of the Morrill Act, but that would not prevent the ­people from laying claim to t­ hese institutions a­ fter they ­were founded. To capture a more complete picture of land-­g rant development, postrevisionist scholars have attempted, in Roger Geiger’s words, “to uncover the complex interactions between the ­people and academic reformers.” In American College in the Nineteenth C ­ entury, Geiger explains how the concept of “useful knowledge” was debated and defined between 1840 and 1880. Groups representing farmers and workers tended to advocate for a practical, vocational definition of “useful knowledge,” whereas academics pushed for scientific and theoretical courses that “prepared man­ag­ers not workers.”28 This concept was expanded in “Creating Colleges of Science, Industry, and National Advancement: The Origins of the New E ­ ngland Land-­Grant Colleges,” where I concluded that advancing scientific knowledge and economic development w ­ ere

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the fundamental interests of the originators of the land-­g rant movement. Scientific discovery could lead to profitable technologies and, according to Justin Morrill, enable the United States to best Eu­rope in “the ­g reat race for mastery.” Gradu­ates of scientific programs could employ new technologies and managerial techniques in agribusiness, engineering, railroads, telegraph, and electrification, to name a few areas.29 In Ivory Towers and Nationalistic Minds, Marc Nemec makes a similar argument, stating that in addition to the economic contribution of supplying man­ag­ers, scientists, and engineers, land-­g rant gradu­ates also filled the ranks of a fledgling American bureaucracy. In an effort to manage the complexity of a modernizing nation-­state and po­liti­cal economy, the bureaucracy increasingly relied on merit over party loyalty and patronage, and land-­g rant gradu­ates joined executive agencies to monitor and support the development of agriculture, commerce, manufacturing, and transportation.30 The works cited ­here contribute to a reinterpretation of land-­g rant history. While the forces of mass democracy ­were pressing for change in society generally and higher education specifically, this movement confronted bourgeois and state-­building interests resolved to erect a modern po­liti­cal economy. In a history of populist encounters with midwestern and southern state universities, Scott Gelber fully explicates this dialectic. He argues that the emergent public higher education forms represented the “product or accommodation” of a “tension of grassroots advocacy and academic authority.”31 In this history of the Yankee land-­g rant colleges, the tension described by Gelber becomes an overarching schema, uniquely fit to explain the land-­g rant reform campaigns of the late nineteenth ­century. Many northeastern states chose preexisting colleges as Morrill Act recipients, and, as such, t­ hese institutions tended to maintain traditional collegiate standards and invest the influx of federal funds to build scientific programs. Some of t­ hese enterprises w ­ ere heralded by academic leaders like Daniel Coit Gilman as land-­grant exemplars, well suited for advancing scientific knowledge and educating the leaders of a modern economy and nation-­state. When Yankee farmers began taking an interest in the Morrill Act in the 1870s, they discovered that their views of what constituted useful education differed from t­ hose of the scientific-­minded stewards of land-­g rant colleges. Over the next twenty years (1873–1893), Yankee farmers worked to remove federal funding from the original recipients and build accessible land-­g rant institutions committed to a practical vision that could “return boys to the farm.” ­These notions of useful education ­were intertwined with constructions of class, race, and gender identity. As Burton Bledstein and Daniel Clark argue, the colleges of the late nineteenth ­century became increasingly connected with

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social mobility and the rise of a new m ­ iddle class. The college was becoming a place to receive a credential that certified professional or scientific competency as well as a site of cultural learning to refine the tastes and values of middle-­class manhood.32 In contrast, the Yankee farmers took pride in showing their toil-­hardened hands and embraced working-­class patterns of male identity construction, which Gail Bederman characterizes as a “ ‘rough’ code of manliness . . . ​embracing physical prowess.”33 A useful education for the ­middle class offered theoretical knowledge and advanced technical skills (i.e., engineering and chemistry application), whereas a useful education to a farmer was one that incorporated manual instruction and required ­labor on college farms. It would be in the fields that youths would develop the strength of body and character that ­were central to working-­class masculinity. Land-­g rant college debates ­were often colored by this under­lying contest of how certain types of work contributed to a proper, class-­based view of manliness. To the victor went control of institutions that could shape the economic and social condition of white civilization, and clearly, in this discourse, useful education was gendered male, as ­women ­were dismissed as incompatible with schemes that ­were to prepare students for work in the public sphere. Throughout this book, ­women wishing to attend land-­g rant colleges had to justify their presence in the face of discourses and institutional practices that nurtured class-­based ideals of white manhood.34 Over the last half c­ entury, Earle Ross’s Democracy’s College has had a significant influence on the historiography of the land-­g rant movement. Although scholars have revised the consensus that demo­cratic pressure alone gave birth to the Morrill Act, this does not suggest that the ­people have been absent from land-­g rant history. Instead, Land-­Grant Colleges and Popu­lar Revolt transcends older, romantic perspectives that viewed the Morrill Act as a unified expression of the popu­lar ­will by considering how the interplay of multiple movements—­democ­ratization, industrialization, bureaucratization, and the emergence of modern capitalism—­gave rise to the land-­g rant colleges. Thus, this history is, in part, framed through the lens of demo­cratic reform, while also being mindful of other social forces. To define democracy, demo­cratic action, and demo­cratic reforms in this context, Land-­Grant Colleges and Popu­lar Revolt relies on Laurence Veysey’s The Emergence of the American University. Veysey suggested four types of “demo­cratic demands for reform” that are readily observable in this land-­g rant history: (a) the equality of fields of learning (i.e., applied and vocational courses in college curricula), (b) equality of access as a means to socioeconomic opportunity (i.e., maintaining low-­tuition policies and open admissions for ­those with esoteric academic preparation), (c) equality of the students (i.e., fair treatment and equal campus opportunities for “aggie”

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students), and (d) the diffusion of knowledge from higher education to the masses (i.e., the distribution of new knowledge and best practices from land-­ grant colleges and experiment stations via extension and outreach).35 ­There was a fifth dimension of demo­cratic reform, not addressed by Veysey, premised on the assertion that higher education could be a vehicle for reimaging and restructuring the very idea and practice of American democracy. This fifth meaning of demo­cratic reform is evident in the land-­grant ideals and extension reforms of Liberty Hyde Bailey and Kenyon Butterfield. For example, Butterfield exclaimed that the land-­g rant college must do more than simply help the farmer “raise a big crop and to sell it to advantage”; it must nurture an “appreciation of the trends of economic and social forces, capacity to cooperate, [and] the ability to voice . . . ​needs and rights.”36 In short, the land-­g rant college could enroll the public in a demo­cratic experiment of engaged citizenship to partner with p­ eople in schools, granges, farms, and homes to produce lasting cultural, social, and material benefits for communities.37 The movements for utilitarianism, open-­access admissions, manual-­training pedagogies, engaged citizenship, and extension coexisted with liberal arts and science curricula, advanced academic standards, faculty research, and traditional pedagogies to promote macroeconomic development, the advancement of knowledge, and access to middle-­class ­careers. The fight to control the land-­g rant colleges of Yankeedom becomes our win­dow into exploring how competing societal interests in American democracy, cutting across class, race, and gender, constructed meanings and discourses around the Morrill Act, and how each sought po­liti­cal power to give their vision institutional expression. The goal of this work is to explain how ­these competing ideas ­were ultimately synthesized to create the modern land-­g rant college.

The Land-­Grant Movement in Four Stages This book covers the history of the northeastern land-­g rant colleges across four stages: antecedents, origins, reformation, and standardization. In the antecedents stage, the land-­g rant idea was not a radical concept that separated premodern and modern higher education. In fact, higher education had under­ gone steady change throughout the antebellum period, and land-­grant colleges are best understood as an “institutional expression of a remarkably innovative zeitgeist.”38 One of the significant changes that preceded the land-­grant movement was the rise of science and scientists at American colleges. ­There ­were many institutions that presaged the land-­grant college in their commitment to the applied sciences: multipurpose colleges, scientific schools, lyceums, agri-

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culture schools, and polytechnic institutions. Furthermore, the social, cultural, and economic changes known as the market revolution shifted the under­lying context that gave rise to the land-­g rant movement. During the early de­cades of the nineteenth ­century, an expanding network of roads, canals, and river transportation began connecting farmers and workers who hitherto had limited contact with individuals outside their local villages. This improvement of internal infrastructure brought new opportunities for trading goods and ser­vices, and farmers shelved subsistence agriculture in ­favor of producing for the market. “Useful knowledge” translated into greater skills and productivity, and farmers and workers pursued educational forms that could bring economic success in the marketplace. Industrialization would further this transformation at midcentury, as innovative production pro­cesses, scientific discoveries, and technological development introduced another iteration of “useful knowledge” and a new purpose for higher education. The rise of a market society and mentalité, led to calls for the old classical colleges to be refashioned or for new institutions to be formed to serve the economic order. Scientific research and curricula w ­ ere viewed as particularly well suited for this task. A scientific course of study could prepare students for specialized positions (e.g., chemists, civil engineers, and agricultural scientists) and in turn promote technological innovation and economic growth. The early debates on the purpose and meaning of the Morrill Act w ­ ere driven by this shifting understanding of “useful” knowledge (and education), and in time a disagreement would ensue over whose class interest this “useful” knowledge (and education) would serve. Whig congressman Justin Morrill wanted the federal government to align higher education more closely with economic and national development, a formative po­liti­cal idea that ­shaped the origins stage of land-­g rant development. Morrill was a firm disciple of Henry Clay, and his po­liti­cal philosophy proposed that the central government should support a developing cap­it­ al­ist economy through investment in internal improvements (e.g., canals, highways, and other infrastructure) and the protection of domestic production (e.g., tariffs). In 1861, the senator sponsored the Morrill Tariff to shield fledgling industries from foreign competition. A year l­ater, he introduced federal support for higher education, proposing institutions premised on the advancement and dissemination of scientific knowledge and for the purpose of increasing agricultural and industrial productivity. To Justin Morrill, his land-­g rant college act was another internal improvement program in the Whig tradition, aimed at developing a modern cap­i­tal­ist economy in an upstart nation.39 The curricula, standards, and policies of the northeastern land-­g rant colleges in the origins stage ­were guided by scientists and scholars; some studied

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in German universities, and o ­ thers ­were mentored stateside in the laboratories of scientific pioneers like Yale’s Benjamin Silliman. Evan Pugh of Pennsylvania Agricultural College, Andrew Dickson White of Cornell University, Daniel Coit Gilman, John Pitkin Norton, and Samuel Johnson of Yale’s Sheffield Scientific School, William Smith Clark of Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College, and Ezekiel Dimond of Dartmouth’s New Hampshire College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts are but a sample of the first generation of presidents and faculty introduced in this book who wished to create universities committed to research and science like ­those they encountered abroad. In advancing this plan, they had the support of state and local agricultural socie­ties populated by gentlemen farmers and amateur scientists. The agricultural society gentry ­were keen on bringing new discoveries to bear on American farming, and eagerly accepted positions on inaugural boards of trustees. Justin Morrill, himself an agricultural society member, defended his bill in Congress by explaining how American agriculture was “at the rear of Eu­rope.” He argued that it would take the advance, application, and dissemination of science—­“the handmaid” of l­abor and capital—to place the agricultural and industrial economy above the economies of all other nations.40 The reformation stage of land-­g rant development outlined in this book occurred during a period of ­g reat anxiety among farmers. Yankee yeomen—­the so-­called backbone of American democracy—­feared that economic and po­ liti­cal power was shifting to urban centers.41 Across the region, rural communities witnessed rapid population declines between 1830 and 1900. By the 1850s, concerns spread in rural newspapers that youth outmigration would threaten the viability of country life. Leaders pondered who would replace them, and families that had always structured their ­labor and leisure through networks of kin strug­gled to preserve ­family relationships, rites, and traditions across growing distances. The issue was exacerbated by an economic depression starting in 1873 that changed the face of northeastern agriculture and instigated class conflict. Wealthier farmers who ­were able to transform their operations to the relatively stable dairy industry weathered the storm, but the less fortunate ­either moved west in search of greener pastures or cast their lot with the wandering mass of wage laborers. Insecure during this economic transformation, farmers turned to the grange for support.42 Throughout the 1870s and 1880s, the grange pressured land-­g rant colleges and their legislative overseers for reforms to admission standards, curricula, and tuition. As early as 1878, grange leaders hinted at removing the Morrill Act funds from original recipients and establishing new land-­grant institutions that conformed to their vision, but at the time they ­were uninterested in the tax-­and-­spend policies required for such an expensive endeavor. Yet word was

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spreading that Justin Morrill was preparing a second land-­g rant act, which promised generous annual grants for the “more complete endowment and maintenance” of land-­grant colleges. State granges worked with legislative allies to redirect the proceeds of the Morrill Act of 1890 from Brown University, Dartmouth College, and Yale’s Sheffield School to new agricultural schools. ­There w ­ ere also two cases of unsuccessful takeovers—in New Jersey and Vermont. The New Jersey offensive sputtered from the outset ­because of an ineffectual grange movement, but a much stronger populist fervor took aim at the University of Vermont. As depicted at the beginning of the book, the Vermont Assembly debated the merits of a grange plan to establish a new agricultural college. Justin Morrill arrived from Washington to defend the university’s liberal and scientific curricula, and the Vermont Senate ultimately sided with the f­ ather of the land-­g rant colleges. An alternative model of land-­g rant education was created during the reformation stage between 1887 and 1893 a­ fter the grange secured control of the land-­g rant colleges and used the federal funds to create new institutions in Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island. Members of the state granges took seats on boards of trustees, and most faculty members at ­these new institutions ­were local farmers who served as part-­time instructors in farm practice, bookkeeping, bee culture, poultry rearing, and other occupations. ­These grange colleges offered ill-­prepared youths broad access and a vocational program of study that included required l­ abor on the college farm. As grangers hoped, the agricultural schools in Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island managed to produce more practicing farmers than all the other Yankee land-­grant colleges combined. The original land-­grant colleges in Mas­ sa­chu­setts, Maine, Pennsylvania, and New York weathered the reformation stage thanks to adroit leadership, successful agricultural programs, and closer relationships with farmers. ­These institutions ­were able to fend off criticisms of high admission standards, too much science, and not enough gradu­ates pursuing farming by highlighting remediation opportunities, college farms, courses in farming practice, and a handful of alumni working as farmers. The book concludes with the standardization stage of land-­g rant development by examining three interrelated movements, all of which ­were realized by 1914: the state college ideal, extension, and coeducation. During this period, the diversity of missions and orga­nizational forms that arose in the reformation stage began to coalesce back into a common land-­grant model. This change first became evident when the grange’s agricultural schools transitioned into state colleges: manual-­labor requirements ­were replaced with a robust extra curriculum of athletics and other activities, and the liberal arts and science displaced vocational study in farm practice. Applicants to regional land-­g rant

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colleges now possessed high school diplomas, and ­these aspirants to the ­middle class viewed the state college curriculum as a more appropriate and affordable vehicle for entering positions in business, academia, engineering, or government. The grange, despite waning in po­liti­cal power ­after the populist fervor of the 1890s, mounted a final challenge against the land-­g rant colleges for drifting away from farmers and rural constituents. Land-­g rant colleges needed to maintain curricula, campus life, and academic standards that appealed to the ambitions of burgeoning numbers of high school gradu­ates without alienating farmers and rural constituents who wielded considerable influence on state appropriations. To ­these ends, land-­ grant colleges came to offer parallel programs to nonmembers of the college community, including short courses for working farmers, dissemination of educational material on research findings and new farming technologies, and direct outreach to farmers and rural communities. Many farmers embraced ­these programs as a path to increased productivity and profits in an increasingly mechanized and science-­based industry. Progressive Era reformers, however, conceptualized t­hese extension activities as much more than farm modernization programs. Reformers like Liberty Hyde Bailey and Kenyon Butterfield articulated a ­g rand, demo­cratic vision of extension that would become a bedrock of the land-­g rant mission. T ­ hese reformers wanted to make not just “a better farmer” but a “better citizen,” and through education, exhibitions, and community partnerships, they endeavored to “awaken” rural ­people to their potential to address the challenges in their communities. This outreach movement became standardized in 1914 with the passage of the Smith-­Lever Act, which created or expanded cooperative extension divisions at all regional land-­g rant colleges.43 The third and final pillar of standardization was coeducation. Pioneering land-­g rant w ­ omen challenged both sides of a gendered debate on the purpose of the Morrill Act, which conceptualized land-­g rant colleges as intertwined with c­ areer preparation. Within the cultural context of a separate-­spheres ideology that confined w ­ omen to the private world of f­ amily and home and restricted access to the public sphere, both grangers and middle-­class reformers assumed that only men would find value in the presumably utilitarian land-­ grant colleges. W ­ omen ­were questioned as to why they would prepare for ­careers that w ­ ere closed to them. Grange leaders suggested that the best trajectory for land-­grant ­women was private-­sphere preparation as farmers’ wives, and therefore the grange-­backed colleges directed young ­women into domestic courses in sewing, cooking, and ­house­hold management. ­These early courses possessed ­little academic content, but the situation improved when home economics was developed based on scientific princi­ples. At some institutions,

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anti-­coedism reigned. Faculty charged that ­women would be a distraction, and male students claimed that the presence of females undermined the collegiate atmosphere and hurt their institution’s standing among elite colleges in the region. Despite all this, young w ­ omen pursued land-­grant education for diverse reasons, with many achieving academic distinction and becoming trailblazers in vari­ous ­careers, politics, and academia. Land-­g rant coeducation would become the rule by the turn of the ­century, as young ­women overcame exclusionary discourses and practices, created unique spaces on campuses, and challenged the gendered foundation of the land-­g rant idea. This book illustrates the inherent tensions in the Morrill Act by assessing a drawn-­out po­liti­cal encounter between science-­minded, bourgeois found­ers and the vocationally minded grangers. As one land-­grant president commented in 1884, “It is not the statement of a single mind setting forth an untrammeled purpose . . . ​[but rather] it is the welding of  . . . ​opposite views.”44 Indeed, the legislation was both broad and paradoxical. It called for a special focus on agriculture and the mechanical arts but preserved space for science and the liberal arts. In the early years of the movement, Yankee farmers showed ­little interest in land-­g rant colleges, and this allowed original, scientific trajectories to be ­shaped at the hands of academics, scientists, and modernizing statesmen. At the height of its power, the grange reformed land-­g rant arrangements and created institutions to fulfill its egalitarian and utilitarian vision. However, the grange’s open-­access, vocational model could not be sustained. By the turn of the twentieth c­ entury, public high schools came to offer a similar curriculum and undercut the grange’s land-­grant colleges. High school gradu­ates did not want vocational preparation for the farm; they demanded collegiate-­grade courses and experiences to prepare them for middle-­class lives. Grange critics acquiesced to “agricultural schools” becoming “state colleges” and turned their attention ­toward, and found, enduring value in the special outreach and extension divisions serving rural communities. The three-­part mission of teaching, research, and ser­vice emerged as the solution to the riddle that baffled higher education leaders in the nineteenth c­ entury. Land-­g rant colleges could maintain high academic standards, liberal arts and scientific studies, traditional classroom pedagogies, faculty scholars, and the robust extracurriculum of the state college model, while through extension, they could develop partnerships that delivered direct and observable benefits to the broader public.

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Experimentation in Antebellum Higher Education

The conclusion of the American Civil War is often characterized as a watershed moment in the nation’s transition to modernity. It marked the victory of the northern cap­it­ al­ist economy, ­free ­labor, and bourgeois values; the industrialization of production; the rise of science and new technologies; the expansion of a national bureaucracy; federal sponsorship of internal improvements in transportation, commerce, and defense; and the final subjugation of a retreating frontier. The land-­grant college movement is usually folded into this narrative as a manifestation of a shift to modern higher education. Specifically, the land-­g rant colleges and universities represent the rise of federal involvement in higher education, the triumph of science (especially applied science) in the curricula, expanded access, and utilitarianism. Such interpretations have led historians to view higher education as being disconnected from antebellum society, in which the nineteenth-­ century colleges are viewed as bastions of aristocratic privilege and rearguard defenders of conservative culture in the face of an incipient bourgeois order.1 Revisionist historians have challenged the traditional view of antebellum higher education. In the de­cades prior to the Civil War, the American college was more innovative than has traditionally been assumed, as even stalwart purveyors of the classics, such as Yale College, expanded the curriculum to embrace new scientific disciplines. The rise of scientific study in American colleges proved a critical development, for some science faculty, notably Benjamin 18

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Silliman (b. 1779, d. 1864), would go on to educate a generation of f­uture scientists and academic leaders. Westward expansion and the development of transportation and trade networks prompted a market revolution, in which the logic of markets transformed the social, cultural, and economic patterns of living among a heretofore subsistence-­minded, agricultural population. Individuals embracing this market mentalité would ultimately look to higher education for skills and knowledge to enhance their ability to produce marketable goods and ser­vices. In response to t­hese demands, new institutional forms—­lyceums, agricultural colleges, mechanics’ institutes, polytechnics, and multipurpose colleges—­arrived with missions to offer higher education with clear, marketable ends. American higher education was also altered in the antebellum era through the influence of Eu­ro­pean universities and scholars. With limited options for doctoral education in the United States, American students traveled abroad to study chemistry, botany, geology, and natu­ral philosophy. Upon returning, ­these individuals ­were pivotal in establishing “schools of science” at Yale, Harvard, and Dartmouth and in bringing a scientific outlook to the new state agricultural colleges in New York and Pennsylvania. ­Whether as appendages to traditional colleges or as in­de­pen­dent scientific schools, ­these institutions w ­ ere premised on elevating American science to the Eu­ro­pean standard.2 All of t­hese developments occurred prior to the Morrill Act of 1862 and are a reminder of the institutional diversity that anteceded land-­grant colleges. This chapter explores each of t­ hese developments to illustrate that the land-­ grant idea was far from original but was in fact a reform movement indicative of a period of higher education innovation.

Science and the American College Benjamin Silliman entered Yale University in 1796, where he received BA and MA degrees. Upon graduation, he was content to follow his late f­ather into the law as a gateway to a position of authority. He penned his m ­ other that “in a country like ours this profession is a staircase by which talent and industry ­will conduct their possessor to the very pinnacle of usefulness and fame. . . . ​ This pinnacle is constantly in my eye.” Silliman practiced the law for a few years ­until President Timothy Dwight IV of Yale invited his former student to return to New Haven.3 President Timothy Dwight was a staunch Federalist and a leading defender of Connecticut’s established Congregational Church, and he recruited tutors with orthodox beliefs on religion and the social order. As a minister, theologian,

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C hapter 1

and educator, Dwight was appalled at the destabilizing excesses and infidel philosophies of the French Revolution and Thomas Paine’s The Age of Reason. Yale remained a stronghold of federalist princi­ples and Calvinist orthodoxy, where tutors schooled f­ uture gentlemen in Latin and Greek through a classical course in logic, grammar, rhe­toric, and mathe­matics, but Dwight was also excited by the discoveries of chemistry pioneers Joseph Priestly and Joseph Louis Gay-­Lussac and insisted that scientific studies be added to the curriculum. Like many religious leaders of the era, the Yale president was able to incorporate the expanding natu­ral sciences into his worldview. Dwight rejected claims that science and religion w ­ ere incompatible, and he enthusiastically embraced a moderate enlightenment in which science could illuminate the breadth and complexity of God’s creation.4 In July 1801, Benjamin Silliman, then a tutor in his second semester, walked across the Yale courtyard with President Dwight to discuss a teaching offer from the University of Georgia. Dwight discouraged his departure and exclaimed that his young disciple was needed in New Haven for an “effort which would promise . . . ​usefulness [and] reputation . . . ​[in a] field [that] ­will be all your own.” As Silliman stood bewildered, the president played on the young man’s dreams of grandeur: “Our country, as regards the physical sciences, is rich in unexplored trea­sures, and by aiding in their development you ­will perform an impor­tant public ser­vice, and connect your name to the rising reputation of our native land.” With ­these words, Silliman was persuaded to become the first professor of natu­ral science at Yale, a task for which he was woefully ill prepared.5 Silliman was educated within the confines of a classical curriculum that stressed logic, grammar, rhe­toric, moral philosophy, and the ancient languages. While it was the proper education for one looking to the learned professions or public life, it offered Silliman ­little exposure to the scientific and mathematical subjects needed to teach chemistry. To prepare for his duties, he traveled to Philadelphia, where he spent two years ­under the tutelage of chemists at the University of Pennsylvania’s Medical College. Having mastered the basics, Silliman departed for advanced study at the University of Edinburgh’s renowned medical college, and during breaks, he visited laboratories and attended scientific lectures in ­England, Holland, and Scotland.6 With no men of science on the faculty of American colleges, aspiring botanists, chemists, and natu­ral phi­los­o­phers had few choices for academic preparation beyond private tutoring or study abroad. Indeed, Benjamin Silliman’s Eu­ro­pean journey was a rite of passage for the first generation of American science professors. Benjamin Smith Barton returned to the University of Penn-

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Figure 1.  Benjamin Silliman, Yale College professor and scientist, in 1825. John Trumbull, 1825. Oil on wood. Courtesy of the National Portrait Gallery, Smithsonian Institution.

sylvania from the University of Edinburgh in 1789 well versed in scientific methods and with five thousand plant species to supplement his courses in applied botany and materia medica. Columbia sought to advance the scientific orientation of its medical college by hiring alumnus David Hosack as a botanist. Like Silliman, Hosack had a classical education, which left him with a “total ignorance of botany.” In 1792, he went abroad to attend the University of Edinburgh before studying with a botanist at the University of Cambridge. At Harvard, in 1804, William Dandridge Peck became the university’s first

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professor in natu­ral history. The Harvard Corporation allotted $2,100 to send Peck to Eu­rope “to acquaint himself with the object and the manner of instruction as it is given in the seminaries where the knowledge of nature has been cultivated with the greatest ability and effect.” The novice botanist traveled to the herbarium of Professor Carl Thumberg at the University of Uppsala in Sweden, explored the garden and laboratories at the University of Kiel in Germany, and visited the medical garden at the University of Leyden in Holland. Peck concluded his trip with a yearlong sojourn to the botanical epicenter of Jardin des Plantes in Paris.7 Inspired by formative journeys abroad, the pioneering professors of natu­ ral science returned home with a reformer’s zeal. Silliman, Hosack, Peck, and Barton or­ga­nized laboratories and academic coursework in botany, chemistry, geology, materia medica, and natu­r al philosophy. American colleges remained committed to the classical course, but ­there was no ignoring the advances in science bubbling across the Atlantic. Embracing a moderate enlightenment, the theological leaders of American colleges incorporated the natu­ral sciences into their Christian worldview. Pre-­Darwinian science need not challenge established authority but could become part and parcel of acceptable learning for Christian gentlemen. In the antebellum era, then, several classical colleges hired scientists and increased curricular offerings in the natu­ral sciences. Some gradu­ates who partook of this scientific fare became the presidents and first faculty of the schools of sciences, land-­g rant colleges, and research universities that surfaced ­later in the ­century.

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The Market Revolution Gordon Wood explains how the War of In­de­pen­dence shattered traditional hierarchies that separated gentlemen from commoners, but of course it did not extinguish pockets of privilege and power that could be accrued through learning and wealth. In the early years of the United States, young men pursued a liberal education for cultural refinement and entrance into a latent aristocracy of state and church leaders or as members of the learned professions. The classical studies of language, rhe­toric, and logic could serve one well in an oral culture where fa­cil­it­ y in debate and syllogistic exchange brought success in the state­house, the courtroom, and the public square. For the 1–2 ­percent of white males who enrolled in higher education during the period, a classical education was indeed useful for public life. This group would represent a stable clientele demanding traditional academic offerings well into the nineteenth ­century.8

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Notwithstanding the per­sis­tence of traditional curricula, American higher education would change—­albeit slowly, belatedly, and reluctantly—in response to dramatic changes in the American economy. Charles Sellers writes in The Market Revolution that the new nation would undergo a “generation of conflict over the republic’s destiny . . . ​[as] history’s most revolutionary force, the cap­i­tal­ist market, was wresting Amer­i­ca’s ­f uture from history’s most conservative force, the land.”9 The po­liti­cal liberalism unleashed by revolution morphed into an ascendant economic liberalism where individuals pursued social pro­g ress through buying and selling on the markets that began to imbue society. While ­there ­were indeed transatlantic markets and an established merchant class in the eigh­teenth ­century, transportation improvements into the continental interior during the early nineteenth c­ entury greatly expanded domestic market activity. The development of turnpikes, canals, improved river navigation, and the National Road spurred new domestic trade networks and introduced marketable goods and a market mentalité deeper into the hinterland. As John Lauritz Larson has argued, the difference that separated “colonial merchant capitalism from its mature, modern successor was the extent of penetration into the daily lives of ordinary ­people.”10 Farmers began shelving subsistence planting in ­favor of cultivating profitable crops or manufacturing homemade handicrafts for market, and they became active consumers of both necessities and luxuries. In the past, knowledge of traditional practices was the key to maintaining farm and home, but in a world of market exchange, access to new knowledge and inventions could increase product yields, spur entrepreneurial ventures, and increase profits. The wealthy w ­ ere intent on benefiting from the new markets as well; they transformed landed wealth into capital, built large factories, enjoyed the benefits of economies of scale, and donned new identities as bourgeoisie. Indeed, as a class, the bourgeoisie sought to harness “useful” knowledge to increase productivity and market returns.11 The market revolution changed standards of utility and the meaning of useful knowledge, and reframed the debate around the purpose of higher education. Critics of the American college arose to dismiss the classical curriculum as antiquated for this emerging socioeconomic order. Frederick Rudolph links a host of 1820s curricular innovations at places like Union College, Miami University of Ohio, the University of Vermont, and Amherst College with public demands for “something more meaningful and useful for con­temporary life.” For example, he highlights partial programs where students could elect courses outside the fixed curriculum or pursue “English-­scientific” programs emphasizing “En­glish language instruction, modern languages, applied mathe­matics, and po­liti­cal economy.” To reformers, the classics w ­ ere a relic of a bygone

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world, whereas the parallel English-­scientific, literary-­scientific, and all other iterations signaled, in the words of Rudolph, that the “colleges ­were being adapted to new goals and new social and economic facts.”12 At Yale, faculty members responded to t­hese demands from “dif­fer­ent quarters . . . ​that . . . ​colleges must be new-­modeled.” In a rebuff to proponents of utilitarianism, the faculty penned a resounding defense of the classical curriculum, popularly referred to as the Yale Reports of 1828. This manifesto was published in Benjamin Silliman’s Journal of Science and the Arts, where it was read far and wide by academic audiences and provided a distinction between “liberal” and “useful” studies. The colleges should not, according to the committee, “make the ludicrous attempt” to mimic the ­grand, graduate-­ education designs of the German universities but instead remain committed to undergraduate study, which provided “the foundation of a superior education.” In other words, the American college should be a repository of general knowledge and culture and a prerequisite to gradu­ate or professional study. The Yale Reports contended that a college curriculum should be grounded in classics and careful study of ancient languages to nurture “discipline of the mind,” a loosely defined concept referencing aptitude in reasoning, focus, and logic. Useful or practical knowledge was termed the “furniture of the mind.” ­Whether in business or commerce, agriculture, or mechanics, the Yale Reports stated that this “furniture” should be pursued outside the college. For such practical accruements, “the young merchant must be trained in the counting room, the mechanic, in the workshop, the farmer, in the field.” As for the scientific and mathe­matics courses introduced by Benjamin Silliman and his compatriots at the beginning of the c­ entury, “­these could nurture discipline of the mind if approached in a theoretical manner.” The writings of Isaac Newton and the discoveries of Priestly could help develop analytical and logical reasoning, but scientific applications to practical prob­lems for marketable ends ­were decidedly not part of a liberal education. The scientific studies of chemistry, botany, and natu­ral philosophy had secured a place within the framework of liberal study as impor­tant contributors to forming ­mental discipline, as long as ­these subjects remained conceptual and disconnected from practical ends.13 The ideas espoused in the Yale Reports soon spread westward. As roads carried marketable goods and homesteaders beyond the Allegheny Mountains, small villages and towns formed at junctures of ­family farms on the old frontier. The ­people of ­these “island communities” ­were isolated from eastern population centers but w ­ ere resolved to establish all the accoutrements of civilization: town halls, court­houses, churches, and colleges.14 Several of the colleges established a­ fter 1830  in western Pennsylvania, upstate New York, and Ohio

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­ ere shepherded by gradu­ates of northeastern classical colleges. As Yankee w Congregationalists left the rocky fields of New ­England, they spread not only a “benevolent empire” promoting abolition and temperance but also the academic traditions of the Yale Reports. Colleges across the old Northwest ­were meeting the needs of aspiring small-­town professionals with a fixed curriculum in the ancient languages, the development of ­mental discipline, and theoretical science and mathe­matics.15 While new denominational colleges founded by Presbyterians, Baptists, Congregationalists, and Methodists mimicked the liberal designs and academic standards of Yale, by the late 1840s, they faced local demands for utility and access from a new ­middle class that had come into existence with the market revolution. This class (and t­hose who aspired to membership in it) retained no romantic attachment to the classics and w ­ ere more interested in learning that could translate into market successes. Moreover, while a portion of college funding came from denominational ties, the institutions ­were partially dependent on student tuition and the support of the host community. Therefore, some of the denominational colleges came to resemble “multipurpose colleges,” as local pressure prompted curricular innovation. The curriculum retained the BA degree with its classical core but also included degree courses in science in place of Greek study (the BS degree). In addition, the multipurpose colleges experimented with nondegree courses for irregular students in a host of applied subject areas, including teaching, commerce, and agriculture. In an effort to meet demands for college access and to overcome the dearth of secondary schooling, the colleges also initiated preparatory programs.16 The most radical innovation in the multipurpose colleges came from local demands for coeducation. As a general rule, the colleges on the Eastern Seaboard and in the South w ­ ere single-­sex institutions, but as one moved westward, egalitarian ideals and the market revolution nurtured a more hospitable environment for coeducation. As Margaret Nash has shown, some young ­women pursued traditional collegiate studies in the arts and sciences in both gender-­segregated and integrated colleges, while o ­ thers chose refinement through the ornamental subjects of ­music, embroidery, and lit­er­a­ture. The female gradu­ates of the collegiate courses not only found employment in school­houses but became the backbone of the benevolent associations that would agitate for temperance, abolition, and, ­later, ­women’s rights. For the growing new ­middle class, ornamental learning and cultural refinement for ­daughters was a way to assert respectability, gentility, and leadership in the new socioeconomic order. Consistent with the utilitarian impulse, multipurpose colleges also added “domestic courses” to provide young ­women with useful skills for managing the affairs of the home.17

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The market revolution introduced novel ways of thinking about higher education and led some colleges to experiment with curricula and standards. This invited the vigorous defense of the classical curriculum as articulated in the Yale Reports of 1828, specifically that “­mental discipline” should be the primary learning outcome of American colleges. Throughout the remainder of the antebellum era, adherence to the ancient scheme was a mark of elite status, and the oldest colleges of the East defended the fixed curriculum, the tenets of “­mental discipline,” and the exclusion of ­women. The new scientific subjects ­were incorporated into this model as theoretical subjects that promoted logical and analytical reasoning, but as higher education moved west, middle-­class communities tended to add programs for both sexes that w ­ ere considered increasingly useful in the market economy. ­These multipurpose colleges ­were hybrid institutions that included both liberal education and useful education. This cross-­purpose model would come to find its fullest expression in land-­g rant colleges, u ­ nder the Morrill Act’s mandate for “liberal 18 and practical education.” In addition to the multipurpose colleges, other institutions developed in the antebellum era that would make the dissemination of useful knowledge their central mission. Indeed, it would be the rise of lyceums, agriculture schools, polytechnics, mechanics’ institutes, and schools of science that would ultimately give educational utilitarianism, in the form of the applied sciences, a firm foothold in higher education in the years prior to the Morrill Act.

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The Birth of Applied Science Specialized institutions for the applied sciences that arose in the antebellum era—­lyceums, polytechnics, mechanics’ institutes, and agricultural colleges—­ shared a common link to the pioneering science faculty in the colleges. Benjamin Silliman at Yale was the most prolific mentor of ­future scientific faculty, but other colleges also hired scientists who expanded the curricula and inspired youths to pursue ­careers in the natu­ral sciences. At Brown University, Dr. Solomon Drowne was a professor of botany who supplemented instruction with treks through his botanical garden, and John D’Wolf was a professor of chemistry remembered as having opened “the eyes of the young student . . . ​[to] the won­ders of a new and brilliant science.” Ezekiel Holmes, a typical early student of the sciences, who would become the most ardent advocate of the agricultural college movement in Maine, graduated from Brown University as a devoted mentee of Drowne and D’Wolf. Upon return-

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ing to Maine, in 1826, Holmes was asked to become the first professor of natu­ral history and agriculture at the new Gardiner Lyceum.19 Robert Hallowell Gardiner (1782–1864) donated a large tract of land for the purpose of “establishing . . . ​a school for teaching mathe­matics, mechanics, navigation, and t­ hose branches of natu­ral philosophy and chemistry which are calculated to make scientific farmers and mechanics.” The Gardiner Lyceum was chartered in January 1823 with a board of visitors that included the governor, legislative leaders, and the presidents of Bowdoin and Waterville (Colby) Colleges. The first principal was Benjamin Hale, who stayed just long enough to or­ga­nize the inaugural curriculum before accepting the professorship of chemistry at Dartmouth College. John Lathrop, a protégé of Benjamin Silliman, assumed the leadership post before accepting the professorship of natu­ ral philosophy at Hamilton College and then university presidencies in Wisconsin, Indiana, and Missouri. The trustees then turned to Ezekiel Holmes, who was elevated from his faculty post to the principalship in 1829. He was a competent administrator and respected teacher, connecting scientific princi­ ples to agricultural applications and encouraging students to engage in scientific inquiry by “collecting minerals, insects, and plant life.” His tenure was marred by financial trou­bles. The legislature initially viewed the lyceum as a partnership with Robert Gardiner, and therefore the state appropriated $2,000 at its opening, followed by an additional $1,000 each year thereafter. However, Gardiner squandered his personal wealth on foolhardy business schemes, and the state was unwilling to rescue the lyceum as its sole patron. Holmes pleaded with the board of visitors that “something needed to be done to save the reputation of the institution,” and he warned of a desperate need for public appropriations to enlarge the campus farm, expand laboratory space, and build a boarding­house. By 1832, Holmes realized his pleas for state support w ­ ere falling on deaf ears; he left the lyceum and closed the doors b­ ehind him. They never reopened.20 The lyceum in Maine had many imitators. In Derby, Connecticut, Josiah Holbrook founded an agricultural seminary for the “analy­sis and application” of agricultural pro­cesses in his barn, where “lectures ­were to be given on most of the physical sciences” as well as “courses on natu­ral philosophy, chemistry, mineralogy, and botany.” Holbrook graduated from Yale College, where he, too, attended the lectures of Benjamin Silliman. Short on funds, Holbrook was unable to maintain the seminary beyond its first year. Undeterred, he partnered with like-­minded individuals to establish a lyceum network, personally inaugurating branches in Mas­sa­chu­setts, Connecticut, and New York. While the Gardiner Lyceum resembled an agricultural college with its board of visitors,

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faculty, and permanent buildings, the traditional lyceum model of Holbrook was ­little more than an association of local citizens committed to sponsoring public lectures for the purpose of disseminating “rational and useful information through the community” and applying “the sciences and vari­ous branches of education to the domestic and useful arts.” ­These organ­izations held regular meetings, distributed publications, trained teachers, and offered low-­cost access to education in science, agriculture, and the mechanical arts. Historian Alfred True contends that nearly 900 small towns and villages throughout the region supported a lyceum by the 1830s, and leading scientists, including Silliman, Wendell Phillips, and Henry Ward Beecher, joined the lecture cir­cuit at vari­ous times.21 Inspired by the success of the lyceum movement, scientists, educators, and gentlemen farmers (wealthier individuals who farmed as a hobby and not for livelihood) formed associations to reconstitute American agriculture on a modern, scientific basis. ­These agricultural socie­ties ­were committed to uncovering scientific knowledge and best practices in farming and distributing this knowledge through journals, fairs, lectures, and, ultimately, agricultural colleges. The first state society in the region formed in New York in 1818, followed by ­Pennsylvania in 1828, Mas­sa­chu­setts in 1829, and Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Vermont in the 1830s. In Maine, Ezekiel Holmes was soon ready for a new proj­ect ­after the failure of the Gardiner Lyceum, and he became a founder of the Maine Agricultural Society.22 Journals, lectures, and county fairs could spread useful information about agricultural science and practice, but as one agricultural society member stated, pro­g ress would only come with “the means to make experiments . . . ​ on an extensive and reliable scale.” What ­were needed, he continued, ­were agricultural colleges—­“liberally endowed” with “competent professors and tutors”— able to “acquaint students with the physical sciences.”23 The Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural Society was the first to pursue this course and, through its publication, The New ­England Farmer, proposed an agricultural college for common school gradu­ates that included agriculture, mechanics, natu­ral philosophy, and domestic economy. The college was to have a model farm “best adapted to agricultural experiments.” Agricultural society members pressed the legislature multiple times between 1825 and 1845 for an agricultural college, but lawmakers w ­ ere unwilling to appropriate funds to the effort.24 In 1845, Amherst College, a private college just two de­cades old, was led by a fervent supporter of scientific education. Edward Hitchcock, Amherst’s president from 1845 to 1854, was a gradu­ate of Yale, a disciple of Silliman, a member of the local agricultural society, the state geologist, the first scientific surveyor of western Mas­sa­chu­setts, and a former chemistry professor at

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Amherst. In addition to his primary responsibilities as president, he taught courses in chemistry, botany, geology, zoology, astronomy, and anatomy. Hitchcock was convinced that scientific research and education at Amherst could contribute to improving the state’s agricultural production. Speaking to the state agricultural society, he stated, “The day had gone by . . . ​when we reject and treat contemptuously what has been called book farming.” Hitchcock was joined in his campaign by Dr. Charles Shepherd, Amherst’s lecturer in scientific agriculture and a leading proponent of state funding for agricultural science. The two men journeyed across Mas­sa­chu­setts to advocate for a state agricultural college (of course with the self-­serving hope of attaching such an institution to Amherst). Shepherd warned resistive farmers: “­Either participate in the movement or e­ lse see [your] sons leaving their homes[,] . . . ​ ­daughters entering the cotton mills[,] . . . ​and farms sliding from u ­ nder [you] into more enterprising hands.” In 1847, Shepherd convinced the Amherst trustees that the time was ripe to petition the legislature for a state agricultural college at Amherst—an institution with “an experimental farm, botanical gardens . . . ​and other needed apparatus.” A charter was issued by the state, as was a pledge of $15,000 u ­ nder the condition that the institution could raise $15,000 itself. However, the subscription campaign failed during the economic depression of that year, and the Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College bill stalled. Not ­until the passage of the Morrill Act would the tried and tested agricultural society coalition—­centered and led from Amherst—­seize the opportunity to build the long-­planned agricultural college in Mas­sa­chu­setts.25 New York also experienced sustained campaigns to advance agricultural science. With the nation’s largest and wealthiest population and hundreds of thousands of fertile acres ­under cultivation, New York farming was already the most productive, profitable, and technologically advanced in the United States. In 1832, eighty-­seven “zealous and enlightened friends of agriculture” reconstituted the New York State Agricultural Society from its moribund pre­ de­ces­sor formed years earlier. In 1843, the agricultural society filed a petition with the legislature for an agricultural college for the “purpose of disseminating scientific knowledge of agriculture throughout the state.” The bill found support in the state assembly, but following complaints from denominational colleges that the new institution would receive undue advantages, the state senate rejected the proj­ect, and it floundered for a de­cade.26 At the 1853 convention of the New York State Agricultural Society, its president, Lewis G. Morris, gave an address on the essential characteristics of the agricultural college. Morris was one of the state’s first scientific breeders of Devonshire ­cattle and South Down sheep and a member of the Royal Agricultural Society of E ­ ngland.27 He called for a u ­ nion of scientific theory and

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practice, and specifically focused on the importance of agricultural chemistry to “realize the wonder-­working influences of t­ hose chemical combinations that serve to produce the plant and resuscitate the soil.”28 In response to a petition coming out of the society meeting, the New York legislature chartered an agricultural college where “the sons of the farmer and mechanics of [the] state” would be given “all the facilities for a thorough education,” which would “furnish them with all practical knowledge” and provide “all the advantages which science is capable of yielding.”29 Trustees w ­ ere drawn from the agricultural society leadership, and they a­ dopted a plan of study that included scientific agriculture, chemistry, mathe­matics and mechanics, engineering, surveying, geology, botany, and practical management of the farm. The former president of the state agricultural society, John Delafield, was the most devoted supporter of the agricultural college movement. He was named president of the board of trustees, and his 300-­acre farm was to be converted into the campus grounds and farm. Delafield then passed away, and it became clear how dependent on his personal finances the proj­ect had been. The stillborn college folded upon his demise.30 As the original agricultural college plan floundered, Amos Brown seized the opportunity and unveiled his designs to attach the proposed institution to his acad­emy in Ovid, New York. Brown was an educational reformer and journeyman, who traveled throughout the Northeast to dabble in vari­ous upstart ventures. He graduated from Dartmouth College in 1832, where unlike the reformers already discussed, he loved the classics and eschewed the natu­ral sciences. Brown was well known in educational circles as a collaborator in Horace Mann’s district school reform movement, founding member of the Maine State Board of Education, crusader for coeducation, and head of the Gorham Acad­emy of Maine. Self-­righteous to a fault, he often butted heads with anyone who disagreed with him. He had countless arguments with the Gorham Acad­emy trustees, and in 1848 he chose resignation over compromise. Brown scoured the region for an academic leadership position ­until he found an opportunity at the struggling Ovid Acad­emy on the Seneca River.31 The Ovid Acad­emy (f. 1827) had fallen on hard times and had only six students, so the trustees ­were impressed by Amos Brown’s experience and enticed by his promises of rapid enrollment growth. They hired him as principal in 1852. Within three years, Brown had increased enrollment at the acad­emy, and the trustees w ­ ere entertaining suggestions to elevate the school into the Seneca Collegiate Institute. It was at this time that Brown became aware of the defunct New York Agricultural College, and while not a man of science or agriculture, he inaugurated a campaign to bring the agriculture college to Ovid. Since Brown was not the man to teach agricultural science, he wisely

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recruited respected chemist William H. Brewer to convey the seriousness of his petition. Brewer had studied agricultural chemistry at the Scientific School at Yale University,32 and upon his graduation in 1852, he accepted the faculty post at Ovid. The young chemist then went to Eu­rope to receive advanced training u ­ nder the mentorship of German scientists Robert Bunsen and Justus von Liebig. He returned home to Ovid in 1855 and in addition to his regular teaching duties began giving public lectures on agricultural chemistry and its application across the United States. Brewer would ­later write that ­these public lectures “­were an impor­tant ­factor in bringing the ­matter of scientific instruction for practical ends before the ­people . . . ​and . . . ​a sowing seed for the growth of the ­f uture agriculture college.” ­Later that year, Brown was in Albany extolling the virtues of Brewer and the scientific character of his acad­ emy, and arguing that Ovid was the best site for resurrecting a state-­supported agricultural college for New York.33 The legislature was impressed and, in addition to naming Seneca County the f­ uture home of the state agricultural college, it distributed a $40,000 loan with the stipulation that an equal amount be raised by subscription. The college was to have professors of chemistry, mathe­matics, and natu­ral philosophy, and maintain a curriculum that provided instruction in the natu­ral sciences and the application of scientific princi­ples to “agriculture[,] . . . ​veterinary medicine[,] . . . ​and the practical exercises in agronomy, horticulture, animal husbandry, and farm engineering.” The funds ­were raised, but a co­ali­tion of trustees wrested the venture away from Amos Brown by not electing him as the college’s first president. Brown, always on the move, soon accepted the presidency of the P ­ eople’s College in Havana, New York. ­Under new leadership, the renamed New York Agricultural College at Ovid opened with optimism in 1860 as Brewer and a capable faculty taught twenty-­seven students in an ambitious scientific curriculum. Despite this promising start, the college had a brief history. Brown’s successor was a politician, not an educator, and the legislature was unwilling to support the venture beyond its initial loan. Yet most damning was timing, as the Civil War siphoned off students, faculty, and resources. The doors ­were closed for good in 1861.34 As in the previous two cases, the movement in Pennsylvania to bring the applied sciences to higher education was inextricably linked to the state agricultural society. Society president Frederick Watts, a gradu­ate of Dickinson College in 1824, led the effort to establish an agricultural college in the commonwealth. In addition to his professional pursuits as a judge and business developer, he was an agricultural reformer and gentleman farmer who experimented on his 116-­acre farm outside the city of Carlisle. Soon a­ fter being elected to the presidency of the agricultural society, Watts convened a

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committee to craft a plan for a “Farmers’ High School” to “distinguish it from the numerous classical colleges across the state.” The prospectus called for the sciences to be taught alongside traditional subjects, manual-­labor requirements, and trusteeships reserved for state and county officers of the agricultural society. A ­ fter the proposal was presented to the legislature on April 13, 1854, and u ­ nder pressure from the agricultural society membership, lawmakers approved the founding of the Farmers’ High School of Pennsylvania as “an institution for the education of youth in the vari­ous branches of science, learning, and practical agriculture.” A state charter was issued on February 23, 1855, which sanctioned a more manageable board of trustees (the county officers ­were removed but the state officers of the agricultural society ­were retained) and designated central Pennsylvania as the ­future site of the institution.35 The trustees named Watts president of the board of trustees. He immediately accepted a 200-­acre donation as the f­uture site of the campus, lobbied the state legislature for building funds, and raised the impressive sum of $100,000 over four years. As Peter Moran and Roger Williams have argued, “Representatives from the county and state agricultural socie­ties leveraged their po­liti­cal influence to secure state funding for the college.” Like Watts, the agricultural society men ­were often college-­educated professionals, gentlemen farmers, and community leaders who enjoyed personal relationships and audiences with state officials. Since the Farmers’ High School was the product and protectorate of the college-­educated men of the agricultural society, it is ­little won­der that its proposed curriculum was steeped in science. Its first cata­logue explains the course of study as “a system of instruction as extensive and thorough as that of the usual courses in our best colleges . . . ​ but devoting no time to the ancient languages . . . ​and devoting a correspondingly longer time to scientific instruction.”36 Notwithstanding the “high school” label, the agricultural society wanted a college, not a “manual-­labor school” of a lower academic grade. As college-­educated individuals, its leaders valued high academic standards and the “usual courses” of the “best colleges,” and as scientists, they wanted to see ancient languages replaced with additional scientific courses.37 Ezekiel Holmes of Maine, Edward Hitchcock of Mas­sa­chu­setts, and Frederick Watts of Pennsylvania had three ­things in common: degrees from traditional colleges that ­were experimenting with scientific courses, a budding passion for science that was nurtured through leadership in a state agricultural society, and a legacy as the progenitor of the agricultural college in their respective states. Had he not died prematurely, John Delafield of New York would have been on this list as well. Amos Brown, while not an agricultural society member or scientist, largely ­adopted Delafield’s agenda to secure the agricul-

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tural college for the town of Ovid. The se­lection of William Brewer to teach chemistry, agricultural science, and botany courses was done largely to meet the demand for applied sciences at the core of the agricultural society agenda. The scientists and gentlemen farmers in this agricultural society co­ali­tion would become a bastion of local support for the original land-­g rant colleges. Indeed, the po­liti­cal clout of the agricultural socie­ties would not only expedite the pro­cess of planting the sciences of chemistry, botany, agricultural science, and geology in American higher education but also secure the passage of Morrill Act legislation at the state level. The absence of such a broad, multistate co­ali­tion to agitate for higher education reform for laborers and artisans would make the history of mechanical arts education divert significantly from the agricultural experience.

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Mechanics and the ­People’s College In the 1820s, mechanics’ institutes ­were formed in urban locales and had libraries, lectures, and eve­ning classes. T ­ hese mirrored the guild-­backed mechanical institutes in Britain and the technische hochshulen in Germany, which purported to supply their nation’s skilled l­abor in “manufacturing, mining, and transport.” The American equivalents did not have the benefit of guild financial support, charged relatively high fees, and thus appealed to the wealthier, sole-­proprietor artisans. Aspiring mechanics—be they immigrants or rural youths leaving the farm for industrial pursuits—­often lacked the capital to form in­de­pen­dent shops and ­were forced to ­labor for meager wages in factories. ­These wage laborers may have learned a single manufacturing pro­cess on the job, but they w ­ ere without the means to access a more thorough mechanical arts education that could increase their marketability and elevate their socioeconomic standing. While the mechanics’ institutes had a limited reach into the working class, they did serve to enhance the skills of a subset of artisans and, according to one historian, “championed the proposition that mechanics needed a par­tic­ul­ar type of education and thereby made mechanical education a respectable concept.”38 Practical instruction at the “workman’s bench” differed from the theoretical, mathematical, and applied science courses appearing in military academies, polytechnics, and colleges ­under the umbrella term of engineering. At first, the term engineering referenced only civil engineering, a profession in high demand to supervise the era’s flurry of road, bridge, and canal building. Engineering programs originated in France ­after the Revolution. The École Polytechnique was founded outside of Paris at Palaiseau in 1794 by Gaspard

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Monge, a mathematician, pioneer of technical drawing, and during the French Revolution, he was Minister of the Marine. Students received two years of mathematical and scientific instruction before undertaking further education in engineering applications to civil or military proj­ects. In 1802, the United States Military Acad­emy was founded at West Point, New York, to train the Army Corps of Engineers. At first, the institution was more an officers’ club than a site of learning, but the arrival of Sylvanus Thayer in 1817 brought reforms along French lines. Thayer was intent on creating engineers and officers, emphasizing mathe­matics and science, including applied civil and military engineering coursework, and inculcating discipline among regular classes of cadets.39 Civil engineering also made inroads at a handful of American colleges. Engineering was initially introduced as a series of public lectures or a “partial course” for irregular students (at the University of Vermont in 1828, Columbia in 1830, Prince­ton in 1832, New York University in 1837, Rutgers in 1841, and Brown in 1845). At Union College, civil engineering became a regular course in 1845 that could be applied t­oward the bachelor of science degree. The multipurpose colleges spreading west did not usually have the resources and expertise to offer a comprehensive civil engineering program, but related courses in technical drawing or surveying ­were offered occasionally in response to local demand. The most advanced civil engineering programs in the antebellum era outside of West Point were housed in polytechnic institutes. Initial pro­gress was made on the banks of the Hudson River at Troy, New York, where the Rensselaer Institute (f. 1825) conferred civil engineering degrees as early as 1835. Students at Rensselaer came from as far away as Ohio and Pennsylvania, with some gradu­ates becoming lead engineers on the Erie Canal proj­ect. In 1847, Benjamin Franklin Greene was appointed se­nior professor and straightaway sailed for Eu­rope to study the engineering programs at the École Polytechnique in Paris and the Polytechnisches Institut in Vienna. Greene returned in 1851 intent on reforming his institute along Eu­ro­pean lines, and he replaced the one-­year program in technical drawing and surveying with a three-­year curriculum in science, mathe­matics, and civil engineering (i.e., technical drawing, surveying, and building and road applications). The rechristened Rensselaer Polytechnic was the first American institution to offer a full-­fledged engineering curriculum. It was followed by the founding of polytechnics in Philadelphia (f. 1853) and Brooklyn (f. 1854) and the inauguration of a steam engineering program at the United States Naval Acad­emy in 1845.40 While civil engineering was developing on a scientific basis, the situation was dif­fer­ent in the mechanical arts. The teaching of the mechanical arts usually followed the apprenticeship approach of “shop-­culture” education, where students w ­ ere given practical instruction at the lathe or workbench by a

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master of the craft. Mechanics’ institutes ­were centered in urban locales, where artisans could access libraries and enjoy lectures on emergent mechanical practices and technologies. The most successful example was the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia, which, in addition to offering lectures and handson instruction for artisans, h ­ oused a museum and mechanical laboratory.41 In contrast to other educational enterprises of the era, some mechanics’ institutes w ­ ere hubs of po­liti­cal activism premised on resisting the economic and social upheaval of industrialization. The most notable case of education activism occurred in upstate New York, where progressive reformers planned a “­People’s College.” The Mechanics Mutual Protection Association was, as Daniel Lang explains, formed in Buffalo in 1843 by individuals whose “livelihood and vocations ­were threatened by industrial pro­g ress.” The association campaigned against the “competitive threat” of prison l­abor, which was employed by industrialists to undercut craftsmen. This issue, in par­tic­u­lar, helped grow the organ­ization to 250 chapters, with ten thousand members. Harrison Howard, leader of the Lockport, New York, chapter, collaborated with local affiliates to craft a plan for a New York Mechanics’ College or “school of technology” in 1850. Artisans ­were increasingly being undercut by industrial production, and Howard argued that a mechanical arts education was essential for artisans to acquire the specialized skills needed to remain competitive in the market. The proposal called for a college that combined scientific study of “subjects impor­ tant to the mechanic” with practical instruction in machine shops possessing the latest mechanical arts technologies. Higher education for mechanics was designed to make the “mechanic a better [meaning more competitive] mechanic”; however, it was also a means to raise the status and respectability of the class. Indeed, the circular stated that the “Mechanics’ College” was not to be a common school or acad­emy and that some classical college courses should exist alongside scientific and practical instruction. Officials in vari­ous chapters made recommendations and proposed amendments (some expressed concerns with the classical college reference), and within a year, a final publication on mechanics’ higher education was made available to the public.42 Mechanics maintained a Jacksonian skepticism of chartered organ­izations like colleges, and some members of the order w ­ ere concerned that even a college for mechanics would ultimately come to serve privileged elites. Fearing that such anticollege sentiments would discourage fundraising among its membership, the leaders of the Mechanics Association deci­ded to publish the proposal in the New York Daily Tribune to raise interest in the proj­ect. The prospectus declared that a new organ­ization, The Mechanical Society, would oversee the creation and operation of the college. Unlike the Mechanics

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Mutual Protection Association, which was only open to mechanics, The Mechanical Society was to be open to “all respectable persons who are interested.” In 1851, The Mechanical Society was again rebranded, now as the Mechanical School Society; the organ­ization elected Harrison Howard as secretary, formed chapters across New York, and soon counted three thousand mechanics, farmers, educational reformers, and politicians as members.43 The Mechanical School Society attracted leading progressives: Theodore C. Peters, Horace Greeley, Susan B. Anthony, Amelia Bloomer, Lucy Stone, and Elizabeth Stanton. The new members broadened the purpose and transformed the designs of the mechanics’ college; this became apparent when Peters penned a revised prospectus. Peters, a leader in the state agricultural society, worked to expand the scope of the college to include the study and application of science to agriculture. He favored educating ­children of the farm alongside mechanics and wanted to rename the venture the Mechanics’ and Farmers’ College. Peters and the o ­ thers compromised on the name P ­ eople’s College to convey a commitment to the mechanic, the farmer, and other interested classes. Greeley suggested a radical addition: the college would “afford suitable facilities for the education of Young ­Women, as well as Young Men[,] . . . ​ [with] sciences taught in the college being as freely imparted to the former as to the latter.” This commitment to coeducation caught the attention of ­women’s rights activists. Notable reformers such as Bloomer, Stine, and Stanton joined the Mechanical School Society, and Susan B. Anthony was appointed as an officer. The ­women’s rights activists and affiliated organ­izations (i.e., ­Women’s Christian Temperance Union and Seneca Falls suffragists) called for the college to go beyond affording “suitable facilities” and make an unequivocal commitment to full equality.44 The old rank and file members of the original Mechanics Mutual Protection Association grew concerned that the proposed college had drifted from its original purpose of educating the mechanic. Coeducation proved especially troubling. First, ­there was the worry that coeducation would invite enemies to a proj­ect that was already wrought with po­liti­cal and financial difficulties. Second, association members could not understand how to integrate w ­ omen into mechanics’ training programs that prepared gradu­ates for vocations that ­were often closed to w ­ omen. Despite t­ hese objections, w ­ omen’s rights activists became a power­ful caucus within the Mechanical School Society; they defeated efforts to have ­women segregated into separate “domestic” programs and demanded nothing less than full equality between the sexes.45 In March 1853, Howard, Greeley, Peters, and Anthony delivered the ­People’s College proposal to the state legislature. As anticipated, the plan faced opposition ­because of the coeducation scheme, as lawmakers belittled the idea that

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­ omen could profit from education in the mechanical arts. Members from w the New York Board of Regents, which oversaw higher education, argued that with so many colleges in the state already, the legislature should only approve charters for new ventures that possessed a significant endowment. Supporters of existing colleges self-­interestedly agreed, and they joined the effort to thwart the rise of the ­People’s College. The most impor­tant ally of the P ­ eople’s College was Theodore C. Peters, who in addition to being an officer of the Mechanical School Society was a member of the legislature and leader in the state agricultural society. Peters used his vast po­liti­cal network to overcome legislative opposition, and on April 12, 1853, the charter was approved, with a board of trustees drawn from the leaders of the Mechanical School Society. To address the concerns about financial viability raised by the New York Board of Regents, the legislature stipulated that the P ­ eople’s College 46 could not open ­until the hefty sum of $50,000 was raised. ­After the banking panic of 1854, the trustees grew doubtful that they could reach the endowment threshold. The depression that followed decimated the class of middling mechanics, who b­ ecause of rising prices and a lack of customers ­were forced to close their proprietorships and seek wage ­labor in industrial operations. The Mechanics Mutual Protection Association lost so many members that the state organ­ization and county chapters had ceased to exist by 1855. Higher education in the mechanical arts was born from the idea to prevent the dissolution of the artisan class, but industrialization had extinguished the middling mechanics before the P ­ eople’s College opened its doors. With the falling number of mechanics and the general economic malaise facing the country, the Mechanical School Society was forced to solicit philanthropy from outside its ranks. Charles Cook of Havana, New York, responded; however, it soon became clear that his interest was pecuniary and that he possessed ­little concern for uplifting or protecting mechanics. He wanted to bring the college to his hometown, which he hoped would attract settlers and enhance the value of his land and commercial enterprises.47 Cook now controlled a majority of shares in the college, and the trustees ­were forced to shelve its original purposes and adopt the proprietors’ self-­interested proposals. Susan B. Anthony and other first-­wave feminists lost hope that the ­People’s College would become a beacon of coeducation, and they withdrew their support. Howard and Peters also resigned in protest, severing the last links to the old Mechanical School Society vision.48 Following the disintegration of the old mechanic order, higher education in the mechanical arts lost its po­liti­cal purpose as a bulwark against industrialization. It would now serve industrialization. Mechanical arts education in polytechnics, engineering schools, and, in time, land-­g rant colleges would

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nurture the emerging economy by preparing scientific, technical, and managerial specialists. In the antebellum era, such an alternative approach to mechanical arts education was taking form in Mas­sa­chu­setts, where William Barton Rogers was developing his Institute of Technology in 1860. Rejecting the pedagogy of “shop-­culture,” Rogers proposed “systematic training in the applied sciences . . . ​to give to the industrial class sure mastery over the materials and pro­cesses over which they are concerned.” ­After the institute, now named Mas­sa­chu­setts Institute of Technology (MIT), opened in 1865, students spent the majority of their time exploring the scientific and mathematical foundations of mechanical (and chemical) pro­cesses. Instead of working on machines in workshops, students used this academic training to develop apparatus, models, and prototypes of industrial machinery in laboratories. Theory-­ based teaching was combined with faculty “research in connection with industrial science,” which would place MIT at the frontier of innovation and new technologies. In time, mechanical arts professionals would come to hold a degree in mechanical engineering and be members of a new m ­ iddle class that, instead of resisting modern capitalism like the artisans of old, would be essential contributors to the rise of a new economic order built on science and technology.49

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German Universities and Expatriate Scholars The final and perhaps most significant changes to American higher education in the antebellum era w ­ ere precipitated by events occurring abroad, most notably in Germany. Throughout the antebellum era, American students crossed the Atlantic to train with world-­renowned scientists who w ­ ere actively expanding ­human understanding of chemistry, agricultural science, engineering, geology, physics, and mathe­matics. The intellectual and institutional reforms in German higher education inspired American expatriate scholars to return stateside and reform domestic institutions along Teutonic lines. Most critically, the development of “schools of science” at Yale and Harvard by scientists trained in Eu­ro­pean universities would bring the traditions of original faculty research and advanced scientific training to the United States. Yale’s Sheffield Science School would not only become a land-­g rant institution but would produce numerous scientists who would play critical roles in the founding and development of the land-­g rant college movement. In 1806, King Frederick William III appointed Wilhelm von Humboldt to reform Prus­sian higher education. At the core of Humboldt’s reforms was inculcating Wissenschaft in the university. In theory, Wissenschaft was a state of

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mind, an intellectual orientation of sound reason and judgment, and an active, rigorous pursuit of knowledge. The concept of Wissenschaft was born at the University of Göttingen, where ­under the protection of the Hanoverian elector, faculty members w ­ ere able to pursue original scholarship f­ ree of religious interference. U ­ nder such a tolerant regime, Göttingen was one of the few universities to participate in and contribute to the Enlightenment. The university limited the power of the theological faculty, allowing science-­minded faculty to test hypotheses and publish results, and developed the seminar, an educational innovation that was well suited for testing and critiquing new knowledge. In the Göttingen mold, Prus­sian state leaders became committed to maintaining lehrfreiheit (freedom of teaching) and lernfreiheit (freedom of learning) in their universities, encouraging scholars to pursue innovative lines of scholarship without fear of crown or ecclesiastical interference. Especially at new institutions such as the University of Berlin (f. 1810), the practical outcome was an abundance of original research and advances in knowledge that soon traversed the globe.50 In 1826, King Ludwig I of Bavaria instigated (and funded) Prussian-­style reforms in the moribund University of Giessen (f. 1607). Over the opposition of a conservative faculty, King Ludwig appointed twenty-­one-­year-­old wunderkind Justus von Liebig as Extraordinary Professor of Chemistry. Liebig had been mentored in the Pa­ri­sian gas and chemical laboratory of Joseph-­Louis Gay-­Lussac. Gay-­Lussac and his collaborator Alexander von Humboldt (Wilhelm’s ­brother) ­were known worldwide for discovering the ele­ments boron and iodine, the consistency of atmospheric composition regardless of altitude, and the chemical composition of ­water. Upon arriving at Giessen, Liebig built his own teaching laboratory, and twenty disciples arrived from all corners of Germany, France, and ­England. In the laboratory, Liebig and a steady stream of research mentees explored the mysterious place of carbon in organic material. The science of organic chemistry remained elementary in the early nineteenth c­ entury ­because of a dogmatic belief that a “vital force” intervened in the internal pro­cesses of living m ­ atter. In addition, scientists ­were perplexed as to why and how so many natu­ral compounds included just carbon, hydrogen, and oxygen. Sir Humphry Davy of the Royal Institute of London moved the field forward by establishing the fundamental laws of electrochemistry, discovered numerous unknown ele­ments, and published Ele­ments of Agricultural Chemistry in 1813. However, the critical advance came when Liebig and Swedish chemist Jöns Jakob von Berzelius concluded that dif­fer­ent acids could have the exact same proportion of compounds. This marked the discovery of isomorphism, which proved to be the critical advance for unlocking the varied structural forms and valences of carbon-­based

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molecules. In 1840, Liebig published Ueber das Studium der Naturwissenschaften und über den Zustand der Chemie in Preußen, translated as Organic Chemistry in Its Application to Agriculture, and its conclusions caused an immediate sensation. The text famously unveiled how carbon (in the form of carbon dioxide) was pro­cessed by plants from the atmosphere and initiated a release of oxygen. Furthermore, Liebig refuted the traditional belief that dead plant ­matter was the prime nutrient of plants, explaining that plants ­were actually dependent on inorganic supplements—­lime, potash, and phosphoric acid—to survive and flourish. Food production was not limited by the organic nutrients left over from previous harvests. Liebig had shown that fertilizers could be applied to increase food production to the highest reaches of ­human ingenuity and resources. Scientific agriculture had arrived.51 ­After reading Liebig’s treatise in 1840, Scottish chemist James F. Johnston of the University of Durham devoted his time to agricultural chemistry and delivered a series of lectures on the subject to agricultural socie­ties across the highlands. Johnston published Lectures on Agricultural Chemistry and Geology in 1843 and founded an agricultural experiment station in Edinburgh, bringing him recognition as Britain’s leading scholar of agricultural science and an appointment as chief chemist of Scotland’s Agricultural Chemistry Association.52 That same year, British aristocrat John Bennet Lawes established the Rothamsted experiment station on his farm, which became a favored place for men like Johnston to test Liebig’s fertilizers and conduct additional experiments. In 1848, while serving as a chemistry professor at the University of Strasbourg, Louis Pasteur made his famous discoveries that not only advanced knowledge of organic molecules but also greatly enhanced global health. Scientific advances ­were not confined to organic and agricultural chemistry. As previously stated, Gay-­Lussac was uncovering the gas laws, while André-­ Marie Ampère marked the intellectual bound­aries of electrodynamics in France. In physics, Michael Faraday, a professor at the Royal Institute in 1833, pioneered the field of electromagnetism with discoveries of electromagnetic induction, diamagnetism, and the laws of electrolysis. His experimentation on electric current and electronic rotation devices was the precursor technology to the modern electric motor. At Scotland’s St. Andrews University, Sir David Brewster published his findings on the polarization of light in his Treatise on Optics in 1838. In geology and natu­ral history, Sir Charles Lyell published Princi­ ples of Geology in 1833 and inflamed the debate about the antiquity of the Earth. Élie de Beaumont of the College de France and École des Mines conducted an exhaustive geological survey of France and explained continuous changes to surface structures—­the basis of tectonic plates. Famed Swiss scientist Louis Agassiz, while professor of natu­r al history at the University of

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Neuchatel, made extensive studies of glacier activity as well as numerous fossil-­ based inquiries into the history of Eu­rope’s aquatic life.53 And, of course, naturalist Charles Darwin began his scientific research in 1842 and in 1859 published his paradigm-­shifting work On the Origins of Species by Means of Natu­ral Se­lection.54 This rich intellectual landscape attracted American students wishing to share in this Eu­ro­pean Enlightenment. Laurence Veysey notes that a smattering of American students, such as Benjamin Silliman, traveled to Eu­rope in the early nineteenth ­century to study the emerging scientific disciplines. However, the trickle became a steady stream by the 1840s and 1850s, as Americans became not only doctoral students in Eu­ro­pean universities but also privatdozent at the laboratories and experimental farms of German, French, En­glish, and Scottish scientists. Upon returning home, t­hese students ­were zealous missionaries for expanding scientific study and linking science with practice in American higher education.55 This was the case for John Pitkin Norton, the intellectual forefather of Yale’s Sheffield Scientific School. Norton came of age in Farmington, Connecticut, on his f­ ather’s expansive farm. John Treadwell Norton Sr. was a merchant, public official, gentleman farmer, and leading member of the state agricultural society. The homestead was always a site of society experimentation and collaboration, and the young Norton was fascinated by the evolving field of agricultural science. ­After receiving a classical education and private tutoring in chemistry and botany, Norton hungered for advanced scientific training. He made his way to New Haven, where he did not enroll at Yale but instead became the personal laboratory assistant of Benjamin Silliman. On breaks from Yale, he traveled to Scottish-­run farms in upstate New York, where he learned of the recent discoveries of Justus von Liebig and James Johnston and observed the first stateside experimentation with fertilizers. Norton was now intent on becoming a professor of agricultural chemistry and, through his Scottish connections, sought out Johnston in Edinburgh. For two years, he studied and collaborated with Johnston on his experimental farm, and in 1845, he published his own agricultural chemistry tract, On the Analy­sis of the Oat. The treatise brought praise in Britain and the United States, especially back in New Haven.56 In 1846, a donor made a sizable gift to Yale to establish a professorship of agricultural chemistry, and Benjamin Silliman wanted Norton, his former assistant and a published scholar, to assume the post. The Yale Corporation agreed to recall Norton from Scotland and also hired Benjamin Silliman Jr. for a new professorship in practical chemistry. ­These two young men would become the founding faculty of the new Department of Philosophy and Arts.

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Figure 2.  John Pitkin Norton, the first professor at the Sheffield Scientific School. Library of Congress.

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The purpose of the department was twofold: provide opportunities for original chemistry research in the United States and prepare students for the “higher practical vocations . . . ​[of] engineering, architecture, agriculture, mining, and manufacturing.” The program was to be closed to Yale undergraduates and instead serve as an alternative to the BA degree or as a post-­BA opportunity for specialized scientific study. By 1850, the department had over forty students studying chemistry and engineering. In 1852, Norton died at the age of thirty-­ four, but the Yale Corporation concluded that the program should not only be retained but expanded.57 In 1852, Yale hired John A. Porter and William Augustus Norton away from Brown University to take the place of the deceased John Pitken Norton and also Benjamin Silliman Jr., who had left for the University of Kentucky. Porter had worked in the laboratory of Justus von Liebig in Germany before relocating to Providence upon receiving assurances from Brown president Francis Wayland that Wissenschaft had come to his university. However, Porter and William Augustus Norton soon discovered that instead of opportunities for original inquiry and serious study, Wayland still required that the faculty police dormitories and provide moral guidance to undergraduates. When the men came to New Haven, they brought fifteen engineering students with them. As students and resources grew, so did the faculty. George Brush, a gradu­ate of London’s Royal School of Mines, became professor of metallurgy; and Samuel Johnson, a student of Liebig and gradu­ate of the University of Göttingen, joined the faculty as professor of analytical chemistry. The department was reor­ga­nized as a school of science in 1856 with a full curriculum spanning the natu­ral sciences. In 1858, industrial tycoon Joseph Sheffield, the father-­in-­law of Professor Porter, donated a substantial sum to place the school on a firm financial footing, and it was renamed the Sheffield Scientific School in his honor.58 Expatriate scholars devoted to Wissenschaft ideals not only influenced the development of schools of science but also ­shaped the first agricultural colleges in the region. William Brewer studied u ­ nder Liebig before accepting Amos Brown’s invitation to become the first agricultural science professor at the New York State Agricultural College in Ovid. ­There was also a colony of gradu­ate students encamped at the University of Göttingen in the 1850s who had a major impact on Yankee land-­g rant education, including William Smith Clark (­f uture president of Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College), Evan Pugh (­f uture president of Pennsylvania Agricultural College), Samuel Johnson (the ­father of the American Agricultural Experiment Station and professor at Connecticut’s land-­g rant college), George Caldwell (­future agricultural chemistry professor at Cornell University), and Ezekiel Dimond (first principal and

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chemistry professor of the New Hampshire College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts).59 The case of Evan Pugh illustrates how ­these young scientists’ academic beliefs ­were ­shaped by interactions with Eu­ro­pean scientists that brought opportunities for original research. Writing to Samuel Johnson, Pugh declared, “I have had a jolly time attending all the meetings of the Chemical Society and some of the Royal Society. To meet such men as Faraday, Lyell, Graham, Hoffman, e­ tc. is no small potatoes by any means.”60 No small potatoes, indeed! Only a de­cade earlier, Pugh had been an apprentice blacksmith to his f­ather in an undistinguished Pennsylvania village.61 In Eu­rope, he had pursued advanced chemistry and earned a PhD at the University of Göttingen, observed Robert Bunsen’s gas laboratory at the University of Heidelberg, and rubbed elbows with scientific pioneers. Pugh did not just passively observe ­others but advanced knowledge himself. In 1857, he relocated to the Rothamsted experiment station and conclusively answered the question “Do plants assimilate nitrogen directly from the air?”62 This contribution fulfilled Pugh’s scholarly ambition, which he referred to as “the ­g reat object of the chemist, [discovering] something new—­something that . . . ​can [be] publish[ed] to the world.”63 His discovery brought recognition in Eu­rope and the United States. He was elected a fellow of the Chemical Society of London and of the American Philosophical Society. Historian Charles Rosenberg argues that such experiences gave t­ hese expatriates a “par­tic­u­lar body of techniques and concepts, knowledge which at once justified and, in a sense, constituted the peculiar status of the man of learning.” He adds that the “American scholar” now “mea­sure[d] achievement primarily in terms of ac­cep­tance as a creative scholar by his disciplinary peers” and then returned home with not only a “reformer’s zeal” but with a blueprint to guide ­these reforms.64 As Pugh and his peers returned stateside, they sought to instill ­these same academic values in the land-­g rant enterprises they would build and lead. The journey home to establish European-­style institutions fitted to the American context was the final link in a chain that began with pioneers like Benjamin Silliman. Henceforth, students did not need to travel abroad for advanced scientific study but could access and expand their knowledge at schools of science, agricultural colleges, and land-­g rant colleges and universities infused with Wissenschaft ideals.

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Justin Morrill, the Land-­Grant Act of 1862, and the Birth of the Yankee Land-­Grant Colleges

For a brief period, it seemed that the U.S. government would follow French and German patterns and create a national university to train public officials and advance scientific knowledge. President George Washington promoted the idea of a federal university in his first address to Congress, to which Dr. Benjamin Rush recommended a course of study in natu­r al philosophy and chemistry. Following the passage of the Constitution in 1787, Federalists like Alexander Hamilton proposed to expand the scope of the central government by using tariff revenue to build banks, canals, standing armies, roads, and Washington’s national university. Anti-­federalists viewed encroaching federal power as monarchical and an affront to republicanism. This antipathy ­toward aristocratic privilege and the desire to expand suffrage to all white men coalesced into the founding sentiments of the Democratic-­Republicans. As voting rights waxed, Federalist power waned. The Democratic-­Republicans secured control of the executive and legislative branches and proceeded to curtail the central government, strengthen the power of the states, lower tariffs, and limit internal improvement programs.1 The limited-­government doctrines of the Democratic-­Republicans ­were popu­lar, but t­ here ­were party fissures over the issue of internal improvements by the close of James Monroe’s presidency. John Quincy Adams, Henry Clay, and John Calhoun formed a “national” wing of Democratic-­Republicans 45

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committed to public works for national objectives. The War of 1812 had exposed the perilous condition of an underdeveloped nation, and con­temporary critics complained that corrupt state legislators w ­ ere unfit by education and temperament to promote the social and economic capacity of the United States. Roads and canals w ­ ere not only needed to marshal troops in times of crisis but also increasingly popu­lar among market-­oriented farmers and craftsmen wishing to trade goods and ser­vices to an expanding network of towns and cities. ­After assuming the presidency, John Quincy Adams (with the assistance of Clay) pursued a host of public works to spur social, cultural, and economic development. This included the revival of the national university idea to inculcate wisdom in national leaders and as a counterweight to the self-­interested partisans in state capitals. One supporter of the national university idea stated that the stagnant routine and tradition of American society would be enlivened by “the advancement of knowledge by associations of scientific men” and could become “the depository of the results of scientific research[,] . . . ​of experiments in arts, manufactures, and husbandry[,] . . . ​ and the dissemination of its rudiments by the instruction of youth.” Yet Adams was hounded by opponents, as his ­father said he would be, for attempting to resurrect old federalist dogma on the necessity of creating a privileged learned class. In 1828, General Andrew Jackson, ­r unning ­under the banner of a new Demo­cratic Party, roundly defeated the sitting president with a campaign to expand suffrage, lower tariffs, and dismantle vested interests. The movement for a federally funded national university died with John Quincy Adams’s po­liti­cal demise.2 The combined effect of one-­party rule by a Demo­cratic Party antithetical to internal improvements and the l­egal protections of corporations outlined in the Woodbury v. Dartmouth College decision was that f­ uture reforms to higher education would be driven by institutional initiative and diffusion, not legislative mandate. As chapter 1 attests, it would be local reformers like Benjamin Silliman who ­were tasked with importing, crafting, and legitimizing scientific subject ­matter within the confines of the traditional college curriculum. The Woodbury v. Dartmouth College decision protected established institutions from legislative meddling, and the very idea of federal investment in higher education was antithetical to the po­liti­cal philosophy of the Jacksonian Demo­crats in power. Thus, for much of the antebellum era, higher education would develop largely on its own terms through the support of religious denominations and local communities ­until the po­liti­cal winds shifted.3 The partisan landscape shifted in the 1840s, when the Whig Party became a ­viable po­liti­cal co­ali­tion. The unifying Whig princi­ple was government sponsorship of internal improvements to promote transportation, domestic

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commerce, and the protection and development of American manufacturing, industry, and agriculture, but despite this common interest in internal improvements and tariffs, the Whig Party could not survive regional splintering over the question of slavery. ­After the Mexican-­American War (1846–1848), a po­ liti­cal dispute ensued over ­whether to admit the United States’ new territorial possessions in the Southwest as ­free or slave states. The passage of the Compromise of 1850 forestalled an immediate dissolution, but regional differences on the slavery issue foreshadowed the end of the Whig co­ali­tion. The Free-­ Soil Party joined anti-­slavery northern Whigs to form a new Republican Party, united by opposition to extending slavery into new western territories. The Republican platform appealed to both ­free homesteaders coveting the fertile fields of the West and northern cap­i­tal­ists seeking market development in the retreating frontier. Southern Whigs (with the notable exception of unwavering ­unionists in the hill counties of western V ­ irginia and East Tennessee) ­either departed for the nativist Know Nothing Party or joined the Demo­crats, recasting politics along the regional lines that precipitated war.4 For Whig congressman Justin Morrill, a move into the Republican Party did not require a major ideological adjustment. While Morrill was no fervent abolitionist and had always placed the stability of the ­union over slavery opposition, his po­liti­cal views on internal improvements aligned with the economic development interests of northern capital. He was a proponent of protecting American industry through tariffs—­especially his home state’s wool industry—­and supported domestic market growth through homesteader settlement of the West and federal investment in transportation infrastructure. Morrill’s land-­g rant colleges can be viewed as internal improvements in the old Whig tradition, except that unlike previous iterations, ­these improvements ­were tailored for scientific, technological, industrial, and h ­ uman capital development.5 To ­these ends, federal support of higher education could advance economic activity through promoting agricultural science, disseminating useful knowledge, producing skilled f­ ree laborers, and elevating the competitiveness of Amer­ic­ a’s farms and factories. Indeed, as Mark R. Nemec argues, the land-­g rant act can be understood as “the first piece of an extensive Republican development program” that retooled the politics of internal improvement mantra for a new economic order.6 The Republican Party would recruit dedicated followers through the well-­ trodden route of po­liti­cal patronage. Positions as local postmasters, naval officers, inspectors, customs officers, and census officials w ­ ere all federal appointments that could bind local members to the party. The Departments of War, Trea­sury, and the Post Office increased in size and scope in the antebellum period, adding new functions, bureaus, and positions. T ­ hese burgeoning

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government posts ­were the spoils of presidential elections that, in the words of historian Daniel Carpenter, created “an integrated structure of ties between party and bureaucracy . . . ​that s­ haped the national state and party politics more than any other development, save perhaps the Civil War.” The most loyal supporters during campaigns w ­ ere rewarded with patronage and, quid pro quo, the federal government expected continued loyalty from t­hese officials during an administration’s tenure. Within the context of American federalism and constitutional limitations on federal power, national interest and authority was pres­ent in states, counties, cities, and townships only “through the mediation of state and local public officials who answered to the party machine.” The patronage system thus not only played a critical role in growing and disciplining the po­liti­cal parties but extended the reach of the federal government into local affairs.7 Yet ­there ­were limitations to the patronage system that undermined Republicans’ interests in economic modernization and the extension and elaboration of activist federal power. Bureaucrats selected on merit and education were the solution, and land-­g rant gradu­ates proved especially a­ dept at filling the ranks of the growing leviathan. The prime weakness of the patronage system was that whenever the White House changed hands, the federal bureaucracy was shuffled as out­going officials ­were replaced with t­ hose loyal to the incoming party. For example, President Grover Cleveland appointed over forty thousand loyal Demo­crats to the postal ser­vice ­after his election in 1885, but President Benjamin Harrison sacked t­hose same bureaucrats four years l­ater and tapped faithful Republicans as replacements. This continuous rotation undermined efficiency, as bureaucrats had limited time in office to develop competencies that could improve ser­vices. The federal offices w ­ ere also weakened by the s­ imple truth that bureaucrats w ­ ere selected by party allegiance, not ability. While comprehensive civil ser­vice reform would have to wait for the Pendleton Act of 1883, governments in the 1860s a­ dopted meritorious se­lection criteria for some positions to support economic modernization. Scientific discoveries and new technologies increased complexity in production and distribution pro­cesses, and introduced technical rationality as an overarching princi­ple for efficiency in the po­liti­cal economy. Educated bureaucrats would be needed to collect and analyze information on emerging technologies and scientific pro­cesses and to support the routinization and standardization of successful programs in agriculture, manufacturing, transportation, and interstate commerce. The Morrill Land-­Grant College Act, along with the formation of the United States Department of Agriculture (USDA) in 1862 and federal funding of experiment stations through the Hatch Act of 1887, was integral to Republicans’ state-­building agenda. Land-­grant gradu­ates

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crafted reports on mining production, manufacturing, and trade; monitored railroad development and operations; and served as agricultural chemists in experiment stations testing seeds or fertilizers. The dual goals of economic growth through science and technology and state-­building through rational bureaucratization became po­liti­cal ­drivers of the early land-­grant movement.8 It would be inaccurate, however, to suggest that ­these state-­building activities ­were imposed on a passive public. On the contrary, historian Ariel Ron explains how the countryside was awash with farmers’ organ­izations that supported Republicans’ agenda at the local level. With the national party lacking a mature po­liti­cal infrastructure, agricultural socie­ties, engaging in interest-­ group politics in state legislatures, would be the most critical local agents in creating land-­g rant colleges. By the 1860s, the agricultural reform movement was well established and multifaceted; scientific agriculture and new farming technologies and practices w ­ ere promoted through state agricultural fairs, journals, lyceums, and society meetings. Agricultural socie­ties ­were especially prevalent in the Northeast, where t­ here was g­ reat interest in reaping the productivity gains of agricultural science to ­counter the superior fertility of western lands. A deep and abiding interest in the economic, social, and cultural development of the countryside would make the agricultural socie­ties critical partners in Republican state-­building and economic development programs, and indeed they w ­ ere the core constituency supporting the northeastern land-­ grant colleges in the early years.9 This chapter explores the influence of Whig and Republican ideologies on Justin Morrill’s land-­g rant idea, how that idea was then s­ haped in state legislatures, and how it was then implemented with the assistance of agricultural socie­ties and expatriate scientific leaders.

Justin Morrill Justin Morrill was not a progressive champion of democracy. Despite being posthumously yoked to the masses through his land-­grant colleges, he showed ­little interest in expanding po­liti­cal participation to w ­ omen, promoting the welfare of laborers, or increasing the po­liti­cal power of common p­ eople or emancipated slaves. While it is true that he was born the son of a blacksmith, his most cherished mentors w ­ ere New E ­ ngland merchants, traders, and investors. ­These men ­shaped the young Morrill into a prototypical member of the Yankee bourgeoisie. He was a hard-­nosed businessman who pursued debtors unmercifully, dismissed uncouth customers as “backwoods,” and worked tirelessly to accumulate wealth and capital by investing his profits in railroads,

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banks, and manufacturing. As a politician, he was a stalwart defender of capitalism and industry and opposed progressive reforms, like the eight-­hour workday and direct election of senators, that could undercut the power and profits of American capital. He voted against w ­ omen’s suffrage and rarely mentioned the education of females when speaking of his land-­g rant college act. Morrill spent most of his time in Washington drafting and defending tariff legislation that protected American industry—­especially Vermont wool—­from foreign competition. Yet it would be Justin Morrill’s land-­g rant colleges that would cement his place in history. The Morrill Land-­Grant Act of 1862 provided federal land to each state and territory to be sold for the purpose of maintaining .

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at least one college where the leading object s­ hall be, without excluding other scientific and classical studies, and including military tactics, to teach such branches of learning as are related to agriculture and the mechanic arts . . . ​in order to promote the liberal and professional education of the industrial classes in the several pursuits and professions of life.10 It is the clause “education of the industrial classes” that has been so often romanticized by statesmen, educators, and scholars as evidence of an overarching commitment to demo­cratizing higher education access, curricula, and pedagogy.11 In time, the land-­grant colleges would expand access to higher education for generations of students from disadvantaged backgrounds, but Morrill’s letters and speeches suggest that egalitarian notions ­were not the stated reason for his plan. This interpretation is strengthened by Morrill’s public re­sis­tance to the grange’s attempts to expand access to land-­g rant colleges by lowering academic standards and adding vocational programs. Throughout his ­career, the land-­g rant colleges ­were tied to advancing industry and ensuring that American capitalism would mature to best international competitors. Morrill foresaw the land-­grant colleges as a means to expand scientific discovery and technology, train scientific specialists who could spur agricultural and industrial innovation, and gradu­ate more productive skilled workers. Morrill looked to the “institutions [that] had already been established in other countries supported by their government” and explained that the United States greatly needed such a ­union of “scientific researchers” and “scientifically taught students” for “science, working unobtrusively, produces larger annual returns and constantly increases fixed capital, where ignorant routine produces exactly the reverse.” This is not to say that Morrill was unaware of how his proposal would expand educational opportunity beyond the professional class, for he often spoke of the motivating influence of his own “deprivation of school.” Yet he did not speak of education as an inviolable

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demo­cratic right but calculated access in economic, capitalistic terms—an opportunity to nurture the capacity for greater “productivity” or “usefulness” in American workers.12 Justin Morrill was born on April 14, 1810, in New Hampshire. ­After his ­family moved to Strafford, Vermont, Morrill attended the local common school before heading to the Thetford and Randolph academies. He so enjoyed learning that, at the age of fifteen, he toyed with the idea of teaching common school to finance collegiate study. Uncertain about the wisdom of pursuing such a path, Morrill sought the advice of Strafford’s leading businessman, Judge Jed Harris. This successful politician and shop­keeper lectured the impressionable lad on the financial uncertainties of the learned professions and suggested that Morrill consider a life in business as something “more sure of in­de­pen­ dence.” Morrill agreed and never looked back. In 1826, he was employed briefly in Harris’s dry goods store before leaving the following year for Portland, Maine, to work as a bookkeeper. Between 1828 and 1833, Morrill was maturing into a polished member of the Yankee bourgeoisie, selling stocks for a New ­England mercantile firm, traveling to and from Boston, and acquiring enough assets to enter into a retail partnership with Judge Harris. With four stores throughout Vermont, Harris retired, and the firm was rechartered as Morrill, Young, & Co. The com­pany was a resounding success, and its profits w ­ ere invested in stocks, bonds, and other business ventures. By 1848, Morrill had accrued enough wealth to leave active business and live off his capital investments; he retired to the life of a gentleman farmer. It would be from this perch—­a man of means and in­de­pen­dence—­that Morrill could pursue his interest in politics.13 Harris’s general store was a place of po­liti­cal discussion, and it was surely in this forum that Justin Morrill learned the intricacies of Whig politics. The well-­to-do gentlemen of Harris’s circle would converse on why investors depended on the stability of the federal banking system, the need for internal investments to expand markets, and the danger that Jacksonian Demo­crats posed to sound money, banks, and business. At the age of thirty-­four, Morrill was named the chairman of the county Whig committee, and over the next de­cade, he would be named Whig delegate to the state and national conventions. In 1854, Morrill was elected by the slimmest of margins to the United States House of Representatives, where he was placed on the Committee of Agriculture and the Committee on Territories. Upon assessing agricultural productivity at home and abroad, Morrill became convinced that more should be done to place the nation’s farming on a scientific basis. In reports from Eu­ rope, he learned of Justus von Liebig’s scientific discoveries, the teaching of modern methods in colleges of agriculture and schools of science, and the

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Figure 3.  Senator Justin Morrill, the founder of the land-­grant colleges. Library of Congress Prints and Photo­graphs Division.

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application of scientific agriculture on experimental farms from Scotland to France. He was aware of fledgling, applied science institutions in the United States, such as the state agricultural colleges and the ­People’s College of New York, and had attended the agricultural society meeting where Professor Jonathan Turner proposed a plan for an industrial university. In 1856, Morrill presented a resolution to “inquire into the expediency of establishing one or more national agricultural schools,” which in the tradition of federal support of military institutions could be especially adapted to provide “scientific and practical education at the public expense.” The resolution was defeated. Over the next year, Morrill became well respected in Congress for his honest dealings and knowledge of finance and bud­get issues, and a­ fter his reelection, he was named to the power­f ul Ways and Means Committee. The congressman retained his post on the Agriculture Committee, where he could refine his plan to bring science to American farming.14 That moment came on December 14, 1857. Morrill introduced a bill that proposed “donating public lands to the several states [to create institutions of higher learning] for the benefit of agriculture and the mechanical arts.” He declared that the United States faced deteriorating soil, diminished crop production, and a rapidly expanding population, which required agricultural advancement to sustain the nation’s pro­g ress. Morrill argued that agricultural socie­ties and county clubs had attempted to conduct research to t­ hese ends, but their “plentiful lack of funds . . . ​has retarded their maturity and usefulness.” He proposed that only with the ser­vice of “scientific institutions” could the nation assure the advancement of agriculture. At t­ hese “scientific institutions,” ­there would be a “careful, exact, and systematized registration of experiments,” which would provide “a rational induction of princi­ples upon which we may expect to establish a proper science.” With this knowledge, American agriculturalists could remedy poor soil and crop diseases, improve breeding, land drainage, and crop cultivation, and eliminate destructive insects, among other ills. Eu­rope had invested liberally to grow its agricultural industry, and the United States should do the same. Beyond this macroeconomic justification, Morrill offered few educational specifics, stating only that farmers and mechanics “require special schools and appropriate lit­er­at­ ure quite as much as any of the so-­called learned professions[,] . . . ​and the faculties of young men s­ hall be trained with some reference to the vocation to which they are devoted to through life.”15 The mea­sure passed the House, but strong opposition formed in the Senate, which cited the unfairness to western settlers and the unconstitutionality of federal intervention into a state issue. Senator George Pugh of Ohio argued that unclaimed western land should be “reserved for a­ ctual settlers,” and

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Senator Clement Clay of Alabama exclaimed that “the powers asserted in this bill are hostile to the reserved rights and true interest of the states.” In 1858, most southern legislators assessed legislation with an eye ­toward preserving southern slavery and viewed federal forays into higher education as bringing abolitionists a step closer to intervention. Despite this opposition, in February 1859, the United States Senate passed its version of the land-­g rant bill, with two minor amendments, by a tally of 25 to 22. The bill went to President Buchanan, who, a­ fter waiting one week, sided with the opposition and vetoed the mea­sure. In his veto message, Buchanan argued that the mea­sure was unconstitutional, unfair to western states, and injurious to colleges not receiving federal aid.16

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The Morrill Act of 1862 Three years ­later, the election of Abraham Lincoln brought a more sympathetic president to the White House. The land-­g rant college bill was far from a priority for the president, who was squarely focused on the rebellion, and he left no rec­ord of his views of the bill beyond stating that he would sign it. Nevertheless, as historian Eric Foner explains, the president and the majority of his Republican allies united in support of “free-­soil” legislation. W ­ hether it was the Homestead Act, the Morrill Act, Veterans’ land grants, or the Civil War itself, the Republicans w ­ ere united in making the western territories and states closed to slavery. Republicans wanted the West integrated po­liti­cally and eco­nom­ically into the North’s cap­i­tal­ist system, and thus the party supported proposals that could ensure that the old frontier was dotted with settlers, villages, and, most importantly, markets.17 With the South in rebellion, dissent rested solely with skeptical western legislators, who, as Roger Williams argues, grew concerned that the practical result of the legislation would be “Western lands in the hands of Eastern speculators.”18 The land-­grant bill of 1862 issued thirty thousand acres of land (or land scrip) per congressional representative to each state, excluding ­those in rebellion against the Union, for the purpose of establishing colleges focused on the teaching of agriculture and the mechanical arts, while not excluding the classics and military affairs. The bill sailed through committee and came to the floor of the House. On June 6, 1862, Justin Morrill addressed the assembled chamber in support of his bill. Morrill warned his colleagues that American agriculture, manufacturing, and industry was being dwarfed by international competitors, and he exclaimed that “it is enough to know that [Eu­ro­pean governments seem] ­eager to place their ­people ahead in the ­g reat race for mastery.” As in 1858, he

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discussed how scientific advances in E ­ ngland and France had led agricultural production to qua­dru­ple, while American yields had decreased in the previous de­cade. Amer­i­ca’s economic success depended on federal sponsorship of scientific education and research, and, to t­hese ends, Morrill lectured Congress to make “no blunder in the guidance of the industry of the country.” With the departure of southern legislators at the dawn of the Civil War, the Union Congress was remarkably productive, creating the Department of Agriculture and passing the Homestead Act and the Morrill Act. On July 2, 1862, President Lincoln affixed his signature and extended the land-­g rant privileges to all states not in rebellion.19 Secession eased the passage of contentious legislation, but some worried that this expedited pro­cess limited the opportunity to build a national consensus around the Morrill Act. Daniel Coit Gilman, a faculty member at Yale’s Sheffield Scientific School and the ­f uture president of Johns Hopkins and the University of California, feared that the rapid passage precluded a “thorough discussion” on the scope and purpose of the land-­g rant colleges. Gilman argued that absent a land-­g rant consensus, the vague Morrill Act would permit educational experiments that served local rather than national interests. The most worrisome example, Gilman complained, was in the West, where t­ here was growing support for using Morrill Act proceeds for manual-­labor schools that would provide vocational training for farmers and workers. To ­counter this interpretation of the Morrill Act mandate, Gilman penned a treatise for the North American Review entitled “Our National Schools of Science” to advance his land-­g rant vision.20 Gilman wanted land-­g rant education to be “useful,” but this did not mean that students should be fitted for “­labor with the hoe or anvil.” Vocational training for workers belonged in “industrial schools of a lower grade,” he argued, whereas the ­future leaders of American industry and science needed an advanced course of study in mathe­matics, engineering, chemistry, physics, and other natu­ral sciences. It would be the gradu­ates of t­ hese programs, committed to “the study of natu­ral science in its application to ­human industry,” Gilman explained, who would “take charge of mines, manufactories, [and] the construction of public works[,] . . . ​conduct topographical and other scientific surveys . . . ​[, and] be leading scientific men.” Just as the French had their grandes écoles, the United States would have its land-­g rant colleges and universities to prepare the scientific and industrial elite.21 “Our National Schools of Science” was read widely, and Gilman became a prominent spokesman for a broad, liberal, and scientific interpretation of the Morrill Act. In the northeastern United States, t­ here was a co­ali­tion that shared his vision. The leaders of state agricultural socie­ties in Mas­sa­chu­setts, New

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York, and Pennsylvania ­were strong advocates for using land-­g rant funds to create institutions that advanced and disseminated applied scientific knowledge, and returning expatriate scholars such as Evan Pugh and Samuel Johnson wanted to build institutions committed to scientific study like t­ hose they had encountered in Eu­rope. With the passage of the Morrill Act at the federal level, the center of gravity shifted to the states, where state legislatures ­were tasked with its implementation. In the Northeast, this co­ali­tion of agricultural socie­ties and expatriate academics would, as in “Our National Schools of Science,” often resist vocational land-­g rant schemes and pressure state legislatures to create land-­g rant institutions of high academic quality that ­were steeped in scientific study.

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Yankee Land-­Grant Colleges Take Form The Morrill Act of 1862 outlined “leading objects” for the land-­g rant colleges, but as Justin Morrill once noted, “The states [­were given] considerable latitude in carry­ing out the practical details.” Only 10  ­percent of the federal land-­ grant proceeds could be used for college construction costs, meaning that states had to invest heavi­ly in the proj­ect. To avoid this financial burden, some northeastern legislatures designated preexisting colleges, scientific schools, and agricultural colleges as land-­g rant colleges, forgoing the cost of constructing new institutions. In most cases, the original form and function of northeastern land-­g rant colleges was crafted by agricultural society leaders elected as trustees as well as presidents and faculty members, who as college gradu­ates themselves tended to support liberal and scientific curricula, high academic standards, and theoretical (in lieu of hands-on training) education.22 In the 1850s, Daniel Coit Gilman traveled across Eu­rope and discovered that international productivity in manufacturing, industry, and agriculture far surpassed what was to be found in the United States. He asked, “[To] what is the underdeveloped state of our mines, the imperfect character of our agriculture, [and] the inferior quality of manufactures . . . ​to be attributed?” It was not the character or commitment of the American ­people but instead the lack of advanced educational training. The modern economy required “specialists,” and to Gilman t­ hese ­were individuals trained in the advancement and application of the sciences. When Gilman returned to the states, he was appointed to the post of librarian at the Sheffield Scientific School. In 1858, he learned of the first version of the Morrill Act and traveled across Connecticut to gather signatures in support of the mea­sure. He argued in public meetings and in print that the Morrill Act would allow the

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country to establish a “scientific school of the highest order.” In 1862, he was appointed professor of geography at Sheffield and secretary to the board of trustees, where he would work to make Connecticut’s land-­g rant institution an exemplar of his Morrill Act vision.23

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Connecticut The Sheffield Scientific School of Yale College was the only volunteer in the state to accept both the endowment and the responsibility for being Connecticut’s land-­grant institution. The contract between the state and Yale stipulated that one-­half of the land-­grant interest (the principal was $135,000) was to be spent on full-­tuition scholarships for state-­nominated students. The Sheffield Scientific School used the other half of the federal funds to add three scientists to its faculty ranks: Daniel Eaton in biology, Addison Verrill in zoology, and for chemistry, William Brewer from the defunct New York College of Agriculture. The leading figures at the Sheffield Scientific School—­John Pitkin Norton, Samuel Johnson, George Brush, William Brewer, and Addison Verrill—­all pursued university study and research in Germany and ­were committed to re-­creating a similar scientific institution in Connecticut. They dismissed notions that the Morrill Act required practical instruction in farming and mechanics. Professor Brewer stated, “Yale College does not propose to run a machine shop,” and the school’s director, George Brush, warned that “­there is to be no farm connected with our establishment, we ­shall keep as close to pure science as pos­si­ble.” The Sheffield faculty took cues from Göttingen and Giessen, not from local farmers and mechanics. In the words of its greatest champion, Daniel Coit Gilman, the institution was on a quest to “hold an honorable place” among ­those institutions “for the promotion of scientific research and education.”24 Gilman was confident that Justin Morrill’s vision of land-­g rant education aligned with his own, but his Sheffield colleagues ­were less certain, and they remained troubled by the ascendance of vocational programs emerging in the West. The faculty invited Justin Morrill to dine with professors Brewer, Lyman, and Brush at Gilman’s New Haven home to discuss the senator’s true intentions. Brewer, in par­tic­u­lar, had made public statements on the general confusion surrounding the act, noting that some “want to use the income from the grant in one large college of high grade,” whereas ­others supported “several lesser institutions of lower scholastic grade.” The faculty at Sheffield obviously favored the former, and hoped to gain assurances that the author of the Land-­Grant Act did as well. According to Brewer, the faculty left in high spirits, content in the knowledge that Justin Morrill shared their sentiments. Morrill evidently explained that while the law was intentionally vague to allow

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individual states to meet unique local demands, it was “intended that all be essentially of the same grade, that is colleges . . . ​in which scientific teaching, scientific schools, and education for business pursuits . . . ​[would] be the leading idea.” He expressed a concern that “more science was needed in e­ very state,” for traditional colleges tended to “draw students into purely literary and professional pursuits and away from business.” Morrill expected new institutions built from the federal funds to be “schools of science” and that old colleges that received the land-­g rant designation would “use [the grant] in expanding in the direction to give them more science teaching.” Morrill concluded the eve­ning by expressing his praise for the Sheffield Scientific School, noting that “it was working on a line he greatly commended.”25

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Maine In the winter of 1863, the Maine Assembly and Senate passed legislation to accept the terms of the Morrill Act and agreed to finance a new institution near the capital of Augusta. Yet, by March this plan had been scuttled ­because of financial concerns. Governor James Coburn spoke for conservative-­minded statesmen when he exclaimed, “It may be expedient, or even necessary, to allow some of our existing institutions to avail themselves of the benefit of the grant.”26 The governor appointed a state commission to review proposals from Maine’s literary colleges, and, within months, Bowdoin College became the leading candidate to receive the land grant. Bowdoin College was established in 1799, when Maine was part of Mas­sa­chu­setts, and its longevity brought financial stability and a base of alumni support in the legislature. Dr. Leonard Woods of Bowdoin promised that “without involving any expense to the State, [Bowdoin could perform] all the obligations assumed by it in accepting said grant.” The Bowdoin petition outlined how the federal funds would support new professorships in vegetable physiology, anatomy, veterinary science, stock breeding, practical chemistry, physics, practical mechanics, and engineering. The president promised to build an experimental farm, botanical garden, and even a gymnasium, and the state commission endorsed the plan in 1865.27 Ezekiel Holmes, the previously introduced cofounder of the state agricultural society, “rallied his members to oppose the commission’s recommendation, arguing that Bowdoin faculty would ultimately f­ avor the classics over scientific study.”28 Through his editorship of the Maine Farmer, he declared that the land-­g rant college of Maine could best advance the science and practice of agriculture if it was “unhampered by any connection with any existing institution—­‘a tub on its own bottom.’ ” Holmes reminded his agricultural society brethren that the Gardiner Lyceum had failed b­ ecause of a lack of state

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funding, but the Morrill Act endowment would ensure that the applied sciences w ­ ere continuously supported in Maine. Swayed by ­these arguments, “the legislature rejected the Bowdoin candidacy and, on February 25, 1865, appropriated state funds to build a new institution in the town of Orono called the Maine Agricultural and Mechanical College.”29 State agricultural society members ­were appointed to the board of trustees, where they ­shaped the curriculum and standards for the college. The trustees’ commitment to the teaching and research of science, especially chemistry, is evident in their requirement that “each student . . . ​devote three hours a day to Analy­sis, ­under the direction of the Professor of Chemistry, thus acquiring fa­cil­it­y in conducting experiments.” The board also hired Merritt C. Fernald in 1869 as the first faculty member and acting president. Fernald brought a deep commitment to scientific study. He had been a laboratory assistant at Harvard’s Lawrence Scientific School ­under the tutelage of chemist Josiah P. Cooke, author of The New Chemistry. Even ­after beginning his duties teaching chemistry in Maine, Fernald returned to Harvard during breaks to conduct experiments.30 President Fernald crafted a curriculum with four subject tracks: engineering, agriculture, chemistry, and science and lit­er­a­ture. The engineering course of study included a foundation in mathe­matics, with advanced courses in mechanical and civil applications during the upper-­class years. Agricultural students began with chemistry, botany, and En­glish language courses and moved ­toward agricultural science and farm application during their se­nior year. ­Those individuals pursuing chemistry encountered analytical, inorganic, and organic chemistry, and during their ju­nior year, they began laboratory experimentation with President Fernald. Fi­nally, the science and lit­er­a­ture course was, according to the annual college report, “parallel with that of the ordinary classical college . . . ​[except that] the natu­ral sciences take the place of the work done in Latin and Greek.”31 The college’s catalogs of 1868 stated that “the prominence given to the Natu­ral Sciences, and the practical ele­ment associated with nearly all departments of study, cannot fail to render the course especially valuable.” Of the college’s first 450 gradu­ates over 20 years, 278 students graduated with degrees in engineering, 75 with the bachelor of science (the science and lit­er­a­ture program), 57 with a bachelor of chemistry, and 40 with degrees in agriculture.32

Mas­sa­chu­setts In Mas­sa­chu­setts, Governor John Andrews wanted to attach the land-­grant funds to Harvard University. Mas­sa­chu­setts received the largest land-­grant

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scrip in New ­England, and the governor hoped to combine the Morrill funds with the recently donated Bussey Estate to create a ­grand University of Mas­sa­ chu­setts.33 The governor noted in his “­Great Plan for Mas­sa­chu­setts” that the Morrill Act provided the opportunity for “a university which would be worthy of the dream of her ­fathers, the history of the state, and the capacity of the ­people.” Inspired by the German universities and their commitment to research, science, and learning, Andrews called on the legislature to “concentrate ­here the ‘gladsome light’ of universal science. Let learning be illustrated by her most brilliant luminaries, and the claims of ­every science be vindicated by its bravest champions.” Competing plans ­were presented by Amherst College, Williams College, and William Barton Rogers’s nascent Institute of Technology.34 A legislative commission was appointed to review the proposals. The state board of agriculture and the agricultural society campaigned against the governor’s plan, fearful that at Harvard the liberal arts would overshadow applied sciences like agriculture. The commission sided with the agricultural society’s leaders and rejected Harvard’s candidacy as a land-­g rant institution. Meanwhile, the town of Amherst agreed to pay $75,000 to support construction of a new land-­g rant college. The president and faculty of Amherst College, especially Charles Shepherd and Edward Hitchcock, had long been agitating for a state agricultural college in western Mas­sa­chu­setts. A new chemistry professor at Amherst College, William Smith Clark, continued this campaign, arguing that the new agricultural college could avail itself of the library and other resources of Amherst College and even utilize the expertise of the college faculty. Such a partnership, he contended, would keep state investment to a minimum. The legislature agreed to establish an in­de­pen­dent agricultural college, providing it with two-­thirds of the federal grant (the other one-­third was given to the Institute of Technology for education in the mechanical arts). Leaders of the agricultural society ­were made trustees of the new venture.35 The trustees first hired Henry French, a leader in the agricultural society movement and regular contributor on topics of scientific agriculture in the New E­ ngland Homestead and Mas­sa­chu­setts Ploughman, as its first president. French proved unable to manage the early controversies around construction, curriculum, and bud­geting, and he was soon replaced by Paul Ansel Chadbourne, a professor of chemistry and natu­ral history at Williams College. Chadbourne had been classically educated, but a few lectures on chemistry had sparked his interest in science. ­After graduation, he traveled to Greenland, Iceland, and Scandinavia to conduct geological inquiries, and upon returning home, he began offering chemistry and geology lectures at

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Bowdoin, Mount Holyoke, and Williams. Having secured resources from the state and from a local philanthropist in the town of Amherst, the new president oversaw the construction of a “dormitory club ­house and laboratory for $46,000, a president’s h ­ ouse for $14,000, and a set of barns for $10,000” to set on the 310-­acre campus and farm. Noting that aspiring chemists could work in the new laboratory, local agricultural society members wanted to do the same for ­future botanists, so they funded a “plant ­house and Botanical Museum” building for instruction and research in botany.36 With the building program ­under way, Chadbourne and the trustees turned their attention to the curriculum. Looking for models to emulate, Mas­sa­chu­ setts set up a del­e­ga­tion to review Evan Pugh’s broad, scientific approach planned for the Pennsylvania Agricultural College. The program of study Chadbourne presented to the legislature mirrored Pugh’s, including intensive study of chemistry, botany, geology, physiology, and astronomy, along with French, German, and belles lettres. The editors of the Boston Journal of Chemistry warned that the college may have been taking on too much, stating that the course of study was “too comprehensive and g­ rand.” Chadbourne encouraged detractors to have more “faith in the intellectual powers of the agrarian population,” and the legislature approved the scheme. As historian Harold Cary argues, the final plan was quite similar to the agricultural society proposals for state agricultural colleges offered during the previous three de­cades, in which “practical courses in agriculture and horticulture w ­ ere to rest on the basic natu­ral sciences.”37 ­After Chadbourne fell ill and resigned his position in 1866 (he ­later recovered and went on to lead the University of Wisconsin), the trustees offered the presidency to William Clark, a young chemistry professor who had recently arrived from neighboring Amherst College. Clark graduated from Amherst in 1848, where he studied u ­ nder Edward Hitchcock and Charles Shepherd, and then received a PhD in chemistry from the University of Göttingen. Clark supported a scientific curriculum and high academic standards, and he used a mix of new faculty and part-­time instructors from Amherst College to provide a comprehensive list of courses. Most notably, he invited his friend Charles A. Goessmann, another PhD from the University of Göttingen, to join the faculty as a second chemist. Goessmann was a German émigré (known in his homeland as Karl Anton Goessmann), who, a­ fter conducting research in the chemistry laboratory at Göttingen, secured the chair of chemistry at the Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. ­After only two years in Troy, New York, he accepted the post at Amherst, where he was assigned to teach organic and analytic chemistry and was encouraged to continue his research on brines and peanuts in the modest college laboratory.38

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The Wissenschaft values of the German-­trained scientists like Clark and Goessmann ­were infused into the form and purpose of the Mas­sa­chu­setts land-­g rant college, and this scientific outlook received firm backing from the state agricultural society. Meanwhile, few farmers paid attention to t­hese developments (indeed, the agricultural press provided l­ittle coverage of land-­g rant developments), and t­ here ­were only a smattering of “letters to the editors” that expressed concern that the scientific curriculum would only serve to “turn [farmers’] sons away from farming.” This would change when Mas­ sa­chu­setts farmers faced an economic crisis in the 1870s, as many came to see the state land-­g rant college as working against their interests.

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New Jersey Rutgers College and Prince­ton College each moved with purpose in 1862 and 1863 to create “scientific departments” as a way to strengthen competing claims on the land-­g rant funds due New Jersey. Representatives from the rival colleges testified before legislative committees to argue that their respective scientific programs conformed to the terms of the Morrill Act. The chief spokesman for Rutgers was Professor George Cook, a driving force in creating new scientific courses at Rutgers, a member of the state agricultural society, and a well-­respected expert on educational m ­ atters at the state capital. Through his leadership and po­liti­cal connections, Rutgers surpassed Prince­ton as the leading candidate. In March 1864, the New Jersey Senate declared Rutgers New Jersey’s land-­g rant college by a vote of 12 to 6, and the House concurred by a vote of 50 to 1. Cook was a mainstay of the New Jersey scientific establishment, and he assured his colleagues in the state agricultural society that the new scientific school would promise profitable discoveries in agriculture and the mechanical arts.39 The Morrill Act proceeds ­were used to launch an academic program in chemistry, engineering, and agricultural science, which would lead to the new bachelor of science degree. Cook was named the chief administrator of the land-­grant proj­ect, was officially named vice-­president of Rutgers College, and, with the aid of a tutor, provided instruction in chemistry. Luther Henry Tucker was hired as professor of agricultural theory, science, and practice, and was assigned to the new college farm of 90 acres on the outskirts of town. Tucker had been a student at Yale College (he did not gradu­ate) before working with his ­father, a leader in the New York State Agricultural Society, as editor of the heavi­ly circulated Country Gentlemen. Major Josiah Holcomb Kellogg was hired as professor of engineering and supervised the military drills required by the Morrill Act. He had studied engineering at West Point, and al-

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though the Civil War called him away from campus, he returned and established a ­viable engineering program at Rutgers. During the first de­cade, students entered the scientific department to study ­either engineering or chemistry, but ­there was ­little demand for agriculture, and Professor Tucker departed ­after a few years. ­Until the scientific program was integrated with the traditional curriculum at the end of the ­century, students and faculty in the scientific department remained a distinct group on campus, with separate courses and commencement exercises.40 The bachelor of science degree program expanded in the 1870s to include study in history, po­liti­cal economy, and constitutional law. To provide instruction in t­ hese subjects, Rutgers hired George W. Atherton, a young history professor from the Illinois land-­g rant college. Historian Roger Williams argues that it was this appointment in New Jersey that nurtured in Atherton a lifelong interest in the Morrill Act and land-­grant colleges. Over the next few years, Atherton devoted himself to studying educational policy and considering the current condition and f­ uture prospects of the land-­g rant movement. In 1873, Atherton stepped onto the national stage by delivering an address entitled “The Relation of the General Government to Education” to the National Education Association (NEA) in Elmira, New York.41 Atherton’s NEA speech (which would be printed and distributed across the country) was a rebuff to President James McCosh of Prince­ton and Charles William Eliot of Harvard, private college skeptics of the land-­grant movement. McCosh had dismissed many of the land-­grant colleges as trade or agricultural schools and had insisted that federal funding should flow to the strongest colleges (i.e., Harvard and Prince­ton), not the weakest. Atherton responded that characterizing the land-­g rant colleges as “agricultural” was a “fallacy,” as was “testing their results by asking how many ‘farmers’ they turn out.” He stated that land-­g rant colleges “do not profess to teach the pro­cess of manual l­abor on the farm or in the workshop” but instead are premised on bringing “good scientific and liberal education within the reach of gradu­ates of the public schools.” The agricultural linkages ­were a “popu­lar misconception,” Atherton argued, as was the assumption that such institutions ­were premised on “manual farming.” Instead, the colleges ­were founded to teach “subjects related to agriculture,” which according to Atherton meant study in the natu­ral sciences of chemistry, botany, and o ­ thers. Other land-­g rant leaders pres­ent at the meeting echoed Atherton’s assessment. Joseph White of the Mas­sa­chu­ setts Agricultural College argued that even land-­g rant colleges “like his” with “agriculture in their name” provided not simply “practical skill” but “intellect to guide skill.” Andrew Dickson White of Cornell University was not pres­ ent, but he wrote a letter thanking Atherton for the impor­tant work he had

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done in showing that Justin Morrill and Congress did not intend to create “agricultural colleges.” From this point forward, Atherton, White, Daniel Coit Gilman, and Justin Morrill would communicate regularly in an effort to increase funding for land-­g rant colleges, defend the institutions from private college detractors and their congressional supporters, c­ ounter claims that land-­ grant colleges w ­ ere to have a vocational mission, and preserve scientific and liberal studies “in their application to industry and agriculture” as the hallmark of the land-­g rant idea.42 In short order, Atherton had become a leading spokesman for land-­g rant education. The professor soon had offers to teach ­under Daniel Coit Gilman at the University of California and lead land-­g rant colleges in Missouri, Arkansas, and Iowa. Yet he remained at Rutgers for over twelve years to “secure recognized standing for [the] new [scientific] department” within the “conservative” university. While he dabbled regularly in po­liti­cal affairs (he ran for Congress and lost), he enjoyed teaching and helped to establish and expand the po­liti­cal, historical, and scientific offerings at Rutgers. True to the view espoused at the NEA, Rutgers offered no vocational courses, and by the 1870s, no students w ­ ere pursuing the agricultural track. During Atherton’s time at Rutgers, ­there w ­ ere ninety-­nine gradu­ates from the land-­g rant department, of which forty-­one entered engineering professions, twenty-­four entered business, twenty-­five went into law, medicine, or teaching, and only six became farmers. Indeed, the college farm ceased being a site of student instruction and was increasingly used for outreach, where Professor Cook conducted exhibitions and scientific demonstrations for New Jersey farmers. In 1882, Atherton fi­nally accepted a presidential offer, from the Pennsylvania land-­g rant college, to which he would take his broad vision of the Morrill Act.43

New Hampshire In 1863, the New Hampshire legislature considered two proposals on how to or­ga­nize land-­grant education in the Granite State: accept a private donation of a 400-­acre farm and $30,000 as the means to create an in­de­pen­dent agricultural college or designate Dartmouth College the Morrill Act recipient. President Asa Smith of Dartmouth pledged his institution would “make what­ever additional provisions for Agricultural Education as should be thought needful . . . ​[and offer] gratuitous instruction of pupils selected ­under the authority of the State.” If Dartmouth was selected, Smith argued, the state could forgo appropriations for buildings, professors, or apparatus. The president calculated that the federal proceeds would pay tuition for sixty new students annually and resuscitate Dartmouth’s depressed enrollments and finances.44

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As in other New ­England states, the agricultural socie­ties pressured the legislature to accept the in­de­pen­dent agricultural college proposal to ensure that classical studies did not overshadow the sciences. To assuage t­ hese fears, Smith made an offer that would not only decide the question but impact the first forty years of land-­g rant education in New Hampshire. He proposed that oversight of the agricultural program be placed in the care of the ex officio members of the Dartmouth College board. T ­ hese state officials could assure that agriculture and the related sciences w ­ ere not overshadowed by the traditional curriculum. When the legislative committee submitted its report, however, it offered a novel arrangement intended to appease both sides. The New Hampshire College of Agricultural and Mechanical Arts would be founded with its own board of trustees, and both the proceeds of the land-­g rant funds and the private gift of $30,000 would be placed at its disposal. The college would be located adjacent to Dartmouth College, and the two institutions would be “held together by a contract and interlocking board of trustees.”45 The agricultural socie­ties ­were pleased with the final plan, convinced that in­de­pen­dent trustees with full fiduciary control of the land-­grant funds would protect the applied sciences. President Smith and the Dartmouth trustees ­were less enthused. The fact that five trustees w ­ ere to be selected by the state and four by Dartmouth would make controlling the direction of the new institution difficult; further, the income from new agricultural college enrollees would not flow to the general Dartmouth trea­sury, which prob­ably undercut President Smith’s true intention of using federal funds to subsidize the regular academic program. Nevertheless, in the end, Dartmouth officials deci­ded that it was better to have some influence over the new college through the confederation arrangement than to allow an in­de­pen­dent, state-­supported college to flourish on its doorstep. On April 7, 1868, Dartmouth and the New Hampshire College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts signed a contract defining how the two odd bedfellows would share professors, equipment, and buildings.46 To oversee the land-­g rant operations as the first principal, the ex officio trustees selected chemist Ezekiel Dimond, a former student of Harvard’s Lawrence Scientific School and the University of Göttingen. Dimond arrived from Eu­rope with apparatus and specimens, and set to work establishing the state’s first chemistry laboratory. Not wanting to wait for legislative appropriations, he loaned the institution his own private funds to secure an experimental farm for testing fertilizers. Committed to the scientific standards he developed at Göttingen and Harvard, he denounced using land-­g rant funds for manual training, noting that such institutions “would dwindle into . . . ​ apprentice-­shops where boys would be blindly taught the manual arts . . . ​as

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monkeys are taught to perform antics in order to procure copper for their masters.” Unlike Yale’s Sheffield Scientific School and Harvard’s Lawrence School of Science, the Chandler Scientific School of Dartmouth had proven to be a weak enterprise with only a few, ill-­prepared students and no notable scientists. This made Principal Dimond the most accomplished scientist in Hanover, and he was tasked with providing general and applied chemistry instruction not only to land-­g rant students but to Chandler and Dartmouth undergraduates as well. In addition to Dimond, Thomas Crosby was appointed professor of animal and vegetable physiology, and three professors from Dartmouth taught in the land-­g rant program. Professor Edwin Sanborne taught history and rhe­toric, Charles Emerson taught mathe­matics, and Charles Young taught natu­ral philosophy. With the assistance of two $10,000 state grants and a private bequest of $25,000 in 1871, Dartmouth completed Culver Hall to ­house the land-­grant program. The new building included a chemical laboratory, two classrooms, and a natu­ral history museum to exhibit the scientific apparatus and specimens that Ezekiel Dimond secured in Germany. The ­future of the New Hampshire land-­grant college seemed secure when the state made an additional appropriation to build a dining hall and dormitory building for 135 students.47 The original plan for land-­grant education in New Hampshire was premised on bringing scientific study to Hanover. Principal Dimond was a fierce advocate for a broad vision of the Morrill Act, and he constantly cloaked such a scheme in the legislation’s stipulation that “scientific and classical studies” ­were not to be excluded. Dimond argued that what was gained through a scientific education, specifically the cultivation of “the powers of observation” and the “enhancing [of] practical reasoning,” could be “brought to bear upon all impor­ tant questions connected with [gradu­ates’] occupations.” With the experimental farm, the land-­g rant program clearly had an agricultural connection, but the course of study was based on theoretical science, not practical application. Most of the scholarships for individuals intending to study agriculture went unfilled, and the majority of the classes (averaging thirty students a year) w ­ ere filled by out-­of-­state students interested in studying chemistry and related branches of science.48 With such a scientific focus, the land-­g rant program came into competition with the Chandler Scientific School, whose faculty complained that the new division was siphoning off students. Chandler faculty argued that students pursued expediency through a three-­year land-­grant program (Chandler’s program was four years) and that the land-­g rant college had a higher number of enrollees ­because its standards w ­ ere lower. This final statement seems unlikely,

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as both the Chandler and land-­g rant programs would admit and remediate any student who finished common school. In the end, ­these two programs ­were largely serving the same purpose of bringing the study of natu­ral science to conservative Dartmouth. Indeed, the original plan for land-­grant education in the state was to combine both programs (this plan was scrapped when the Chandler faculty objected, prob­ably in fear of how such an arrangement would affect their own positions). Just as with Yale, albeit on a much smaller scale, Ezekiel Dimond used the Morrill Act funds to move Dartmouth t­ oward the scientific school models that he had experienced abroad.

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New York In New York, the P ­ eople’s College was no longer the progressive institute fashioned by the Mechanics Mutual Protection Association and first-­wave feminists, for all its original supporters had severed ties. The proj­ect was now ­little more than the personal possession of Charles Cook, who viewed the college as the crown jewel of a town he was building in his image. Cook won election to the state senate and, on May 14, 1863, convinced his legislative colleagues to make the P ­ eople’s College the state’s land-­g rant institution. This success could also be attributed to Amos Brown, who had been appointed to the presidency of the college ­after gaining notoriety for lobbying the U.S. Congress to pass the Morrill Act. Justin Morrill, in a rare statement on local land-­ grant arrangements, wrote the New York legislature that the Morrill Act would not have passed without Brown, and the state should reward this work by designating his institution the state land-­g rant recipient. Since the college was not yet operational, and many in the legislature ­were skeptical that Cook would ultimately fulfill his philanthropic promises, the land-­g rant scrip would only be transferred a­ fter a three-­year probationary period. To become eligible, the college would have to secure ten professors, a farm of 200 acres, a mechanics shop, a building that could h ­ ouse 250 students, and a library.49 In its first year, the ­People’s College showed considerable pro­g ress, and it seemed plausible that the remote institution might actually meet the conditions set by the legislature. The construction of a building that could h ­ ouse the required 250 students was u ­ nder way, and 114 students had enrolled in the college by the second term. Despite his many faults, Cook had been exceedingly generous; he donated at least $100,000 and a 200-­acre farm, and he promised further gifts from his estate to hire the required ten faculty members. However, before the state would convey the land-­g rant funds, Cook was required to transfer all properties and other assets to the board of trustees—­free and

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clear. In the end, Cook was unable to cease viewing the institution as his personal possession. He interfered with faculty hiring and curricular m ­ atters, and, by 1864, conflicts with the administration led President Brown to resign. Conditions worsened further when Cook suffered a stroke in 1864. ­After his brush with death, Cook showed ­little interest in the college and began converting all his assets into cash and securities, even putting a lien against the college to recover a portion of the gifts he had made.50 Nearly ­every legislator with a college in their district wanted the land-­grant fund placed in their home institution and closely followed the demise of the ­People’s College. In 1864, the m ­ atter was referred to the New York Senate’s Committee on Agriculture and the Committee on Lit­er­at­ ure (where educational ­matters ­were considered). The respective chairmen of the two committees ­were Senators Ezra Cornell and Andrew Dickson White. Cornell had served as the head of the state agricultural board, and ­after his election to the state senate in 1864, he was a natu­ral choice to oversee agricultural legislation in the chamber. White, a Yale gradu­ate and former University of Michigan professor, was nearly thirty years the ju­nior of his colleague when he became a senator that same year. White recalled meeting his colleague, whose name would be forever affixed to his own: “He was then about sixty years of age, tall, spare, and austere, with a kindly eye, saying l­ ittle, and that l­ ittle dryly. He did not appear unamiable, but t­ here seemed in him a l­ittle aloofness . . . ​ this was Ezra Cornell.”51 Ezra Cornell’s initial inclination was to divide the fund between several institutions, including denominational colleges, the New York Agricultural College at Ovid, and the ­People’s College. The legislation was referred to the Committee on Lit­er­a­ture. White was opposed to diminishing the impact of the land-­grant fund by splitting it between institutions, and furthermore, he was convinced that the P ­ eople’s College would most certainly close. The prospects of the New York Agricultural College w ­ ere equally dim, and White’s refusal to report the bill out of committee ended hope that the doors at Ovid would reopen. Then, at a summer meeting of the New York Agricultural College board, the situation was altered when Ezra Cornell proposed to “locate the [New York Agricultural] college in Ithaca” and provide “a farm of three hundred acres of first quality of land desirably located.” He generously offered to “erect suitable buildings for the use of the college, and give an additional three hundred thousand dollars” from his personal fortune. The only condition of this gift was that the legislature would appropriate a portion of the federal land grant to the college “and thus place the college upon a firm and substantial basis.”52

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Andrew Dickson White, for his part, refused to split the grant but suggested to Cornell that he would fully support giving the entirety of the Morrill funds to such a venture. This began the Cornell-­White collaboration. The dream of creating an American university in the Eu­ro­pean tradition had developed in White’s mind during his studies in France and Germany and during his faculty tenure at the University of Michigan. White’s influence in expanding Ezra Cornell’s vision is revealed in one of Cornell’s letters: “The enterprise expands from an Agricultural College to a university of the first magnitude—­such as we have to go to Eu­rope to find. . . . ​[W]e can make Ithaca the seat of learning in Amer­i­ca.”53 In February 1865, White proposed a bill to establish Cornell University (White suggested naming the institution a­ fter its generous benefactor) and “to appropriate to it all the income of the sale of public lands granted to the State.” The university’s scope was to be comprehensive—­instruction in the arts, lit­er­a­ ture, agriculture, mechanical arts, and “all knowledge.” The bill also included an unfunded mandate for Cornell University to award 128 ­free scholarships annually, one from each assembly district in the state. The proposed “university of the first magnitude” was to have no religious affiliation, and students of all backgrounds w ­ ere to be welcomed.54 Supporters of the ­People’s College, the New York Agricultural College, and ­every other institution hoping to secure land-­g rant status fervently opposed the mea­sure. The ­lawyer for the ­People’s College trustees argued that Ezra Cornell was a monopolist attempting to control all higher education in New York. The religious press, advocates of state support for their own church-­ related colleges, attacked the nonsectarianism of what they coined “the godless university.” The opposition charged that the agricultural and industrial classes would be left out of Cornell’s “aristocratic” university. A few days a­ fter the bill of incorporation was presented, the ­People’s College ­lawyer argued that it was the intention of Cornell and White to “rob the state” and erect an institution for “professionals, idlers, and aristocrats.” Such demagoguery won the P ­ eople’s College a stay of execution, and it was given three more months to comply with terms of the Morrill Act or the grant would be removed. When the time elapsed, however, the ­People’s College had advanced no further, and its land-­g rant days came to an end.55 Three years prior to the founding of Cornell in 1862, White penned a letter to his friend Gerrit Smith and mused about g­ rand ideas forming in his mind. Even amid the darkness and uncertainty of war, White believed that the United States was in need of “a true liberal university in Western New York.” This university would offer prized instruction to ­people of all races, restrain the

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“merchant morality” sweeping the nation, and temper passions for war and conquest. His university would include a school of lit­er­at­ ure, “an asylum for science,” and courses that spanned the liberal arts. . “Liberally-­minded men of learning.” men like “Agassiz and the young men whom he is training,” would come to gather in the “splendidly endowed” laboratories and library, White exclaimed, and bring, the Wissenschaft ideals of the German universities to Ithaca. White’s university would be a sanctuary for scholars and students to explore and expand on the growing body of knowledge permeating humanity. Ezra Cornell’s philanthropy could allow White to pursue the brightest faculty across the globe, invest in the best facilities and apparatus, and make his dream of an American university a real­ity.56 In contrast, the intricacies of a proper university curriculum ­were of small concern to Ezra Cornell, and he worried l­ittle about maintaining high admission standards to recruit students who could h ­ andle university study. While he famously exclaimed that students could come to Cornell to study “any subject,” he was most interested in studies with clear vocational ends. For example, the founder viewed “mechanical arts” as practical, vocational training, which he wanted to offer in a shoe factory to be built on campus. It was his contention that factory ­labor would sharpen the technical competencies of aspiring mechanics while deferring the cost of university attendance.57 White warned his patron that a factory could not be “combined with an educational institution without ruining both.”58 The purpose of the land-­grant act was not to provide “practical training” for laborers, White argued, but to “take mechanics and farmers from the vari­ous shops and farms of the state” and give them a scientific education that would prepare them to be “worthy leaders in the army of industry.”59 White writes in his autobiography that Cornell’s factory idea was “a danger which demanded delicate ­handling” and “a scheme [that] contravened the Act of Congress.” White reveals that Cornell reluctantly “yielded to [his] view . . . ​as much as it must have cost him to give up what had become a darling proj­ect.”60 Ezra Cornell’s capitulation on his factory plan (and his regular absences from campus to pursue other business interests) removed the last vestiges of a “manual training ideology” from the university. Historian Morris Bishop argues that Ezra Cornell regarded mechanical arts as the “apotheosis of manual training,” but Andrew Dickson White conceptualized mechanical arts as an intellectual enterprise, like the rest of the curriculum.61 Students worked in the “mechanical laboratory,” not a “workshop,” where they produced mechanical and scientific models, not shoes, and student l­ abor was reformulated to “have a decidedly educational value.”62 In the end, White wanted to educate man­ag­ers, not workers: “Our main purpose must be to send out into all

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Figure 4.  Ezra Cornell, industrialist and philanthropist, in 1862. Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections, Cornell University Library.

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Figure 5.  Andrew Dickson White, first president of Cornell University, in 1885. Library of Congress.

parts of the State and Nation thoroughly trained gradu­ates, who should develop and improve the main industries of the country.”63 As discussed in chapter 1, expatriate American scholars returned home with hopes of bringing the curricular breadth and academic standards of German universities to domestic higher education. What separated Andrew Dickson White from the rest was that he had secured financial means to fully pursue such a vision. In just a few years, White had hired twenty-­one faculty members across multiple disciplines, most possessing PhDs from Eu­ro­pean univer-

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sities. During the first five years, the curriculum was or­ga­nized around five courses of study: the course in science, the course in philosophy, the classical course, the elective course, and the special course. The course in science led to the bachelor of science degree and included study in chemistry, physics, geology, botany, mathe­matics, modern languages, En­glish language, history, and po­liti­cal science, but no ancient languages. The philosophical course was similar but required study in Latin and led to the bachelor of philosophy, whereas the classical course required Greek and Latin and led to the traditional bachelor of arts degree. Students w ­ ere also allowed to sample fare across the curriculum in the elective course or could select subjects without expectation of a degree in the special course. By 1873, the faculty had been or­ga­nized into several departments, which offered specialized degrees like the bachelor of architecture and the bachelor of veterinary science. Faculty in all fields ­were active scholars who conducted original inquiries and penned publications in the arts, classics, and sciences. Perhaps the most famous and celebrated was the visiting naturalist Louis Agassiz, who brought distinction to the zoology and geology departments and helped give Cornell an international reputation. ­After Ezra Cornell conceded to terminate his factory plan, mechanical arts was refashioned as engineering. President White noted that some trustees joined Ezra Cornell in worrying that gradu­ates would “only [be] able to draw figures and pictures . . . ​ [and know ­little] of practical methods and pro­cesses.”64 White countered that gradu­ates should possess an intellectual and practical connection to their industrial, mechanical, and scientific pursuits, stating that “gradu­ates of the scientific and mechanical departments must have a direct, practical acquaintance with the construction and use of machinery before they [can] become leaders in g­ reat mechanical enterprises.” Cornell gradu­ates, White concluded, “must be thoroughly scientific men and practical mechanics.65 This approach came to fruition u ­ nder the direction of Professor John Morris, as his engineering students tested classroom knowledge in the “mechanical laboratories” and constructed original apparatus and mechanical models. ­These efforts caught the attention of Hiram Sibley, who asked to inspect this new approach to education in the mechanical arts. Historian Roger Geiger notes that “Cornell had the opportunity to define the [mechanical engineering] discipline” ­after Sibley agreed to finance a building for the mechanical arts “with lecture-­rooms, drafting-­rooms, modeling-­rooms, foundries, and shops for ironwork [and] woodwork.” The Sibley College of the Mechanical Arts became the national leader in the field, a distinction that was apparent at the Centennial Cele­bration of 1876. At the event, Cornell’s engineering students exhibited their potential as ­f uture leaders of mechanical and industrial enterprises

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by displaying models they designed and constructed, including “a steam-­ engine, power-­lathes, face-­plates, and vari­ous tools of precision.”66 A large number of academically talented students flocked to Ithaca to study emerging subjects with leading scientists and scholars. Alongside this group of students ­were “special students,” who tended to lack the academic preparation to be admitted in a regular degree program. This latter group included poorer students with only a common school education, who lacked the prerequisite knowledge to pursue the sciences and liberal arts and tended to select vocational courses offered through the agricultural or mechanical arts track. When Ezra Cornell was alive, he had demanded that ­these students be admitted despite any deficiencies in their academic preparation or per­for­mance and that vocational (“hands-on”) coursework be provided to meet their needs. Thus, the original Cornell University was an amalgam of the visions of Ezra Cornell and Andrew Dickson White. ­After Ezra Cornell’s death in 1874, the commitment to provide broad access and vocational training for the underprepared would come to an end, and President White would, unabated, pursue his university model of high academic standards, scientific and liberal arts curricula, and theoretical in lieu of manual instruction.

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Pennsylvania In Pennsylvania, the Farmers’ High School was chartered in 1855 ­after a successful lobbying campaign by Frederick Watts and the state agricultural society. Initially, the legislature provided generous support for the new venture, including two $50,000 grants to support construction of the campus buildings. In February 1859, the trustees hired Evan Pugh, the well-­regarded chemistry scholar introduced in chapter 1, as its first president. Pugh wrote his good friend and fellow scientist Samuel Johnson that his current sponsors at the Rothamsted experimental farm in E ­ ngland offered him a £500 salary to remain but that he must return home for “­there is a field t­here upon which the harvest is ­g reat and the laborers are few.” Although Samuel Johnson joked that the only way a chemist could survive in Amer­ic­ a was by marrying a wealthy bride, Pugh returned stateside with the dream of nurturing the rise of American science from an outpost in central Pennsylvania.67 Pugh arrived at the Farmers’ High School in October 1859 with a PhD in agricultural chemistry from the University of Göttingen and firm ideas on how to turn the Pennsylvania institution into an enterprise that advanced the science and practice of American agriculture, but before turning to academic issues, he had to address bud­get prob­lems, for despite liberal state funding, unanticipated construction costs placed the institution in financial distress. A

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competent administrator, Pugh worked to bring the construction bud­get ­under control, and despite shortages of workers and contractors at the onset of the Civil War, the main building was completed in 1863. Even as the war passed into a second year, the renamed Pennsylvania Agricultural College (PAC) welcomed students, and enrollment swelled from 67 to 164. As Peter Moran and Roger Williams explain, the college appealed to students through three types of programs: the full bachelor of science in agriculture, the partial scientific course, and the practical course. Part-­time, less-­prepared, and less-­ambitious students could take the partial or practical course and receive manual instruction on the campus farm and study basic scientific princi­ples. However, for the students taking the full scientific program, the president stated confidently that “the school, on being or­ga­nized, a­ dopted a course of instruction in mathe­ matics and the natu­ral sciences, more extensive than that in any Agricultural College in Eu­rope.”68 On April 1, 1863, the Pennsylvania legislature passed the Pennsylvania Land-­ Grant Act and, in ­doing so, accepted the terms of the Morrill Act. The legislature appointed a commission to oversee the sale of the land scrip and directed the commissioners to appropriate the proceeds to the PAC. The agricultural society and representatives from the PAC had helped craft the legislation, resulting in the unsurprising land-­grant designation. Within a year, however, several state legislators w ­ ere reconsidering their decision ­after being reprimanded in their home districts. Having received an earful from local college leaders, legislators now viewed the Morrill Act as a way to deliver academic pork barrels to their electoral district. Numerous “applicants from all parts of the State” explained why and how their college could fulfill the terms of the Morrill Act. A typical petition was submitted from Allegheny College. Its president claimed that Allegheny had chemical apparatus and “a large geological, mineralogical, and oncological cabinet” that would allow the institution to “make the leading object of the college the application of science to industrial pursuits.” Pugh dismissed such petitions as “ludicrous and absurd” and penned a thirty-­five-­page document defending a broad, scientific, and comprehensive education in the Eu­ro­pean tradition. Such an education was only pos­si­ble in a well-­endowed, scientific institution, and he delivered this argument to a legislative committee on March 3, 1864. The Pennsylvania Senate voted in ­favor of repealing the PAC’s land-­g rant status by a vote of 23 to 9, but the House, where the agricultural society’s influence was greatest, tabled the m ­ atter in­def­initely. As for Evan Pugh, Penn State historians have concluded that his ceaseless work on behalf of the college led to his premature demise. He became gravely ill at the president’s desk and died a few days ­later, on April 22, 1864.69

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The passing of Evan Pugh cast the Pennsylvania Agricultural College into years of uncertainty. Between 1864 and 1881, the institution faced financial difficulties and had five dif­fer­ent presidents, who waffled between conflicting philosophies on the proper course of study. Pugh’s successor was a Bowdoin College gradu­ate and former chemistry professor named William Allen. When President Allen assumed his duties in 1865, the final year of the war brought distress to enrollments and finances, as did renewed efforts by other colleges to secure a portion of the land grant. Allen supported Pugh’s broad scientific vision and successfully fended off the other land-­grant claimants, but the legislature denied him ample resources to pursue a comprehensive academic plan. He was followed by President John Fraser, a Scottish emigrant and Aberdeen University gradu­ate, who convinced the board of trustees to fully embrace the educational scheme that approximated Pugh’s vision. Agriculture would be taught as an experimental science, required manual l­abor would be replaced with military drills, new courses would be introduced in mechanical and civil engineering, three four-­year programs would be offered in general science, agriculture, and lit­er­a­ture, and tuition would be raised to help cover the expansion.70 Again, the state legislature proved unwilling to invest additional funding to support Fraser’s ambitions, as opponents in the capital levied charges of administrative mismanagement, an inaccessible location, and depressed enrollments. Fraser resigned a­ fter two years. President Thomas Burrows took the reins in 1868 and pledged to improve the PAC’s financial condition by returning to a practical focus—­farm training, ­labor requirements, and applied courses taught by practicing farmers. This change brought few new enrollees, and actually scared off ­those desiring a more advanced education. A ­ fter Burrows died in 1871, the college was criticized for being uncertain in mission and purpose and for resembling a “backward classical college” serving a small, local clientele. It would not be ­until 1882 that Pennsylvania’s land-­g rant institution would find stable leadership by luring George Atherton away from Rutgers. Atherton would prove to be a “second founder,” who with a liberal interpretation of the Morrill Act would return the PAC to the broad vision of Evan Pugh. He secured state funding where ­others had failed, by convincing legislators that higher education was vital to the social and economic well-­being of the state and nation and therefore deserved public support.71

Rhode Island Brown University was the only higher education institution in Rhode Island when the state legislature voted to accept the land-­grant proposal on January 15, 1863. Rural state senators, however, rallied in opposition to Brown, question-

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ing ­whether the college could “provide a proper education for the industrial classes.” They could only manage to delay the legislation for a week. In the meantime, the leaders of the state’s agricultural society, the Rhode Island Society for the Encouragement of Domestic Industry, hastily submitted a resolution to the legislature for the establishment of an in­de­pen­dent agricultural college. As in Maine, the society’s leaders hoped to prevent investment in a classical college and instead build a college committed to agricultural science, where they could play the leading role. The society’s campaign was complicated by the paucity of land revenue ­because of Rhode Island’s small size (Rhode Island’s land scrip sold for only 42 cents an acre and brought the lowly annual income of $3,000), and conservative legislators argued that a new college would require regular appropriations. Committing to annual state expenditures on higher education made l­ittle sense, legislators argued, when Brown University was offering to do the job for ­free. The rural caucus and agricultural society critics in the legislature ­were mollified by an agreement where Brown would provide a set number of $100 scholarships each year and a state board of commissioners would select the beneficiaries (ideally drawn from agricultural communities). With ­these initial concerns addressed, Brown became the state’s land-­grant college on January 27, 1863, without further debate or opposition.72 In 1867, Ezekiel Robinson became president of Brown and began a good-­ faith effort to restructure curricular offerings on a scientific basis to meet Morrill Act obligations. ­After Francis Wayland’s failed experiment to expand the curriculum beyond the classical core in the 1850s (student enrollment decreased), the trustees w ­ ere hesitant to change the traditional program of study, but Robinson argued that federal compliance required reform. The president appointed Dr. Charles Parsons as lecturer of anatomy and physiology within a new academic division, the agricultural and scientific department. The new initiative would offer “scientific and practical instruction extending through a period of three years” and would consist of coursework in “chemistry, physiology, geometry, and algebra[,] . . . ​analytical chemistry[,] . . . ​and ­either chemistry in its application to agriculture and the mechanical arts or engineering.” It was also announced that ­there was to be a special agricultural course of an “intensely practical character,” consisting of studies in chemistry applications, fertilizers, and crop cultivation for “­those who [had] only a brief period to spend in study, before entering upon the work of the farm.” Gradu­ates of the entire course in the agricultural and scientific department would receive a bachelor of philosophy degree, a throwback to the Wayland days. Students in the practical course would receive diplomas denoting completed coursework. Prospective students in the agricultural and scientific

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department would have to pass a less-­rigorous examination in “arithmetic, algebra, En­glish grammar, and modern geography” and not the classical requirements of Latin and Greek. ­There was discussion about purchasing an experimental farm for the agricultural and scientific department, but with Brown’s depressed trea­sury and limited land-­g rant funds, such a purchase was not feasible.73 State Senator Nathan Peckham told the state agricultural society that President Robinson’s reforms did not amount to a proper education in agricultural science. Peckham and his agricultural society brethren feared that students hoping for a scientific education in agriculture or the mechanical arts would come to Providence and find “a mere classical education.”74 In 1870, a legislative committee investigating the college proposed a pos­si­ble solution: allow Brown to use $5,000 of the land-­grant funds to purchase an experimental farm and supplement the land-­grant funds with a $10,000 state appropriation to provide “such building and apparatus as may be necessary.”75 But while rural legislators and agricultural society officials continued to complain about Brown’s failed compliance, a majority in the legislature could not agree to expend tax dollars on higher education. The proposal for a $10,000 appropriation disintegrated. President Robinson had seemed willing to develop an agricultural and mechanical arts program in 1872, but without state support, the ­g rand schemes of the agricultural and scientific department w ­ ere reduced to a single course in agriculture by 1874. According to the school’s cata­logue, the agricultural course was reduced to only “instruction in . . . ​Zoology and Comparative Anatomy” through examination of “specimens from the Museum of Natu­ral History.”76 If the state was not willing to supplement the federal funds, Brown would not expend its own resources on a major new program. The college did, however, broaden the civil engineering program to three years, expand the number of chemistry offerings, and enhance the entrance requirements and academic rigor of the bachelor of philosophy degree. Nevertheless, the PhB program was largely a literary course, with a few science electives; absent was the more costly addition of laboratories and experimental farms that often accompanied a program committed to advancing and disseminating the applied sciences. In the end, it was exceedingly difficult to provide an agricultural course without a college farm. For example, a Brown cata­logue from this time explained that students would gain practical experience in agriculture by witnessing the “description of vari­ous agricultural implements.”77 Brown University remained a traditional college that, like smaller denominational institutions of the time, remained beholden to the classics and liberal arts while adding

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a sampling of scientific courses that ­were increasingly accepted as part of a liberal education.78

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Vermont In September 1863, a bill passed in the Vermont legislature to “incorporate the Vermont State University and Associated Colleges.” It called for the consolidation of the University of Vermont, Middlebury College, and Norwich College. John S­ ullivan Adams, head of the state education board, tried to convince the p­ eople of Vermont that a combined university could sit atop the common school system, elevating the standards of all schools and increasing the value of education among all classes.79 When the trustees of Middlebury balked at the plan, the proposal was scuttled. The following summer, Edwin Hammond proposed an alternative land-­g rant plan through a letter published in a Vermont newspaper demanding the formation of a new, in­de­pen­dent agricultural college.80 Hammond was a major promoter of scientific agriculture, a leader in the state agricultural society and wool grower’s organ­ization, and “the leading sheep breeder in his time . . . ​making more rapid strides in the improvement of Merino sheep than any breeder that had preceded him.”81 Soon a­ fter, Justin Morrill lent his support to Hammond’s call to found an agricultural and mechanical college in Vermont. ­After the state agricultural society endorsed Hammond’s proposal, the state legislature chartered a Vermont College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts and awarded it all of the land-­grant funds, “provided that the trustees w ­ ere able to raise at least $100,000 through public subscription within a year.”82 Vermont farmers and communities reacted coldly to the subscription campaign. The best offer was mustered from Morrill himself, who pledged $5,000 if the college would be located in his hometown of Strafford. Such generosity was far from sufficient, and with farmers showing l­ittle interest in an agricultural college, the subscription campaign failed. Historian Hal Barron notes that Vermont agriculturalists w ­ ere not “conservative and resistant to change,” as many attended agricultural society meetings and scientific lectures.83 The issue was that most Vermont farmers ­were relatively well-­off, having transitioned to wool production in the 1850s, which brought high profits to farmers when the southern cotton crop was decimated during the war.84 Green Mountain residents chose to enjoy their profits and consistently supported low taxes over college appropriations. ­After the option of an in­de­pen­dent agricultural college proved untenable, the legislature turned to the University of Vermont, which, like Brown University, promised to fulfill the terms of the

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Morrill Act without state appropriations. On November 9, 1865, the University of Vermont was made the state’s land-­grant beneficiary ­under its new charter title—­the University of Vermont and State Agricultural College.85 ­Under the leadership of President Matthew Buckham, the university boldly asserted that “the term ‘agricultural colleges,’ as applied to the national institutions [land-­g rant colleges] [was] unofficial and misleading . . . ​and agriculture was only one of many subjects grouped u ­ nder a con­ve­nient designation.”86 Instead, the only responsibility of the university was to instruct students in the “branches of learning related to agriculture.”87 Experimental farms w ­ ere unnecessary and wasteful, the administration argued, for a faculty member could simply explain experiments to farmers, and their “results would be more trustworthy b­ ecause of the variety of soil, location, and climate” throughout Vermont.88 James Angell, Buckham’s pre­de­ces­sor, had a broader conception of the Morrill Act, and between 1865 and 1870, he had worked to advance the study of science at the university by approving the construction of a laboratory and hiring chemistry professor Peter Collier and natu­ral history professor George Perkins. It was also Angell’s intention to pursue a professorship of agricultural chemistry to spearhead agricultural research and education at the university, which he hoped to attach to an experimental farm. However, this plan was left stillborn when Angell accepted the presidency of the University of Michigan in 1871. Buckham did not manage to realize his pre­de­ces­sor’s plan for a professor of agriculture u ­ ntil 1886.89 The absence of an agricultural professor and department (not formed ­until 1888) made scientific courses the elective appendages to the classical core, not part of a cohesive scientific program. By 1874, sixty-­one of the undergraduates ­were in the classical course, six in the chemistry course, and none in agriculture.90 As a Greek scholar, President Buckham had a g­ reat affinity for the classical course and wanted to provide a BA degree of superb quality that would entice Vermonters away from Harvard, Yale, and, most importantly, Middlebury.91 He reported favorable pro­gress in 1873, stating, “We think that our standard of classical attainment ­will compare favorably with that of any American college . . . ​and is being steadily raised year by year as fast as we can secure improvement in the style of preparation.”92 Buckham defended high academic admission standards for all students, especially in maintaining Latin and Greek requirements. The president concluded that if the state wanted the University of Vermont to provide more programs in the applied sciences, then they would have to pay for them. He declared that agricultural socie­ties and legislators had numerous education ideas “but [had] not helped by one acre or one cent.”93 Buckham was a bit more accepting of engineering, and in 1872 he hired Volney

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Giles Barbour, a gradu­ate of Sheffield Scientific School, as the first professor of civil engineering. The new engineering program included study in chemistry, modern languages, physics, mathe­matics, surveying, mechanical drawing, geology, metallurgy, and applied mechanics.94 In 1874, eleven students ­were enrolled in the engineering program, and ­after only three years of operation, it had graduated “fifteen young men, most of whom [occupied] impor­tant positions on vari­ous railroads or in connection with other public works.”95 Besides this foray into engineering education, however, the University of Vermont remained conservative in its commitment to the classical curriculum as preparation for the learned professions. This was quite apparent when its president lectured audiences on the need and utility of ancient languages in speeches like “The Less Obvious Benefits of a Liberal Education” and “Dead Languages Forsooth!”96 In the history of land-­g rant colleges in the northeastern United States, Matthew Buckham plays the part of Noah Porter. He held strongly to the anti-­utilitarian view that the college course was designed “to give power to acquire and to think, rather than to impart special knowledge or special discipline.”97 ­There ­were perhaps no stranger bedfellows than a land-­ grant college and an antiquarian. In the northeastern United States, the original land-­g rant colleges w ­ ere inextricably linked with a movement to expand scientific study in higher education. Justin Morrill himself appeared most interested in supporting institutions that could advance and disseminate knowledge in the applied sciences as a means of growing the economy and securing the nation’s standing in the world. In the individual states, agricultural socie­ties w ­ ere critical partners in implementing this vision, for in several cases they pressured legislatures to build new institutions fully committed to the applied sciences. Expatriate scholars and scientists returning from abroad w ­ ere natu­ral choices as presidents and faculty at t­ hese scientific institutions, and in the case of the Sheffield Scientific School and Cornell University, they created programs that reached international prominence. In states where legislatures proved unwilling to contribute funds to the land-­grant movement, preexisting colleges w ­ ere tapped as less costly alternatives. Yet traditional colleges like Brown University and the University of Vermont did not undergo major transformations ­after becoming land-­g rant recipients, instead using the funds to add but a sampling of scientific courses to their classical standards as part of an expanding definition of liberal education. In general, the scientists and scholars that led the regional land-­g rant colleges and developed original curricula and entrance exams wanted high

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standards and scientific study (in lieu of vocational programs) to define their institutions. With the exception of Ezra Cornell’s utilitarian programs and open access policy during the early years of his university, the scientific and advanced standards model predominated in the Northeast during the origins stage. It was expensive to hire well-­credentialed faculty and build the laboratories needed to fulfill this mission, leading most regional land-­g rant colleges to charge tuition and additional fees. The cost (and opportunity cost) of attendance was a hurdle for poorer students, as was limited academic preparation that made passing admission examinations difficult or impossible. Of course, ­there ­were state or institutional scholarship programs for needy students, but few applied, deterred by the rigors of the admission examination. Large numbers of scholarships went unused at Brown, Yale, and Vermont. The typical students, then, came from a wealthy, agricultural background, but as gradu­ates they would not return to the farm. Instead, ­these individuals would use their advanced education in science, engineering, or the liberal arts to pursue new ­middle class ­careers in business, government, industry, or the professions.98 The first generation of Yankee land-­g rant colleges remained the domain of white men; however, ­there ­were a few African American students who ­were able to overcome social and institutional discrimination and secure access to land-­g rant colleges. The story of Edward Alexander Bouchet is a stark reminder that the development of the early land-­g rant colleges, as well as the trajectory of land-­g rant science, was mediated by issues of race. Bouchet was born in New Haven in 1852, the youn­gest son of a former slave turned porter and janitor at Yale College. Bouchet integrated the prestigious Hopkins Acad­ emy in 1870, where he excelled in Latin and mathe­matics, was named valedictorian, and then went on to become the first African American student at Yale. He was especially interested in the new scientific subjects offered in the Sheffield Scientific School and, ­after receiving his BA degree in 1874 (he ranked sixth in his class), he pursued a PhD in physics with a focus on electromagnetism ­under the guidance of Arthur William Wright. ­After completing his dissertation, entitled “Mea­sur­ing Refractive Indices,” he became the first African American in Amer­i­ca to receive a PhD. His Yale accolades included being admitted to the prestigious Phi Beta Kappa honor society.99 ­After graduation, Bouchet applied for several positions as a physics professor at private, state, and land-­g rant universities. Even though many of t­ hese colleges (especially the land-­g rant universities) w ­ ere desperate for PhD scientists, upon learning of his race, all of them rejected him. As historian Robert Bruce once stated regarding the plight of African Americans aspiring to scientific professorships, “race prejudice—­not only among Southerners but also

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Northerners such as Henry, Bache, Peirce, and Agassiz—­would surely have blocked him or her from a c­ areer or even a hearing in science.” Bouchet chose not to pursue a professorship at a historically black college and university ­because he believed they lacked the scientific programs and research facilities that would allow him to continue his work. He was ultimately forced to forgo his professorial dreams and s­ ettle on teaching chemistry and physics at the School for Colored Youth in Philadelphia for twenty-­five years. ­Because of his race, Bouchet was unable to secure a professorial position in the sciences like many of his white colleagues discussed in this book who went on to serve as inaugural faculty members of land-­g rant universities. Despite pronouncements that the United States needed to marshal its fullest intellectual potential to advance science and technology for a modern age, t­ here ­were clearly race bound­aries that the land-­g rant movement did not cross. Bouchet was not the only budding scientist unable to fulfill their potential, as ­there ­were other pioneering African Americans, such as Inman Page and George Washington Milford at Brown, who would take advantage of scholarships supported by Morrill Act funds to access higher education but find limited post–­land-­g rant opportunities. The race barrier at all northeastern land-­g rant colleges would be overcome in the 1920s, but ­careers in science, academia, industry, and government would remain closed to talented African Americans for years to come.100

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Ch a p ter  3

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The Land-­Grant Reformation

The postwar economic boom in the North gave credence to Republican claims that the expansion of domestic markets, the protection of American industry, and investment in internal improvements and transportation would bring growth and pro­g ress. While the land-­g rant colleges ­were only beginning to find their footing, leaders like Evan Pugh and Daniel Coit Gilman exclaimed that the applied science activities at their land-­ grant institutions w ­ ere contributing to this national advancement. However, a de­cade of economic exuberance ended abruptly with the Banking Panic of 1873. As historian Eric Foner states, “The Panic of 1873 ushered in what u ­ ntil the 1930s was known as the G ­ reat Depression, a downturn that lasted, with intermittent periods of recovery, nearly to the end of the ­century.” While agricultural output increased during the period, deflated prices and land values brought financial ruin to the most vulnerable farmers. Half of the nation’s railroads defaulted on their loans, and tens of thousands of workers lost their jobs. By 1878, over ten thousand businesses had folded, including small factories, banks, iron furnaces, mines, and small proprietorships. With competitors crippled, the wealthiest businessmen—­Jay Gould, John D. Rocke­fel­ler, Andrew Car­ne­g ie, and even Ezra Cornell—­seized the opportunity to consolidate industries into monopolistic empires.1 ­These new monopolies made a bad situation worse for farmers and workers. Across the nation, farmers blamed “a small parasitic minority in the high84

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est positions of power”—­the po­liti­cal elite and moneyed powers—­whose po­liti­cal corruption and economic manipulations through mono­poly and speculation had brought about economic collapse. In one sense, this rhe­toric revived the Jacksonian criticism of special privileges, and demanded fair economic exchange and equal po­liti­cal participation. Yet farmers ­were also ready to consider that economic woes required po­liti­cal solutions beyond the Jeffersonian staples of “states’ rights” and “limited government.” Some farmers w ­ ere willing to embrace an activist federal government as a counterweight to the power of the moneyed elite. To t­ hese ends, farmers explored and embraced po­liti­cal organ­izations and ideologies outside the major parties that supported industry regulation, trust-­busting, l­ abor protections, silver coinage, cooperative enterprise, and the nationalization of railroads. The producing classes that ­adopted ­these novel and, at times, radical reforms ­were populists, and the broad and complex movement they supported was pop­ul­ism.2 In 1876, the Farmers’ Alliance was founded in Texas to unite farmers against bankers, brokers, and railroad men. The organ­ization spread in the South and West, and, by the 1880s, it had partnered with similar organ­izations, such as the Agricultural Wheel and the Knights of ­Labor, to pursue po­liti­cal power at the state and federal levels.3 In 1892, Populists campaigned on the message that the Republicans and Demo­crats w ­ ere controlled by moneyed interests and that the banking, free-­labor, and free-­enterprise policies of the Republican Party, in par­tic­u­lar, w ­ ere hostile to farming p­ eople. A gathering in Nebraska produced the Omaha Platform, a populist manifesto that founded the ­People’s Party and demanded state control of rail and communications, a graduated income tax, direct election of senators, the end of national banks, and the eight-­hour workday. The P ­ eople’s Party nominated James Weaver for the presidency; he carried the states of Colorado, Idaho, Kansas, and Nevada. During the 1890s, the ­People’s Party gained six senatorial seats and nearly three dozen congressional seats, and elected eleven governors. While Populists controlled some midwestern state legislatures and influenced the national debate, party leaders doubted the plausibility of wresting national power from the major parties. By 1896, t­ hese members advocated fusion with the Demo­cratic Party during the presidential election, leaving the ­People’s Party to back Demo­crat William Jennings Bryan’s unsuccessful bid. Having lost the election and an in­ de­pen­dent identity, the P ­ eople’s Party declined in members and influence, never again mounting a serious challenge to the major parties.4 As the fortunes of Populists in Washington, D.C., ebbed and flowed, state-­ level groups focused their attention on privileged entities in their midst: banks, ­wholesalers, railroads, and land-­g rant colleges. Scott Gelber has illustrated how, in the West and South, the ascendance of third-­party pop­u­lism in state

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legislatures led to land-­g rant college reforms. The campaigns in Kansas and North Carolina provide instructive examples. In the 1880s, Kansas farmers became disillusioned with the Republicans for failing to reverse the economic downturn in the countryside, and over one hundred thousand farmers had flocked to the newly minted ­People’s Party by the end of the de­cade. The ­People’s Party captured a supermajority of seats in the state’s House of Representatives and, ­ after partnering with the Demo­ crats, elected a Populist-­ Democratic governor in 1892. The governor first took aim at the University of Kansas, but he could only appoint a minority of governing board members, and his goals of lowering admission standards and reforming the curriculum went unrealized. The situation progressed differently at Kansas State Agricultural College. H ­ ere the Populists secured a majority on the governing board and, in 1896, ­were asked by the governor to “revolutionize ­things” at the land-­grant college. Admission standards w ­ ere lowered to increase access, and the curriculum was infused with utilitarianism and the Populists’ po­liti­cal and economic ideology. Antimonopolist and cooperative production theories formed the core of new po­liti­cal economy courses, and the science of agriculture (chemistry, botany, ­etc.) was deemphasized in f­avor of applied agricultural studies with a manual training pedagogy. Soon ­after the University of North Carolina was reopened in 1876 and received Morrill Act proceeds, farmers complained that the institution remained the domain of the elite and offered l­ittle practical usefulness. In 1885, this discontent coalesced into a campaign by the Farmers’ Alliance and the Knights of ­Labor to divert funding to a new North Carolina College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts (­later North Carolina State University). In the de­cade that followed, the North Carolina Populist Party formed and aligned with Republicans to capture the state legislature. Through control of state appropriations and seats on the governing board, the Populist Party steered the college ­toward manual training, practical coursework, and open access.5 Despite local and state victories, pop­u­lism ultimately failed as a national po­liti­cal movement ­because it received l­ ittle support outside the southern and western states. The P ­ eople’s Party was particularly weak in the North. For example, in the ­Great Lakes, Mid-­Atlantic, and New ­England states, Weaver secured less than 5 ­percent of the vote during the 1892 presidential campaign.6 With inherited farms and ready access to urban markets, northern farmers w ­ ere not as indebted to banks or as sensitive to transportation prices as their western brethren. In fact, the least successful farmers of the previous generation had already departed for greener pastures in the West or pursued urban employment, leaving ­behind a more homogenous, conservative, and eco­nom­ ically stable farm population in the East. With only passing interest in silver coinage and cooperatives, Yankee farmers remained comfortable within the

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confines of the major parties. Fi­nally, midwestern farmers generally enjoyed better lands and greater yields, making them competitors, not compatriots; thus, cross-­regional po­liti­cal cooperation among farmers was uncommon and undermined the national ambitions of American pop­ul­ism.7 While not embracing the ­People’s Party, the northeastern electorate was no less passionate about the pres­ent and ­f uture condition of agriculture and rural life. As historian Hal Barron states, “The rural North remained a society of f­ amily farms well into the twentieth c­ entury in which ­family enterprise remained the dominant form of economic organ­ization as well as the main component of the rural community.”8 One issue that caused g­ reat anxiety was demographic trends, as northeastern rural communities experienced sharp population declines between 1840 and 1870. Such patterns ­were the result of new labor-­saving technologies (leading to less demand for agricultural ­labor), western migration, generational social mobility into urban-­based c­ areers, and a slowing birthrate. Since t­ hose who departed through social mobility or migration tended to be younger, ­there was the additional concern that aging rural communities w ­ ere being drained of f­uture leaders, and social systems ­were undermined as parents and c­ hildren strug­gled to preserve f­amily relationships, rites, and traditions across growing distances.9 When the depression arrived, the Northeast had already under­gone this economic and demographic realignment. The Yankee farmers who remained had survived the downturns of the 1840s and 1850s, and while restless over the lower prices and profits of the 1870s, they w ­ ere better positioned to weather the storm by owning farms f­ree of bank liens, enjoying the best lands in the region, and possessing suitable capital for technological innovation. With this greater social and economic stability, Yankee farmers typically eschewed third-­ party politics in ­favor of the nonpartisan grange.” The national grange organ­ ization was founded in 1867 as a fraternal and advocacy organ­ization to promote “mutual support amongst members” and to promote the economic and po­liti­cal well-­being of farmers. Membership grew slowly ­until farmers turned to the grange during the Banking Panic; membership jumped nationwide from 200,000 in 1873 to a peak of 850,000 two years l­ater. Yet as the depression persisted, disappointed grangers in the South and West left the order for more radical organ­izations like the Farmers’ Alliance. The grange rebounded by the 1880s thanks to strong support in the East, where state granges enjoyed 5 ­percent annual increases in membership throughout the remainder of the c­ entury.10 The grange was officially nonpartisan, but it was engaged in po­liti­cal issues at all levels. The national grange crafted resolutions that pressed the United States Congress for mono­poly and railroad regulation. State granges and

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local affiliates ­were initially focused on offering financial assistance to downtrodden members and providing useful education in new agricultural techniques, but as state granges increased in size, leaders became more active in state politics by supporting like-­minded candidates in both major parties and lobbying for grange-­backed legislation. In the Northeast, the long-­standing concern over rural demographics (i.e., youths leaving the farm) became one of the major po­liti­cal issues for the grange, whose leaders warned that the countryside and its farmers w ­ ere losing economic and po­liti­cal power to the cities. The grange focused its po­liti­cal action on the fledgling land-­g rant colleges that, in the grange’s view, ­were both a cause of and a pos­si­ble solution to rural depopulation. In New E ­ ngland, this grange movement would result in a drastic reor­ga­ ni­za­tion of the land-­g rant colleges.11 Grange leaders argued that the scientific and liberal arts curricula of regional land-­grant colleges w ­ ere exacerbating rural outmigration, enticing students away from farming and into middle-­class ­careers in business, engineering, academia, or government. Awakened to the Morrill Act language in support of agriculture, grangers demanded a land-­grant system that was broadly accessible, vocational, and uplifting, with the purpose of training rural youths in farming practice and returning them home fit to be farmers and community leaders. In the most dramatic New E ­ ngland cases, the grange successfully pressured state legislatures to remove Morrill Act funding from Brown University, Dartmouth College, and Yale’s Sheffield Scientific School, and attach the land-­grant designation to nascent (or yet to be built) vocational institutions. The University of Vermont was destined for a similar fate but, as discussed at the opening of this book, was saved at the last moment by the intervention of Justin Morrill. At the nexus of the northeastern upheavals was writer and activist Herbert Myrick, who worked to turn disparate local campaigns into a regional reform movement. In 1879, Myrick enrolled in the Mas­sa­chu­setts land-­grant college in Amherst.12 He excelled in his scientific studies and, ­after graduating in 1882, published books on hops, turkeys, and sugar cultivation. While his scientific papers w ­ ere well received, his true passion concerned the plights of farmers and rural communities. Drawing on childhood experiences in Wyoming among radical populists, Myrick was convinced that northeastern farmers would only be protected from exploitation if they or­ga­nized granges into more effective po­liti­cal organ­izations. At only twenty-­six years of age, Myrick became the editor of one of the largest agricultural newspapers, the New E­ ngland Homestead. Through its pages, Myrick chastised land-­grant leaders for failing to serve farmers, urged state and local granges to cooperate on land-­grant reform, and directed his fifty thousand journal subscribers to write state legislators directly.13

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Figure 6.  Herbert Myrick, agricultural editor and populist or­ga­nizer. Library of Congress Prints and Photo­graphs Division.

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However, before this campaign could find success, he needed a model to market as a proper land-­grant institution. To ­these ends, Herbert Myrick and other grange leaders embraced a small agricultural school in Storrs, Connecticut.

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The Populists’ Land-­Grant Alternative The Storrs Agricultural School was founded in 1881 by the Connecticut legislature, an action made pos­si­ble by a gift of 170 acres and $5,000 from ­brothers Augustus and Charles Storrs. The board of trustees delegated the responsibility for organ­izing the institution to Theodore Sedgwick (T.S.) Gold, J. B. Olcott, and Sheffield Scientific School professor Samuel Johnson. Gold had graduated from Yale College, where he was a disciple of Benjamin Silliman and pursued gradu­ate study in natu­ral history. Gold founded the Cream Hill Agricultural School (a vocational training farm school for adolescents) and the state agricultural society in 1825, edited the New E­ ngland Homestead between 1855 and 1861, and was a member of the board of control of the Connecticut State Agricultural Experiment Station in New Haven. Olcott was a member of the state agricultural society and a regular contributor on m ­ atters of agricultural education for the New E­ ngland Homestead. Samuel Johnson had been busy since returning from doctoral study in Germany, having led the campaign to establish the Connecticut experiment station, the first center for agricultural research in the region. The three men agreed that Storrs Agricultural School would not be a scientific institution of high academic grade, for Sheffield was already training scientists and agricultural leaders. Instead, its mission would be to provide broad access to aspiring farmers and combine scientific understanding with vocational instruction in modern farm practice. Gold, Olcott, and Johnson wanted to visit a similar institution to guide their institutional designs, and they chose the farm school in Guelph, Ontario, as the most successful in “growing farmers [by] combining farm work and farm study.”14 The explicit purpose of what was to become the Ontario Agricultural College was the “­union of the scientific and the practical . . . ​[uniting] the skill of intellect and the skill of the hand.” The institution was funded by the Canadian government and led by émigré Scottish scientists from the University of Edinburgh. In the 1870s, the school had nearly been ruined when Guelph made the same m ­ istake as Cornell University—­hiring Henry McCandless as principal. McCandless had been the failed first head of the agricultural program at Cornell, and his subsequent termination in Ithaca (discussed in chapter 5) was a mild affair compared to the drumming he received in Canada. In Ontario,

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McCandless mocked the clothing and manners of the country youths as “unbefitting the respectable attire of the proper British gentleman farmer.” His arrogance and treatment of students as servants brought revolt, as did rumors of drunkenness, sexual impropriety, and voyeurism. The entire class penned a letter to the provincial leaders demanding his removal. McCandless resigned before the investigation began and returned to ­Great Britain, more defiant than embarrassed, unable to find a market for his vision of aristocratic agriculture.15 The Guelph school had recovered by the time the Storrs del­e­ga­tion arrived in 1881. The principalship had fallen to University of Edinburgh and University of Toronto gradu­ate William Johnston. An excellent or­ga­nizer, Johnston reworked the academic program t­oward what he called “the golden mean” between scientific studies and apprenticeship. He viewed farming as a “business, science, and trade” and proposed a three-­tiered program for the students. ­There was to be a three-­year course in which students would gain a “thorough knowledge of scientific agriculture,” a two-­year course that taught the practical business of farming and its under­lying scientific princi­ples, and a one-­year course where students “would assist on the Model Farm, and attend first year lectures on practical agriculture.” The degree-­seeking students in the three-­ year program would be ready to enter ­careers in academia, government, or experiment stations, the two-­year students would be prepared to run profitable, scientific farms, and the one-­year students would be more productive on their own farms or when tilling the land of ­others. The school was to be open to any student who had completed a common school education.16 The visitors ­were impressed. Gold, Olcott, and Johnson met with professors of chemistry, botany, and breeding, and toured the model farm, chemistry laboratory, library, and stables. A commentator for the Connecticut Courant who was along on the trip was enthralled with the large number of boys who attended the school “mixing farm work and farm study as though they enjoyed it.” Upon returning from Canada in July 1881, Gold penned A Prospectus for the Storrs Agricultural School, borrowing freely from the two-­year program of study at Guelph. The Storrs version of the “agricultural business” track required courses in general and agricultural chemistry, natu­ral philosophy, farm mechanics, geometry, surveying, botany, geology, stock breeding, zoology, farm accounts, and En­glish. On the farm, the students ­were to be taught “practical applications of the princi­ples learned in the classroom . . . ​[so] that each boy [could] become skillful in the management of a farm.” To carry out this plan, the board of trustees hired two men to pursue the “golden mean” between the scientific and the practical. “Practical farmer and gardener” Samuel Mead was hired as principal and professor of practical agriculture, and Henry Armsby was secured to teach “agricultural chemistry and other sciences.”17

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The appointment of Professor Henry Armsby brought an accomplished agricultural scientist to Storrs. In 1871, Armsby had graduated from the Worcester County ­Free Institute of Industrial Science (­later called Worcester Polytechnic College) with a bachelor of science degree before studying agricultural chemistry with Samuel Johnson at Sheffield. ­After graduation, Armsby departed for the experiment station in Möckern, Germany, to conduct original research and then published a scholarly paper on fertilizers and soil ­under the mentorship of Gustav Kahn entitled Ueber die Einwirkung der Schwefelsaure auf Phosphorsauren Kalk (The Influence of Sulfuric Acid upon Calcium Phosphate). While at Möckern, Armsby observed Kahn’s pathbreaking research on animal digestion and metabolism, an experience that would influence his decision to pursue this line of research in ­future years. He returned to the United States in 1876 as chemistry professor in the scientific department of Rutgers College, where he published a second paper, entitled Ueber das Absorptionsvermogen des Bodens fur Bases (The Power of the Soil to Absorb Bases). ­After only a year in New Brunswick, Armsby was recruited by Samuel Johnson to become the state chemist for the Connecticut State Agricultural Experiment Station. He served in that role for four years; during his sojourn in New Haven, he received his PhD from Yale in 1879.18 At the start of his third semester at Storrs, Armsby appeared before the state agricultural board to give “a plain, unvarnished account of what the Storrs Agricultural School has done, is ­doing, and aims to do.” He differentiated Storrs from other institutions: “It is not a scientific school in the common acceptation of the term. Its pupils study science, not for its own sake, but for the uses they can make of it in one occupation.” Armsby challenged ­those farmers who w ­ ere often skeptical of “book learning” when he declared that “any school for farmers’ boys . . . ​which ignores the natu­ral sciences is fatally defective.” Even though Storrs students had limited academic preparation, each would be required to take chemistry and become acquainted with the “composition of soil, air, plant, animal, and fertilizer.” The study of physics would be of equal importance, as the student would learn “the general laws governing the construction and use of s­ imple machines, the laws of pressure and flow of ­water, of atmospheric pressure and its application, and of light, sound, and electricity.” Students would also study living organisms in biology, botany, and zoology, and the “scientific side” of c­ attle feeding and breeding. While Armsby contended that the Storrs Agricultural School was not a college or scientific school, it was also not to be a place for t­hose “not smart enough to go to a college or scientific school.” He exclaimed, “While it does not reject any faithful student of average capacity, it is not, and w ­ ill not be made, an asylum for incapables.” Armsby believed that larger numbers of young men could both comprehend and profit from advanced scientific study,

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and it was only through this scientific understanding that gradu­ates of Storrs (and similar institutions) would become ready consumers for experiment station research. He envisioned agricultural education in Connecticut as a three-­ legged stool: Sheffield Scientific School would produce the leading agricultural scientists, researchers, and bureaucrats; the experiment station would employ ­these scientific leaders to create and disseminate new knowledge in agricultural science; and the educated farmers from Storrs would be able to understand and efficiently implement ­these new ideas.19 Henry Armsby and Sheffield Scientific School alumnus and botany professor Benjamin Koons soon came to recognize their naiveté, as most of the fourteen-­and fifteen-­year-­old students ­were unable to comprehend the scientific material. The act of incorporation had set a low bar for admission, as students had only needed to be fifteen years of age, have good moral character, read and write En­glish, have a familiarity with ­simple arithmetic, and have a basic knowledge of American geography. The faculty had to shelve the most ambitious offerings in chemistry, botany, and physics, and focus on vocational instruction on the campus farm. Having realized he had inherited the leadership of a trade school in lieu of a new departure in scientific agriculture, in 1883 Armsby accepted an offer to head the agricultural experiment station at the University of Wisconsin. Professor B. F. Koons was named principal at Storrs, where he would remain for the next fifteen years.20 With open admissions and a vocational curriculum, the Storrs Agricultural School succeeded in placing nearly half of its gradu­ates into farming. For t­ hose who did not return to the farm, however, the subcollegiate standards of the school limited the value of its “diplomas of completion.” Possessing what amounted to an academy-­level education, Storrs gradu­ates ­were unable to enter the scientific, business, and engineering c­ areers that ­were often pursued by land-­g rant college gradu­ates in the region. Only one student from the first three graduating classes became an engineer, and only three students entered the learned professions. For ­those not choosing farming, the modal destination was clerical and retail service-­sector jobs. Twenty-­six p­ ercent of gradu­ates entered positions as salespeople, undertakers, store clerks, peddlers, stock or mortgage buyers, and other ser­vice occupations.21 Principal Koons wanted to maintain the two-­year vocational course for aspiring farmers, but as at Guelph, he aspired to provide a three-­year scientific track so ­those not interested in farming could access science-­based ­careers in government, engineering, business, or agriculture. However, the state grange was gaining power and influence, and its leaders wanted not only to maintain open access and limit Storrs to manual training but also to make this approach the dominant land-­g rant model for the region.

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The Grange Takeover in Connecticut The grange came to Connecticut in 1875, but ­because of financial mismanagement and intrastate rivalries, the twenty local granges had dwindled to two by 1885. J. H. Hale, also known as the “Peach King” of Glastonbury, and creator of the J. H. Hale peach variety, was appointed master in 1886 and reinvigorated the grange. He set to work reforming defunct local granges and founding new ones. Hale’s education consisted of a few years in a one-­room school, leaving him to attribute his remarkable business success to ingenuity, practical know-­how, and risk-­taking, not education. Unlike the previous generation of agricultural leaders (e.g., T. S. Gold and J. B. Olcott), Hale ­rose to prominence without a college education. On December 7, 1886, the grange master told the state grange convention that land-­g rant college reform was at the top of his agenda. He introduced the assembled grangers to a proposal to transfer the Morrill Act funds from Yale’s Sheffield Scientific School to the Storrs Agricultural School. He criticized the mathe­matics and Latin admission requirements at Sheffield, declaring that regular farm boys lacked the time and means to prepare for such an examination. Sheffield offered ­little value to the agricultural masses, Hale argued, as evidenced by only seven gradu­ates pursuing farming over two de­cades. Yale could retain one-­third of the federal funds, he added dismissively, “for the teaching of the mechanical arts,” but two-­ thirds of land-­g rant proceeds should be diverted to Storrs for “a practical agricultural education.” The Storrs Agricultural School should maintain admission requirements that would not “exclude any good, bright farm boy of a proper age” and should provide manual training that produced practicing farmers. Indeed, Hale’s comments left ­little doubt that the grange had no interest in Professor Koons’s proposal for a new program in advanced science and engineering.22 During the next three months, grangers filled the agricultural press with calls to cease payments to the Sheffield Scientific School from the land-­g rant endowment, presently held in trust in the state trea­sury. On March 9, 1887, the Connecticut House Judiciary Committee considered the grange position. Professors George Brush and Samuel Johnson testified on behalf of Sheffield, arguing that the Sheffield Scientific School had complied with the provisions of the Morrill Act by “teaching such branches of learning related to agriculture and the mechanical arts.” T. S. Gold, a trustee of both Sheffield and Storrs, followed the professors in addressing the committee. A writer for the New Haven Register noted that “every­one expected a strong plea for the Storrs School” when the “pillar of agriculture” approached the lectern. However, T. S. Gold was a member of the old agricultural gentry, who had always believed that

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high academic standards and the advancement of agricultural science w ­ ere key missions of the land-­g rant colleges. Gold declared that no other institution in the country conformed to the tenets of the Morrill Act more than the Sheffield Scientific School. Further, it was Sheffield’s advancement and dissemination of agricultural science “that helped the Storrs School live.” The committee concurred and left the land-­g rant arrangement unaltered. Yet, within two years, the grange leaders w ­ ere again before the committee, this time to thwart Yale’s bid to receive funding from the Hatch Act of 1887. Hale wanted the $15,000 in Hatch funds invested in Storrs, where the grange could influence its usage. The legislature attempted to appease both sides but instead disappointed every­one, dividing the funds equally between the two institutions.23 The state agricultural board had been a bastion of old agricultural society leaders—­scientists and gentlemen farmers. Yet grange members ­were ascending the ranks and replacing society stalwarts like T. S. Gold, and they ­were ­eager to change the board’s po­liti­cal orientation. In 1887, the board used its annual state meeting to host a series of speeches and discussions on the land-­ grant question entitled “The Storrs School vs. The Sheffield Scientific School.” The first address was given by J. B. Olcott. He asserted his opposition to land-­g rant reform: “I am still one of the trustees of the [Storrs] school, and though it needs money . . . ​I do not believe in robbing Peter to pay Paul, and d­ on’t wish to get a dime in that way.” Olcott argued that the Storrs school was not intended to be a college but instead a school “down near the ground where [farmers’] sons can get into it, and come out of it with a relish for farming.” He then issued a prophetic warning to the audience: “Not one in twenty of our common school gradu­ates t­ oday, are fit to enter the Storrs School. Make a college of it and our boys ­couldn’t get into it with a ladder.”24 Next to the podium in defense of Sheffield was Professor William H. Brewer. ­There was perhaps no other individual with deeper insights into Yale’s land-­ grant efforts, for he had been a student and faculty member at Sheffield. Brewer was born in upstate New York on the farm of a progressive, scientific farmer. He attended the local district school and the Ithaca Acad­emy, and spent summers working the f­ amily farm. Having cultivated an interest in the natu­ral sciences, in 1848 he received his ­father’s permission to pursue chemistry at Yale. He studied ­under Benjamin Silliman  Jr. and John Pitkin Norton in the first graduating class of Yale’s Scientific School, alongside f­ uture faculty members Samuel Johnson and George Brush. Brewer pursued advanced studies in chemistry and botany abroad, studying with Professor Robert Bunsen at the University of Heidelberg and with Justus von Liebig. Upon returning from Eu­rope, he taught in several academies before accepting the post of geological surveyor for the state of California. In 1864, Brewer was called back to New

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Haven as professor of botany, researcher of soil chemistry, and chair of agriculture. Drawing on ­these experiences, he stood before the agricultural establishment to defend the institution at the center of his professional life.25 Professor Brewer stated that ­there was “considerable misapprehension as to the original [land-­g rant] bill.” It was not for sponsoring agricultural schools but rather “to help t­ hose colleges . . . ​teach the sciences that w ­ ere used in agriculture and mechanical arts . . . ​better than the old classical colleges had done.” Sheffield had been fulfilling this role for four de­cades, Brewer contended, at no cost to taxpayers. He then addressed the most contentious issue: the social origins and c­ areer trajectories of students. Brewer stated that he was aware of over a hundred farmers’ sons who had pursued an education at Sheffield, and many of them ­were scholarship students who attended without cost. The prob­lem, as Brewer perceived it, was that gradu­ates w ­ ere disinclined to return to the farm: “We cannot oblige the farmer boys to go back to the farm if they choose other­wise ­after they have been through school.” He encouraged ­those assembled to celebrate the “good many farmers’ boys . . . ​ a brilliant set of young men” who had found “considerable success in manufactures, business, and engineering,” where they “can make more money than on the farm.” Brewer then turned to the Storrs school. The farmers of the state would be disappointed if Storrs was made an agricultural college, he argued, stating that “­there is not a single State that has an agricultural college that has educated . . . ​as many men for the farms as farmers hoped would be the case.” He continued, “I believe ­there is a ­g reat place for schools of a grade below colleges—­between that of a college and a common school . . . ​ [where the gradu­ate] may have a brilliant ­career.” Since the Morrill Act was for colleges, the effort to transfer funds from Yale was, to Brewer, both ill-­ advised and illegal.26 Brewer’s speech received polite applause before questions came from the floor. John S. Kirkham, an avid grange supporter, focused on Brewer’s claim that several farmers’ sons had attended Sheffield. Ignoring Brewer’s nuanced distinction between vocational study in farming and the scientific study of agriculture, Kirkham requested the exact number of students who had “received a purely agricultural education as distinguished from a scientific education, so-­called.” Brewer replied curtly that Sheffield was a “scientific school” that teaches “science as applicable to agriculture and mechanical arts. . . . ​We have no farm. We cannot teach the art of agriculture.” The exchange perfectly illustrates the contested conceptions of the purposes of the Morrill Act. Should higher education provide a scientific and liberal curriculum to lift students out of a constricting agricultural sector, or should colleges and

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universities provide vocational training in agricultural practice and return youths “home to the farm” to strengthen the class and rural community? Grangers desired land-­grant institutions that w ­ ere broadly accessible, practical, and returned c­ hildren to the farm. However, such schemes ­were criticized for being below “a collegiate grade” and did not seem to meet students’ demands for academic programs that ­were gateways to white-­collar c­ areers. Indeed, if academic standards and curricula ­were elevated to teach “science related to agriculture” and did not “exclude other classical studies,” then gradu­ ates would use that education to pursue c­ areers more lucrative than farming.27 The issue resurfaced in 1890 with the passage of the second Morrill Act, which promised an additional annual grant of $15,000 (to grow by $1,000 each year) to the state’s original land-­g rant college. J. H. Hale won election to the state legislature on the single issue of preventing Yale from securing this financial windfall, and he was named chairman of the Committee on Agriculture.28 On March  9, 1893, Congressman Hale championed a bill entitled “Establishing the Storrs Agricultural College and Providing for the Distribution of Money Received from the United States for Educational Purposes.” The bill proposed to amend the charter of the Storrs Agricultural School to make it a college, thus making it eligible to receive the Morrill Act funds.29 As the legislature considered the bill, partisans offered competing opinions in newspapers and the New E­ ngland Farmer, and debated the issue at community gatherings. Judge Henry C. Robinson was the guest speaker at a meeting of Yale’s exclusive Kent Club. As reported in the New Haven Register, Robinson digressed from his prepared remarks to discuss the Yale-­Storrs controversy. The judge pleased his sympathetic audience, saying: “I am sorry to see some foolish-­brained p­ eople endeavoring to take away [the land grant] from the Yale Scientific School [and] . . . ​to carry the same up into Tolland county and to bury it in the stone pile ­there.” He continued to lambast the Storrs co­ali­tion and extol the virtuous ser­vice that the Yale Scientific School had given to the state’s farmers. On this point, Robinson crafted a stirring defense of Yale’s land-­ grant status. He asked his audience, “Have the requests of farmers . . . ​been ignored or slighted?” Not waiting for a response, he answered forcefully: “On the contrary, special subjects have been investigated for their benefit; gatherings in their interest have been held in New Haven; reports have been rendered which have saved the farming interest hundreds of thousands of dollars.” All of this work for the farmers’ welfare could “only be done by experts,” Robinson concluded, adding that “had not the Scientific School concentrated its efforts and placed at this same time a liberal interpretation upon the meaning of the act of congress, no such brilliant rec­ord could have been made.”30

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The day ­after the judge’s remarks w ­ ere published, Charles Pierson Auger penned a letter in support of the grange’s plans for Storrs. He began by identifying himself “as one of ­those foolish brained ­people,” and claimed that he and his allies ­were motivated to “obtain only what we believe honestly belongs to us.” The Morrill Act had expressly stated that colleges ­were to be created for the “agricultural and industrial classes,” Auger added, and “we think we . . . ​have a right to say where and how that interest ­shall be spent.” He then thanked Yale for assuming the role of the land-­g rant college, but added that “her efforts [­were] misdirected.” According to Auger, this was evidenced by the fact that “of the ‘200 to 300’ farmers’ sons graduated, who received the benefit of the f­ree scholarship, eleven took the agricultural course and it is not known [if] ­these 11 are engaged in farming.” Beyond lamenting the dearth of farmers’ sons returning to farming, Auger complained that few of the students ­were actually ­children of “representative farmers.” Instead, he argued that the students “­were the sons of farmers who w ­ ere financially able to educate them far beyond the limit of education in our public schools. The entrance-­examination of the scientific school was so high that only the young men especially prepared could obtain admission.” With Morrill Act funds disproportionately flowing to wealthier students, Auger concluded that “the class the fund was designed for”—­the industrial classes—­was being deprived of land-­g rant benefits.31 The gentlemen of the Yale club celebrated a liberal, scientific interpretation of the Morrill Act, endorsing land-­g rant colleges that advanced scientific knowledge, prepared students for c­ areers in business, academia, or government, and spurred economic development. Standing in opposition w ­ ere farmers, who in the words of Auger w ­ ere “not ignorant . . . ​well meaning ‘hayseeds’ ” but instead individuals trying to prevent further support for “an education in the scientific school [that] tended to educate . . . ​sons away from the farm rather than ­towards it.” The farmers united ­behind the idea that, with federal support, institutions like the Storrs Agricultural School could curb rural outmigration and preserve the status of their class and communities.32 March 29, 1893, was an unusual day in Hartford. Scores of young ­women “bright and elegantly attired” had descended on the capital on an educational excursion from Williams Memorial Institute (a w ­ omen’s preparatory acad­emy in New London, Connecticut). The visitors swelled the assembly gallery, bringing an air of excitement to the mundane procedure and protocol. A reporter for the Hartford Register concluded that such a “large and handsome” audience could not have been drawn to the city by the Storrs agricultural bill alone. But they ­were ­there all the same. When the debate on J. H. Hale’s bill to elevate

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Storrs to a land-­grant college came to the floor, journalists noted that representatives exchanged barbs with a heightened bravado ­under the watchful eye of their female guests. Opponents dismissed the legislation as a “money grab” by farmers, in violation of a sacred contract between the state and Yale. Representative David Callahan of New Haven warned that this vote would initiate a continuous financial burden: “Where are we ­going to stop in ­these appropriations to the Storrs School?” Mr. John Sare of Waterbury countered that the opponents w ­ ere “sons of Yale” bent on defending their alma mater. Hale, “the g­ reat champion of the mea­sure,” arose to give a vigorous retort to the Yale supporters. He first noted that the Storrs school would be renamed a college and, as such, be eligible for the funds from the Morrill Act of 1890. In a direct appeal to fiscally cautious Republicans, Hale contended that the federal funds would place the new Storrs Agricultural College on a firm financial foundation, precluding the need for f­uture state appropriations. House Speaker Judge Wood tried to derail the bill by delivering a “rattling speech” on the sanctity of contracts, and declared that this course of action would as­suredly bring “a lawsuit lasting three years.” He stated that “Storrs had been very generously treated” by both the legislature and the Sheffield school, and should be content that it would receive “such treatment in the f­ uture.” This was not enough to sway the majority, and the mea­sure passed 133 to 31. Soon a­ fter, the Connecticut State Senate endorsed the plan with an even more lopsided result, 22 to 2.33 The bill was signed on April 21, 1893, making the Storrs Agricultural College the recipient of all land-­g rant funds for the state. The governor explained that the legislature had given numerous hearings on the bill, and the overwhelming support in both chambers signaled it was the w ­ ill of the p­ eople. Furthermore, he stated that while the Sheffield school had been “able to prepare the education in the line of mechanical arts to good advantage . . . ​­there had been . . . ​a good deal of complaint on the part of ­those engaged in agriculture that [Sheffield] has not given the instruction which was called for in the original act.” ­Because Sheffield had no campus farm, the governor concluded that “­those intended to be educated for the farms . . . ​do not go back . . . ​[but] receive an education that leads them into civil engineering and other professions, anything in fact but farming.” As predicted by the h ­ ouse speaker, the passage of the law began a protracted l­egal b­ attle that would result in the state having to compensate Yale over $150,000 in damages. Yet the Connecticut grangers had secured federal funding for their agricultural college and could now build an institution in their image. But, over the next de­cade, grange leaders would also discover the g­ reat difficulty in developing a land-­g rant program that returned young men to the farm.34

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The Campaign against Brown ­ fter years of ineffectual operations, the Rhode Island grange was reor­ga­nized A in 1886 u ­ nder the leadership of Thomas Hazard, who ascended to the position of g­ rand master on the platform of land-­g rant reform at Brown University. On March 2, 1887, President Grover Cleveland signed the Hatch Act, which promised $15,000 to the states to establish agricultural experiment stations to be attached to land-­g rant colleges.35 Hazard was infuriated by the idea of additional federal support g­ oing to Brown, as he was certain that t­hese funds would also be diverted to traditional studies. The Rhode Island grange contacted agricultural journal editor Herbert Myrick for assistance, and a plan was hatched to build a new agricultural school to ­house the Hatch Act funds. It was deci­ded that Rhode Island farmers (as well as allies from Connecticut, Mas­ sa­chu­setts, and New Hampshire) would be invited to a Farmers’ Field Day on August 20, 1887, at the new vacation resort of Oakland Beach. This would allow the grange’s leaders to build grassroots support for a new agricultural college among its members while also creating a mass spectacle that could not be ignored by the legislature. Myrick used the New E­ ngland Homestead to publicize the event, and he offered Hazard his subscription lists for sending out personal invitations.36 Over 1,200 farmers attended the Farmers’ Field Day at Oakland Beach, where they enjoyed a barrage of fiery rhe­toric from the event’s organizers. Myrick informed the audience that despite Brown’s indifference to the needs of farmers, the university was “poised to inherit a second sum of monies” (the Hatch Act funds). He was followed by Henry Alvord, professor of agriculture at the Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College, who had spent much of the previous year in Washington working for the Hatch Act’s passage. Alvord argued that farmers must “or­ga­nize . . . ​to bring pressure to bear upon the legislature and its committee and to let them know they are being watched to see that they represent their interests faithfully.” Forget about “reforming the educational placebo at Brown,” he declared, and instead “proceed at once to the establishment of an in­de­pen­dent institution.” Moved by ­these arguments, the farmers passed a resolution in support of a new agricultural school. The resolution, “The Farmer Speaks Out,” was disseminated through the New ­England Homestead mailing lists. By the end of October, the flurry of publicity had resulted in fifteen new local granges being formed throughout Rhode Island, with an average size of forty members.37 In the state capital, a legislative committee considering Hatch Act fund disbursement agreed with the grange resolution and recommended the creation of a new agricultural school. On January 31, 1888, President Ezekiel Robin-

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son of Brown appeared before the legislature to defend his institution, where he had to listen to the denigration of his faculty, students, and administration. Some roared with laughter when one grange supporter described a professor as a “dandy” who dressed in the latest fashions and would “take his hat off to himself ” upon catching his own reflection. The college students w ­ ere just refined dilettantes, the legislator explained, as not “100 boys or their parents” from regular farming families ­were even aware that they could receive land-­ grant scholarships to study at Brown University. President Robinson was also roasted: “It [is] quite natu­ral [that] a gentleman like Dr. Robinson, exempted from taxation and jury duty, should suppose he was self-­poised in his position, like Mahomet’s coffin between Heaven and Earth.”38 President Robinson, agitated but resolute, stated that Brown University “did not want one cent of the fund for purposes outside the scope of the act.” The Hatch Act required funding to be applied to agricultural research and not for instructional purposes, and Brown University had not the experimental laboratory or farm to conduct this research. The only options before the legislature, Robinson explained, ­were to ­either appropriate funds to Brown University so he could expand the capacity for agricultural research and instruction or build a new agricultural college fitted to ­those ends. But the president warned that founding a new college would be costly and require regular appropriations. Grange supporter Charles Flagg quickly interjected. He countered that an in­de­pen­dent agricultural college and experiment station would provide a “financial windfall” that would “compensate the state for its investment,” as farmers could discover the best “ways of feeding grain to cows . . . ​[and] increase the product of each cow one pint a day, which would increase the income of the State $204,932 per year.”39 Such arguments would allow the grange to win the day. On March 21 and March 23, 1888, the Rhode Island House of Representatives and Senate passed “The Agricultural School Act.” The law stipulated that $5,000 in state funding would be appropriated for an agricultural school that was to be the sole beneficiary of the Hatch Act funds and be eligible for any ­future funding “by virtue of any act of congress for the promotion of agriculture.” A five-­person board of man­ag­ers was designated to oversee the institution, composed of “practical agriculturalists,” each appointed from the state’s five counties.40 In June 1888, the governor appointed the board of man­ag­ers of the new institution, and while all ­were loyal to the grange vision, historian Herman Eschenbacher argues that only the president of the body, Charles Flagg, “seemed to possess any par­tic­u­lar credentials for the post to which he had been appointed.”41 Flagg was a respected elder in the agricultural community,

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serving as leader of the state agricultural society in the 1860s and 1870s before joining the grange movement in 1886. Flagg had partnered with Hazard and Myrick from the outset, been the chairman of the Oakland Beach meeting, and was an out­spoken supporter of the agricultural college bill.42 He was born on a modest ­family farm in Mas­sa­chu­setts in 1852 and graduated from that state’s agricultural college in 1872. Flagg’s time at Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College made him value agricultural science and “book-­farming” much more than other members of the grange order. For example, Thomas Hazard feared that curricula steeped in chemistry, mathe­matics, and botany would prove too difficult for the average farm boy, and practical instruction in farm implements and methods was a more appropriate course. Yet Flagg was committed to using the Hatch Act funds to support agricultural science and research. He invited Dr. Charles Goessman, chemistry professor at Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College and the director of the state experiment station, to assess w ­ hether a farm near the village of Kingston was suitable for research purposes.43 The visiting professor concluded that the land was suitable, but before departing for Amherst, Goessman encouraged Flagg to consider a former student, John Washburn, to lead the new agricultural school for Rhode Island. John Washburn was an 1878 gradu­ate of the Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College, had worked for two years (1881–1883) at the Mas­sa­chu­setts experiment station ­under the mentorship of Goessman, and had succeeded Henry Armsby as professor of chemistry at the Storrs Agricultural School in Connecticut. In 1887, he left his post at Storrs to pursue doctoral study in chemistry at the University of Göttingen, where he received his PhD. As Washburn was completing his time in Germany, he received the invitation from Flagg to lead Rhode Island’s new venture.44 Upon his arrival, Washburn assessed the school’s meager finances and requested $50,000 from the legislature for the construction of a dormitory and classroom building and a $10,000 annual appropriation to ensure f­ree tuition. The appropriation bill passed, despite detractors who asserted that $50,000 was “extravagant . . . ​[and that] the most substantial education in farming came from hard experience, not from attendance at a commodious, comfortably furnished institution.”45 Yet, with finances secured, attention turned to organ­izing a faculty and curriculum. Washburn would primarily teach chemistry, and Charles Flagg resigned his post on the board to lead the experiment station and hold the professorship of geology. Lorenzo Kinney, another Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College product and former assistant at Amherst’s agricultural experiment station, became an assistant to Flagg and professor of botany. To fill the position of chemist in the experiment station and professor of soils and organic chemis-

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try, Washburn recruited Goessman’s other protégé, Homer J. Wheeler, an 1881 Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College gradu­ate. Wheeler was an exceptional researcher who had also received his PhD from the University of Göttingen. Rounding out the instructional staff w ­ ere part-­time faculty from the surrounding area, including Samuel Cushman, lecturer in bee keeping; Miss Serena Stockbridge, lecturer in En­glish, French, and Latin; Thomas C. Rodman as instructor in wood and ironwork; and Dr. Frederick Rice, professor of physiology, zoology, and veterinary science.46 In February  1890, the new president of Brown University, Elisha Andrews, invited the Rhode Island grange to host its annual Farmers’ Institute on their campus. It was a surprising offer, since institute meetings of late had become ­little more than “a rostrum for the criticism of Brown.”47 Yet Andrews was hopeful that the grange and Brown could move beyond the disagreements of the past de­cade and work together to make the Rhode Island Agricultural School a success. John Washburn was summoned to provide his vision for the new enterprise. The thirty-­five-­year-­old man who approached the lectern wore a neatly trimmed, triangular beard, was short and rotund, and had a slight limp that gave an appearance of waddling when he walked. The president’s appearance contrasted sharply with the rugged exterior of grange leader Thomas Hazard. The refined and polished finish of Washburn was reminiscent of the portly, urbanite dandies who w ­ ere staples of farmers’ jokes, and a­ fter listening to the baritone lectures of Hazard, the grangers snickered at the high-­pitched, “effeminate” voice of the Kingston school principal.48 While Washburn’s genteel appearance may have generated suspicion among the assembled grangers, the content of his speech was well received. He praised the work of the grange, noting that the Patrons of Husbandry and the Kingston school shared the goal of “disseminating practical agricultural knowledge.” Washburn explained that while scientific knowledge was essential, the highest purpose in Kingston would be application of that science, framed in such a way that “the information is comparatively easy for ­these young men to acquire.” Instead of studying science for its own sake, his charges would learn botany to have “knowledge of the growth and treatment of fungi . . . ​so detrimental to many of our crops,” as well as “the laws of vegetable physiology,” which would provide practical knowledge of how “plants breathe, grow, [and] digest,” and chemistry, which would teach the proper “application of fertilizers[,] . . . ​the chemistry of digestion[,] . . . ​[and] the chemistry of milk.” It would be in courses like “Mathe­matics and Mea­sure­ments” that students would master foundational princi­ples of surveying, drainage, field clearing, bookkeeping and accounting, and management of capital, and

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Figure 7.  John Washburn, the first president of Rhode Island’s land-­grant college. Special Collections, University of Rhode Island Library.

while Washburn did reveal that the students would be exposed to history, En­glish, lit­er­a­ture, and government, this would be done for the purpose of forming strong citizens and f­ uture leaders of agricultural organ­izations, not for instilling haughty notions of upper-­class culture. The principal concluded with the straightforward goal of creating farmers who would “understand how to farm systematically, eco­nom­ically, and intelligently.”49 Principal Washburn explained that ­there would be a three-­year course of study, and ­those completing the entire sequence would receive a diploma of graduation. He offered a list of subjects to be studied, but with the school’s small faculty and lack of buildings, the menu was clearly aspirational:

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agriculture, carpentry, iron work, horticulture, farm accounts, market gardening, ­cattle feeding, bee culture, dairying, stock breeding, rural law, forestry and landscape gardening, lecture on experiment station reports, hygiene and physiology of the domestic animals, veterinary science[,] . . . ​agricultural chemistry, botany, . . . ​geology[,] . . . ​En­glish, algebra, geometry, trigonometry, surveying, the drawing, French, physics, physical geography[,] . . . ​­human physiology, entomology, zoology, bookkeeping, [and] general and organic chemistry.50 He emphasized that the school would balance “the ­mental and physical powers” by providing ample time for student l­abor, agricultural excursions, and “practical work” in dairying, agriculture, and horticulture. He understood farmers’ concerns that higher education tended to move ­children off the farm, but he claimed that while this may be true of “ordinary schools,” the agricultural school at Kingston would show young men the joys and profitability of returning to the old homestead as educated farmers, and since admission to the school only required knowledge of the “common En­glish branches taught in our district schools, arithmetic, grammar, geography, reading, spelling, and United States history,” the benefits of the school could be in reach of all rural youths. T ­ here was one statement that gave grangers pause: “The curriculum would also include the option of Latin and German . . . ​­mental philosophy, elocution and m ­ usic to afford general culture.” Grangers w ­ ere likely bewildered by Washburn’s claim that “­these [classical] subjects are taught with reference to their special application to agriculture.” Notwithstanding this tangent from his practical education message, his remarks ­were greeted warmly.51 President Andrews followed with words of reconciliation, stating: “It seems to my mind that the institute which is being erected in Rhode Island is calculated to boom the interests of agriculture . . . ​and the course of study which has been outlined by Dr. Washburn is a most excellent one.”52 Brown professor B. F. Clarke spoke next and argued that both Brown and the Kingston school could flourish in their own spheres. He explained that while farmers and machinists could be educated in Kingston, Brown would be “training chemists for our manufactories[,] . . . ​training engineers to build your bridges, roads, mills, [and] store h ­ ouses . . . ​[and] training botanists, geologists, zoologists, and 53 surveyors.” The two institutions would depend on one another, as the Kingston school would teach aspiring farmers how to apply the discoveries of the scientists trained in Providence. Professor Atwater, director of the Office of Experiment Stations in Washington, D.C., spoke next and afforded no prominent role to Brown. He declared that the founding of the Storrs school and the Kingston school marked a “new epoch in agricultural industrial education,”

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and since the school had an experiment station, it had all it needed to offer a comprehensive agricultural education.54 The only ­thing missing at the Kingston school, Atwater argued, was the federal funding from the Morrill Act of 1862. ­After the meeting in March 1890, President Andrews wrote the governor that Brown University was willing to relinquish the Morrill Act of 1862. The original endowment was never that significant, and Andrews seemed ready to place the entire controversy in the past. Yet with the passage of the Morrill Act of 1890, and the promise of an annual $15,000 appropriation (to grow by $1,000 a year), the president changed his mind. Brown University now reasserted its commitment to land-­grant education, a position immediately rejected by the state grange. Thomas Hazard demanded that the state legislature intervene, strip Brown of its land-­g rant status, and appropriate all federal funds to the Rhode Island Agricultural School. The legislature created a special commission to decide where to distribute the funds from the Morrill Act of 1890. Three hearings ­were scheduled to occur over three dif­fer­ent days. On April 15, 1891, the initial meeting was held in the state library, and President Andrews was allowed to speak first. He reminded every­one that Brown had been the only institution in the state that had agreed to accept the land grant in 1863, and if it had not, the funds would have been lost to the p­ eople. He had been willing to dispose of the original land grant, Andrews explained, ­because the paucity of interest was never enough to cover “the draft on our own resources” caused by the requirement to instruct scholarship students (a guarantee forced on Brown by the Rhode Island legislature in 1863). He then declared that the reason they ­were all assembled that day was ­because a “misconception . . . ​[had] appeared in the public mind” that land-­g rant funds w ­ ere intended to create farmers and mechanics. The president veiled Brown University’s curriculum in the words of Justin Morrill, as he lectured the commission that the founder intended the funds “to apply to a liberal and practical education on the scientific side.” He used an excerpt from Morrill’s speech before the Vermont legislature to declare that using the funds to establish an agricultural school was “a revolution and subversive of the ­whole idea of the land grant act of 1862, which was [to be] of a much broader kind.” Andrews concluded that Brown was the best institution to offer this scientific education, and a “plan might be devised whereby the two institutions . . . ​could co-­ operate advantageously.”55 The second hearing was held on April 20 in the senate chamber, and “hours ­were devoted to expressions of opinions from the farmers, the [Kingston] agricultural school, and the friends of [Brown].” Charles Flagg, speaking on behalf of the agricultural school and the grange, introduced Justin Morrill’s

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speeches from 1862 as evidence that Morrill’s intention was the improvement of agriculture, and thus this branch of learning should be the leading aim of all land-­g rant colleges. He encouraged the commission to review Brown’s course of study as proof that classical studies dominated the curriculum. Flagg added that Brown’s “standard of admission . . . ​is such that few students can enter it from the common schools.” He then introduced two agricultural school students—­“­children whose f­ athers had to take off their coats and work for a living”—­who ­were able to meet all their financial burdens by working on the campus farm at ten cents an hour.56 Thomas Hazard was next, and he declared that the ­children of the industrial and agricultural classes w ­ ere excluded from Brown by high costs and high admission standards. Brown was a classical college, Hazard explained, and all ­these “colleges [in the] country had failed to reach the working class.” He then turned to look at all the farmers that had packed the senate gallery that morning and stated, “­Here are farmers leaving their work and coming up to the Legislature, with their sons and d­ aughters, and asking that the funds be given to the Kingston school.” On the other hand, Hazard argued that Brown had the support of “­lawyers, one doctor of divinity and other men of education.” He asked, “Which represents the ­people?” The Brown allies ­were shouted down ­after calling Hazard’s remarks “nothing more than class legislation.” The commission moved to close the hearing for the day and resume it three days ­later.57 For the final hearing, the commission returned to the state library on April 22, and the meeting was presided over by Governor John W. Davis. President Andrews made one final plea on behalf of Brown, arguing that elevating the Kingston school into a college would make that institution exactly like the objects of grange discontent. The Rhode Island school produced farmers, he conceded, but make it a college, and the “work of the institution [would be] extended . . . ​[and farmers’ ­children] would go away from it . . . ​disinclined to work upon the farm or in the workshop.” The agricultural colleges in Michigan and Mas­sa­chu­setts, so often celebrated by grangers, produced not farmers but scientists and professional men, Andrews noted. The same fate, he argued, would befall Kingston if it became a college. The final words w ­ ere delivered by Hazard, who responded to the claim that his reform movement amounted to “class legislation.” He conceded that indeed it was “class legislation,” but he was not responsible for it. It was Congress and Justin Morrill, he argued, “which had made the law for the benefit of agriculturalists and mechanics”; they ­were the parties “guilty of class legislation.” Justin Morrill had introduced class into the land-­grant debate, and Hazard was intent on ensuring that his class benefited. The commission debated the issue for the next two months.58

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Amid all the po­liti­cal theater, John Washburn and his fellow faculty members w ­ ere busy educating the first class in Kingston. With the land-­g rant question unresolved, Washburn moved forward with the plan that he had introduced at the Farmers’ Institute meeting two years earlier. The stated design was to “fit young men who intend to pursue agriculture or mechanic arts, for active life.”59 On a normal day, students spent their mornings in the classroom studying mathe­matics, chemistry, botany, and En­glish, and in the after­noon, they exited to the fields for manual l­ abor and practical agricultural instruction.60 The basic admission examination of arithmetic, reading, spelling, grammar, and history allowed individuals with just a common school education to join the Kingston school.61 One student noted that during its early years, no students heralded from a high school, as “many Rhode Island towns had no high school at all.”62 It was not surprising that with such modest entrance standards, the institution enrolled many students of lesser means—­ including ­children of farmers, carpenters, laborers, and mill workers—­and from several rural towns and villages.63 In May 1892, the legislature passed a bill (Chapter 1078 of the Public Statutes) to create a college of agriculture and mechanical arts at Kingston, elevating the board of man­ag­ers to college trustees and directing them to receive funds from the Morrill Act of 1890. The passage of Chapter 1078 led to court injunctions and judicial appeals that went all the way to the Supreme Court. Over time, President Andrews found the l­ egal challenge futile and acquiesced. The injunction was lifted, and the newly chartered Rhode Island College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts at Kingston received all Morrill funds and became the state’s land-­g rant college on May 17, 1894.64 The college chapel bell was given a celebratory ringing. To allow the townspeople to share in their jubilant fête, the students fired a Civil War cannon. From somewhere on campus, as the legend goes, John Washburn observed the revelry and exclaimed, “I have carried on this school successfully so far, now I’ll have to see if I can conduct a college.”65

The Land-­Grant Divorce at Dartmouth The New Hampshire land-­grant college connected to Dartmouth College had been guided by Principal Ezekiel Dimond and his liberal vision of the Morrill Act. Like Evan Pugh of Pennsylvania but less remembered, Dimond was a scholar educated in agricultural chemistry in Germany who was committed to bringing European-­style study across the Atlantic. He eschewed the term “agricultural college,” preferring the moniker “industrial college” as an expres-

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sion of the college’s commitment to applied science and industrial utility. Dimond’s scientific pronouncements w ­ ere well received by the old agricultural society members, but it was his procurement of a model farm at his own expense that endeared him to the new state grange. While ultimately compensated for the purchase, Dimond’s willingness to risk his own wealth for a college farm brought goodwill from the nascent grange in the state. ­After Dimond died from a brain tumor on January 6, 1876, the ex officio trustees who oversaw the land-­g rant efforts realized how indebted they ­were to their first principal. Rec­ords revealed that Dimond had used much of his personal fortune on New Hampshire’s land-­g rant college. A ­ fter his demise, the appointment of Jeremiah W. Sanborn as farm superintendent in 1876 maintained amicable relations between the college and the grange. Sanborn had been reared on an old New Hampshire farm, had been educated in two academies and the new high school at Concord, and was a veteran of the Civil War. For seven years, Sanborn engaged in experiments on feeds, fertilizer, and breeding, and gave lectures on agricultural science and practice to students and local farmers. Relations with the grange w ­ ere so cordial that in 1879 the state’s grange leaders praised the college faculty in the land-­g rant division at Dartmouth and asserted that “no parent and no young man need fear that the agricultural student w ­ ill be degraded by his connection with the college.” The land-­g rant program at Dartmouth did not have the means to prevent Sanborn from being lured away to a more lucrative and prestigious position. In 1883, he accepted the deanship of agriculture at Missouri College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts. (A few years ­later, he would become the first president of Utah’s land-­g rant college.)66 George  H. Whitchler, one of Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College’s early gradu­ates, replaced Sanborn as farm superintendent and was named professor of agriculture and principal in 1887. Whitchler proved capable as a scientist and continued his pre­de­ces­sor’s research agenda, but he lacked Sanborn’s po­liti­cal connections within the New Hampshire farming community.67 That loss was acutely felt when the college came u ­ nder fire in the 1880s for not producing enough practicing farmers. Between 1871 and 1884, 20 ­percent of gradu­ates became practicing farmers, compared to the 39 ­percent who pursued business (manufacturers, man­ag­ers, clerks, retailers, and merchants) and the 31 ­percent who entered the learned professions (physicians, educators, and clergy).68 To grangers, this disparity was proof that the men of culture at Dartmouth ­were exerting a bad influence on the student body. They argued that the lack of re­ spect accorded to agricultural students was causing farming youths to question the value of the vocation, for as class of 1871 student C. A. Wilcomb stated, “Putting ten country boys in more or less proximity to 300 regular college boys

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was not calculated to promote much enthusiasm among the ‘bucolic’ as we ­were called. Oh yes, we had another rather pungent appellation, ‘dungists.’ ”69 In 1885, a state grange committee called for severing ties with Dartmouth and moving the agricultural college out of Hanover, claiming that the “college was overshadowed by its larger neighbor” and that the “management of the college had been in the hands of men who had l­ittle interest in or knowledge of agriculture.”70 In response to grange pressure, the New Hampshire legislature conducted public hearings and investigations between 1885 and 1887 but uncovered no compelling reason to change the land-­g rant arrangement. Legislators discovered no grievous offenses by Dartmouth officials that would justify the substantial financial outlays to found a new college. While the presidents of Brown University and Yale’s Sheffield Scientific School defended their land-­grant work, President Samuel Colcord Bartlett of Dartmouth actually sought separation and instigated discord. Bartlett was a Presbyterian minister who, as historian Marilyn Tobias writes, “conceived of the college as a closely knit paternal Christian organ­ization with himself as pastoral head and interpreter of life and policy.” As Bartlett attempted to maintain the campus as a site of moral development, the faculty, students, and alumni demanded a transformation to reflect the changing society. Students detested the strict oversight, and the alumni complained that Dartmouth lacked the high collegiate culture of Yale and Harvard and that its gradu­ates ­were unprepared to ascend to leadership positions in the new economy. The controversy became an embarrassing public issue when the board of trustees held a quasitrial in 1881 for Dartmouth constituents to elaborate their charges against the president. He gave a passionate and effective defense of his policies and retained his post, but the trial exposed conflicting educational agendas at Dartmouth. President Bartlett’s efforts to save “old Dartmouth” from modernizing forces would continue over the next de­cade in the face of mounting calls for reform.71 The programs in the Chandler Scientific School and the New Hampshire Agricultural College did not correspond with Bartlett’s educational vision, as he remained adamant that traditional classical study be central to collegiate education. Yet the fact that the ex officio trustees had full fiduciary control of the land-­grant operations prevented Bartlett from redirecting any federal funds to support the classical course. As time passed, the president went out of his way to offend the grange and to expedite the departure of agricultural education from Hanover. In 1881, he offended students in the land-­grant division during a commencement address when he extolled the virtues of the classical gradu­ates and dismissed, with smug disdain, the agricultural students as ready to be “highway surveyors, selectmen, and perhaps, members of the legislature.” Charles Pettee, professor and dean at the agricultural college, wrote to a friend of

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Bartlett’s mistreatment of the agricultural students, “[He goes] out of the way to inform them that they are not members of Dart. College.” Bartlett’s actions ­were cited by the grange as evidence of the untenable land-­grant arrangement in New Hampshire. Grange leaders called for the establishment of an in­de­pen­ dent agricultural college “managed by practical, intelligent farmers, who have its welfare purely at heart.” But while the Dartmouth administration and the grange both wanted out of the marriage, the New Hampshire legislature remained unwilling to finance a new college and end the impasse. Dean Charles Pattee believed the movement for relocation had stalled in 1889, and he stated that the agricultural college “must strengthen its bonds of ­union and sympathy with ‘Old Dartmouth’ so that all eyes in the State s­ hall turn t­ owards Hanover as the ‘­mother of arts and eloquence.’ ” However, the situation was altered when gentleman farmer Benjamin Thompson died and willed his entire estate to New Hampshire for the establishment of an agricultural college. His property was appraised at $408,392.96, which was estimated to produce an annual return of $18,900.00. Thompson’s educational ideas for the school ­were in line with ­those of the agricultural society members of his generation: education of a high grade, required l­abor, the teaching of the science of agriculture, and the conducting of regular experiments on the college farm. As a condition of accepting the gift, the w ­ ill stipulated that the state must also contribute $3,000 a year for twenty years.72 While pursuing dif­fer­ent agendas, President Bartlett, the state agricultural board, the land-­g rant division faculty, and grange leaders lobbied the legislature to accept the gift and move the agricultural college out of Hanover. Five of the major newspapers in the state editorialized against accepting the terms of a w ­ ill that would require f­ uture legislative expenditures. The Portsmouth Journal declared that Thompson was “forc[ing] another incubus in the shape of a state agricultural college upon New Hampshire,” and the Dover Daily Demo­crat mused that the intent of the gift was “to establish a turnip yard over in Durham if the state w ­ ill agree to fence it and keep it fenced.” However, with the agricultural interests or­ga­nized b­ ehind the magnanimous bequest, the legislators could hardly vote to reject the offer. On March 5, 1891, “An Act to Accept the Provisions of the Thompson W ­ ill, and to Provide for the Pres­ent Disposition of the Funds” was unanimously passed by both chambers and signed by the governor.73 In the month that followed, a special legislative committee voted in f­avor of removing the land grant from Dartmouth ­after one year. President Bartlett, who could not wait to see all land-­g rant activities mustered out of Hanover, declared his willingness to waive the one-­year stipulation. On April  10, 1891, the legislature voted to divert the land-­g rant funds from

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Hanover to an in­de­pen­dent college to be built in Durham. The new institution received the Thompson bequest, a regular state appropriation, the Morrill Act funds of 1862, and the Morrill Act funds of 1890. Work on buildings and grounds commenced immediately, and the New Hampshire College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts in Durham received its first class in the fall of 1893.

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Justin Morrill and the Grange The rise of the state grange in 1872 would threaten both the University of Vermont’s land-­g rant status and the po­liti­cal c­ areer of Justin Morrill. Thomas Hoskins, the founder and editor of the Vermont Farmer, joined with state agricultural board leader Zuar Jameson to demand reforms at the university in 1874. Justin Morrill wrote University of Vermont president Matthew Buckham that he sensed a more sinister plot: “Hoskins means mischief. . . . ​He and his co-­agitators w ­ ill, if strong enough, make a raid of the college . . . ​and ­will try to create their own school.”74 The main instigator was Jameson, who was trying to make the agricultural board a mouthpiece for the state grange. ­After pushing his activist agenda too far, Jameson was removed from the board in 1876. Painted as a martyr for the grange cause, Jameson was elected to the legislature in 1878, where he continued his fight against Justin Morrill and the University of Vermont.75 In the summer of 1878, Justin Morrill was facing the greatest challenge of his po­liti­cal c­ areer, from Luke “Brass Buttons” Poland. Poland was no novice; he was a former U.S. senator. “Brass Buttons” believed Morrill had paid a po­ liti­cal price from Jameson’s regular attacks, and he saw the election of 1878 as a way back into national politics. During a spirited campaign, he repeatedly claimed that the University of Vermont had not upheld its responsibilities to the agricultural class and had misused land-­g rant funds, and that Justin Morrill and his fellow trustees w ­ ere in breach of trust. Poland was banking on the support of the grange. Poland’s po­liti­cal allies, the most notable being Jameson, introduced a bill calling for an official investigation of the university and the withholding of all federal funds. Ironically, one legislator used the occasion to inform Vermont farmers that Morrill was not their friend, and brought noticeable gasps from the chamber when he declared that Morrill’s trusteeship at the University of Vermont had led to a land-­g rant model that was a “positive perversion” of the Morrill Act.76 Poland proved to be Morrill’s strongest challenger, but Justin Morrill had many allies and was able to outlast his opponent. Well aware that he did not

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Figure 8.  Luke “Brass Buttons” Poland, Justin Morrill’s po­liti­cal opponent. Library of Congress Prints and Photo­graphs Division.

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have the votes in the legislature for ­either the investigation bill or to defeat Morrill, Poland withdrew his candidacy and ended his campaign against the university. The events had brought the deficiencies in agricultural education at the University of Vermont to light, however, and while the Poland-­Morrill contest was over, the state grange continued to critique the university—­and it was open to critique. Of all the land-­g rant colleges in New ­England, the University of Vermont remained closest to a pure classical college. Nearly 90 ­percent of full-­time students ­were in the traditional BA degree program, with most entering learned professions. The president, Matthew Buckham, was a Greek scholar whose greatest concern was losing students to Middlebury, Harvard, or Dartmouth. ­There was ­little investment in the sciences (pure or applied), and ­little had been done in agricultural education beyond hiring a chemist. The threat of investigation did prod the university to create the position of professor of agriculture in 1886—­seventeen years ­after it had taken the timid step of establishing an agricultural department on paper. The university asked the farmers of the state to “nominate a man who ­shall give his full time to scientific and practical agriculture as a specialty” to fill the position. Within a year, W. W. Cooke was appointed the first professor of agriculture. The department was to offer a four-­year program in agricultural science, a special two-­year course in practical agriculture, and an eleven-­week short course for practicing farmers. The grange leaders relished the victory but w ­ ere far from satisfied. The organ­ization was well aware of its po­liti­cal power and would soon demand more.77 Over the next few years, the grange criticized the University of Vermont and its new agricultural program for failing to return boys to rural communities as practicing farmers. The 1890 University of Vermont cata­logue reveals that at the height of this campaign, the most popu­lar program remained the classical course, in which seventy-­four undergraduates w ­ ere enrolled. Of t­ hose graduating, pluralities went on to study at the University of Vermont’s medical school or pursue c­ areers in law. However, a­ fter the Poland-­Morrill contest, the University of Vermont did increase its scientific offerings. Thirty-­one students ­were in the literary-­scientific program, which combined classical studies with the basic sciences of chemistry, botany, geology, biology, and physics. ­There ­were fourteen undergraduates enrolled in the chemistry program, which mirrored the literary-­scientific course but with intensive study of applied and analytical chemistry. The program experiencing the fastest growth was engineering, where twenty-­eight students w ­ ere enrolled. The most popu­lar ­career trajectories for gradu­ates of the literary-­scientific, chemistry, and engineering courses ­were civil or mechanical engineer, manufacturer, chemist, professor/researcher, teacher, and sole-­proprietor businessperson. ­There

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­ ere twelve students studying agriculture; three w w ­ ere advanced international students, two ­were chemistry gradu­ate students, two w ­ ere full-­time agricultural students, and the rest w ­ ere taking part-­time courses in the summer. Of the two full-­time students, one would become a state chemist, and the other a researcher at the state agricultural experiment station. Many of the part-­time “agricultural” students w ­ ere of advanced age and actually enrolled in the University of Vermont program as preparation to teach in local public schools. Between 1886 and 1891, none of the gradu­ates in any course of study declared their occupation to be farmer.78 Justin Morrill sensed that the University of Vermont was on the same course as its counter­parts in Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island, and he conjoined his allies in the legislature to make a significant appropriation to the university. While Morrill believed the University of Vermont curriculum was in compliance with his land-­g rant law, he was well aware that investing in a campus farm or supporting more rural student scholarships could undercut the grange critique. But as one assembly member explained, “Vermont, whose representative in Congress and now honored Senator was the ­father of the act creating ­these colleges, is almost alone in allowing her University to strug­gle unaided with the im­mense task of meeting t­ hese demands of new learning.”79 In 1888, Justin Morrill wrote President Matthew Buckham to concede that the “insane legislature of the two years prior” had wasted away the state surplus and that it “seemed doubtful” that further aid would come to the university.80 Justin Morrill wanted to be viewed as being above Vermont politics, preferring to influence policy through private channels and maintain the images of gentleman and statesman. However, as depicted in the opening pages of this book, President Buckham convinced Morrill that the University of Vermont’s status as a land-­g rant institution could only be saved through a public appeal by the ­father of the movement. The aging senator went to the Vermont state­house to explain and defend his original intent for the Morrill Act. In the address, he drew on the Whig ideals he first espoused in speeches in 1858 and 1862, when he expressed his desire to found “thoroughly scientific institutions” ­because it was “science” not “ignorant routine” that led to increased productivity. Morrill praised the University of Vermont’s coursework in chemistry, agricultural science, and engineering as aligning with his scientific vision. The grange view was misconceived, he argued. The goal was not to provide “manual” education on the farm or in the workshop but to advance “intellectual instruction.” Amer­i­ca’s economic standing in the world was at stake, he argued, for it would be through advanced education that students would be prepared to “guide and lead” the nation’s industry. Of course, Morrill’s address drew the ire of the grange. Alpha Masser reminded the senator

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that his legislation was to serve the industrial class, and Vermont’s industrial class was demanding an “education in a specific line.” It had become apparent to ­those following the debate that the central issue revolved around the relationship between the curriculum and social mobility. The countryside was losing its brightest c­ hildren to middle-­class c­ areers in the city, and grangers came to believe that land-­g rant colleges steeped in science and collegiate culture ­were exacerbating the prob­lem. Instead, grange leaders contended that vocational land-­grant schools with manual-­labor requirements would fit students only for industrial class work, and gradu­ates would be funneled back home to strengthen the class, the community, and the grange. Unlike at Brown, Dartmouth, and Yale, the grange takeover of the land-­ grant college in Vermont was not successful. This outcome was not inevitable. The grange in Vermont was a po­liti­cal force, and Alpha Masser was a national leader in the movement. The University of Vermont was not only a laggard in agricultural education; its commitment to science was also underwhelming. While investments in chemistry and engineering ­were made in the 1880s, President Buckham favored classical study, and most students pursued the traditional BA degree. Morrill had enough friends in the state senate to win a narrow victory and prevent the creation of a new land-­g rant institution in Vermont. Yankeedom’s land-­g rant reformation stalled in Burlington.

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Avoiding the Reformation In contrast to the preceding cases, the land-­g rant colleges in Maine, Mas­sa­ chu­setts, and Pennsylvania benefited from the rise of the grange. In Maine, a bleak economy in the 1870s resulted in decreasing state support for the land-­ grant college. Funding bills that reached the House or Senate floor would be cut substantially. David Smith, the historian of the University of Maine, argues that much of the opposition came from the western part of the state: “Prominent in t­ hese attacks w ­ ere Bowdoin gradu­ates still feeling the slight 81 their college had received.” What­ever the source of the opposition, the real­ ity was that in 1878 the ­will for financing the college was at such a low ebb that the legislature invited private colleges to take over the institution. No proposals came. The trustees agreed to introduce tuition, allowing the land-­ grant college to temper its f­ uture bud­get requests from the state. However, it would be the rise of the Maine grange in the 1880s that would rescue the college from ­these financial woes. The Maine grange’s support seems paradoxical. In many ways, Maine’s land-­g rant college ran ­counter to the grange ideal. For example, in 1881, less

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than 5 ­percent of gradu­ates had become practicing farmers, with most choosing ­careers in engineering, business, or teaching.82 The majority of gradu­ates had ­fathers in the professions or business, with many of the remaining students coming from wealthy farm families.83 ­There ­were some aspects of Maine’s land-­ grant college, however, that did gain ­favor with farmers of lesser means. ­Children of h ­ umble origins ­were more likely to attend the Maine land-­g rant college than in-­state classical colleges.84 This was thanks to admission requirements that recommended but did not require Latin, as well as modest tuition and the tendency to give underprepared students remediation at the institution. Simon Crosby’s (class of 1872) reflections on his academic c­ areer reveal the college’s forgiving academic attitude: “I was poorly prepared for college . . . ​ but was liberally allowed to make up [classes] during my Freshman year.” Crosby concluded that, “If I was refused admission at this time, and did not receive additional help . . . ​[then I would] never have had the advantages of a college education . . . ​which changed my ­whole life.”85 The institution had a model farm and student ­labor requirements, which signaled that, even if it did not produce farmers, it was for working ­people. The Maine land-­g rant college reserved two positions on the board of trustees for “practical farmers,” and throughout the 1880s the holders of t­ hese posts ­were grange members.86 What proved decisive in the end w ­ ere the efforts of Maine governor Frederick “Farmer” Robbie, who effectively, albeit at times deceptively, explained the land-­g rant college’s purposes and programs to the state’s farmers. In the 1880s, Governor Robbie was successful in prodding the legislature to fund a state experiment station, and he ultimately secured an annual appropriation for the land-­grant college. “Farmer” Robbie, surprisingly, was not a farmer at all. Born into the professional class, he became a bank president, railroad tycoon, Civil War officer, and ­career politician.87 Yet he realized that the grange was a po­liti­cal force, and he proved ­adept at mustering populist forces for his ends by appealing to farmers by promoting his military ser­vice and his concerns with agricultural and rural issues. He gave speeches before local granges to explain that the Maine State College was their institution—­“a P ­ eople’s college.”88 Robbie called on farmers to lobby the legislature: “Maine is a college for the ­people and should receive popu­lar support . . . ​[, and] the state should give it a liberal appropriation.”89 Although Maine’s curriculum was steeped in the arts and sciences, and most gradu­ates ­were not farmers,90 Robbie tended to highlight the handful of practical courses conducted on the campus farm and the smattering of gradu­ates who became practicing farmers. One rhetorical example was Robbie’s regular (and largely dubious) statement that the college primarily “affords an opportunity for a more thorough and practical education

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for ­those who intend farming or mechanics as a business.”91 Robbie’s efforts ­were highly effective; he secured funding that would place the college on a firm foundation for the remainder of the c­ entury. While neighboring land-­grant recipients ­were fighting grange efforts to seize land-­grant endowments, Maine’s college was reaping benefits from the farmers’ rise to power.92 The depression years of the 1870s ­were the most precarious for the Mas­sa­ chu­setts Agricultural College. In a move to make the college self-­supporting, the 1872 legislature raised the land-­g rant endowment to $350,000, discharged the college’s debt, and provided $50,000 for a new building, but required that the college introduce tuition. The tuition costs proved prohibitive for many students, and the size of the college’s entering class of 1875 plummeted to an all-­time low of twenty. The condition of the institution prompted several meetings on closing the college or, as Lieutenant Governor John Long exclaimed, “Give it to Amherst. . . . ​Give the Agricultural College to Amherst!”93 The college had survived an earlier attempt to be married to Harvard but was now once again defending its in­de­pen­dent status. In the early 1880s, Mas­sa­chu­setts governor Thomas Talbot gave a series of speeches in support of shuttering the college. According to the governor, the institution was not self-­sustaining, and the paucity of gradu­ates did not justify continued financial support. The plan would meet a swift and or­ga­nized response ­under the leadership of Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College gradu­ ate Herbert Myrick. In the New E­ ngland Homestead, Myrick published numerous pieces calling on grangers to lobby the state legislature to maintain the agricultural college. The campaign led to a $10,000 annual appropriation from the state legislature for tuition scholarships, which resulted in sharp increases in enrollment the following year. The college’s historian Harold Cary notes that hereafter “the government of Mas­sa­chu­setts had committed itself to public support of the Agricultural College . . . ​[and it] would not have to face another threat to bring the institution to an end.”94 Even amid rising grange power in the commonwealth, Pennsylvania State College pursued a liberal interpretation of the Morrill Act ­under the leadership of President George W. Atherton. President Atherton was able to maintain high academic standards and develop a broad curriculum in the liberal arts and sciences while also hiring Professor Henry Armsby to design a robust agricultural program. Armsby made the agricultural department a site of original research and advanced training in agricultural science but also earned grange support by developing an outreach operation that delivered research discoveries and part-­time courses to farmers across the state.95 In addition, as will be discussed in detail in chapter 5, Cornell University overcame years of farmer dis­plea­sure by investing in a new extension division that actively

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engaged in outreach to rural communities. The hiring of Isaac Roberts to lead Cornell’s agricultural program brought to Ithaca a midwestern farmer and scientist who was ­adept at connecting agricultural education and research to the practical prob­lems facing the ­people of New York.96

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­ fter a string of legislative hearings, grange protests, impassioned presidenA tial speeches, and court decisions, New ­England had welcomed three new land-­ grant institutions by the 1890s. Grange leaders took positions on inaugural boards of trustees, where they w ­ ere ­eager to implement their land-­g rant vision. In contrast to the original land-­g rant colleges in the region, t­hese new enterprises embraced open admissions, vocational studies, practical farmers on the faculty, required student l­ abor, and an ultimate goal of producing farmers. Yet, as illustrated in the pages that follow, grange leaders would discover that cultivating farmers was not as easy as growing corn. If students w ­ ere ­going to attend college for four years, then they wanted more than a return to the hard l­ abor of the farm. Meanwhile, a new sector of public high schools arose that both created a large crop of individuals aspiring to college study and directly competed with the grange’s agricultural schools by offering vocational programs in agriculture and mechanics. The decision would be made to position the grange-­backed institutions above the high school sector to capture the growing ranks of potential applicants holding secondary diplomas. Less than a de­cade ­after the grange victories created their land-­g rant agricultural schools in New ­England, presidents ­were refashioning ­these institutions into state colleges. The next chapter explores the restructuring of agricultural schools into state colleges, and the grange’s unsuccessful efforts to thwart the movement.

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The New ­Middle Class and the State College Ideal

In the years ­after the Civil War, industrialization expedited the formation of new social class arrangements in American society: cap­i­tal­ists, a working class clustered around urban centers, factory towns, and mining communities, and a significant but shrinking number of small farmers. In 1870, the percentage of workers employed in agricultural pursuits was 53.2 ­percent, but by 1910 that percentage had fallen to 31 ­percent,t.1 As illustrated in the previous chapter, concerns over the dwindling ranks of farmers contributed to the rise of agricultural pop­u­lism. This farm to city migration, along with technological development, new corporate forms, and economic growth, supported the creation of a new m ­ iddle class of corporate man­ag­ers, professionals (the increase in ­lawyers was especially pronounced), skilled technologists (i.e., scientists, engineers, and technicians), state and federal bureaucrats, and businessmen, including ­those in finance, accounting, sales, marketing, and advertising.2 In his classic study, C. Wright Mills calculated that the new ­middle class workforce (including professionals in education, medicine, and law) increased from 6 ­percent of all workers in 1870 to 25 ­percent by the start of the twentieth c­ entury, as the “old m ­ iddle class” vocations of sole-­proprietor artisans and farmers decreased from 33 ­percent to 20 ­percent of all employment by the twentieth ­century. He interpreted the change as a g­ reat shift in American ­labor from a propertied ­middle class to a “white-­collar” or

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“new ­middle class . . . ​a shift from property to a new axis of stratification . . . ​ occupation.”3 This new ­middle class acquired a unique social identity that captured Amer­ i­ca’s imagination. The contours of new ­middle class culture ­were represented in books, newspapers, magazines, and ­music. Popu­lar periodicals depicted the economic and social rewards of a new m ­ iddle class c­ areer and glamorized the rags to riches tales of rural youths g­ oing to college, moving to the city, and gaining prestige and power. It seemed like every­one was getting in the game. Wealth, sex appeal, and continuous adventure was how the journey of social mobility was portrayed in the dime novels of daydreaming farm boys. The economic returns of new m ­ iddle class work afforded the means for purchasing homes, fashions, furnishings, and leisure that w ­ ere hallmarks of the budding class culture. The new m ­ iddle class offered public displays of values in volunteer organ­izations and civic socie­ties in their segregated city neighborhoods, suburban enclaves, and towns—­away from the working class—­where they developed a collective awareness of class identity.4 By the turn of the c­ entury, a college education had become one of the surest paths to the m ­ iddle class, and with a rapid expansion in public high schools, ­there ­were growing numbers of qualified students presenting for admission and preparing for mobility. Aspiring college students w ­ ere not necessarily seeking specialized, c­ areer knowledge (although this was of course true for scientists, engineers, and other aspiring technologists), but nearly all ­were looking for a common cultural experience. Indeed, the academic and social activities shared on campus would become an essential rite of passage for ­those entering and claiming membership in the new m ­ iddle class.5 Stories of collegiate life—­fraternities, football, and frivolity—­were pop­ul­ar­ized through mass media, spreading the idea that college was inextricably linked with the middle-­class lifestyle. One of the most popu­lar tales of this genre was Owen Johnson’s Stover at Yale, a chronicle of collegiate life that F. Scott Fitzgerald once said amounted to a “textbook” for his generation’s coming-­of-­age experiences.6 The collegiate revolution was not confined to traditional colleges of the Eastern Seaboard; it was emulated nationwide and engulfed state universities and land-­ grant colleges. In fact, most students who entered land-­g rant colleges in the twentieth ­century thought ­little of their institution’s agricultural legacy. Many land-­g rant colleges shelved the “A&M” designation in the 1900s in f­ avor of the title of “state college,” or as the students began calling land-­grant colleges, “old state.” The fieldwork required of the previous generation of land-­g rant students was replaced by an Oxford-­style collegiate atmosphere with fraternities, student organ­izations, literary and drama clubs, and intercollegiate athletics.7

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This chapter addresses how the new ­middle class reshaped land-­g rant institutions and inspired a “collegiate revolution.” Specifically, it explores the transformation of the Rhode Island and Connecticut agricultural schools into “state colleges” in the 1890s. First, through the example of one student’s experience at Storrs Agricultural School, it discusses how land-­g rant college students increasingly aspired to middle-­class c­ areers and demanded that vocational programs be replaced with traditional curricula, pedagogies, and collegiate experiences. Second, the chapter pres­ents the turn-­of-­the-­century cases of President John Washburn at Rhode Island and President George Flint at Connecticut. Unable to ignore the growing number of students coveting new ­middle class ­careers and demanding the academic and social experiences found at other colleges, the two presidents replaced open admissions, vocational curricula, manual training, and required campus ­labor with liberal arts and sciences and a robust extracurriculum. Grange leaders responded with successful campaigns to terminate both presidential apostates. However, as this chapter concludes, the grange victories over Washburn and Flint w ­ ere hollow and short lived, as the state college ideal persisted, flourished, and expanded to all regional land-­g rant colleges. It would not be ­until the rise of extension (as discussed in chapter 5) that the colleges would be able to rediscover and reconstruct their relationship with farmers and rural communities.

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The State College Ideal To make a legitimate claim for Morrill Act funds, the New E ­ ngland institutions born from the grange takeovers ­were compelled to adopt the title of “college.” Despite grangers’ beliefs that their agricultural schools would continue offering vocational education with the goal of producing farmers, the “college” moniker invited comparisons to the curricula, pedagogies, and campus culture of other colleges. By 1900, the American educational landscape was awash with dif­fer­ent institutional types (i.e., universities, colleges, normal schools, agricultural schools, polytechnics, public high schools, and academies), and higher education leaders, including t­ hose at land-­g rant colleges, wrestled with where secondary school ended and tertiary studies began.8 As the number of public high school students increased 167 ­percent in the 1890s (for example, Connecticut added twenty high schools during the de­cade to reach 89 ­percent of the state’s youths), the secondary sector solidified a position as both a purveyor of college-­preparation and terminal, vocational studies. With high schools enjoying vigorous enrollments and ample resources, it was increasingly difficult for precollegiate, tuition-­charging institutions like

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agricultural schools to compete for students. The alternative for agricultural schools was to mimic other colleges: situate the curricula above high school study, increase academic rigor and admission standards, substitute liberal and scientific courses for vocational study, and replace the old manual-­labor requirements with traditional campus life. This “mission creep” from vocational school to college was a rational step born from financial necessity, as campus leaders moved to attract the large number of students graduating from regional high schools. The presidents of the new land-­g rant agricultural colleges in Connecticut and Rhode Island turned against their grange backers, shed vocational programs and “A&M” labels, and rebranded the institutions as “state colleges.”9 During the 1890s, the student bodies in Storrs and Kingston now included a larger number of older, secondary school gradu­ates. ­These students tended to demand a broadening of the agricultural curriculum, hoping that scientific and liberal studies would help them depart their rural villages for new m ­ iddle class ­careers in urban locales. They also celebrated efforts to eliminate manual-­ labor requirements, freeing time to or­ga­nize extracurricular activities. The fraternity, the choral club, and the athletic field ­were all sites for creating a new “college man,” a dominant figure in popu­lar lit­er­at­ure and commercial culture. Historian Daniel Clark argues, “College as a ­viable rung on the ladder of success and as a fit site to form an ideal middle-­class manhood, one that combined Victorian and modern masculinity, had to be literally created for mass consumption.” Gone ­were the days when college boys ­were depicted as effeminate dilettantes or reclusive monks; now popu­lar stories in magazines and novels largely conveyed the exploits of “big men on campus.” T ­ hese men not only possessed the intellectual abilities to enter business or the professions but also exhibited a virile masculinity that could be presented for public display on the football field. As the perception of middle-­class manhood changed, the college not only conferred credentials to enter middle-­class c­ areers but also nurtured middle-­class manhood. ­These changes legitimized the college experience for farming and working-­class boys, and reframed the campus as a place that created “real men.”10

A Student at Storrs The change from agricultural school to state college is captured in the letters and diaries of one student at Storrs Agricultural College. Max Schaffrath was born on Christmas Eve of 1875 in Bieskaw, Germany. ­After his ­father died in 1884, Max and his twin b­ rother Paul immigrated with their m ­ other to the United States, settling near wealthy relatives in Waterbury, Connecticut. Schaffrath

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attended the district school in Beacon Falls and at the age of eigh­teen became a student at Harrington’s Business College in Waterbury. He graduated in 1895 and in three months enrolled with sophomore standing at Storrs. Twin ­brother Paul chose a dif­fer­ent path, leaving Connecticut for the prestigious Exeter Acad­emy in New Hampshire. During their time at Storrs and Exeter, the twins penned regular letters to one another, comparing their institutions and shedding light on the fluid nature of higher education.11 The Storrs Agricultural School had been reconstituted as a college in 1893 in order to qualify for Connecticut’s land-­g rant designation and funds. The charter of the renamed Storrs Agricultural College borrowed language from the Morrill Act of 1862, declaring

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the leading objects of said college s­ hall be, without excluding other scientific and classical studies, and including military tactics, to teach such branches as relate to agriculture and the mechanical arts.12 Modest curriculum changes ­were made to reflect this expanded mission. Courses w ­ ere added in horticulture and veterinary science, the old three-­year course now included a fourth year “for more thorough instruction in a specific line,” and students could earn a college degree in lieu of a certificate of completion. The faculty initially stayed the same, as several practicing farmers and part-­time teachers remained on staff in lieu of professional academics. Entrance examinations continued to be elementary, leading to a class of fifty-­nine largely ill-­prepared students enrolling in 1894 and thirty-­four more arriving with Max Schaffrath in 1895. This made the campus crowded and uncomfortable, as the college dormitory was designed to accommodate twenty-­eight students, forcing campus officials to convert dining space into sleeping quarters. Also, as had been the tradition since 1881, students w ­ ere expected to provide manual ­labor on the college farm. The faculty called it “instructed l­abor,” but the students mocked the activity as “picking rocks.” When Schaffrath and his classmates returned from the fields, they often sang the following: A Freshman once did come to Storrs As green as green could be, He went to walk in a nice white shirt To see what he could see, But when he saw the rocks that lay Scattered all over he swore As a freshman sometimes ­will and said, I ­won’t pick rocks any more I ­won’t pick rocks any more

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I have picked for years On my F ­ ather’s farm and I ­won’t pick rocks any more. A se­nior now we ­will surely meet Who looking over his course Thinks of the time spent picking rocks As ­either wasted or lost. And as he looks at the field again He sees more rocks than before But he simply says, I am ­going to leave, I ­won’t pick rocks any more.13 Max Schaffrath was a serious young man, introspective and reserved. He came to Storrs ­because of a budding interest in nature studies, telling his ­mother he was considering the life of a farmer. But soon ­after his first trip to the fields, farm life lost its luster. Clearing pasture brought bouts of poison ivy, and damp conditions caused a string of colds and fevers.14 On one occasion, Schaffrath crushed his fin­gers, and had to visit the local doctor seven times to have his fin­gers “opened and cut out.” He admitted to his b­ rother, “Once I even fainted . . . ​and had to carry my arm in a sling for nearly a week.”15 Yet, by the end of his first year, ­there ­were some distractions from the drudgery of farm ­labor. Schaffrath remarked that his football team won three out of five games during its inaugural season of 1896. The following year’s schedule included rematches with local high schools and contests against the agricultural colleges in Mas­sa­chu­setts and Rhode Island; a victory over the latter was greeted by a “parade headed by the band, bon-­fires, and the ringing of bells.”16 Schaffrath’s favorite campus pastime was the college literary society. At one meeting, he offered a declamation in support of silver coinage, opposing a classmate favoring gold. Judges declared him the winner, and all retired for refreshments. He took up the piano for a short time and received dancing lessons. Dancing ability was quite essential, Max told Paul, for “the young men are allowed to call on . . . ​the village girls . . . ​­every Friday eve­ning.”17 Extracurricular success was becoming the mea­sure of the man on campus, and Max instructed his ­brother to take such endeavors seriously: “I advise you not to study too much” and “stand up for your class and try to make it the star of Exeter Acad­emy.”18 As Paul Schaffrath relayed his own experiences in New Hampshire, Max grew jealous. He wrote, “It almost makes me mad to hear how [your] professors go with the students for enjoyment and see ours ­here just go to class and that is the last you come in contact with [them]. . . . ​The friendly or social spirit is wanting at Storrs.”19 More regrettable than the lack of collegiate spirit, however,

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Figure 9.  Max Schaffrath, a student at Connecticut’s land-­grant college in 1898. Max Schaffrath, Lookout 1898, Archives and Special Collections, University of Connecticut Library. This image is published with permission.

was the dearth of young ­women. Max pestered his ­brother with questions like, “When you have entertainment, have you any girls to dance with?”20 ­After hearing how much Paul liked his bright classmates, Max lamented, “This is a college . . . ​but when I look over our gradu­ates I see not one of them . . . ​is a person of any ability.” It was becoming evident that he was working very hard but not getting the college experience he desired. He concluded, “I spend

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from 3–4–5 hours a day on my lessons. Your college is not as hard as ours ­because you ­don’t take care of your rooms and d­ on’t have to work.” In December 1896, an elocutionist came to campus and entertained the students. The young visitor informed the wavering sophomore that with Max’s literary society background, he, too, could make $100 on the lecture cir­cuit. Even more exciting was when the man stated that, “with his influence,” Max could be admitted to the acad­emy in East Greenwich. “What do you think about it?” he asked his ­brother. “This is a very impor­tant question,” he noted, and quickly added a warning, “­Don’t let ­mother know!”21 In the end, Max deci­ded not to trek to East Greenwich. Circumstances ­were changing, and he and his classmates w ­ ere more content with their surroundings. Most notable was the abolishment of mandatory l­abor in 1897. This allowed more time for study, and perhaps more importantly, it allowed ample ­free time to enjoy the burgeoning collegiate culture. A ­ fter escaping a scare from an explosion in chemistry lab, Schaffrath began to excel in his scientific studies, and finished third in academic standing. Out of class, he continued with football and was elected student body president.22 On June 9, 1898, Max wrote, “This ­will be the last letter from Storrs to you. I am very glad you ­will be ­here with us during commencement.” As president of the class, he delivered the student commencement address in addition to his graduation essay: “German Village Life.” He apologized in advance that many of the other essays would deal with agricultural topics but stated, “Of course this is an agricultural college and quite suitable.” Perhaps not surprisingly, he concluded his last of nearly forty letters by applauding Paul that “Exeter was booming in athletics,” and used his final words to state, “­Here, athletics are dead . . . ​for the se­nior class is about to leave and the ju­niors have no athletes.”23 Max Schaffrath’s educational journey did not end in 1898. Suggestive of the substandard quality of a Storrs degree, he entered the chemistry program at Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College a­ fter graduation—­again at sophomore standing—­from which he would gradu­ate in 1901. Now in his mid-­twenties, he was less interested in collegiate life at Amherst and more intent on nurturing an advanced knowledge of chemistry and engineering. A ­ fter his second land-­g rant college commencement, Schaffrath moved to California to accept a job as the superintendent of the pipeline division at Standard Oil.24

Storrs Becomes a State College Max Schaffrath had observed the initial transformations in collegiate life and curriculum that marked Storrs’s evolution from agricultural school to state college. The pace of the changes quickened with the hiring of George Flint as

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college president in July 1898. The new leader had no connection to agricultural education or the land-­g rant movement but was regarded as one of the top secondary school administrators in Connecticut. Flint was a seasoned principal of Collinsville High School, where he had the fortune of meeting local resident William Edmond Simonds, chairman of Storrs’s board of trustees. During his first year in office, Flint delivered a lengthy speech to the state board of agriculture that unveiled his vision for Connecticut’s land-­g rant college. Some attendees ­were noticeably confused by the president’s remarks, whereas ­others ­were aghast at the suggestion that Storrs move beyond its agricultural past and fully embrace a ­f uture as a “state college.”25 Flint begin his speech by addressing what he saw as per­sis­tent confusion over the proper role of “colleges” lamenting that Storrs and other land-­g rant institutions w ­ ere inappropriately engaged in secondary school work. Reflecting on his time at Collinsville, “a high school with ample facilities for shop-­ work,” Flint concluded that secondary school vocational programs w ­ ere where a student should gain “a specific calling . . . ​to contribute something to the industry of the world.” The “greatest colleges” he argued, did not offer “specific” training but instead prepared “men for success in the highest sense, in any calling.” The college curriculum should offer the “best and richest in lit­ er­at­ ure and art and the natu­ral sciences,” not for “preparation for active life” but for instilling “ele­ments of that higher culture for which we all strive.” Flint informed the board that he was “earnestly and heedfully giving attention to the instruction of our youth in Agriculture and its kindred arts . . . ​[and] gained a clearer view of the limitations . . . ​of the field assigned to us for exploration.” Flint concluded that a narrow focus on practical study was too limiting for any college, and vocational courses should be replaced with “general instruction” as a foundation for “acquiring special training, as w ­ ill fit [students for a] special calling.” He left no doubt that he foresaw Storrs becoming such a college, stating: “Can we the humbler Connecticut Agricultural College . . . ​claim no share . . . ?”26 Flint wasted l­ittle time in implementing his agenda. He changed the name of the school to the Connecticut State College in 1899, continued the policy of no student l­ abor requirements, and supported campus life ventures like football and fraternities. In 1900, he moved to terminate the employment of four faculty members connected with the old agricultural program, including instructors of forestry, farm accounts, veterinary science, and practical agriculture. Flint wanted advanced scientific courses to replace vocational coursework, and to ­these ends, he hired Campbell W ­ aters, who held a PhD in chemistry from Johns Hopkins. The board of trustees supported ­these changes, as most

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members w ­ ere local notables who ­were keen on expanding the parochial Storrs school into a statewide institution. In a letter to the Farmington Journal, the board expressed support by noting that, “No institution confined to students from Connecticut and teaching agriculture ALONE can live; the agricultural constituency in Connecticut is far too small; it is far too small in any state; no one is ­going to send a young man to a three-­year course in agriculture ALONE.” The board concluded that President Flint had realized this limitation upon his arrival, stating “wherefore he reor­ga­nized the course of study, strengthened agriculture whenever pos­si­ble, but calling in liberally educated professors and laying out among other t­hings [a] broad course of education.”27 Indeed, by 1900, President Flint had taken concrete steps in both the curriculum and campus life to situate Storrs atop Connecticut’s public school system as the state college.28

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A College for Rhode Island Similar reforms w ­ ere ­under way at the agricultural school in Rhode Island. When John Washburn became principal of the Kingston Agricultural School in 1888, he was content with overseeing a secondary school alternative for adolescents destined for the farm, but when the Rhode Island legislature moved the land-­g rant college from Brown to Kingston in 1892, Washburn no longer wished to “award degrees for anything less than collegiate work.”29 Like Flint, Washburn also had developed concrete ideas about the purpose of a state college. In addition to being an accomplished chemist with a PhD from a leading German university, by 1893 Washburn had ascended to a position of leadership in the Association of American Agricultural Colleges and Experiment Stations (AAACES). With his scientific background, Washburn was a natu­ral choice to lead the “Mechanical Arts” division of the AAACES, a group in the organ­ization committed to a broad interpretation of the Morrill Act. In assessing his transition from agricultural school principal to land-­grant president, Washburn stated, “When we ­were made an agricultural and mechanical college, we ­were obliged to change our course of instruction to bring it in conformity with that given by kindred institutions in other states.”30 He wasted ­little time in broadening and elevating the curriculum to be consistent with the high standards promoted by AAACES. Washburn pursued his vision by hiring academics and scientists to replace part-­time farming instructors. In 1893, he recruited three faculty members with master’s degrees: William Drake as professor of mechanical engineering and physics, Harriett Lathrop in botany, and Marshall Taylor to teach civil

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engineering and lead the preparatory program. For the post of professor of biology, in 1896 Washburn hired George Wilson Field, who had a PhD from Johns Hopkins and had previously taught botany for two years at Brown University. Despite a limited bud­get, the college was able to secure two more PhDs by the end of the de­cade: A. A. Brigham as experimentation station director and professor of agricultural science, and J. E. Bucher as professor of chemistry. As mathe­matics instructor, Washburn hired Wellesley College gradu­ate Anne L. Bosworth in 1890 on a one-­year appointment, and in only three months, she was promoted to the permanent post of professor of mathe­matics. Bosworth traveled to Germany during her tenure and received a PhD in mathe­matics at Göttingen; she remained professor of mathe­matics in Kingston ­until resigning a­ fter her marriage in 1902.31 Rounding out the faculty ­were Washburn and Horace Wheeler, who also received his PhD from Göttingen, in chemistry, and was appointed to the post of state chemist in the college’s experiment station.32 In 1897, Washburn unveiled a new curriculum in the college cata­logue. In describing the academic objectives of the redesigned college, he explained that “premature specialization is to be avoided” and, instead, college education “must be based on a sound knowledge of mathe­matics, the natu­ral sciences, and the En­glish language.” With this general foundation, students could focus their studies in the latter two years in one of five branches: the agricultural course, the mechanical engineering course, the electrical engineering course, the chemical course, or the biology course. Unlike in previous years, the agricultural program would not include manual farm instruction but would instead consist of scientific courses “to fit students . . . ​for positions in experiment stations, as teachers, and [as] farm superintendents.”33 The other branches in engineering and chemistry w ­ ere recommended for t­ hose hoping to enter ­careers in engineering, industry, government research, or teaching. Washburn was building a state college, which was more accessible, but the broad curriculum, standards, and collegiate culture w ­ ere beginning to resemble the scheme at Brown. The irony of the situation was not lost on contemporaries, as grange officials grumbled that their hard-­fought victory over Brown may yet be wrested away and the school returned to their former foe. As one farmer characterized grange sentiment, “The ­people are amazed that the management should be in ­favor of destroying the practical value of the school to imitate other institutions. . . . ​[This] change of character w ­ ill estrange [it] from all its old supporters and leave it to the mercy of its opponents of which it seems so earnestly to be a measly imitator.”34

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Grange Re­sis­tance to the State College Model Grange leaders wasted ­little time opposing President Flint’s and Washburn’s “state college” heresies. Since 1873, the grange had toiled diligently for institutions that reinforced the values of working-­class farmers—­hard ­labor, tradition, and community—­not for football teams, drama groups, and boat clubs that celebrated the pleasures and leisure of the professional class. In Connecticut and Rhode Island, the grange set its sights on rolling back the state college reforms. In March  1902, a farmer complained in a letter to the Providence Journal that President Washburn had diverted the Kingston school from its agricultural mission, resulting in a decline in full-­time enrollment from eighty students to thirty-­ three over the preceding de­cade. The writer added that ­because the school had embraced the liberal arts and sciences in the curriculum, only six students during the entirety of Washburn’s presidency ­were practicing farmers.35 When other grange-­backed articles w ­ ere published on the same theme, Washburn penned a response. The president summarized the criticism in three areas: the curriculum, the academic standards and admission examination, and the number of students enrolled. On the first issue, Washburn asserted that the offering of a breadth of courses in engineering, chemistry, biology, and the liberal arts (in addition to agriculture) complied with the Morrill Act. For support, he cited a recent statement from the Association of Agricultural Colleges and Experiment Stations that “no one can find in any part of the Morrill bills any authority for the establishment and support of schools exclusively for agriculture. . . . ​No narrow, one-­sided technical school is authorized anywhere in the bills.” Furthermore, the report noted that “the teaching of trades, the forcing to farm ­labor and the neglect of the cultural in education can find no authorization.”36 Washburn then added that advanced scientific coursework required students with adequate preparation, and thus the entrance examination was elevated accordingly. ­Those unable to meet this standard w ­ ere not necessarily excluded, he noted, for over forty-­one students w ­ ere in the preparatory department to ultimately gain access to the college. Furthermore, ­those individuals unable, unwilling, or uninterested in entering the collegiate course could still gain a practical benefit through the partial and summer courses on poultry rearing, farm practice, or wood carving. On the final issue, of students not choosing to become farmers, he added, “The son is not obliged to study agriculture. . . . ​As a ­matter of fact, in this state, and in all ­others of the Union, he often chooses some other line than agriculture.”37 The grange was not swayed by Washburn’s letter and continued a campaign to turn the state college back into an agricultural school. Increasingly desperate,

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grange leader Thomas Hazard shelved the educational arguments and resorted to personal attacks against Washburn. John  G. Clarke, a grange member and Kingston native, did Hazard’s bidding by penning an official complaint to the governor, stating that Washburn had “treated moral ­things frivolously[,] . . . ​encouraged smoking among the students[,] . . . ​had himself been intemperate in the use of intoxicating liquors[,] . . . ​[and had] been profane, vulgar, unclean, and unchaste in speech and be­hav­ior in presence and hearing of said students.” Clarke covertly added that an unnamed ­woman was prepared to testify that she had come to campus and been a party to Washburn’s “unchaste be­hav­ior.”38 The charges w ­ ere pure fiction. Indeed, years ­later, the ­woman admitted to campus officials that she had made up the story at the prodding of Clarke and Hazard.39 With sensational stories filling the state papers in May 1902, the board of man­ag­ers was compelled to hold a hearing. Several members came to Washburn’s defense, extolling his fine character and commending his leadership. Thomas Hazard countered with a list of grievances against the president, which interestingly did not include any statement on personal failings. Instead, Hazard read testimony from the original hearings on the establishment of the Kingston Agricultural School in 1887, and highlighted statements from campus officials and legislators that the institution was to focus on practical agriculture and the “production of farmers.” Washburn’s l­awyer responded that the college’s new direction was appropriate since the Morrill Act’s language was broad and allowed for the liberal arts and sciences. Hazard slammed the ­table and, with eyes fixed on Washburn, stated, “This was established to be an agricultural college for the benefit of farmers. We are sick of it! This is the grounds on which I ask the Board to let this man go.”40 Despite the absence of any evidence of wrongdoing, the governor convinced the board during deliberations that the public spectacle was d­ oing ­g reat harm to the campus and that a change in leadership was needed.41 Washburn agreed to resign on May 19, and he left Kingston to become the head of the National Farm School for Jewish boys in eastern Pennsylvania.42 At about the same time, the grange endeavored to undo President George Flint’s reforms in Connecticut. Flint’s decision to remove four faculty members from the agricultural program and divert ­those resources to the liberal arts and sciences became the flashpoint between the grange and the president. The dismissed faculty penned letters to newspapers and attended grange meetings to warn farmers that the Connecticut land-­g rant college was turning away from agriculture. One letter concluded that Flint planned to “place agriculture in the background and have science the foremost study.” In the Hartford Courant, it was argued that the abolishment of manual-­labor requirements

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“had proved a serious damage” to the agricultural mission, as had the removal of faculty members who supported practical instruction and the “rule that makes students do some work.”43 J. H. Hale, the “Peach King” and grange master who had led the campaign to transfer the Morrill funds from Yale University to Storrs Agricultural School, now turned against the Connecticut State College for drifting away from its agricultural mission. Hale argued that “Connecticut has room for a lot of  . . . ​ farmers, and it wants them. What is needed is a first-­class man at the head of Storrs to make it go . . . ​to train young men to be . . . ​farmers.”44 On August 21, 1901, the State Pomological Association passed a resolution that demanded the termination of Flint, a ­house­cleaning of faculty, and the return of the agriculture instructors who had been fired. As in Rhode Island, the debate moved from fact to unsubstantiated rumor. J. T. Morse, a grange member with a son attending Storrs, wrote several letters to the local press bemoaning the bedraggled state of the campus and its students. He claimed that on a recent excursion to visit their son, he and his wife ­were appalled at the cursing, drinking, and tobacco use among the undisciplined students. Mrs. Morse, he asserted, was especially upset at having to “lift up her skirt” so as not to stain the garment from the tobacco spittle pooled on the floor. The New ­England Homestead published Morse’s story in its entirety, as evidence of the moral decay and loose discipline allowed ­under President Flint’s regime. The editors argued that without required ­labor and a practical curriculum, the “so-­called state college” had become a “den of idleness,” and many farmers “­were refusing to send their sons to Storrs.”45 Unwisely, Flint mounted his defense in the newspapers over the next few months. He openly discussed cases of individual misconduct and acknowledged that he tended to forgive wayward students so as not “to put my seal upon the lifetime disgrace attached to a boy expelled.” Regarding tobacco use, Flint noted it had become a “national custom” of leading citizens that students often imitated; however, he added that drunkenness was never tolerated by the administration.46 The president had hoped to quiet detractors, but in the end, his letters only fanned the flames of discontent and gave fodder to grange antagonists. In time, the public debate bled into campus discord, leading some faculty to leave Storrs for more peaceful settings. Indeed, one faculty member was assaulted by a student and “had a tooth loosened in the melee.”47 Most damaging to Flint’s reforms was the departure in August 1901 of Dr. Campbell W ­ aters, who had concluded that Storrs lacked the serious students and public support necessary for him to accomplish his teaching and research. Flint was not only attacked for moving away from the agriculture mission but was painted as having lost control of the campus, and the grange called for all its members to keep their sons

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home u ­ ntil he was removed.48 On October 5, the board of trustees requested Flint’s resignation, which was tendered without delay. Having toppled two presidents and precipitated discord that led to the departure of promising academics, the grange was succeeding in devolving state colleges back into agricultural schools. However, in both cases, this rearguard action only delayed the inevitable. In Rhode Island, Brown University took advantage of the Washburn controversy to argue that if the Kingston school intended to be limited to agriculture, then Brown could provide education in engineering (mechanical arts), science, and the classics that, per the Morrill Act, was “not to be excluded.” Recognizing that an agriculture-­only scheme could cost the school in Kingston a part (or perhaps all) of the land-­g rant endowment, Thomas Hazard, ironically, supported Interim President Homer Wheeler’s efforts to continue Washburn’s engineering, chemistry, and liberal arts programs, as long as agriculture remained the “leading aim.” The prob­ lem they discovered, just as the departing Washburn had warned, was that students w ­ ere rarely choosing agricultural study. The students demanded a greater breadth of courses consistent with the state college ideal. As Rhode Island historian Herman Eschenbacher argues, “­There was no longer any popu­lar enthusiasm for allowing the College at Kingston to become an agricultural college,” but instead ­there was “an enlarged view that the institution was intended to serve all the p­ eople.”49 Aspiring farmers had determined that high school vocational programs or on-­the-­farm training provided all the utilitarian instruction that was needed, and agricultural colleges simply delayed entrance into the vocation. In contrast, the students arriving in Kingston in the 1890s (young men like Max Schaffrath) w ­ ere high school gradu­ates, and with this academic preparation, they desired curricula and collegiate experiences as a gateway into middle-­class ­careers and lives.50 Similarly, in Connecticut, the grange takeover did not resurrect the vocationalism of the Storrs years. The campaign did ­little more than remove George Flint as president. By any mea­sure, Rufus Stimson, the next president, should have distressed the grange as much as his pre­de­ces­sor had. Stimson had studied philosophy at Harvard u ­ nder William James, receiving his BA and MA degrees in 1895 and 1896 before pursuing his doctorate at Yale Divinity School. He was appointed professor of En­glish, ethics, and public speaking in 1897 and, with few qualified faculty remaining on staff, was selected by the board to replace Flint in 1901. The new president had received a traditional liberal arts education, but he also was sensitive to prob­lems facing Connecticut farmers and believed the land-­g rant college could and should assist. Stimson had been reared on a Mas­sa­chu­setts farm and was keenly aware of the social and economic challenges facing rural New E ­ ngland. He had no intention of reinstat-

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ing a vocational program for farmers, however, being well aware that his students ­were more interested in pursuing ­careers as engineers, scientists, businessmen, or government officials. The four-­year academic course in the arts and sciences would remain central, but Stimson added a part-­time course in poultry rearing and a summer program for farmers and teachers called “Agriculture and Nature Study.” He embarked on a tour of the countryside to visit with local farmers and discuss rural prob­lems, an effort that brought praise from grange officials. By 1903, the grange was so pleased with Stimson’s outreach that the organ­ization’s leadership joined him in campaigning for increased state support, arguing that “the institution has passed through some serious times but the tide has turned and now the institution is heading in the right direction . . . . ​The farmers are more and more appreciating this college and the work it does.”51 This “right direction” praised by the grange was far from a radical departure; Stimson developed cordial relations with the state grange but, for the most part, the college retained President Flint’s state college reforms. Yet, as chapter 5 explains, President Stimson’s tour of the countryside was but a first step ­toward broader land-­grant reforms. Across the region, land-­grant colleges would begin a host of special, part-­time, and outreach programs to farmers and rural communities. It was ­these offerings that could be exhibited as evidence that the land-­g rant colleges ­were fulfilling their historical responsibility to the agricultural community. Henceforth, the mea­sure of that success ceased being “how many farmers did the land-­g rant college produce?” This outcome had proved untenable even with the grange in charge of land-­grant institutions. Instead, the land-­g rant college’s agricultural mission was increasingly linked with the outreach ser­vices and specialized training for irregular students that would, in time, become institutionalized and standardized as cooperative extension.

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Ch a p ter  5

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Progressivism and the Rise of Extension

The resounding defeat of the ­People’s Party in the 1896 presidential election signaled the end of pop­u­lism as a national po­liti­ cal movement. The 1890s ­were also the high-­water mark for grange po­liti­cal activism, for in the coming ­century, the organ­ization would increasingly focus on social ser­vices for farmers and the promotion of rural uplift. However, several planks of the populist and granger agenda found expression in a largely urban-­based, middle-­class movement known as progressivism. Akin to their rural forerunners, progressives wrestled with the ill effects of industrialization and sought redress through po­liti­cal action. Muckrakers like Lincoln Steffens in The Shame of the Cities (1904) and Upton Sinclair in The Jungle (1906) exposed corruption in American politics and the ruthless, unsafe, and collusive practices of American industry. It was a movement that cut across po­liti­cal lines, as both Republican Theodore Roo­se­velt and Demo­crat Woodrow Wilson identified themselves as progressives. Instead of preaching revolutionary action to dismantle capitalism like the communists, progressives aimed to “ameliorate the . . . ​worst conditions of industrial life.”1 Private utility companies came u ­ nder public control, big businesses faced antitrust scrutiny, and railroads operated ­under strict regulation. The period witnessed restrictions on child l­abor, the introduction of workers’ compensation schemes, limits on working hours, and the instigation of factory safety and sanitation controls. Po­liti­cal reforms included initiatives previously promoted by populists—­the direct election of senators 1 36

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and the federal income tax—as well as new departures such as the direct primary, the state ballot initiative, recalls, and referenda. Progressives achieved constitutional changes to address ­women’s po­liti­cal rights and alcohol prohibition with the passage of the eigh­teenth and nineteenth amendments.2 In addition to the mounting assertiveness of the new ­middle class, introduced in the previous chapter, the Progressive Era was epitomized by an unbridled optimism that humanity could be improved through ingenuity, social and natu­ral sciences, rational pro­cesses, experimentation, and new orga­ nizational forms. In business, bureaucratic, scientific management (Taylorism) arrived to bring technical rationality and efficiency in production. In education, John Dewey introduced progressive education models focused on experimental learning, collaboration, social responsibility, and engagement with real-­world prob­lems. In the po­liti­cal realm, civil ser­vice reform allowed merit and ability to replace party loyalty in the staffing of bureaucratic agencies. Historian Robert Wiebe argues that the disparate “island communities” of the nineteenth ­century became homogenized through rationalist-­bureaucratic structures that provided standardized responses to the economic, po­liti­cal, and social prob­lems of a modern society. This progressive infrastructure included a host of civic and voluntary associations, but increasingly the activism was channeled through a burgeoning federal government that offered national solutions to local prob­lems in agriculture, commerce, ­labor, transportation, and education.3 The rise of the bureaucratic state left a lasting influence on the land-­g rant colleges. Through the Hatch Act of 1887, the second Morrill Act of 1890, and the Smith-­Lever Act of 1914, the federal government normalized nascent departures in agricultural research and extension to address issues in agriculture and rural life.4 The infusion of federal funds allowed extension pioneers such as Liberty Hyde Bailey and Kenyon Butterfield to transform the land-­grant college’s relationship with society, as extension activities engaged rural communities in a demo­cratic partnership to address agricultural production and sustainability, health and wellness, education, and culture. Just as progressive reformers cultivated po­liti­cal consciousness among urban workers, extension sought to nurture a demo­cratic awakening among rural p­ eople and communities. Indeed, Bailey explained that extension was about more than creating “productive and profitable agriculture”; it was about fostering an “intelligent class” of “awakened” farmers who could build “a new day” in the countryside.5 As Scott Peters argues, t­ hese engagement partnerships recast demo­cratic politics from just “something politicians do” to what “ordinary citizens do when they come together to pursue and negotiate their self-­interests in relation to larger common interests.”6

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As extension agents introduced new, profitable technologies to farmers and partnered with rural leaders, educators, and reformers to promote positive change in the countryside, t­ here was a waning of hostilities between farmers and land-­grant colleges. State and local granges hosted exhibitions and lectures by land-­g rant professors, and grange leaders became ardent supporters of increasing state appropriations. Extension offered a tangible link between land-­ grant colleges and the p­ eople, and was interpreted as a fulfillment of Morrill Act responsibilities to agriculture and the “industrial classes.” With the regularizing influence of federal funds, land-­g rant colleges across the country embraced the tripartite missions of teaching, research, and ser­vice.7 By the onset of World War I, ­after years of experimentation and program development, extension had become a core function of land-­g rant colleges.

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The Birth of Extension The Smith-­Lever Act of 1914 began the modern cooperative extension system, but this milestone was the product of de­cades of educational outreach to farmers and rural communities. The agricultural socie­ties formed in the antebellum era hosted agricultural fairs, supported farm journals, and agitated for agricultural education. In the 1840s, the agricultural socie­ties in Mas­sa­chu­setts and New York supported traveling lectures to provide rural audiences with the latest scientific knowledge and farming practices. Legislatures created state agricultural boards between 1850 and 1870, and across the Northeast, ­these boards restructured itinerant lectures into formalized farmers’ institutes. ­These institutes included major events in state capitals in conjunction with annual state agricultural board meetings as well as local programs that brought lecturers, experiments, and exhibits to towns, villages, and county fairs. By 1900, the northeastern states ­were sponsoring 743 institutes serving 271,245 attendees.8 As early as 1863, Professor John Porter of Yale’s Sheffield Scientific School was lecturing at institutes across Connecticut, and faculty at the Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College helped plan the state agricultural board’s “Farmers’ Institute of Mas­sa­chu­setts” (1871)—an ambitious undertaking that had faculty traveling to local programs at twenty-­nine county agricultural socie­ties. The most extensive and popu­lar institutes would develop in Pennsylvania and New York, as land-­g rant faculty not only contributed scientific and agricultural lectures but also spoke on subjects related to the home, common school education, politics, po­liti­cal economy, rural roads, cultural life, and beautification.

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The short-­course programs ­were another proto-­extension innovation. The grange-­backed land-­g rant schools in Kingston, Rhode Island, and Storrs, Connecticut, offered short courses in poultry rearing and dairy farming from the outset, and ­after the land-­g rant college was moved to Durham in 1891, the New Hampshire legislature provided funding for a short course in agriculture on campus for “­those unprepared or financially unable” to navigate the regular curriculum. Pennsylvania pioneered “movable short courses” at sites across the commonwealth, in which three-­or four-­day courses covered new advances in dairying, fruit growing, and poultry rearing. A third area of outreach in the 1880s came through direct correspondence between farmers and experiment stations. The Hatch Act directed $15,000 in federal funds to the extension stations ­housed at land-­g rant colleges “for the purpose of paying the necessary expenses of conducting investigations and experiments and distributing the results.” The director of the experiment stations disseminated research bulletins and engaged in regular letter writing and direct visits with farmer groups to explain research findings and discuss practical applications.9 By the end of the 1880s, t­ here was a recognition that formal structures and dedicated personnel w ­ ere required for land-­grant colleges to manage t­ hese burgeoning commitments to outreach. The New Jersey land-­g rant college at Rutgers was prob­ably the first to formally or­ga­nize an extension department, in 1891. The department supervised a group of short courses to be offered in seven towns and villages in the state. The state legislature was pleased with the short courses and awarded Rutgers a recurring appropriation to support the new department. Extension departments also appeared across the Midwest—­most notably at Michigan State College and the University of Wisconsin—to oversee an impressive network of farmers’ institutes conducted in ­every county of the respective states.10 Land-­g rant extension reconstituted the relationships between the p­ eople and land-­grant colleges. Extension provided an opportunity to connect directly with the industrial classes, even if they ­were not members of the campus community. In the Progressive Era, the label “Democracy’s College” took on a new meaning that captured the land-­g rant college’s role in building, sustaining, and invigorating American democracy in the countryside. It spoke to elucidating the possibilities of demo­cratic action, and awakening citizens to a potential to build sustainable and empowered communities.11 Although extension activities could not always achieve all the laudable goals espoused by progressive reformers, outreach activities undoubtedly embedded the colleges within their communities and made the ser­vices and partnerships of extension synonymous with land-­grant colleges’ demo­cratic mission. This transformation

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in the land-­g rant idea found its fullest expression at Cornell University, which, ­after overcoming early deficits in agricultural education and outreach, came to create the most expansive extension operation in the nation.

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Cornell University and Extension In 1874, a del­e­ga­tion of farmers visited the campus farm at Cornell University and observed the “bedraggled state [of the farm buildings], scared away the rats and dead chickens, and spat.” They returned home and wrote a letter to the New York Cultivator that the university was contravening the provisions of the Morrill Act.12 Building on this letter, state grange leaders lamented that only seven students ­were registered for the agricultural program and few sons of farmers ­were enrolling in the college. In fact, the number taking the agricultural course had been in steady decline. By 1878, ­there was only one gradu­ate who declared an interest in pursuing a ­career in agriculture (and he would become a veterinarian13) compared to twenty-­two in engineering, eleven in business and manufacturing, and eigh­teen in the learned professions of law, teaching, and medicine.14 In a letter to Andrew Dickson White in 1870, Vice President William C. Russell warned of the serious prob­lems in agricultural education: “thistles unharvested, hay laying in the field, cows r­unning dry, no manure b­ ecause no animals, no vegetables. . . . ​For Heaven’s sake let us do something.”15 Unlike land-­grant colleges of limited means, Cornell University could address campus challenges without subjecting itself to the public hearings that accompanied bud­get requests before state legislatures. The most consequential act to right the ship was the hiring in 1874 of Isaac P. Roberts, a well-­respected professor of agriculture at Iowa State College. While other land-­grant colleges in the region ­were losing promising talent to midwestern land-­grant colleges that received greater state support,16 Cornell was able to recruit up-­and-­coming faculty. Roberts arrived on campus and encountered an agricultural program in disarray. The new professor, who would come to be called the “­father of agricultural science in Amer­ic­ a,” sent an ultimatum to the board of trustees—­“I ­will resign u ­ nless money . . . ​be immediately provided to rehabilitate the farm.” Roberts’s message also signaled his vision for the f­ uture: “I am determine[d] to lay the foundation of a College of Agriculture such as never before been conceived.”17 Roberts’s demands w ­ ere met with a liberal bud­get for his department, and improvements ­were quickly made—­a herd of healthy ­cattle ­were purchased, fields ­were cultivated, and a new barn was erected in 1880.18 Relations between Cornell and the New York state grange improved markedly as Isaac Roberts gained the trust of a skeptical public, but his task of in-

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gratiating himself to New York farmers was complicated by the infamous legacy of Professor Henry McCandless, his aristocratic pre­de­ces­sor, who had ­little interest in working with a local farming community that he deemed backward and uncouth. President White remembered farmers complaining of Professor McCandless “walking over the farm in a dilettantish way, superintending operations in white gloves, and never touching any implements.” The Scottish agricultural equipment McCandless brought from Eu­rope and his aversion to cultivating New York staples such as pumpkins made the Cornell farm foreign to the realities of New York farmers. Roberts, however, had no such high-­brow pedigree; he had been born and raised on a farm and had, in his own words, the appearance and mannerisms of the “plain p­ eople of the western prairies.” Indeed, Roberts felt that his class background contributed to “a sort of social neglect” at the hands of “the classically educated members of the Cornell faculty.” But while his class background may have made faculty relationships difficult, it would be his ­humble origins, simpler ways, and expressions of workingman masculinity that seemed to bridge the cultural gulch between farmers and Cornell University.19 Roberts traveled throughout New York to meet with local grange officials, confront critics directly, and explain how discoveries at Cornell could improve farming and rural life. By 1877, he had made inroads, evidenced by events that tran­spired at the second annual meeting of the New York state grange. As had become typical at t­ hese meetings, a resolution was presented that berated Cornell University for failing to serve the needs of farmers, but this time, a protégé of Roberts was a delegate at the convention and stood to defend his mentor and Cornell’s agricultural program. The young man demanded that grangers visit Cornell before passing judgment; the assembly agreed. A grange del­e­ga­tion came to campus and was duly impressed with Roberts and the improvements he had made.20 One of the original sponsors of the grange resolution admitted that his “prejudices ­were entirely unfounded, and that Cornell was prepared to accomplish won­ders for agriculture.” By the following year, this sentiment had spread, and the state grange called on the legislature to provide material support to Cornell for agricultural studies and outreach.21 The improved relations with farmers led to increased participation in agricultural programs. Hundreds of part-­time students participated in Roberts’s short courses and summer programs, and the number of ­those pursuing the bachelor of agriculture increased sixfold throughout the 1880s. Through Roberts’s efforts, Cornell University had fi­nally received the blessing of the grange and enjoyed improved relations with the state legislature.22 In 1888, Isaac Roberts’s protégé Liberty Hyde Bailey joined Cornell as professor of horticulture.23 ­After a year in Eu­rope studying the latest botanical

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advances, he returned to Ithaca as professor of practical and experimental horticulture. In short order, Bailey convinced the state legislature that Cornell could greatly expand on the successes of his pre­de­ces­sor, if regular funding was appropriated for extension activities. As the story goes, it all began in 1894, when the western New York grape harvest was decimated by infestation. Assemblyman  S.  F. Nixon, a grape grower himself, penned legislation that proposed to appropriate funds to Cornell for

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conducting investigations and experiments in horticulture; in discovering and remedying the diseases of plants, vines, and fruit trees; in ascertaining the best means of fertilizing vineyard, fruit, and garden plantations; in disseminating horticulture knowledge by means of lectures[,] . . . ​and preparing and printing, for f­ree distribution, the results of such experiments and investigations. The state assembly passed the Nixon Act and, by the end of the c­ entury, the recurring extension appropriation would reach $35,000. The funding supported the creation of a new orga­nizational unit, of which Bailey was named director—­ Cornell’s Bureau of University Extension of Agricultural Knowledge.24 ­Under the auspices of the Nixon Act, the extension bureau initially focused on campus-­based experiments in plant disease and entomology as well as investigations at vineyards, gardens, and farms across the state. Results ­were regularly disseminated in research bulletins published by the university. By 1898, the bureau expanded the scope of experiments and added farm demonstrations, including sugar beet experiments in fifteen counties, seed and fertilizer tests, spraying demonstrations, and over four hundred direct farm visits with New York farmers. Liberty Hyde Bailey believed that more was needed for farmers to profit from the university’s outreach; farmers required a more thorough education in scientific princi­ples and the basics of modern farming techniques. So, in the tradition of the farmers’ institutes, the bureau expanded beyond the short courses established by Isaac Roberts and inaugurated itinerant schools across the state—­including horticultural and dairying schools—­ that provided farmers with a foundation in agricultural science. In 1897, the bureau also began comprehensive correspondence courses. Participants received lesson plans and reading lists, and they completed quizzes that w ­ ere graded by extension staff. T ­ here was a seriousness to the courses, since participants who failed to return quizzes and to complete assignments ­were dismissed from the program. Correspondence students or­ga­nized into local reading groups, and occasionally Cornell speakers would attend group meetings and lecture on the course material. By 1901, over 27,000 individuals had participated in this program.25

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Bailey’s next innovation involved partnerships with district schools, teachers, and rural ­children. The Nature Study program was inaugurated in 1897, funded by the Nixon Act and directed by a well-­respected, progressive farmer named John W. Spencer. The extension staff designed instructional materials and bulletins for ­children and schoolteachers that ­were delivered quarterly to district schools (by 1900, Cornell was sending 30,000 packets e­ very three months). The materials included scientific information on natu­r al phenomena and activities for students to observe scientific concepts in nature. The bureau encouraged local schools to develop Ju­nior Naturalist Clubs, which received a monthly newsletter called the Ju­nior Naturalist. Ju­nior Naturalists enjoyed special outings ­after the school day and participated in youth programs attached to Cornell’s itinerant schools. Historian Roy Scott argues that Nature Study activities ­were born from a realization that all the efforts to nurture scientific learning among farmers ­were “doomed to no more than limited success” if the rural population remained ignorant of basic scientific princi­ples.26 ­There has been a tendency among historians to offer a narrow interpretation of t­hese early extension activities. As the preceding comments by Roy Scott attest, Nature Study has been viewed as a program to advance science in rural schools, enhance scientific knowledge among rural p­ eople, and deliver the downstream benefits of creating more modern, scientific farmers and increasing agricultural productivity. However, more recent works have situated ­these pioneering programs within the full complexity of the progressive worldview. In his history of the Nature Study movement, Kevin Armitage explains that while progressive educators in the movement did indeed promote science education goals as “essential to intellectual development and social pro­gress,” they also appreciated engagement with the “green world” in a more holistic way, as a source of “delight . . . ​and nourishment for the soul.” In the Progressive Era, scientific modernity and technological innovation w ­ ere celebrated for improving the h ­ uman experience, but Americans also recoiled at the “systemization that modern society imposed on life.” Engagement with the natu­ral world allowed ­humans to experience a life unaltered by the bureaucratization and routinization of modernity. Nature Study was about more than imparting scientific knowledge; it developed the powers of inquiry and cultivated an ethic of conservation. According to Armitage, it was foremost a pedagogical movement that gave students the means to become “more ­human” in a world of ubiquitous modern marvels, so as to “not turn our c­ hildren into youthful technocrats but rather have them develop an intertwined and interconnected curiosity, a love of learning and a love of nature.”27

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Progressive thinking colored much of the early extension efforts at Cornell and contributed to new ways of understanding the purpose of the land-­ grant colleges. In an 1893 lecture at Cornell, Liberty Hyde Bailey gave a critical appraisal of the movement. Bailey lamented that land-­g rant colleges had become “adapted only to certain classes of persons, to certain professions” that ­were “no use to all men.” This led the colleges to become insular and aloof, unable and unwilling “to associate with the daily business of mankind.” Bailey posed a straightforward question: “Have the land-­g rant colleges been as successful . . . ​as their friends had hoped?” He answered in the negative but gave reasons that transcended the grange criticism of funding, access, curricula, and the failure to produce farmers.28 Scott Peters explains that Bailey added a pedagogical dimension to the old land-­g rant critique.29 Bailey argued that land-­g rant students need not be confined “inside four walls,” but in the tradition of Dewey, students should be out in the world, engaged with real prob­lems where they “do ­things rather than talk about ­things.”30 During his ­career in extension, Bailey developed programs to situate the learner within the context of the prob­lem—­the field, the home, the school­ house. Indeed, as Scott Peters concludes, Bailey viewed the entire extension experiment as a “new kind of educational work that would bring the acad­ emy into a relationship with ­people beyond the campus.” If extension was so designed, it could fulfill the demo­cratic promise of the Morrill Act and become the “primary component of the mission of land-­grant universities.” Of course, to Bailey, this mission was more than disseminating agricultural knowledge for increasing production; it was about “improving citizenship as well as farming.”31 In his 1898 textbook Princi­ples of Agriculture, Bailey claimed that the purpose of education was to “improve the farmer, not the farm.” The multifaceted challenges and long-­term sustainability of the countryside demanded intelligent, enlightened citizens. Through extension, Bailey hoped to instill a love for the natu­ral world, a proclivity for observation and an attitude of scientific inquiry and improvement, and a commitment to public work that could sustain the social, economic, and natu­ral ecosystems that tied together farms, families, and rural communities.32 The New York grange was an enthusiastic supporter of this vision. Furthermore, ­these progressive views reshaped how grange members understood their own organ­izations and the role of land-­grant colleges. In an 1894 speech, Grange Master George Cushman declared that grange leaders ­were starting to think of education, both inside and outside the grange organ­ization, as the order’s central mission and in terms beyond the economic concerns of the past. He stated that education had elevated “the farmer to a higher standard, socially and intellectually[,] . . . ​has lifted him out of the rut of prejudice and superstition,

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broadened his views of life, made of him a careful thinker and investigator[, and] . . . ​enabled him to reason from cause to effect upon many of the ­great issues of the day.” He concluded that educational outreach helped prepare rural ­people for “the duties and responsibilities of citizenship.” As rural ­people came to appreciate how land-­g rant extension activities—­correspondence courses, Nature Study, farmers’ institutes, farm demonstrations, home economic outreach, and ­others—­were contributing to the uplift of the farmer and the broader community, the last vestiges of grange antagonism dis­appeared. In fact, t­hese activities ushered in an era of partnership between granges and land-­g rant colleges. When Liberty Hyde Bailey promoted correspondence courses or special exhibitions on campus, he turned to the grange to distribute information through its vast network. Cornell extension staff routinely presented lectures at grange halls, and grange members participated in extension activities and attended events on campus. This relationship brought financial benefits. In 1904, the New York state grange approved four annual scholarships for students to attend Cornell’s agricultural program, and grange leaders lobbied the state legislature on Cornell’s behalf. T ­ here was perhaps no greater vote of confidence than when the master of the state grange stated that he would help “in any way within my power” to increase state appropriations to “our” land-­g rant college.33

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Kenyon Butterfield and Extension John Washburn was forced from the presidency of the Rhode Island land-­grant college for favoring the curricular breadth of the state college model over vocationalism and agricultural education. His successor, Interim President Homer Wheeler, attempted a return to vocational agriculture but soon discovered that few students ­were interested in pursuing farming ­careers. While the grange leaders on the board of trustees begrudgingly acquiesced to the return of Washburn’s state college scheme, they ­were adamant about finding a permanent president who could restructure and reignite the college’s relationship with farmers and rural communities. The board found that person in thirty-­four-­year-­old Kenyon Butterfield, a gradu­ate of Michigan Agricultural College, editor of the Michigan Farmer, and instructor in rural sociology at the University of Michigan. Butterfield began his presidential duties on April 1, 1903. While in Kingston, Butterfield was a prolific writer on agricultural education and the challenges facing rural ­people. In an article published in Popu­lar Science in July 1903, Butterfield critiqued land-­g rant colleges for limiting agricultural education to farm practice and limiting the application of the natu­ral

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sciences to issues of soil fertility, breeding, pest control, and related areas. In an oft-­repeated phrase reminiscent of Liberty Hyde Bailey, Butterfield argued that the land-­g rant college “must not forget that the farmer is also a citizen and a man.” The farmer, he continued, must be prepared to understand the “social prob­lems of their par­tic­u­lar calling” as well as the “general economic and po­liti­cal questions of the day.” To prepare students for engaged citizenship, Butterfield emphasized the social sciences in the curriculum, for he argued that the ­f uture rural leader was “obliged to study the questions that confront him as a member of the industrial order and as a f­ actor in the social and po­liti­cal life of the nation.” To further ­these goals and to encourage faculty scholarship on the “rural prob­lem,” Butterfield created a new Department of Economics and Rural Sociology. By leaving ­behind the vocationalism of previous years and broadening the curriculum, the new president was attempting to justify agriculture as a collegiate pursuit. Through the work of the land-­g rant colleges, Butterfield argued, farming would be assured of middle-­ class status, as agriculture was “made to yield returns in wealth, in opportunity, in contentment, in social position, sufficient to attract and to hold to it a class of intelligent educated American citizens.”34 Like his pre­de­ces­sors, Butterfield soon realized that most of the high school gradu­ates now attending his college exhibited ­little interest in pursuing the life of a farmer. He concluded that to “carry out the function of the agricultural college,” the institution needed a “vast enlargement of its extension work among farmers.” In 1904, President Butterfield created a separate extension division that would “rank as a department” and include “a faculty of men whose chief business is to teach the p­ eople who cannot come to the college.” H ­ ere again, he espoused a vision that transcended a singular focus on farm production, for he demanded that the extension department “incorporate into its work the economic, governmental, and social prob­lems of agriculture . . . ​and rural life.” As Butterfield explained in a 1905 article for the American Journal of Sociology, the extension activities of land-­grant colleges could help address the most significant social prob­lems facing farmers and rural ­people, including issues of rural isolation, farmer organ­ization, rural schools, and the country home. Butterfield believed that educational outreach could spur an intellectual awakening in the countryside; bring pro­gress to the home, the school, and the field; and support the overarching goal of securing for rural ­people “the highest pos­si­ble class status . . . ​in the po­liti­cal and the social order.” Full of youthful vim and vigor, Butterfield crisscrossed the state to reestablish relations with a skeptical public. He traveled to meet with granges, chambers of commerce, the Rhode Island Press Club, and the state legislature to discuss the college’s new extension division. Butterfield marketed the corre-

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spondence courses and farmers’ institutes and hosted the annual Farmers’ Field Day, where the faculty conducted agricultural demonstrations and staff provided refreshments and coordinated transportation. He invited the state board of agriculture to hold its meeting in the main building, and on numerous occasions Butterfield invited legislators and the governor to campus. They ­were welcomed with an honorary blast from the college’s Civil War era cannon. President Butterfield successfully convinced state leaders that the college was contributing to the welfare of Rhode Islanders. ­After years of ignoring bud­get requests, the legislature renewed and expanded annual funding and approved additional appropriations to support the extension department, student work and scholarships, building repairs, and the erection of a new green­house. It is notable that this positive atmosphere in relations between college and state developed despite no change in the number of students studying to become farmers. In fact, the old grange mantra of “return our boys to the farm” was rarely uttered. The state granges had become committed partners in extension activities and witnessed concrete benefits from the programs. Moving forward, the grange would take a compartmentalized view of the land-­g rant colleges. They would ignore state college changes that diverged from agricultural or rural concerns and instead focus on agricultural programs and extension activities that directly served their interests.35 In 1905, Kenyon Butterfield submitted a proposal at the Association of Agricultural Colleges and Experiment Stations for a new committee to arouse interest in implementing extension programs nationwide.36 The association agreed and named Butterfield the chairman. By 1906, Butterfield stood as a leading figure in the national land-­grant and extension movement and was recruited away to the presidency of Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College. His new land-­g rant home had always retained a firm commitment to agricultural education (in part ­because engineering programs ­were separately located at MIT) and was a regional leader in graduating agricultural scientists, who became faculty members, state chemists, bureaucrats in state and federal agricultural agencies, and scientific farmers. Yet, when Butterfield arrived in 1906, the institution was starting to drift t­oward the state college ideal, with increasing numbers of students pursuing liberal arts and sciences in lieu of agricultural studies. Extracurricular activities appeared as well, with college football displacing manual l­abor. In his inaugural address, Butterfield took the opportunity to articulate that land-­grant colleges must remember their historic responsibility to agriculture, farmers, and rural communities, even within the context of the state college paradigm.37 For the land-­g rant colleges to meet this responsibility to rural ­people, Butterfield argued that institutional reform was needed across three domains: the

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pedagogical, the so­cio­log­i­cal, and the orga­nizational. On pedagogy, Butterfield argued that the previous generation’s debates over vocational versus liberal education and the unwavering focus on “producing farmers” w ­ ere misguided. The faculty should abandon narrow vocationalism in agriculture and endeavor to produce “well-­rounded men” who w ­ ere prepared to meet “the demands of f­ amily and of state and of civil society.” Butterfield added that the “broad . . . ​ and well-­balanced agricultural course,” including liberal arts, social sciences, natu­ral sciences, and applied agriculture, could come to serve as a “means of general education” that would “form the best foundation for a life-­work, even though they may not follow rural pursuits.” On the so­cio­log­i­cal dimension, Butterfield exclaimed that “nothing that concerns the material, the economic, the social, [and] the moral welfare of rural communities is foreign to the interests of the college.” As he had done in Rhode Island, the new president desired a “wider application of the social sciences” to rural issues. Soon ­after taking office in Mas­sa­chu­setts, he expanded offerings in sociology, economics, and history, and in 1908 inaugurated the gradu­ate school. Butterfield also revealed his intentions to proactively confront rural prob­lems through extension work and bring a social, economic, and moral uplift to “the multitude who cannot come to college for instruction.” As he had done in Rhode Island, Butterfield would, in time, oversee the creation of the first extension department in Mas­sa­chu­setts to oversee correspondence courses, farm exhibitions, farmers’ institutes, domestic outreach, and what he termed “applied social science.” Butterfield believed that land-­g rant colleges had to manage multiple missions ­under a unified umbrella—­“one in purpose, one in interest, one in results.” He declared that the land-­g rant college could best serve the public through equal commitments to the “research work exemplified in the experiment station,” the “academic work illustrated by the teaching of gradu­ate and under-­ graduate students in residence,” and the “extension work which carries out to the masses of adult p­ eople the light and the knowledge of the college and experiment station.” As parting commentary on the tripartite arrangement that would typify land-­g rant colleges in the twentieth ­century, Butterfield prophetically warned that extension should be treated “as dignified . . . ​and just as fully . . . ​as academic work” and not as simply “an advertising scheme.” All faculty and staff, the new president concluded, “must not permit the provincial interests of their par­tic­u­lar fields to obscure the unity of the w ­ hole.” With the founding of extension departments in the first de­cade of the twentieth c­ entury, the land-­g rant college had found its modern form—­teaching, research, and ser­vice. As extension departments delivered tangible benefits to farmers and rural communities, former grange foes became the greatest cham-

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pions of increased state appropriations for land-­g rant colleges.38 Vocational instruction in farm practice and mechanics moved to high school “ag” and “shop” programs (soon to receive considerable federal funding through the Smith-­Hughes Act of 1917), and the land-­g rant colleges focused on developing liberal arts and sciences, business, education, and engineering programs, recruiting bona fide scholars and researchers, and developing extracurricular activities. By 1914, land-­g rant institutions had under­gone collegiate and academic revolutions, shelved the old “A&M” labels, and embraced ­futures as state colleges and universities. Yet the land-­g rant colleges and universities retained direct engagement with the ­people through extension, which both legitimized the receipt of public funding and fulfilled historic responsibilities to agriculture, the industrial classes, and American democracy.

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Ch a p ter  6

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Coeducation and Land-­Grant ­Women

The preceding chapters have explored a contentious, long-­running dispute over the meaning of the Morrill Act and the purpose of the land-­g rant colleges. Often, t­ hese debates ­were built on a gendered discourse that presupposed the land-­g rant idea to be inherently male and aligned with institutional practices tailored to serve class-­based notions of the social, cultural, or economic needs of white men. Yet, from the beginning, young ­women undermined this hegemonic narrative, arriving at land-­g rant colleges and staking claims to Morrill Act benefits. Despite gender segregation, discrimination by peers, and inequitable distribution of resources, young ­women carved out their own spaces on campus, excelled academically across subjects, and secured a permanent place at land-­g rant colleges. T ­ hese ­women ushered in the final pillar of land-­grant standardization—­coeducation. Despite fits and starts, coeducation would become standard practice at land-­g rant colleges by 1914.1 ­There was, however, no concerted effort by the leaders, trustees, or faculty of Yankee land-­grant colleges to advance coeducation in the early years. While neither the Morrill Act nor college charters disallowed the education of female students, campus presidents rarely promoted the idea. Instead, it was the young ­women themselves who wrote presidents to demand admittance. In t­ hese letters, ­women of lesser means explained that the comparatively low-­cost land-­ grant colleges w ­ ere their only ­viable option, o ­ thers discussed how they had 1 50

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already completed courses at a female college and looked to the land-­g rant college for advanced study, and still o ­ thers spoke of realizing c­ areer goals such as becoming teachers. Yet, beyond proffering tacit permission, presidents did not expedite or even prepare for w ­ omen’s arrival. The first female students discovered that they ­were prohibited from campus living quarters, and they had to arrange private accommodations with local families. Classroom access was initially more equitable, as w ­ omen could partake in the full menu of courses in the early years. Female applicants w ­ ere especially e­ ager to study the latest scientific material that was not typically offered at ­women’s seminaries or colleges. Professors ­were often supportive and even stimulated by the w ­ omen’s eagerness and passion, especially since many proved to be serious students who graduated at the top of their classes.2 Male students could be cold, dismissive, and verbally abusive, but, as explained in this chapter, this varied a good deal across the region. For example, as the student body at Cornell became increasingly wealthy and cosmopolitan, male students wanted to be mea­sured as equals to the men of Harvard, Yale, and Prince­ton. Cornell ­women tended to be poorer and local, and male students resented t­hese females for undermining their status in the eyes of Ivy League brethren. Yet, at ­those land-­g rant colleges with less class division and a more home-­g rown clientele, as was the case in Maine, t­ here seemed to be a more hospitable environment for coeducation. Land-­g rant w ­ omen also confronted societal forces that challenged the very idea of female higher education. In his 1873 book Sex and Education, Dr. Edward Clarke dressed misogyny in scientific language, claiming that education posed a threat to w ­ omen’s physiology. Using ­simple observations and slapdash methods, Clarke concluded that ­women ­were biologically unfit to exert ­mental energy on higher education. Sex and Education was a popu­lar sensation: parents had second thoughts about sending their d­ aughters to college, as social conservatives used Clarke’s pronouncements to warn against the perils of coeducation. T ­ here was ample evidence to debunk the claims in Sex and Education, as serious inquiries on coeducation found ­women excelling in their studies and suffering no ill effects. Yet, the challenges ­women faced ­were much larger than one dubious book; they stemmed from the ingrained traditions of gendered segregation—­the ideology of separate spheres. This paradigm was erected on the idea that biological and physiological differences of the sexes had, over the course of history and buttressed by religious tenets, made ­women best suited for the domestic duties of the private sphere. In contrast, men w ­ ere deemed best suited for work and leadership. With patriarchy entrenched in Yankeedom, ­women ­were regularly denied access to ­careers outside the home and faced skepticism or outright hostility when dabbling in politics or other

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public ser­vice. Why, pioneering land-­g rant w ­ omen ­were inevitably asked, are you pursuing education as a gateway to c­ areers that are closed to you? Are you foolish? Are you a troublemaker intent on bucking the system? Are you all these things?3 In the popu­lar imagination, land-­g rant colleges w ­ ere inextricably wedded to educational application and utility, even though the Morrill Act supported both practical and liberal education and most regional land-­g rant colleges hosted as many students studying the liberal arts as ­were studying agricultural science. Nevertheless, contemporaries contrasted land-­g rant institutions with the seemingly impractical traditional colleges and viewed land-­g rant gradu­ ates as uniquely prepared to enter a field, a vocation, a profession. The land-­ grant gradu­ate was not the idle dilettante but rather the scientific farmer, the engineer, the chemist, the bureaucrat, the worker. The arrival of w ­ omen represented a challenge to a gendered utilitarianism that assumed the land-­g rant colleges ­were chiefly about preparing young men for c­ areers. Land-­grant utilitarianism was embraced by both sides of the Morrill Act debates, ­whether it was grangers demanding young men return home as farmers or reformers like Daniel Coit Gilman demanding that students become “leading scientific men.” This chapter illustrates how the separate-­sphere ideology and utilitarianism ­were constant hurdles for w ­ omen seeking equal opportunities and treatment at land-­g rant colleges. The land-­g rant ­women faced re­sis­tance when attempting to circumvent their prescribed sphere. Teaching ­careers proved to be an impor­tant exception that justified ­women’s land-­g rant education, as did ­careers in the burgeoning world of home economics. Yet home economics programs could be unfairly characterized by other faculty members as subcollegiate and consisting of l­ittle more than vocational domestic courses, and be criticized by feminists who viewed home economics as a backward step that supported gender segregation. Yet, as this chapter attests, the motivations and experiences of land-­grant ­women resist ­simple generalization. ­There ­were female students who wanted access to the full breadth of collegiate subjects irrespective of any postcollegiate ­career considerations. Some of the ­women entered male-­dominated c­ areers or became po­liti­cal reformers, whereas o ­ thers never entered the public sphere, finding fulfillment as educated m ­ others and wives. The remainder of this chapter focuses on the antecedents, origins, and early years of land-­grant coeducation and the motivations and experiences of land-­grant ­women in the northeastern United States. Following a discussion of broader developments in female higher education and land-­grant coeducation, the chapter pres­ents two specific cases that illustrate the experiences of land-­grant w ­ omen at Cornell University and the Maine State College of Agriculture and the Mechanical Arts.4

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Antecedents of Land-­Grant Coeducation Land-­grant coeducation was preceded by de­cades of pro­gress in female higher education. In the early years of the United States, a smattering of female academies appeared around population centers. “Republican motherhood”— as epitomized by ­women like First Lady Abigail Adams—­justified the education of w ­ omen who, in turn, nurtured young boys to be the next generation of virtuous, demo­cratic leaders. Yet, with the exception of schools like the Young Ladies Acad­emy of Philadelphia and the coeducational Greenfield Acad­emy, the earliest academies offered ­little academic content, primarily focusing on domestic subjects, with instruction that was irregular and limited to rote memorization.5 By the 1820s, a demand for teachers presented an opportunity for w ­ omen to step outside the home. In the prevailing norms of the period, ­women and men navigated life through separate spheres: men in the public realm of work, politics, and community leadership and ­women in the private realm of home and f­amily. Yet ­women teachers did not fit neatly into this dichotomy; they ­were clearly working ­women, albeit in a profession that offered ­little remuneration or status. As historian Barbara Solomon described the situation, “Men who lacked alternatives taught and some college youth might teach intermittently before turning to business or a profession.” As men shunned teaching for other ­careers, ­women entered—­typically working during the intermittent years between graduation and marriage. Indeed, by 1900, w ­ omen teachers ­were so ubiquitous that they dominated the teaching ranks at the elementary level. Teaching ­careers allowed young w ­ omen to gain confidence and self-­ respect by departing from their ancestral village and ­family homestead to take charge of classrooms or even run an entire country school.6 To the modern observer, the female teacher seems a direct challenge to the gendered restrictions of the era; she was in­de­pen­dent, educated, and worked outside the home. The boundary spanning caused l­ittle anxiety among contemporaries, however, as teaching was almost always short-­term, did not disturb ­women’s domestic duties, and was thus characterized as a feminine, private-­sphere activity. In fact, working in a school­house was often framed as analogous to child rearing. Conceived of in this way, female teachers did not disrupt the prevailing social order and ­were instead celebrated as specimens of “true womanhood”—­pious, pure, and engaged in the domesticity of education. With teaching preparation considered socially acceptable, Emma Willard founded the Troy Female Institute in 1822. Throughout the 1820s, female seminaries followed Troy’s lead in teacher education while also offering instruction in the so-­called ornamental subjects of ­music and art, modern

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languages, and a selection of collegiate-­level courses offered at men’s colleges. Some of the seminaries even taught Latin. ­These early seminaries produced many female teachers, but high tuition limited enrollment to wealthier students.7 Mary Lyon depleted all her savings to attend the Byfield Acad­emy in 1821, where she studied collegiate subjects, apart from Latin and Greek, in a coeducational setting. ­After teaching for a few years at the Ipswich Female Seminary—­another example of an acad­emy with collegiate-­g rade subjects—­ Lyon endeavored to form a less costly institution for aspiring teachers of middling and poorer backgrounds. When she opened Mount Holyoke in 1837, it introduced a system in which female students w ­ ere responsible for all domestic duties: cleaning, food preparation, and other custodial functions. While Lyon accepted the dogma of separate spheres, she believed that w ­ omen’s roles as teachers, m ­ others, and wives demanded a more thorough education. As at Byfield and Ipswich, Mouth Holyoke rejected ornamental classes in f­avor of rigorous subjects, and Lyon continued to press for higher standards (Latin was included in 1846). By 1850, the pioneering institution had graduated nearly four hundred ­women, many of whom became teachers. Several Holyoke “­sister schools” that followed Lyon’s model of evangelical piety, the domestic system, and advanced academic instruction ­were founded in the Northeast and Midwest.8 As the number of district schools grew rapidly before the Civil War, the private seminaries and institutes could not keep pace with the demand for qualified teachers. Educational reformers demanded public support for teacher education and the founding of normal schools. The first of these state-­ sponsored schools devoted to teacher training w ­ ere formed in Mas­sa­chu­ setts in 1839. New York and Connecticut then founded state normal schools in the 1840s, and Pennsylvania followed with an ambitious 1857 law to create twelve normal schools across the commonwealth. T ­ here would be thirty-­five normal schools in the Northeast by 1870. The normal school bridged secondary and higher education, as the first two years of the curriculum w ­ ere preparatory and the last two years included traditional collegiate subjects. Subsidized with public funds, the normal schools w ­ ere accessible to young w ­ omen of modest means.9 The state-­supported normal schools allowed a generation of ­women to access a portion of the college curriculum and pursue teaching ­careers. However, by the Civil War, many of the w ­ omen studying collegiate subjects and becoming teachers did so, in forms that varied across regions, at private, single-­sex institutes, seminaries, and colleges. Mount Holyoke and its ­sister schools continued to set the standard for academic rigor, but new endowed female colleges quickly became robust academic destinations for ­women. Elmira Female College in

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New York (f. 1859) and Mary Sharpe College for Young Ladies in Tennessee (f. 1855) elevated expectations in higher education for ­women by offering the full classical course and graduating young ­women with BA degrees. Matthew Vassar—­philanthropist, reformer, and retired brewer—­wanted to build a college for ­women that rivaled the elite men’s colleges. In 1865, Vassar College opened with a considerable endowment that would surpass Prince­ton’s resources by the end of the ­century. The founding of Wellesley College and Smith College in 1875, supported by philanthropists William Durant and Sophia Smith, respectively, added two more colleges for ­women with formidable endowments. Vassar, Wellesley, and Smith, along with Bryn Mawr (f. 1885), Mount Holyoke, Radcliffe College, and Barnard College (the latter two affiliated with Harvard and Columbia, respectively), l­ater to be known as the “Seven ­Sisters,” would be the vanguard of ­women’s higher education. Notwithstanding the advances in female, single-­sex higher education, the second half of the nineteenth c­ entury marked the emergence of coeducational institutions as the preferred destination for college w ­ omen. Colleges ­were founded at a remarkable pace between 1850 and 1890, with 357 new colleges taking form during the period. While the classical college, with its traditional fixed curriculum and male clientele, continued to predominate on the Eastern Seaboard, the modal institution of the nineteenth ­century was the “multipurpose college.” Many of t­ hese colleges a­ dopted coeducation. As discussed in chapter 1, multipurpose colleges initially looked to emulate the curricula, practices, and standards of the Eastern elites, but increasingly they experimented with innovative courses, pedagogies, and clientele, offering parallel nonclassical degree programs, part-­time vocational courses, manual-­labor schemes, and coeducation. In towns and villages, pressure for coeducation abounded, as colleges faced demands to educate teachers for country schools and from middle-­class parents coveting the cultural distinctions and economic in­de­pen­dence that college could afford. Some of the colleges pursued full gender integration, whereas o ­ thers provided segregated “ladies courses” with a mix of collegiate subjects, ornamentals, and domestic programs. At the end of the nineteenth c­ entury, nearly two-­thirds of all colleges ­were officially coeducational.10

Coeducation Origins at Land-­Grant Colleges The fastest-­g rowing and largest coeducational institutions, most responsible for the dramatic increase in men studying alongside w ­ omen, ­were the state universities and land-­grant colleges. The movement began in the Midwest and

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West. Historian Andrea Radke-­Moss concludes that the Midwestern and Western states proved to be fertile ground for coeducation, arguing that t­ hese regions w ­ ere ­free of exclusionary traditions, w ­ ere populated by a more egalitarian class structure that precluded haughty notions of Victorian femininity, and attracted university leaders who came from coeducational institutions in the Mississippi Valley. However, only the University of Iowa welcomed female students from the outset, in 1855. Historian Barbara Solomon explains that this was ­because conservative ele­ments in midwestern and western state­houses attempted a rearguard defense of gender segregation, and college presidents and boards of trustees initially recoiled in the face of “opposition to coeducation that spread like a fever from one campus to another.” Yet t­ here was also an urgent need for trained teachers, and growing pressure from or­ga­nized ­women for equal access to institutions supported by public funds. Coeducation officially prevailed ­after the Civil War, as w ­ omen entered the land-­g rant universities in Wisconsin in 1867, in Kansas, Minnesota, and Indiana in 1869, and in California, Michigan, and Missouri in 1870.11 Similar debates over public funding and ­women’s equal access to higher education tran­spired in the northeastern land-­g rant colleges. Cornell would become the Northeast’s first coeducational land-­g rant college in 1870, and two years ­later, Maine legislators would allow ­women to attend the state land-­grant college. In Vermont, the trustees authorized full access to all collegiate programs irrespective of gender in 1871; Lida A. Mason and Ellen E. Hamilton enrolled the following year. T ­ hese two trailblazers would gradu­ate in 1875 at the top of their class and be the first ­women admitted to the national honor society of Phi Beta Kappa.12 Minerva Whitman was technically the first young ­woman to study at the Pennsylvania Agricultural College (PAC), in 1864, having been given special permission to attend her f­ather’s botany classes. Officially, coeducation would not come to the school ­until 1871, when James Calder left the coeducational Hillsdale College to accept the presidency at the land-­g rant college in Pennsylvania, bringing along two female students and vowing to open the college to both men and w ­ omen. ­After a vigorous debate, the Pennsylvania legislature found no l­ egal basis to thwart Calder’s declaration. Ellen A. Cross and five other ­women enrolled in 1871; three of the w ­ omen ­were actually ­housed in Old Main along with the male students. Cross remembered receiving a “very kind and considerate” reception from the professors, but the male students “did not at first ­favor the innovation.” Indeed, the student newspaper ran an editorial a few years ­later that, in the tradition of Sex and Education, exclaimed the college female unwisely “risk[ed] her health in acquiring a knowledge of the advanced sciences, mathe­matics, or philosophy for which she has no use. . . . ​Too many ­women have already made themselves perma-

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Figure 10.  Lucy Swallow, Delia E. Brown, and classmates at New Hampshire’s land-­grant college in 1891. Milne Special Collections and Archives Department, University of New Hampshire Library, Durham, NH.

nent invalids by an overstrain of study at schools and colleges.” Defying such pseudoscientific pronouncements, Rebecca Hannah Ewing went on to become the first gradu­ate at PAC in 1873.13 The land-­grant colleges in New E ­ ngland began allowing coeducation in the 1890s. New Hampshire’s was still attached to Dartmouth College in 1891 when Lucy Swallow requested permission “to go to recitation with the young gentlemen and obtain full benefit as well as they.” Swallow’s twin ­brother had already been accepted, and she desired to fortify her knowledge of basic chemistry before applying for admission to the Mas­sa­chu­setts Institute of Technology (Lucy’s aunt, Ellen Swallow Richards, had already graduated from MIT). The faculty unanimously agreed to the request, and Swallow, along with a second young w ­ oman, Delia E. Brown, was admitted. The ­women chose not to follow the land-­g rant college to Durham, but other female applicants would be admitted at the new location. Swallow and Brown would be the last ­women in a Dartmouth-­affiliated program for nearly a ­century!14 In Connecticut, Nellie Wilson wrote President Koons in 1890 to inquire ­whether ­women could be accepted at the college. Koons responded that t­ here was no ­legal basis to bar female students, paving the way for Wilson to attend

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in the spring of 1891; she was followed by Louisa Rosebrooks and Anna Snow that fall. All three w ­ omen graduated in 1894 and became teachers for a time.15 The Mas­sa­chu­setts Institute of Technology permitted the prodigious Ellen H. Swallow to become a chemistry student in 1871, and the Agricultural College in Amherst accepted its first female student in 1890. Except in New Jersey (where Rutgers resisted admitting ­women at the main campus ­until 1972 but did create the coordinated New Jersey College for ­Women in 1918), land-­grant coeducation was a settled real­ity across the Mid-­Atlantic and New E ­ ngland states by the end of the nineteenth ­century. The most significant curricular innovation that came from ­women’s arrival at land-­g rant colleges was the emergence of home economics. Just as the progressive reformers discussed in chapter 5 looked to science and rationalization to improve industry, agriculture, government, and social ser­vices, educational reformer, scientist, and home economics pioneer Ellen Swallow Richards wanted to bring scientific princi­ples and efficiency to the home. Richards was an 1870 gradu­ate of Vassar College, where she excelled and nurtured a budding interest in chemistry. ­There w ­ ere no domestic options for ­women to study chemistry at an advanced level ­until the opening of the Mas­ sa­chu­setts Institute of Technology. Richards would be the first ­woman to gradu­ate from MIT and would ­later become the school’s first female professor. She taught courses on sanitary science, where she applied scientific princi­ ples to urban environmental issues such as air pollution and ­water quality. In 1899, Richards led the first of several conferences in Lake Placid, New York, for “­those most interested in home science, or h ­ ouse economics.” The meetings led to the creation of the American Home Economics Association (AHEA), the entity most responsible for bringing the scientific study of domestic issues to the university.16 The first science-­based home economics program was inaugurated at the University of Wisconsin in 1906 u ­ nder the guidance of Lake Placid participant Caroline Hunt. The program was structured as an equivalent to the university’s BA degree, as students ­were required to take a host of scientific courses along with scientific applications to h ­ ouse­hold issues. Universities that had opposed domestic courses for being below a collegiate grade now ­adopted home economics programs with sufficient scientific content. Historian Megan Elias argues that the efforts to bring home economics to higher education had both an “activist” and an “analytic” agenda. Some reformers, such as Ellen Swallow Richards, wanted the prob­lems of the home and related domestic areas to become acceptable domains of scientific research and study. O ­ thers focused on teaching home economics princi­ples that could lead to “perfectly efficient ­house­holds run by w ­ omen trained to the task and completely fulfilled

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by their task.” The second goal was often misconstrued in the context of land-­g rant utilitarianism as a dressed-up incarnation of young ­women learning domestic duties. To illustrate this misconception, Elias uses an anecdote from the Illinois land-­g rant college, where a dean of liberal arts dismissively asked the home economics professor if they ­were getting positive feedback on the bread the girls ­were baking. The professor responded “not much, ­because we are not baking much bread.” It was a subtle but impor­tant nuance, for, as Elias explains, the home economics students ­were not baking bread; they ­were studying the baking of bread. Whereas the young w ­ omen in the earliest domestic courses often donned aprons in class kitchens, the second generation of home economics students dressed in lab coats and used microscopes in domestic laboratories. The home economics degree program initially had small enrollments, but the passage of the Smith-­Lever Act of 1914 and Smith-­Hughes Act of 1917 delivered federal funds to home economics and greatly increased its popularity. The Smith-­Lever Act of 1914 made home economics outreach a critical part of land-­grant extension, and the Smith-­Hughes Act of 1917 funded the teaching of home economics at high schools. Home economics now had a secure home at land-­g rant colleges and universities, and program gradu­ates had ­career options as extension agents, high school teachers, or home economics faculty and researchers.17 Regional land-­g rant colleges that had rejected the old domestic programs as unworthy of collegiate status—­namely Cornell University, Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College, and Pennsylvania State College—­now a­ dopted science-­ based home economics. The grange-­sponsored land-­grant colleges in Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island upgraded their domestic courses into home economics departments in the early twentieth c­ entury.18 Home economics offered academic enrichment and, to mollify utilitarian critics, it provided a clear pathway to teaching and extension work. Courses included nutrition, h ­ ouse­hold economics and management, sanitation, and food conservation, and w ­ ere infused with college staples of chemistry, biology, po­liti­ cal economy, and mathe­matics. Home economics worked closely with agricultural programs, especially at Cornell, where the study of rural pro­gress, the rural home, and production and consumption of the food supply stretched across both departments. Feminists at female colleges criticized the home economics movement for acquiescing to gender segregation in land-­g rant colleges.19 Some scholars have shared this sentiment. For example, Charlotte Conable argues that home economics “remov[ed] ­women from the academic and professional mainstream [, and] many talented ­women, who might have become scientists and mathematicians, w ­ ere counseled to study home eco20 nomics.” However, ­later research by Megan Elias, in her book Stir It Up,

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suggests that a more balanced treatment is appropriate. While not dismissing the notion that some w ­ omen ­were funneled into home economics and discouraged from entering other fields, Elias adds that home economics was, for many ­women, intellectually fulfilling and a stepping-­stone to in­de­pen­dence, meaningful ­careers, and even po­liti­cal activism.21 To capture a more nuanced understanding of the academic and social experiences of ­women at regional land-­g rant colleges, the remainder of this chapter explores developments at two of the earliest experimenters in land-­ grant coeducation: Cornell University and the Maine State College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts. While both institutions allowed female higher education in the early 1870s, dif­fer­ent institutional contexts, purposes, and clientele produced dif­fer­ent coeducation outcomes.

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Coeducation at Cornell Although Cornell University did not receive financial support from the state of New York in the early years, it still faced ­legal requirements to accept a student annually (­free of charge) from each county and be open to all citizens. While often begrudging the unfunded scholarship mandate, both Ezra Cornell and Andrew Dickson White supported coeducation, at least in princi­ple. In fact, Cornell University was well positioned to serve as a progressive champion for ­women, for with a well-­established network of New York academies, ­there ­were numerous young ­women prepared and e­ ager for collegiate study. Upstate New York was a hotbed of first-­wave feminism, and leaders of the movement—­Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Stanton—­were involved in the campaign to establish the first land-­grant college in the state. As discussed previously, their partnership with Horace Greeley and the Mechanics Mutual Protection Association to create the ­People’s College ultimately unraveled, but this legacy of land-­g rant coeducation then passed to Cornell University. The New York State Teachers’ Association had a meeting in support of coeducation at Cornell in August 1868, and Stanton and Anthony or­ga­nized efforts to lobby for the admittance of w ­ omen that same year. To t­ hese ends, Anthony was introduced by Ezra Cornell in Library Hall in March 1869 to deliver a speech on coeducation. She argued that the “constitution” of the university should be amended to explic­itly support equal education for both sexes, and when that day came, it would be celebrated like the “Fourth of July or the Birth of Jesus Christ.” Having roused supporters to a feverish pitch, Anthony turned to Ezra Cornell for an explanation of “why ­women ­were still denied admission,” offering the podium back to her host for an answer. With jest, Cornell

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began by calling his friend the most “ungentle member of the gentler sex” and then invited vigorous applause by declaring that any young ­woman who passed the state examination and sought admission would be welcome at Cornell University.22 Ezra Cornell’s comments on coeducation at Library Hall represented his first public statement on the ­matter, but he had been harboring such views for some time. He wrote his “dear grand­daughter” in 1867 that he wanted “to have girls educated in the university as well as boys, so that they may have the same opportunities to become wise and useful to society.”23 Yet despite this, the founder also held a utilitarian conception of his land-­g rant institution and was concerned that the university lacked the accommodations and gender-­specific curricula to properly serve female students. This is apparent in how Cornell responded to the first inquiry for admission from a female applicant. Lucy Washburn foresaw in the land-­grant colleges a way to nurture her intellect, at a reasonable price, beyond what was pos­si­ble at the “better boarding schools” and “normal schools.” In February 1869, Washburn explained in a letter to Cornell that a­ fter attending Fredonia Acad­emy in New York, she wanted to continue her education at a university level, but “other boarding school options” and colleges like “Oberlin” only offered the “same [level of education] as I have already enjoyed.” The young ­woman had lost her ­father, a respected doctor and surgeon, during the Civil War and was compelled by passion and economic necessity to secure in­de­pen­dent means through a teaching ­career. Washburn first received a position at Fredonia and was then an instructor at Hampton Institute in V ­ irginia, where she taught her lifelong friend Booker T. Washington. In her letter to Cornell, she inquired about admission and deflected the potential conflict over accommodations by offering to seek room and board in town.24 Only a month before declaring his unequivocal support for coeducation to Susan B. Anthony, Ezra Cornell attempted to dissuade Lucy Washburn from presenting for admission. He commended Washburn for realizing that the issue of accommodations needed to be resolved, but added, “If the question of where girls boarded was the only concern . . . ​we could muster that. . . . ​[However,] what to do about other educational directives is the question.” In other words, Washburn’s offer to board in town would not solve the prob­lem. The founder was committed to making his university a place that prepared students for some position in the workforce. He wrote that “the l­abor question for young ­women is as impor­tant for young men, but it varies in the suitability of employment.” It was sentiments of this nature that once made historian Earle Ross conclude that the slow pro­g ress on coeducation could be explained

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through the “difficulty . . . ​to provide a technical education adapted to w ­ omen’s needs and opportunities.” With w ­ omen having limited vocational outlets, Cornell asserted that it would be best for Washburn to pursue her desired academic study in the liberal arts and sciences “at Vassar College” and “leave us to experiment on the boys.” He concluded with his hope to see “thousands of young w ­ omen being educated in this university” but added, “I ­don’t want the young ­women forced upon us before we are prepared.”25 Lucy Washburn penned a forceful response one week ­later. She began with a conciliatory tone, explaining that she could only “imagine the complexities” of organ­izing such a university, and expressed that she was “satisfied with the assurance that in time, and, I trust, before many years, young ladies may receive a university, instead of a boarding school education.” Then, in a remarkable rebuke of the oft-­thought champion of the industrial classes, Washburn dismissed Cornell’s notion that she simply “go to Vassar.” She explained that Vassar was “beyond [her] means” and then harangued Cornell for forgetting that “while young men of limited means can go to college boarding themselves, living eco­nom­ical­ly . . . ​a girl must, in entering a boarding school, pay a round sum with no opportunity for economy.” Washburn surmised that it was often young w ­ omen of “slender means,” some “fatherless like [her],” who “most desir[ed] a thorough education.” T ­ hese w ­ omen could not even save money to attend such institutions, “at the rate of salary ­women receive for their work.” She implored Cornell “not to forget how many of them look longingly . . . ​­towards Cornell,” adding that, in the meantime, she would have to “study by myself as best I can, and try to be satisfied.” T ­ here would be no response from Cornell, and Washburn did not pres­ent in 1869 as the first ­woman at a northeastern land-­grant college. She did ultimately leave her California home to enroll at the university in irregular spurts in the 1880s and 1890s, and fi­nally earned her BA degree from Cornell University in 1901.26 In the fall of 1870, Jennie Spencer from Cortland, New York, did not write Ezra Cornell to ask for permission to attend Cornell University. She passed the state examination, received the county scholarship, and arrived in Ithaca unannounced to join the incoming class. No pro­g ress had been made on providing suitable campus lodging for young ­women, and Spencer was left no choice but to reside in town with a sympathetic f­ amily. She faithfully attended classes, making the trek uphill to campus, u ­ ntil the hard Ithaca winter took a toll physically and isolation took a toll mentally. Spencer departed in December, but she had cracked the gender barrier, and soon inquiries w ­ ere arriving from other w ­ omen about joining the university for the fall of 1871. President Andrew Dickson White understood that young ­women ­were done waiting,

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and he quickly established a committee to ­counter critics of coeducation, who ­were prevalent inside and outside the university.27 The first, and most pressing, critique of coeducation was that t­ here was no place on campus for young ­women to live, ­unless the university turned away promising young men. This issue was resolved when trustee Henry Sage, moved by the experience of Jennie Spencer, committed a portion of his fortune t­ oward building a residence hall for ­women. President White also had to respond to resistant faculty members, as well as male student leaders such as the editors of Cornell Era, who demanded “no intermixture of the sexes” and argued that ­there ­were “everywhere over the land colleges and seminaries of sufficiently high standards to furnish all educational facilities ever desired by ladies.” In a second editorial, on March 30, 1870, the young men stated that coeducation would “ruin Cornell University,” as w ­ omen aspiring to college education ­were of only two types: ­those who desire a “lovely time with young gentlemen” or ­those “strong bodied ­women with the strong minded views of the Elizabeth Cady Stanton notoriety.”28 White countered ­these sentiments by arguing that since young w ­ omen had to pass the same examination as young men, Cornell w ­ omen would be serious scholars, not “flippant or worthless boarding school misses.” Moreover, a­ fter investigating educational practices at other institutions, White lambasted misguided critics for claims that coeducation feminized the young men and brought ill health to the w ­ omen. He argued that, “more than any other college,” Oberlin and Antioch, with deep commitments to coeducation, produced “a more hardy, manly, [and] brave body of young men.” Furthermore, on Edward Clarke’s conclusions that females w ­ ere physiologically unfit to attend college, he shared his observations of college w ­ omen whom he deemed to be as healthy as any w ­ omen outside academia. The students, faculty, and trustees should not fear admitting w ­ omen, White concluded, and he announced that a new era had dawned with the inauguration of the Sage College of Cornell University.29 Unlike when Lucy Washburn sought admission, t­here was now l­ittle discussion of the suitability of the curriculum for young ­women. This is ­because the utilitarian impulse had faded by 1871, when Ezra Cornell’s attention drifted from the university to his other investments. In addition, a­ fter Cornell’s death in 1874, Andrew Dickson White moved the university decidedly away from vocational purposes. With a broad, liberal curriculum in the arts and sciences and a talented faculty, Cornell University was at the cutting edge in knowledge production and dissemination. This was the advanced liberal and scientific education that had been coveted by Washburn in her letter. President White said l­ittle about what female gradu­ates could, should, and would do

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with their education, largely ­because, with his broad liberal and academic view of land-­g rant education, he rarely considered links between the curriculum and the workplace for any of his students (male or female). In his mind, the federal funds ­were to elevate the study and research of the liberal arts and sciences, not to create institutions premised on practical instruction in mechanical arts, agriculture, or any other branch of study. When forced to explain why ­women would want to attend college and how this would connect to c­ areers, the answers given by White and Henry Sage ­were the same as ­those for Cornell men. For example, Sage described a host of middle-­class positions that would be available to young ­women with a liberal education from Cornell, including “in the arts and professions, as teachers, editors, and authors, as clerks, saleswomen, accountants and telegraphers[,] . . . ​architectural drawing[,] . . . ​ and the thousands of less masculine pursuits that men now monopolize.” Reflecting the thinking of the day, he explained that the heavy-­labor, blue-­collar positions in mechanics and industrial arts would remain within the male domain, but managing, designing, and advancing the science of ­these industries, which he referenced as “all the higher mechanical employments,” would be open to college ­women (and men for that ­matter) schooled in the arts and sciences at Cornell.30 Although the administration allowed ­women to have equal access to the curriculum, male students and some faculty continued to decry their presence. ­After the death of Ezra Cornell, the student body included far fewer men of poor and middling backgrounds interested in studying practical agriculture and mechanics. As academic standards increased and vocational programs ­were terminated, more male students w ­ ere drawn from wealthier families and eastern boarding schools. In contrast, most of the female students w ­ ere from rural families of limited means, who with the help of state scholarships w ­ ere able to attend Cornell and prepare for ­careers in teaching. The wealthier male students looked down on the college ­women as social inferiors and ignored the female students in both the academic and social environments. When a dance was held on campus, a male student would face the wrath of his peers by inviting a Cornell ­woman, choosing instead to call on a young lady in town. This was the tradition of anti-­coedism, as Cornell men attempted to create a male campus culture that rivaled the single-­sex colleges of the East.31 Motivated by social elitism and fears of emasculation, young men actively excluded female students from collegiate life in a campaign to ensure their state college culture of football and fraternities was as hypermasculine as that of any male-­ only college.32 The ­women who filled Sage Hall ­were undeterred by anti-­coedism; they excelled in academics and broke gender barriers in vari­ous disciplines and

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fields. Cornell ­women began receiving their BA degrees a­ fter 1874, with many becoming teachers ­after graduation and several continuing on to gradu­ate study as pioneers in their respective fields. ­Future suffragist May Gorslin Preston Slosson earned a PhD in philosophy in 1880, the first ­woman in the country to do so. In the 1880s, gradu­ate ­theses written by w ­ omen in diverse subjects from architecture to veterinary science became the first scientific works published by ­women in ­these fields. In 1900, Liberty Hyde Bailey, by then dean of the College of Agriculture, invited Martha Van Rensselaer to develop a home economics program to be included in the college’s extension portfolio. Three years ­later, the College of Agriculture began offering home economics courses, and in 1907, the Department of Home Economics was established. Van Rensselaer would lead the department and be named the university’s first full-­time female professor. Cornell w ­ omen would find the Department of Home Economics (soon to morph into the New York State College of Home Economics) a place to find intellectual fulfillment and c­areer purpose, as gradu­ates left their mark on extension, research, and education at the local, state, and national levels.33 Although ­women faced exclusion from campus life, female students created and nurtured their own spaces. A ­ fter Sage Hall was completed, w ­ omen ­were required to live in the dormitory. The original intention was to keep a close watch on the ­women to ensure moral propriety; indeed the matron of the building was often referred to as “warden.” Yet Sage Hall would become the center of Cornell ­women’s collegiate life, and its common rooms would host literary events, ­music per­for­mances, and meetings of the new ­Women’s Self-­Governing Association. During the 1880s and 1890s, the association secured increasing power over the rules and regulations governing female students, while cultivating relationships with the dean of w ­ omen to advance opportunities on campus. Campus quotas ensured that w ­ omen would remain a minority across campus, but Sage Hall was full by the end of the ­century, and new housing would be needed over the next de­cade. ­Women had become a permanent presence, and their numbers continued to grow. Of course, t­ here ­were dif­fer­ent rules for the w ­ omen: they w ­ ere at times discouraged from entering certain disciplines, directed into home economics regardless of interest, and w ­ ere excluded from certain campus activities. Yet Cornell w ­ omen pushed into uncharted academic territory, negotiated access to campus life, and demanded academic equality and the end of quotas in certain academic programs. In home economics, teaching, and other fields, ­women prepared for ­careers and lives in the public sphere. T ­ hese ­women laid claim to Morrill Act benefits and crafted their own vision of land-­g rant education.

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Coeducation in Maine Greater social class cohesion on Maine’s land-­g rant campus seemed to produce an environment that was less resistant to coeducation. While some men challenged ­women’s access, w ­ omen did not remain passive; they contested discrimination and pursued inclusion. In Maine, low enrollments of male students in the early years provided an opening for young ­women. With modest admission standards (Latin was not yet required) and lower costs, the Maine land-­grant atmosphere was more egalitarian, as the college attracted students—­ both male and female—­from a broad ­middle class of prosperous farmers, sole proprietors, and middling professional families. With an absence of the class divisions observed at Cornell, the relations between female and male students seem to have been more cordial.34 The Maine State College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts opened in 1868. The avowed purpose of the college was to offer a “thoroughly liberal and practical education . . . ​at moderate cost,” and therefore the curriculum consisted of the applied degree programs in civil engineering, mechanical engineering, and agriculture, as well as the “full elective course,” which usually meant a combination of science, mathe­matics, En­glish, and belles lettres, leading to the bachelor of science degree. In 1872, the Maine state legislature passed a law that allowed ­women to be admitted to the land-­grant college, having inferred that an institution receiving public funds was legally required to serve all ­people. As in other places, the young ­women tended to choose the elective course to gain a liberal education as a gateway to teaching, as preparation for civic activism, or as a means of personal satisfaction and intellectual growth. President Allen noted in his annual report that female students had “suffered no injury to their health” as predicted by a “distinguished physician” (prob­ably Dr. Edward Clarke), the young w ­ omen’s influence over the male students was “by no means injurious,” and their rank in scholarship [was] equal to any other in the class.”35 In 1872, Louise Hammond Ramsdell became the first ­woman admitted to the Maine State College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts, and she graduated with a bachelor of science degree in 1874. Since t­here was no housing available for ­women on campus, President Merritt Caldwell Fernald and his wife allowed the young ­woman to room and board with them.36 If any male instructors and fellow students doubted Ramsdell’s ability, her mathematical fluency soon undermined t­hose naysayers. One day in Practical Astronomy class, the professor searched in the class textbook for the demonstration of a spherical trigonometry formula used in nautical astronomy. Unable to find the proof, he offered two dollars to the student able to mathematically demon-

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strate the formula within two weeks. According to the professor’s recollections, the only student to meet the challenge was Louise Ramsdell: “She appeared in the classroom with her pro­cess of reasoning fortified at e­ very point . . . ​showing mastery of a somewhat abstruse mathematical prob­lem by methods of her own.”37 Ramsdell’s presence, as well as the arrival of four more ­women in 1873, stirred a spirited debate among the male students. At the first meeting of the college men’s literary society, the debate question was, “Is the mind of w ­ omen inferior to men?” In an outcome that clearly reflected their observations of Ramsdell’s m ­ ental prowess, the Maine literary society men voted 12 to 2 against the proposition of female inferiority.38 Not only ­were the male and female students of similar middle-­class backgrounds, but most came from the communities adjacent to Orono (­there ­were also two sets of siblings). ­These students had already shared coeducational classrooms in secondary school, and with fewer students on campus, ­women and men ­were more likely to participate jointly in campus events such as concerts and dances. This can be contrasted with the cosmopolitan, wealthy Cornell men developing a “contemptuous attitude” t­oward the local college females as that university became more elitist during the late 1870s.39 Of course, the Maine land-­g rant college was not an inclusive utopia, as female students ­were initially barred from living on campus, could not visit the college library unsupervised, and faced episodic belittling from some male students. Yet ­women had full access to the classroom and, in 1877, the young ­women still seemed to be besting their male peers across the curriculum. This led one young man to complain in the campus newspaper about the “unfair advantages” afforded to the female students. As noted in the college’s annual report, the college did not require w ­ omen students to work on the campus farm and had “yet to make definite arrangements for ­labor . . . ​in the female department.” In his letter to the newspaper, the student grumbled that it was this “absence from manual l­abor” that allowed the young w ­ omen more time to prepare for recitations, and as w ­ omen exhibited greater fa­cil­i­ty in academics, the male students ­were beginning to see them as a “nuisance.” He concluded that it may be best to provide options for ­women to “pursue a cookbook,” or perhaps b­ ecause of the “treatment of rough boys” and the paucity of “female courses,” the female students should “attend some other institution where they can take studies peculiar to their sex.”40 Maine’s land-­g rant w ­ omen penned a response in the following week’s edition of the Campus Reporter. They argued that the “­free time” availed them (by not ­going to the fields) provided a necessary opportunity “to prove their equality or superiority in scholarship.” The young w ­ omen also took direct aim

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Figure 11.  Louise Ramsdell, first female student at Maine’s land-­grant college, in 1874. Special Collections, Raymond H. Fogler Library, University of Maine, Orono, ME.

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at the idea that w ­ omen should only pursue studies that prepared them for private-­sphere activities “peculiar to their sex.” The ladies stated that anyone, “men or ­women,” could find numerous reasons to study any subject from engineering to cooking, and they w ­ ere not interested in “discussing the relative amount of benefit that may be derived from dif­fer­ent books.” It was the legislature, the young w ­ omen argued, that had deci­ded a­ fter a “warm debate” that w ­ omen “­were to enjoy . . . ​the full course that they saw fit to select, as do the young men.” If surveying was part of the full course, it did not ­matter “how they would use it” a­ fter graduation; the diploma was the only end in question and “by no means, an unworthy or insignificant ‘aim.’ ”41 Despite the fact that young ­women ­were excelling academically in this more hospitable context, such an exchange was a reminder of how they had to defend their presence in response to utilitarian conceptions of the land-­g rant idea. The educational c­ areers and post-­g raduation trajectories of Maine’s earliest land-­g rant w ­ omen suggest diverse motivations for pursuing higher education, and a rec­ord of academic success. Louise Hammond Ramsdell had the opportunity to attend a female acad­emy in Maine, where she excelled to such a degree that she entered the land-­g rant college at sophomore standing. She left no evidence that she was interested in entering the public sphere a­ fter college, instead marrying soon a­ fter graduation and becoming a m ­ other to six ­children. Yet Ramsdell should be remembered as a gifted young student who followed her own rational course. ­After completing her acad­emy education, she attended the land-­g rant college ­because she was intellectually curious and sought personal fulfillment by furthering her relationship with mathe­matics, science, and the liberal arts. The w ­ omen who graduated in the years immediately ­after Ramsdell, including t­hose who penned the letter to the editor in 1877, became teachers. Alicia Emery (class of 1877), Emma Brown (class of 1878), Annie M. Gould and Nellie M. Holt (class of 1879), and Marcia Davis, Sarah Farrington, and Annie Matthews (class of 1880) graduated with bachelor of science degrees and taught in schools in Maine before marrying a­ fter a few years. Percia Vinal (class of 1879) would also teach, but not before she became the first w ­ oman in Maine to receive a gradu­ate degree. She would cease teaching a­ fter marrying a fellow alumnus, and, in addition to raising a ­family, would become a notable composer of hymns and other songs.42 ­ here ­were myriad ways in which ­women navigated the cultural real­ity of sepT arate spheres and the restrictions imposed by land-­g rant utilitarianism. Some land-­g rant w ­ omen simply rejected the limiting discourse. Plenty of young ­women pursued a land-­g rant education for intellectual advancement and fulfillment, irrespective of their postcollege plans. They came to college b­ ecause

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C hapt er 6

they had excelled in seminaries and academies and ­were simply hungry to learn more. This is not to suggest that no ­women considered ­careers, for indeed the most popu­lar postgraduate activity was teaching. ­There w ­ ere also notable trailblazers into traditional male professions and out­spoken female leaders for po­liti­cal, cultural, or social reform. Most typically, however, early land-­g rant ­women had brief ­careers, stopping work to marry and raise ­children. Yet even in ­these cases, the w ­ omen used their education for the betterment of their church, community, or ­family. Land-­grant w ­ omen’s journeys of self-­determination and personal betterment ­were far from easy. Pioneering ­women at Yankee land-­grant colleges arrived to find that few resources had been dedicated to their education. Although state legislators and campus leaders could find no ­legal basis for prohibiting coeducation, the exchange between Ezra Cornell and Lucy Washburn and the Maine student editorial exchange are evidence of how, even with sympathetic leadership or more egalitarian settings, separate spheres and utilitarian interpretations of the Morrill Act posed a per­sis­tent barrier for w ­ omen. In both Ithaca and Orono, the land-­g rant w ­ omen ­were challenged for pursuing academic interests that w ­ ere believed to be linked to male-­dominated ­careers. Yet w ­ omen’s reasons for pursuing a land-­g rant education w ­ ere complex, idiosyncratic, and included both vocational and intellectual aims. The Maine editorial reveals females’ exasperation in having to defend their academic choices but also illustrates that the young w ­ omen w ­ ere willing to challenge discourses that used land-­g rant utilitarianism and separate-­sphere arguments to bar w ­ omen from land-­g rant opportunities. The female students in Maine spoke for all land-­g rant w ­ omen when they declared that their reason for pursuing higher education was irrelevant. It did not ­matter ­whether they intended to become teachers, scientists, or wives and ­mothers; access to degree programs should only be determined by academic qualifications. A ­ fter successfully competing with male counter­parts across all subjects, the region’s land-­grant w ­ omen clearly could point to ample evidence of requisite academic ability. As land-­g rant w ­ omen increased in number, female students gained confidence and banded together to “negotiate inclusion” while also creating separate campus spaces and opportunities for ­women. Prohibited from joining much of the men’s collegiate estate that, as discussed in chapter 4, began to emerge at land-­g rant colleges in the 1880s and 1890s, the young ­women founded their own sororities, student government associations, m ­ usic clubs, and literary socie­ties. Most land-­g rant colleges fi­nally constructed female dormitories by the turn of the ­century and hired deans of ­women to provide moral guidance and supervision. Deans of ­women and ­women’s student gov-

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ernments gave female students a voice in campus decision-­making, where they could press for equal treatment in social and academic m ­ atters and demand curricular reform. In conclusion, land-­grant w ­ omen encountered two forces working at cross-­ purposes that limited and segregated educational offerings by gender. The first came from land-­g rant utilitarianism and separate-­spheres ideology that sought to limit ­women’s access to an education designed to prepare young men for men’s work. The second came within the context of the state college movement, as male students pursued anti-­coedism strategies to actively delegitimize w ­ omen’s presence. In response, the land-­grant ­women charted their own course, at times rejecting the discourse of utilitarianism and following intellectual interests, and at times using the land-­g rant college to secure ­careers in teaching, home economics, or male-­dominated fields. As men excluded ­women from collegiate life, w ­ omen constructed unique experiences that fortified their presence and enriched their experience. Despite re­sis­tance from several quarters that would persist for de­cades, by 1914, w ­ omen had demanded and achieved access to Amer­i­ca’s land-­g rant colleges.

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Conclusion

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Land-­Grant Memories, Legacies, and Horizons

The Morrill Acts reshaped American higher education. Over the past 150  years, land-­g rant colleges and universities have made impor­tant contributions to the nation and delivered affordable, high-­ quality higher education to generations of students. The Morrill Acts expanded institutional capacity in higher education, initiated widespread capital investment, and provided infrastructure that could accommodate mass access in the twentieth c­ entury. Through the disbursement of land-­g rant funds, the federal government enticed the states to spend on higher education for the first time. Since only 10 ­percent of the federal grants could be used for construction or capital proj­ects, state legislatures w ­ ere required to direct funds to ­these efforts. Yet while the pre­ce­dent of state funding crystallized with the Morrill Act of 1862, the level of support was far from sufficient, which kept many land-­grant colleges on precarious financial ground. It would not be ­until the Morrill Act of 1890 that institutions would enjoy a degree of security. While the relationships between the states and the new colleges ­were often rocky, the land-­g rant movement ushered in a new chapter in relations between the states and higher education, which would have lasting benefits.1 The Morrill Act also expedited the rise of science in American higher education. Notably, in the fields of agricultural science and chemistry, protégés of Justus von Liebig and other Eu­ro­pean scientists returned stateside to fashion land-­grant colleges as schools of science in the ser­vice of agriculture and indus1 72

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try. As presidents and leading faculty, ­these scholars joined with gentlemen farmers of state agricultural socie­ties to create a land-­grant model committed to advanced scientific study and high academic standards. While not e­ very land-­ grant institution required Latin, most had entrance examinations that tested knowledge in mathe­matics and En­glish language, which required adequate preparation in an acad­emy or strong district school. Such standards w ­ ere necessary to recruit students who could effectively engage with scientific curricula. The natu­ral sciences had already arrived in traditional colleges earlier in the nineteenth c­ entury, but the Morrill Act financed an enlargement of that effort. While the land-­g rant colleges helped further the cause of science generally, this was especially true in the applied sciences. The Morrill Act advanced the applied subjects of agriculture and mechanical arts and made significant contributions to the modernization and productivity of American agriculture and industry. The organic chemistry discoveries in Eu­ro­pean universities and experiment stations in the early nineteenth c­ entury had placed agriculture on a scientific basis.2 Scholars such as Evan Pugh and Samuel Johnson partook of this Eu­ro­pean Enlightenment and returned to the United States to build scientific institutions like ­those they had experienced abroad. The land-­grant colleges and experiment stations became sites of original research on fertilizers, pesticides, husbandry, cultivation, and other agricultural topics. Land-­grant students who pursued the agricultural course became agricultural researchers, academics, bureaucrats, or the man­ag­ers of large farms. In the mechanical arts, “the American land-­g rant movement made a decisive impact on the growth of American engineering and engineering education.”3 Civil engineering courses found a place at land-­g rant colleges from the outset, and ­after evolving beyond practical-­training methods of “shop culture,” scientific and mathematically based mechanical engineering programs became one of the land-­g rant colleges’ most popu­lar offerings. MIT, Cornell, and the Pennsylvania State College joined Purdue University as national leaders in applied research and education in civil, mechanical, electrical, chemical, and mineral engineering. By 1900, more engineers graduated from a land-­grant institution than from any other type of higher education institution, and t­ hese gradu­ates ­were improving the products and pro­cesses of American industry.4 The Morrill Act also increased institutional scope in higher education. Through economies of scale and support from the public purse or philanthropy, some land-­grant institutions distinguished themselves as universities. Cornell University was the exemplar of this approach, recruiting renowned scholars and researchers, maintaining rigorous standards, and achieving excellence in undergraduate and gradu­ate education. New York received the best price per acre for its federal land, and when t­hese proceeds w ­ ere combined with the largesse of

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Ezra Cornell’s philanthropy, the university was able to pursue an in­de­pen­dent course f­ree of legislative interference. While the land-­grant colleges in Maine, Mas­sa­chu­setts, and Pennsylvania did not possess the resources enjoyed in Ithaca and had to rely on the uneven support of their state governments, t­ hese institutions also aspired to university status and elevated academic standards and recruited PhD faculty by the end of the nineteenth ­century. ­Because of their origins as practical agricultural schools, the land-­grant colleges in Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island that ­were born from the land-­grant reformation would start their university journeys much ­later. ­Because of their role in reshaping higher education and American life, t­ here has been a tendency for the history of land-­g rant institutions to morph into my­thol­ogy. It is the task of historians to untangle land-­g rant history from the romantic memorials. To this end, this book has applied a critical lens, placed evidence above popu­lar lore, and attempted to capture the complex and competing visions, purposes, and practices attached to the land-­g rant idea. This has allowed a more nuanced and empirical depiction of land-­grant history. Historical memory can be defined as “a selective rendering of the past to serve purposes in the pres­ent.”5 Anniversary cele­brations of the Morrill Act have tended to invite a flurry of public memorials honoring the legislation, Justin Morrill, and the land-­g rant idea. Over time, t­hese memories have coalesced into romantic portraits of the past. While celebratory reflections on the origins and early years of land-­grant colleges touch on the full range of land-­grant contributions, most of ­these stories center on access. The typical narrative remembers the original land-­g rant colleges as having a unified, demo­cratic purpose to expand college access to the underserved and to provide a practical education for working p­ eople in agriculture and the mechanical arts. Earle Ross’s Democracy’s College became the canonical work of this type and, along with historical works that followed, venerated land-­g rant colleges as a g­ rand achievement of common ­people and a ­free democracy.6 ­There are indeed many kernels of truth to the traditional story, but the history is much more complicated. As Scott Peters states, “historians and scholars of the land-­g rant system w ­ ill need to develop a keen sensitivity to complexity and contradiction, and to the significance of values and perspective in shaping ways of setting scenes and emplotting and interpreting events and actions.”7 This book has placed opposing perspectives of the land-­g rant colleges at the center of the analy­sis by considering the dif­fer­ent views of scientists, academics, statesmen, farmers, workers, men, ­women, campuses, and communities. T ­ hese contradictory land-­g rant ideals aligned with diverging class interests. Attentiveness to ­these dialectics, as represented in the resolution of debates over land-­g rant funding, curricula, standards, pedagogy,

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and ­career outcomes, helps explain the enigmatic forms and programs that came to encompass the land-­g rant colleges and universities. In breaking away from romantic memory, this history reveals that the land-­g rant movement was forged not through a shared vision of demo­cratic higher education but instead through a pragmatic accommodation of opposing class interests. Questions regarding student access and outcomes w ­ ere central to many of the debates covered in this book and are at the core of discontinuities between land-­g rant memory and history. Curricula and academic standards influenced who attended the early land-­g rant colleges. Programs premised on advanced scientific study and original faculty research required academic professionals (as opposed to part-­time faculty) who, along with campus farms, capital expenditures, and laboratories, increased costs. If a philanthropist or state legislature did not provide regular financial support, ­these costs ­were met by charging tuition and fees. Not only did the ­children of poorer farmers strug­ gle to pay tuition and ancillary expenses, but also their ­labor on the ­family farm was not easily forgone. An equally daunting hurdle was the dearth of available preparation for college study. Private preparation was an additional financial burden, as ­free public high schools ­were still a rarity. Land-­g rant colleges that embraced high academic standards and curricula ­were especially inaccessible to progeny of poorer farmers and workers.8 The book’s climactic reformation of the 1880s and 1890s embodied a public debate over the purpose of the Morrill Act that sought to clarify the questions of who could attend a land-­grant college and what the ends of that access would be. ­There ­were quarrelsome encounters over access hurdles, including over tuition and fees, limited opportunities for paid campus ­labor, and difficult admission examinations that required significant preparation or remediation. Equally contentious ­were the debates over gradu­ates’ social destinations. Justin Morrill, Daniel Coit Gilman, George Flint, John Washburn, George Atherton, and Andrew Dickson White all agreed that land-­grant colleges ­were to be sites of social mobility. Amer­i­ca’s emerging po­liti­cal economy and national infrastructure needed specialists with advanced education who could oversee a host of rationalized and routinized pro­cesses in industry, agriculture, or government. In the northeastern United States, agricultural work was in precipitous decline by the 1870s, and ambitious farming youths could use courses in the liberal arts, sciences, and engineering as a gateway into c­ areers as professionals, chemists, engineers, bureaucrats, or industrial man­ag­ers. The rise of the grange and the takeover of land-­g rant colleges in the 1890s was a rejection of this bourgeois and nation-­building vision of higher education. Instead of exacerbating the movement of rural youths out of agriculture, the grange proposed that land-­g rant colleges return ­children to the farm

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and protect the countryside from the destructive forces of modern capitalism. Grangers argued that advanced curricula w ­ ere beyond the reach of most ­children of farmers, and when the brightest students gained admission, they ­were enticed away to new middle-­class ­careers. Awakened to the Morrill Act’s language in support of agriculture and the industrial classes, farmers proposed an alternative model that was broadly accessible, provided vocational instruction in farming practices, and returned boys home fit to be working farmers and community leaders. The grange model also included required manual ­labor as a means to keep costs low, to provide practical experiences in farming, and to nurture workingman masculinity. Such efforts w ­ ere supposed to nurture a “rugged, virile” manhood among land-­g rant men as opposed to the dilettantish femininity of the traditional college man. Social theorist Anthony Giddens defines such practices as “education for mobility closure” (the antithesis of social mobility); Scott Gelber calls it education for “class leveling.” The campaign to transform land-­g rant colleges along t­ hese lines met with initial success, as grange takeovers of land-­g rant education in Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island led to new institutions with modest admission standards and vocational agricultural programs that graduated practicing farmers who returned home to strengthen class and community.9 Yet the grange was unable to maintain its “mobility-­closure” model of land-­g rant education. The grange agricultural schools came into competition with ­free high school vocational programs. Furthermore, the increasing numbers of high school gradu­ates showed ­little interest in the grange’s vocational programs, demanding more advanced academic programs that might lead to social mobility. Through the de­cades that followed, access to land-­ grant colleges was largely confined to a clientele of qualified high school gradu­ates who had the ambition and means to pursue collegiate study. This would not change u ­ ntil a golden age of state and federal spending in the m ­ iddle of the twentieth c­ entury encouraged a much broader swath of working-­class ­children to attend college, turning American higher education into a mass activity.10 This is not to say that the early land-­g rant colleges did not have an access legacy: they opened doors for students who other­wise would not have been able to attend. Through subsidized tuition and state scholarships, the land-­grant college was the most affordable option in nineteenth-­century higher education. T ­ here are numerous examples of poorer students who managed to secure enough education to pass an admission exam or who persisted through a land-­g rant preparatory program and achieved a college credential. Nevertheless, the grange antagonism of the late nineteenth ­century is a reminder that costs, curricula, and admission standards ­were real barriers to land-­g rant entry. The idea that the Morrill Act led to remarkable democ­

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ratization of higher education access is a romantic memory; some land-­g rant colleges expanded access gradually, and ­others remained inaccessible to most ­children of poorer backgrounds. The g­ reat expansion in opportunity came ­later, first in response to rapid secondary school growth in the early twentieth c­ entury and second in response to increased state and federal spending ­after World War II.11

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Accommodating Competing Ideas The ambiguity of the Morrill Act invited diverse interpretations, and ­these differences ­were resolved at the state level. The Morrill Act provided “leading objects,” but the specifics ­were to be determined “in such manner as the legislatures of the States may respectively prescribe.” The economic, social, and po­liti­cal realities of states and regions led to dif­fer­ent land-­g rant outcomes. In the Northeast, attachments to traditional colleges and the influence of agricultural socie­ties and expatriate scientific leaders led to liberal arts and science curricula, advanced standards, elevated admissions, faculty research, and students graduating to become leaders in science, engineering, industry, and government. When an economic downturn spurred populist action in the 1880s and 1890s, state legislatures reconsidered original land-­g rant ideas and models. Grangers parsed selectively from the Morrill Act, focusing on the words “agriculture” and “industrial classes” when pushing for land-­g rant reforms. At the time of the populist land-­grant reformation, the coexistence of competing models produced considerable variance in land-­grant missions, curricula, clientele, and forms across the region. The grange-­backed agricultural schools in Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island had open admissions, vocational curricula, and required manual l­ abor for students. ­Because of its agricultural focus, the agricultural college in Mas­sa­chu­setts faced less grange antagonism, but it did face criticism for producing more scientists than farmers. ­There ­were only modest changes in Vermont ­after Justin Morrill rescued the university, but the populist fervor did prod the administration to hire a professor of agricultural science and expand offerings in agricultural chemistry. The University of Vermont largely remained beholden to traditional studies, jockeying with Middlebury College to provide the best literary education in the state. A mutual distrust between farmers and the University of Vermont would last long ­after Morrill thwarted the grange’s land-­grant takeover.12 George W. Atherton helped develop the Rutgers Scientific Department into a small but effectual university division focused on chemistry, agricultural science, and biology, but his greatest accomplishments came as a land-­grant

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1 78 Conclusion

president between 1882 and 1906, when he brought his broad vision of the Morrill Act to the agricultural college in Pennsylvania and created a state college and university. Atherton recruited leading scientists to the faculty, strengthened the entrance examination, eliminated manual-­labor requirements, and publicly supported coeducation. He removed agriculture from the school’s name and positioned the retitled Pennsylvania State College atop the public school system. To address concerns that the land-­g rant college was breaking ties with its agricultural roots, Atherton hired former Storrs Agricultural School professor Henry Armsby both to redesign the agricultural program and to initiate outreach to the state’s farmers and grange. Unlike at Storrs, with its modest admission standards, Armsby now had students with adequate preparation who could comprehend his lectures in chemistry, zoology, botany, and mathe­matics. By the end of the 1890s, Armsby’s agricultural program and early extension efforts had nurtured a positive relationship with Pennsylvania farmers, and the grange joined President Atherton in requesting increased state appropriations for the college.13 Cornell University and the Mas­sa­chu­setts Institute of Technology represent another variation, as each pursued the university ideal during the last de­ cades of the nineteenth c­entury. With a handsome endowment, Andrew Dickson White pursued high standards, a broad curriculum in the sciences and liberal arts, German-­style doctoral education, and original faculty research. Ezra Cornell had tempered this vision through demands for broad access with forgiving admission policies, the maintenance of campus l­abor programs to minimize student tuition, and manual training in agriculture and mechanics. Yet ­after Cornell’s death, White pursued his agenda unhindered and began recruiting intellectual leaders in numerous disciplines. Cornell University had an august faculty, and with a novel elective system, faculty members could offer specialized courses that coincided with scholarly expertise and research agendas. Even though Cornell had the highest academic standards in the region, its student body was the largest in the country.14 In Mas­sa­chu­setts, MIT shared Cornell University’s commitment to academic excellence. With ample private investment and a one-­third share of the Morrill Act funds, MIT focused on advanced scientific teaching and research, direct instruction in laboratories, and the application of science to emerging technologies. Although doctoral education would come ­later, MIT provided the nation’s premiere technical education to undergraduates aspiring to industrial ­careers in science and engineering. Students received foundational instruction in mathe­matics, chemistry, and physics before specializing during their final two years in architecture, in chemical, civil, mechanical, or mining engineering, or in general science. MIT attracted a core faculty dedicated to advancing knowledge of engineering and

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related sciences, and by 1890, they counted as gradu­ates numerous engineers and scientists working in private industry or designing railroads and other public works.15 Despite ­these differences, all carried the land-­g rant banner. The grange-­backed agricultural schools in Connecticut, New Hampshire, and Rhode Island ­were primarily vocational schools for pre-­college youths, the Mas­sa­ chu­setts Agricultural College was the regional leader in agricultural science, the University of Vermont remained beholden to the liberal arts, the Rutgers Scientific Department was being folded into a general arts and sciences program, the land-­grant colleges in Maine and Pennsylvania ­were on the path to becoming state colleges with lasting commitments to engineering and agricultural sciences, MIT pursued advanced technical education, and Cornell exemplified the university model. At the approach and turn of the twentieth ­century, the three standardizing forces discussed in this book—­the state college ideal, extension, and coeducation—brought greater conformity to the region’s land-­grant colleges. The state college model ascended in the 1890s, as the rise of public high schools brought a growing number of secondary school gradu­ates prepared for collegiate study. Land-­grant presidents could not ignore this growing pool of students. Young men like Max Schaffrath, discussed in chapter 4, had ­little interest in fieldwork and practical farm instruction, instead choosing to partake in collegiate study and the vibrant campus experiences that had begun to appear. The state college model rejected manual instruction and vocational studies in ­favor of liberal arts and sciences that offered a scholastic foundation relevant to a host of ­careers in the new ­middle class. Campus life endorsed competitive outlets in athletic, fraternal, and literary activities, where students could showcase abilities and garner re­spect from peers.16 The college degree, then, not only signified academic or technical competency but also served as a social credential recognizing this campus pilgrimage into middle-­class life.17 Grange leaders w ­ ere adamant that required manual ­labor remain part of the land-­g rant edifice to ensure the development of masculine, working men. Yet, by the 1890s, campus leaders had responded to student demands and terminated ­these programs. With an abundance of ­free time, students developed a “city state run by students for students,” a dizzying landscape of athletic teams, student governments, fraternities and sororities, theater groups, literary socie­ties, dance committees, and many other activities.18 The former agricultural schools now joined the remaining land-­g rant colleges in the region in embracing the traditions of the elite colleges of the Eastern Seaboard. By 1914, the old A&M labels had fallen into disuse. The regional land-­g rant colleges downplayed their vocational past, preferring the label “state college” to signify broad academic offerings and a vigorous campus life.19

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In the Northeast, ­there is considerable evidence that the standardization of extension across the region improved the relationship between land-­g rant institutions and the state granges, and provided land-­grant leaders po­liti­cal cover to elevate academic standards and pursue collegiate and university ideals. Campus officials could now steer discourse and practices away from “returning boys to the farm” and, alongside liberal arts and sciences, traditional pedagogy, and collegiate life, develop robust extension activities that delivered educational benefits directly to farmers, rural schools, granges, rural ­women, and communities.20 Extension activities changed the Morrill Act paradigm, as farmers and rural communities could now view the land-­g rant idea as more than just demo­cratizing access or curricula. Land-­g rant colleges participated in a progressive experiment in which extension divisions established community partnerships that roused citizens to engage in the public work of democracy. This extension innovation was not a direct descendant of original Morrill Act interpretations but rather a legacy of the populist movements that challenged the early land-­g rant models. As historian Roy Scott argued in 1970, grangers and other populist forces “forced the colleges to seek means by which they might improve their standing with farmers[,] . . . ​pointing t­hose institutions ­toward the concept of extension.”21 Justin Morrill intended that his land-­g rant act would support institutions of broad academic scope that advanced the cause of science, agriculture, and industry, and would promote social mobility into white-­collar ­careers. It was a vision that did not always make him popu­lar with farmers, but regardless of his intentions, his opponents highlighted the Morrill Act’s reference to the “industrial classes” and “agriculture” as evidence that access for and ser­vice to rural p­ eople and farmers was central to the land-­g rant mission. Populists had initially interpreted this language as a mandate to educate the sons of farmers to become farmers, but when this scheme proved untenable, they embraced extension as a workable solution. Overcoming years of distrust, the grange and land-­g rant colleges became partners in the standardization of extension. The relationship would bring lasting benefits to rural places and ­people, and land-­g rant colleges, with the support of grange lobbying, would be rewarded with state appropriations for fulfilling their land-­g rant mission. The final transformation that spread across the region at the turn of the ­century was coeducation. The arrival of w ­ omen not only challenged cultural norms and dubious pseudoscience against gender equality but also undermined assumptions that land-­g rant colleges w ­ ere to be only utilitarian institutions that prepared young men for ­careers. While it is true that coeducation was an accepted practice at several denominational colleges, the Morrill Act increased the number of institutions that allowed coeducation in the nine-

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teenth c­ entury. Since nearly all land-­g rant colleges received state appropriations, lawmakers could find no l­egal justification for barring female citizens from public enterprises. It was this context that gave ­women the ­legal footing to demand equal opportunities at land-­g rant colleges. In fact, it was not land-­ grant leaders who promoted the idea but instead young w ­ omen themselves, who wrote presidents to demand access. The road for pioneering w ­ omen in the 1860s and 1870s was not an easy one, as accommodations w ­ ere few and male students, faculty, and campus leaders questioned their motives and belittled their arrival. ­These ­women persevered, challenging the cultural norms of separate spheres and land-­g rant utilitarianism. Female students partook of the full collegiate course for diverse reasons, including the pursuit of intellectual fulfillment, to become teachers or home economics professionals, or to challenge convention and enter male-­dominated c­ areers or public ser­vice. Land-­grant scholarships and subsidized tuition allowed young w ­ omen of lesser means to attend, affording the prospect of in­de­pen­dence and self-­sufficiency. The next generation of ­women witnessed improvements, especially with the construction of residence halls for ­women and increasing numbers of ­women coming to campus. ­These land-­g rant w ­ omen created their own organ­izations and activities, and worked with sympathetic deans of ­women to challenge inequitable institutional practices. Despite the competing interests that pulled the land-­grant colleges in dif­fer­ent directions over academic standards, curricula, costs, pedagogy, access, campus culture, and coeducation, the institutions exhibited remarkable bureaucratic agility in absorbing social tensions and exogenous forces. Through po­liti­cal negotiation and accommodation, the land-­grant colleges came to embrace disparate and at times competing missions u ­ nder the Morrill Act banner. Pro­cesses of standardization brought a degree of similarity but did not result in the dominance and realization of one land-­g rant vision. Instead, through po­liti­cal accommodation, a Janus-­faced institution emerged that realized paradoxical purposes by fixing its gaze in two directions, on two opposing missions. First, ­there was an academic/collegiate mission that aligned the land-­g rant institution with collegiate and university standards. It suggested stringent admissions, scientific and liberal arts curricula, the advancement and dissemination of knowledge, and a vibrant extracurriculum and campus culture. This model was premised on advancing the American state and economy, and promoting social mobility into new middle-­class ­careers. Second, t­here was a social mission tied to the idea that the land-­g rant college should proffer benefits to the “industrial classes”; specifically, this was manifested through policies of broad or open access, subsidized tuition, vocational curricula, part-­ time and summer programs for working adults, manual-­labor requirements,

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and extension. ­These missions ­were often at odds. For example, land-­g rant colleges found it difficult to maintain open access to unprepared youths and offer advanced curricula. Land-­grant extension became the exception, which was attached to the collegiate and university function as a workable synthesis of the academic/collegiate and social missions. Between 1862 and 1914, the competing class-­based visions of land-­g rant education became intertwined. Daniel Mark Fogel calls this framework the “reigning paradigm of public higher education in the United States,” which he described as a combination of “inexpensive undergraduate and professional education[,] . . . ​research, discovery, and innovation[,] . . . ​application of knowledge to address economic and social prob­lems[,] . . . ​and a mission of ser­vice.”22 In adopting the tripartite missions of research, teaching, and ser­vice, the land-­g rant colleges could support economic modernization, facilitate social mobility, and aid the rise of the nation-­state, while concurrently supporting local community development and sustainability initiatives aimed at addressing the negative effects of bureaucratization, rural outmigration, and industrialization.

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Land-­Grant Horizons In response to predictions of the demise of the land-­g rant mission, contemporaries have waxed longingly of a mythical past when American society was united in support of public higher education. Former University of California president Mark Yudof, who experienced dramatic state bud­get cuts during his tenure at the ten-­campus system, pondered in 2012: “How did we go from viewing public universities as critical to our societal advancement—so critical in fact, that it was worthy of Lincoln’s signature during the Civil War— to viewing them as less essential?”23 This is a typical misreading of land-­g rant history that romanticizes a collective we that held a common, demo­cratic vision of higher education that served as the motivating force for the movement. As argued in this book, land-­g rant colleges ­were rarely ­shaped by shared ideals and collaboration but instead by class fragmentation and po­liti­cal competition. While the federal investment in higher education was an act of enlightened statecraft, the initial disbursement of public land was far from sufficient. State legislatures ­were rarely more generous than the federal government, as annual appropriations ­were given grudgingly, forcing institutions to adopt tuition and fees. Then, as t­ oday, lawmakers proved unwilling to fully support something that delivered private benefits to select individuals. Rare w ­ ere the instances when states viewed higher education as part of the commonwealth

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and where legislators or land-­g rant leaders framed investment in terms of broad public benefit. Federal and state investment in the land-­g rant movement, then, came not from collective action but instead through an uncertain accommodation of private and public interests. Private actors and the body politic have supported land-­g rant enterprises when they perceived direct benefits from that investment. Students and their families have been willing to purchase a land-­g rant education ­because they foresaw opportunities for social mobility. The federal government was ultimately spurred to action by assessing the macroeconomic returns of land-­grant investment, specifically the potential to advance scientific knowledge and technology, increase agricultural and industrial productivity, and expand college access to create a more highly skilled workforce. Farmers and workers rejected the early land-­g rant colleges for being inaccessible and not useful. They calculated few benefits to themselves or their communities, and believed t­ hose benefits w ­ ere disproportionately flowing to o ­ thers. The history of the land-­g rant movement is one of opposing interests and demands, with each group fighting for a piece of federal and state spoils, attempting to reform higher education to serve special interests. This situation could only be resolved by welding disparate and often contradictory missions together u ­ nder the social construct of a “land-­g rant college.” This is a far less romantic tale of our land-­grant roots, but it is a history that offers its own lessons for the ­future. First, consider the issue of access, where land-­grant colleges have always been celebrated for extending higher education opportunities to the traditionally underserved. Original and early land-­grant schools, however, did not enroll many students from the lower reaches of the socioeconomic strata. The clientele largely consisted of middle-­class students who ­were adequately prepared and could afford modest tuition and fees. Higher education was no less critical for ­these middle-­class students, for many came from a constricting agricultural sector, and advanced learning was required to transition from an old ­middle class of self-­proprietorship and farming to a new m ­ iddle class of credentialed occupations. The exceptions to this are also illustrative, for ­there ­were young men and ­women of meager means who ­were able to attend, gradu­ate, and enjoy social mobility with the help of state scholarships, institutional aid, and paid campus l­abor. The best example is Cornell University in the late 1860s, where the state legislature mandated—­but did not fund—­free tuition for a student from each county. Yet thanks to Cornell’s philanthropy, poorer students could forgo tuition, and ­those deprived of college preparation could navigate the advanced curriculum with the assistance of remediation and forgiving academic attitudes. The high academic standards (and related tuition and fees) at most of the early land-­grant colleges tended to

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preclude the participation of the poor and unprepared, but the policies at Cornell are a reminder that broad access and academic excellence can coexist with legislative and institutional support for student financial aid. Second, consider the land-­grant commitments to science, advancing knowledge, and economic development. While founder Justin Morrill may not always have been the ardent advocate of demo­cratizing access, his macroeconomic purposes provide lessons in their own right. Grangers ­were concerned that scientific courses and faculty research ­were ­doing ­little to return ­children to the farm and assist rural communities, but the land-­grant colleges and universities clearly fulfilled Morrill’s charge of increasing productivity and advancing the nation’s economic standing. Not only did land-­g rant colleges and universities give a haven to pioneering scientists, ­these American institutions joined their Eu­ro­pean counter­parts in advancing knowledge that bred technological development and innovation. Furthermore, advanced scientific curricula gave students the necessary competencies to fill essential positions in the modern economy, specifically technical, managerial, and scientific ­careers in agriculture, engineering, business, government, or academia. The costs, standards, and outcomes of this land-­g rant framework invited the ire of populist forces for failing to improve immediate conditions, but longer-­term investments in research and technology brought a fair share of social and economic benefits back to rural communities, farmers, and the general public. Third, it is impor­tant to remember that none of the preceding contributions would have been pos­si­ble without public support of higher education, support that fi­nally came in regular sums a­ fter the development of extension partnerships. Outreach ser­vices, correspondence courses, Nature Study programs, home economics extension programs, and farm demonstrations all linked land-­g rant colleges and universities to p­ eople and communities who other­wise had no connection to t­ hese institutions. In other words, extension grew the po­liti­cal co­ali­tion in support of land-­g rant colleges by extending its benefits more broadly. The undergraduate and gradu­ate cores of land-­g rant colleges and universities have historically been selective, but extension enabled land-­g rant systems to have elite and mass appeal si­mul­ta­neously. Instead of looking to resurrect some lost demo­cratic ideal in the “age of Lincoln,” we should be mindful of lessons from the po­liti­cal history of the movement. Remembering that the ­people must often witness the benefits of public policy before they ­will support it, the f­ uture of land-­g rant colleges is dependent on accommodating conflicting demands for research, teaching, and public engagement, and illustrating how and why each of ­these missions is critical to the welfare of the state and its ­people.

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Some readers of this book ­will find parallels between the pres­ent period of declining state support for higher education and the grange campaign against land-­grant colleges in the 1880s and 1890s. In both cases, criticism of land-­grant colleges and universities and doubts about the value of higher education prevail in the public discourse. While one should tread carefully to avoid presentist conclusions, this book can provide a few insights regarding con­temporary reform movements in land-­g rant education. This book illustrates that, throughout history, land-­g rant colleges and universities have had to refine their core purposes and programs in response to changing societal conditions. This pro­cess of introspection, reevaluation, and reform manifested itself again in the late twentieth c­ entury. In 1996, presidents and chancellors from twenty-­five leading public universities formed the Kellogg Commission on the F ­ uture of State and Land-­Grant Universities and declared that t­here ­were “unpre­ce­dented prob­lems confront[ing] our campuses . . . ​[and] seismic shifts in public attitudes . . . ​beset by demands to act ‘accountably’ ­toward students, parents, communities, and taxpayers.” The commission stated that reform was overdue, concluding that, “We must take charge of change. That is what the Kellogg Commission on the ­Future of State and Land-­Grant Universities is all about.” To t­hese ends, the commission authored a series of reports that implored land-­g rant institutions to “return to the educational values and dedication of the past” and address the perceived chasm between higher education and the ­people.24 The Kellogg Commission authored a series of publications, entitled Returning to Our Roots, that w ­ ere released between 1997 and 2001, including reports on student access (Returning to Our Roots: Student Access, 1998), the learning experience (Returning to Our Roots: The Student Experience, 1997), engagement (Returning to Our Roots: The Engaged Institution, 1999), and continuing education (Returning to Our Roots: A Learning Society, 1999). On access, the authors observed rising tuition at public universities and warned that without commitments to student aid and support, tuition could become prohibitive for students from lower socioeconomic backgrounds. The commission warned that this could be especially problematic for racial diversification efforts at public universities. The learning experience report advanced the idea of “student-­ centeredness,” which was defined as tailoring academics to the interests and educational goals of the learner. The authors argued that land-­g rant colleges and universities needed to be held accountable for producing mea­sur­able learning outcomes and for providing students with an “education of value” that prepared them for “life, citizenship, and work.” Regarding the issue of ser­vice, the authors argued that the public dissatisfaction with higher education

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stemmed from campus aloofness to the real prob­lems of society, including poverty, health, food security, environmental degradation, energy, rural economic development, and education. The commission called for a commitment to “engagement,” stating that this concept “went well beyond extension, conventional outreach, and even most conceptions of public ser­vice.” The commissioners ­imagined radical orga­nizational changes in which learning was embedded within communities beyond the campus, faculty ­were encouraged and rewarded for public scholarship and ser­vice, and university knowledge and resources could be employed to address a “panoply of public prob­lems.” Fi­nally, the commission proposed that land-­g rant institutions needed to “focus on making life-­long learning a real­ity in the United States.” This final report suggested employing new technologies to reach underserved populations and adult learners, and called for innovative pedagogies and active learning environments to promote learning across the life span.25 The Returning to Our Roots series represented the most prominent national discussion on the f­ uture of land-­grant education in over fifty years, and created or validated campus programs in support of access, student-­centeredness/accountability, and engagement. The commission proved to be prophetic in its commentary on inaccessibility resulting from rising costs in the public sector, and indeed many land-­grant schools began or expedited efforts to support recruitment and retention of the most vulnerable students. In supporting student-­centeredness, land-­grant colleges and universities became more responsive to student demands to buttress enrollments, and institutions affiliated with the Association of Public and Land-­Grant Universities (APLU) w ­ ere at the vanguard of student learning assessment activities and accountability regimes.26 However, several scholars argue that the most significant legacy of the Kellogg Commission was in the area of engagement. They argue that the reports coincided with a flurry of research built on Ernest Boyer’s “scholarship of engagement” that explored how faculty ­ were employing pedagogies and community-­based research that advanced undergraduate learning and provided community uplift. Land-­grant institutions developed new civic engagement initiatives and community ser­vice centers, supported service-­learning opportunities across the curriculum, hired se­nior administrators to coordinate engagement activities, and pursued reforms in extension divisions. When the Car­ne­g ie Foundation introduced its “Elective Classification in Community Engagement” in 2006, many land-­grant institutions pursued the designation and, in ­doing so, ­were required to provide evidence of engagement activities in the curriculum and the development of sustainable community partnerships. By the second de­cade of the twenty-­first c­ entury, land-­grant colleges and universities had integrated engagement into mission statements and strategic plans.27

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Critics have argued that despite an intention to “return to our roots,” the Kellogg Commission “lacked historical perspective” and misunderstood how land-­g rant institutions had been or­ga­nized in the past. T ­ hese scholars suggested that the commission’s silence on university research and the significant attention on engagement w ­ ere colored by conceptions of land-­grant origins that lacked historical pre­ce­dent. They argued that community engagement was never a core function but was instead an auxiliary enterprise separated from teaching and research. The most fervent voices declared that the suggested engagement reforms came neither from “our roots” nor from public demand but instead from “administrative hubris.”28 They warned that reor­ ga­niz­ing faculty work ­toward engagement would undermine the greatest strength of land-­g rant universities—­basic and applied research—­for history showed that the greatest success at meeting state needs came from advancing and disseminating knowledge and confining ser­vice activities to separate bureaucratic structures such as extension. ­These scholars conclude that, historically, the interests of individuals and communities ­were largely economic, with many wanting land-­g rant institutions to promote individual mobility and improve local economic conditions. As evidence, they pointed to land-­g rant contributions to the fields of engineering, agriculture, and other applied sciences, relationships with industry, and a long rec­ord of research commercialization that produced new jobs and economic growth.29 ­Those searching for a con­temporary reform movement that builds on land-­ grant colleges’ historical links to economic development may look to the APLU’s Innovation and Economic Prosperity (IEP) initiative. The IEP program represents an effort to calibrate the land-­g rant universities to serve the states in the age of the knowledge economy while being mindful that sustained investment in local communities is necessary to facilitate that growth. The program blends economic and community partnerships through the model of “economic engagement” that places the three missions of teaching, research, and ser­vice into the framework of “talent, innovation, and place.” The model captures an array of land-­grant university activities, including “faculty/student innovation and entrepreneurship,” research and technology transfer, undergraduate learning and workforce development, the establishment of government-­university-­industry partnerships, and “place development through public ser­vice, engagement and outreach.” Instead of approaching teaching, research, and ser­vice as discrete items, this program pursues orga­nizational integration and a common purpose through economic development. The “talent” domain focuses attention on serving the state’s ­human capital needs through broad access to undergraduate, professional, and gradu­ate education, ­career readiness programs, and continuing workforce development. “Innovation”

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1 88 Conclusion

captures university research but also speaks to a host of entrepreneurial and research commercialization activities that promise new technologies, new businesses, and profitable industry partnerships. The “place” mission addresses traditional outreach and ser­vice functions, but with an economics bent. The model assumes that vibrant communities are needed to attract and retain businesses and workers, and thus economic development depends on addressing local prob­lems such as K-12 schooling, health issues, environmental sustainability, quality local government, access to technology (i.e., broadband), and arts and culture. More than fifty-­five institutions have been designated IEP universities ­after participating in a rigorous self-­study of economic engagement activities, including detailed outcome assessments.30 Neither the Kellogg Commission nor the IEP initiative can claim to be sole ancestors of the original land-­g rant idea. Both efforts can contextualize their arguments within the competing interpretations of the Morrill Act that have been pres­ent from the beginning. ­Those arguing that land-­g rant universities should be more aligned with economic outcomes, applied science, ­human capital development, industry collaboration, and research commercialization ­will look to Justin Morrill or Daniel Coit Gilman. In Gilman’s “National School of Science” model of land-­g rant education and in the legacies of Yale’s Sheffield School, MIT, and Cornell University, contemporaries can find a legacy of advancement and dissemination of useful knowledge to facilitate economic growth. Engagement reformers calling for a reenvisioning of the academic enterprise ­toward local community prob­lems ­will discover sympathetic compatriots among the populist movement. Furthermore, ­those scholars wanting land-­g rant colleges to engage more directly in the public work of democracy ­will find historical antecedents among the progressive educators who led land-­ grant institutions t­ oward extension. In the end, the best way to understand the land-­g rant idea is as an ambiguous, conflicting “welding of opposite views.” The land-­grant colleges and universities have survived for over 150  years by pursuing diverse educational missions to serve their respective states. Striking the right balance has required leadership, institutional innovation, and orga­nizational flexibility. The most successful land-­g rant colleges and universities in the coming years w ­ ill be able to be pulled in multiple directions without being pulled apart. Fi­nally, and perhaps most importantly, is that to their diverse constituents, the most successful land-­grant colleges and universities w ­ ill be useful. They must be integrated with the social and economic realities of their age, so in the words of the Morrill Act, they can produce knowledge and provide educational ser­vices for “the several pursuits and professions in life.”

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N ote s

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Introduction. Reconsidering the Origins and Early Years of the Land-­Grant Colleges

1. “An Act Donating Public Lands to the Several States and Territories Which May Provide Colleges for the Benefit of Agriculture and the Mechanic Arts, July 2, 1862,” in A ­Century of Lawmaking for a New Nation: U.S. Congressional Documents and Debates, 1774–1875, 37th Congress, 2nd Session, http://­memory​.­loc​.­gov. 2. D. Sven Nordin, Rich Harvest: A History of the Grange, 1867–1900 ( Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 1974). 3. Edwin Charles Rozwenc, Agricultural Policies in Vermont, 1860–1945 (Montpelier: Vermont Historical Society, 1981), 64. 4. Morrill discusses Buckham’s previous requests in Justin Morrill to Matthew Buckham, October  22, 1888, Office of the President (Matthew Buckham) Rec­ords, Box 12, Folder 156, University of Vermont Archives. 5. Justin S. Morrill, An Address in Behalf of the University of Vermont and State Agricultural College, Delivered in the Hall of the House of Representatives, October 10, 1888 (Burlington, VT: ­Free Press, 1888), quotations at 1–3. 6. Alpha Masser, “Testimony of Grange Officials before the Vermont Legislature, Oct. 27, 1890,” in Joseph L. Hills, “The State Grange Meeting” (unpublished manuscript), University of Vermont Archives. 7. Rozwenc, Agricultural Politics in Vermont, quotation at 69. 8. Cited in ibid., 72. 9. Alpha Messer to Charles Flagg, February  23, 1891, Charles Flagg Correspondence, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 10. Morrill discusses this letter to the editor in Justin Morrill to G. G. Bennedict, November  5, 1890, Office of the President (Matthew Buckham) Rec­ords, Box 12, Folder 156, University of Vermont Archives. 11. Morrill discusses this politicking in Justin Morrill to Matthew Buckham, November 14, 1890, Office of the President (Matthew Buckham) Rec­ords, Box 12, Folder 156, University of Vermont Archives. 12. Justin Morrill to Matthew Buckham, November 25, 1890, Office of the President (Matthew Buckham) Rec­ords, Box 12, Folder 156, University of Vermont Archives. See Joseph L. Hills, “The Attempted Disruption of University of Vermont and State Agricultural College” (unpublished manuscript), University of Vermont Archives; Robert O. Sinclair, “Agricultural Education and Extension in Vermont,” in The University of Vermont: The First Two Hundred Years, ed. Robert V. Daniels (Burlington: University of Vermont, 1991), 184–185. 189

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TO PAGES 4 –8

13. On the rising power of an urban-­based, new ­middle class, see Stuart M. Blumin, The Emergence of the ­Middle Class: Social Experience in the American City, 1760–1900 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989). On the emerging links between higher education and new ­middle class work, see Burton J. Bledstein, Culture of Professionalism: The ­Middle Class and the Development of Higher Education in Amer­i­ca (New York: Norton, 1976). On the gendered re­sis­tance of working-­class men to new m ­ iddle class hegemony, see Gail Bederman, Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880–1917 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995). On the role of education in curbing migration, see Hal S. Barron, ­Those Who Stayed ­Behind: Rural Society in Nineteenth-­Century New ­England (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1984). 14. Andrea G. Radke-­Moss, Bright Epoch: W ­ omen and Coeducation in the American West (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2008), 1–40; Barbara Miller Solomon, In the Com­pany of Educated ­Women: A History of ­Women and Higher Education (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1985), 43–61; Charlotte Williams Conable, ­Women at Cornell: The Myth of Equal Education (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1977), 62–97. While ­there is a dearth of lit­er­a­ture on the northeastern grange and African Americans, some insights into race and populist higher education reform, as well as the limited cross-­racial collaboration in the movement, are provided in Scott M. Gelber, The University and the P­ eople: Envisioning American Higher Education in an Era of Populist Protest (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2011), 11–12, 38, 56–58, 62, 67. 15. For example, see Coy F. Cross II, Justin Smith Morrill: ­Father of the Land-­Grant Colleges (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 1999). 16. See Nathan M. Sorber, “Introduction,” in The Land-­Grant Colleges and the Reshaping of American Higher Education, ed. Roger  L. Geiger and Nathan  M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 3–13. 17. Earle D. Ross, Democracy’s College: The Land Grant Movement in the Formative Stage (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1942), quotation at 2. 18. Edward Eddy, Colleges for Our Land and Time: The Land-­Grant Idea in American Education (New York: Harper and ­Brothers, 1957), quotation at 267; Allan Nevins, The State Universities and Democracy (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1962); J. G. Edmonds, The Magnificent Charter: The Origin and Role of the Morrill Land-­Grant Colleges and Universities (Hicksville, NY: Exposition Press, 1978). 19. Frederick Rudolph, The American College and University—­A History (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1990, originally published 1962), quotation at 249. 20. Eldon  L. Johnson, “Misconceptions about the Early Land-­Grant Colleges,” Journal of Higher Education 52, no. 4 ( July 1981): 333–351. 21. Roger L. Williams, George W. Atherton and the Origins of Federal Support for Higher Education (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1991), quotation at 9. 22. Eddy, Colleges for Our Land and Time, 258. 23. Fred S. Humphries, “1890 Land-­Grant Institutions: Their Strug­gle for Survival and Equality,” Agricultural History 65, no. 2 (1991): 3–11; Robert L. Jenkins, “The Black Land-­Grant Colleges in Their Formative Years, 1890–1920,” Agricultural History 65, no. 2 (1991): 63–72. 24. Richard M. Breaux, “Nooses, Sheets, and Blackface: White Racial Anxiety and Black Student Presence at Six Midwest Flagship Universities, 1882–1937,” Perspectives on the History of Higher Education 29 (2012): 47–73.

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NOTES TO PA G ES 8 – 1 3

191

25. Nathan  M. Sorber and Roger  L. Geiger, “The Welding of Opposite Views: Land-­Grant Historiography at 150 Years,” Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 29 (2014): 385–422, quotation at 405. 26. Eddy, Colleges for Our Land and Time, 61; Ross, Democracy’s College, 129. 27. Solomon, In the Com­pany of Educated ­Women, 43–61; Conable, ­Women at Cornell, 62–97; Lynn  D. Gordon, Gender and Higher Education in the Progressive Era (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1990), 53–70; Radke-­Moss, Bright Epoch, quotations at 289; Sorber and Geiger, “The Welding of Opposite Views,” 407. 28. Roger L. Geiger, “The Rise and Fall of Useful Knowledge: Higher Education for Science, Agriculture, and the Mechanic Arts, 1850–1875,” in American College in the Nineteenth ­Century, ed. Roger L. Geiger (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000), 153–168. 29. Geiger and Sorber, The Land-­Grant Colleges, 3–13. The Justin Morrill quotation is from “Speech of Honorable Justin S. Morrill of Vermont, in the House of Representatives, June 6, 1862,” Congressional Speeches—­Vermont Collection, Box 19, University of Vermont Archives. 30. Marc R. Nemec, Ivory Towers and Nationalistic Minds: Universities, Leadership, and the Development of the American State (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2006). 31. Scott M. Gelber, “Academic Pop­u­lism: The P ­ eople’s Revolt and Public Higher Education, 1880–1905 (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2008), quotation at iv. ­These ideas are developed further in Gelber, The University and the ­People. 32. Bledstein, Culture of Professionalism; Daniel A. Clark, Creating the College Man: American Mass Magazines and Middle-­Class Manhood, 1890–1915 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000). 33. Bederman, Manliness and Civilization. 34. This argument was first made in Nathan M. Sorber, “Making College Manly: Land Grant Colleges, Gender Identity, and ­Middle Class Formation in the Nineteenth ­Century” (research paper presented at the annual conference of the Association for the Study of Higher Education, November 2009). 35. Laurence R. Veysey, The Emergence of the American University (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965), chap. 2. 36. Kenyon L. Butterfield, “An Untilled Field in American Agricultural Education,” Popu­lar Science Monthly ( July 1903). 37. See Scott J. Peters, “ ‘­Every Farmer Should Be Awakened’: Liberty Hyde Bailey’s Vision of Agricultural Extension Work,” Agricultural History 80, no.  2 (Spring 2006): 190–219. 38. Geiger and Sorber, The Land-­Grant Colleges, 4. 39. On the Whig po­liti­cal and economic agenda, see Michael F. Holt, The Rise and Fall of the American Whig Party: Jacksonian Politics at the Eve of the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999). Morrill was a follower of the po­liti­cal philosophies of Henry Charles Carey, best articulated in Henry Charles Carey, Princi­ples of Po­liti­cal Economy (Philadelphia: Carey, Lea, and Blanchard, 1837). On the Whig foundation of the Morrill Act, see Nathan M. Sorber, “Creating Colleges of Science, Industry, and National Advancement: The Origins of the New E ­ ngland Land-­Grant Colleges,” in The Land-­Grant Colleges and the Reshaping of American Higher Education, ed. Roger L. Geiger and Nathan M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 41–72.

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40. See Sorber, “Creating Colleges of Science, Industry, and National Advancement,” 41–72; “Speech of Honorable Justin S. Morrill of Vermont, in the House of Representatives, June 6, 1862,” quotation at 121. 41. Richard Hofstadter, The Age of Reform: From Bryan to F. D. R. (New York: Vintage Books, 1955). 42. On northern agriculture and the changing socioeconomic context, see Wilbur Zelinsky, “Changes in the Geographic Patterns of Rural Population in the United States 1790–1960,” Geo­graph­i­cal Review 52 (October  1962): 492–524; Barron, ­Those Who Stayed ­Behind; Hal S. Barron, “Listening to the ­Silent Majority: Change and Continuity in the Nineteenth-­Century Rural North,” in Agricultural and National Development: Views on the Nineteenth C ­ entury, ed. Lou Ferleger (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1990), 3–24. On the rise of the grange, see Nordin, Rich Harvest. 43. For a discussion of the broad, progressive vision of extension reformers, see Peters, “ ‘­Every Farmer Should Be Awakened’ ”; quotations from Liberty Hyde Bailey, Agricultural Education and Its Place in the University Curriculum (Ithaca, NY: Andrus and Church, 1893), 8–12. 44. The quotation is from President William H. Scott of Ohio State University in 1884. See “The Inauguration of President  W.  H. Scott, Delivered at the Eleventh Commencement of Ohio State University, June  18, 1884,” in Annual Report of the Board of Trustees (Columbus: Ohio State University, 1884), 110, 112.

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Chapter 1

1. James McPherson, ­Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988). For an excellent discussion of the traditional interpretation of antebellum higher education, see Christine  A. Ogren, “Sites, Students, Scholarship, and Structures: The Historiography of American Higher Education in the Post-­revisionist Era,” in Rethinking the History of American Education, ed. W. R ­ eese and J. Rury (New York: Palgrave MacMillan, 2008), 187–222. 2. Key revisionist works include David B. Potts, “Curriculum and Enrollment: Assessing the Popularity of Antebellum Colleges,” in The American College in the Nineteenth ­Century, ed. Roger L. Geiger (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000), 37–45; Colin B. Burke, American Collegiate Populations: A Test of the Traditional View (New York: New York University Press, 1982). On scientific advances in the antebellum college, see Stanley A. Guralnick, Science in the Ante-­bellum College (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1975). On changes in the economic context, see Charles Sellers, The Market Revolution: Jacksonian Amer­i­ca, 1815–1846 (London: Oxford University Press, 1991). On the Eu­ro­pean academic migration, see Charles E. Rosenberg, No Other Gods: On Science and American Social Thought (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997). 3. Cathryn J. Prince, A Professor, a President, and a Meteor: The Birth of American Science (New York: Prometheus Books, 2010), quotation at 54. 4. Roger L. Geiger, The History of American Higher Education: Learning and Culture from the Founding to World War II (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2015), 136–137. 5. George P. Fisher, Life of Benjamin Silliman (New York: Charles Scribner, 1866), quotations at 93.

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6. Charles Michael Brown, Benjamin Silliman: A Life in the Young Republic (Prince­ ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 1989). 7. Adam R. Nelson, “Institutionalizing Agricultural Research in the Early American Republic: An International Perspective,” in The Land-­Grant Colleges and the Reshaping of American Higher Education, ed. Roger L. Geiger and Nathan M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 13–40. 8. Roger L. Geiger, “Introduction,” in American College in the Nineteenth ­Century, ed. Roger L. Geiger (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000), quotation at 4; Gordon S. Wood, The Radicalism of the American Revolution (New York: Knopf Doubleday, 2011). On the popularity and utility of the classics, see Potts, “Curriculum and Enrollment,” 37–45. 9. Sellers, Market Revolution, quotation at 4. 10. John Lauritz Larson, The Market Revolution in Amer­i­ca—­Liberty, Ambition, and the Eclipse of the Common Good (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), quotation at 3. 11. Recent histories have revised Charles Sellers’s traditional argument that the market revolution in Amer­ic­ a should only be understood as a nineteenth-­century phenomenon. Social histories like Larson’s The Market Revolution in Amer­i­ca and J. M. Opal, Beyond the Farm: National Ambitions in Rural New E­ ngland (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), helped clarify that market activity was prevalent in the eigh­teenth ­century, but the significant change in the 1800s was, through the aid of internal improvement, the degree to which market activity became ingrained in the psychological, social, cultural, and religious fabric of p­ eople’s lives. For a discussion of recent shifts in the historiography, see John Lauritz Larson, “The Market Revolution in Early Amer­i­ca: An Introduction,” OAH Magazine of History 52, no. 4 (2005): 4–7. 12. Frederick Rudolph, The American College and University—­A History (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1990, originally published 1962), quotations at 116. 13. David B. Potts, Liberal Education for a Land of Colleges: Yale’s “Reports” of 1828 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 7–12. All quotations are from Yale University, Reports on the Course of Instruction in Yale College; by a Committee of the Corporation and the Academic Faculty (New Haven, CT: Yale University, 1828), reprinted in Potts, Liberal Education, 85–140 (italics added). 14. Robert H. Wiebe, The Search for Order, 1877–1920 (New York: Hill and Wang, 1967). 15. Geiger, The History of American Higher Education, 243–255. 16. On the new ­middle class and higher education, see Stuart  M. Blumin, The Emergence of the M ­ iddle Class: Social Experience in the American City, 1760–1900 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989); C. Wright Mills, White Collar: The American ­Middle Class (Cambridge: Oxford University Press, 1951); Roger L. Geiger, “The Era of the Multipurpose Colleges in American Higher Education,” in American College in the Nineteenth C ­ entury, ed. Roger  L. Geiger (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000), 127–152. 17. Doris Malknus, “Small Towns, Small Sects, and Coeducation in Midwestern Colleges, 1853–1861,” History of Higher Education Annual 22 (2002): 33–66; Kathryn M. Kerns, “Antebellum Higher Education for ­Women in Western New York State” (PhD diss., University of Pennsylvania, 1993); Margaret A. Nash, “A Salutary Rivalry: The Growth of Higher Education for W ­ omen in Oxford, Ohio, 1850–1875,” in The American

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College in the Nineteenth ­Century, ed. Roger L. Geiger (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000), 183–195. 18. Geiger, “The Era of the Multipurpose Colleges,” 127–152, italics added by author. 19. Samuel L. Boardman, “Ezekiel Holmes, Memorials, Journals, and Correspondence,” The Home Farm 4, no. 32 ( July 19, 1884), Ezekiel Holmes Collection, 1830–1948, MS 704, File 1, University of Maine Special Collections; Walter C. Bronson, The History of Brown University, 1764–1914 (Providence, RI: Brown University, 1914), 160–162. 20. Alfred C. True, A History of Agricultural Education in the United States, 1785–1925 (New York: Arno Press, 1969), 35–36; S.  L. Boardman, “The School at Gardiner, Maine,” in Cyclopedia of American Horticulture, ed. Liberty Hyde Bailey and Wilhelm Miller (New York: MacMillan, 1909), 363–366; “Ezekiel Holmes to the Gardiner Lyceum Trustees, October 17, 1828,” The Home Farm 4, no. 42 (August 28, 1884), 192, Ezekiel Holmes Collection, 1830–1948, MS 704, File 1, University of Maine Special Collections. 21. True, A History of Agricultural Education, quotations at 31–32. 22. Lyman Carrier, “The United States Agricultural Society, 1852–1860: Its Relation to the Origin of the United States Department of Agriculture and the Land Grant Colleges,” Agricultural History 2, no. 4 (October 1937): 278–288; True, A History of Agricultural Education. For a discussion of the genteel membership of agricultural socie­ties in dif­fer­ent contexts, cf. Gerald  L. Prescott, “Farm Gentry vs. the Grangers: Conflict in Rural Amer­i­ca,” California Historical Quarterly 56, no. 4 (Winter 1977–1978): 328–345; Erik A. Ernst, “John A. Kennicott of the Grove: Physician, Horticulturist, and Journalist in Nineteenth-­Century Illinois,” Journal of the Illinois State Historical Society 74, no.  2 (Summer 1981): 109–118; Gerald Prescott, “Gentlemen Farmers in the Gilded Age,” Wisconsin Magazine of History 55, no.  3 (Spring 1972): 197–212. 23. Lewis H. Gause, “Agricultural Colleges,” New E­ ngland Farmer 4, no. 10 (October 1852), quotations at 475. 24. See True, A History of Agricultural Education, 45–53; Roy V. Scott, The Reluctant Farmer: The Rise of Agricultural Extension to 1914 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1970), 22–26; “Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College,” New E­ ngland Farmer 4 (September 9, 1825): 54. 25. True, A History of Agricultural Education, 76–82; Edward Hitchcock, Reminiscences of Amherst College: Historical, Scientific, Biographical and Autobiographical: Also, of Other and Wider Life Experiences (Northampton, MA: Bridgman and Childs, 1863). The quotations from Hitchcock and Shepherd are reprinted in Harold Whiting Cary, The University of Mas­sa­chu­setts: A History of One Hundred Years (Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Press, 1962), 12. 26. Quotations reprinted in New York State Agricultural Society, Fifty-­ninth Annual Report of the New York State Agricultural Society for the Year 1899 (Albany, NY: James B. Lyon, State Printer, 1900), 425. The petition quotation is reprinted in True, A History of Agricultural Education, 50. 27. “Lewis G. Morris Dead,” New York Times, September 20, 1900. http://­query​ .­nytimes​.­com​/­mem​/­archive​-­free. 28. New York State Agricultural Society, Transactions of the New York State Agricultural Society, Vol. 12 (Albany, NY: Charles Van Benthuysen, 1853), 493.

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29. New York State Agricultural Society, Transactions of the New York State Agricultural Society, Vol. 11 (Albany, NY: Charles Van Benthuysen, 1852), quotations at 12–13. 30. True, A History of Agricultural Education, 48–53. 31. Daniel W. Lang, “Amos Brown and the Land-­Grant College Movement” (unpublished manuscript presented at the annual meeting of the Association of the Study of Higher Education, Albuquerque, NM, November 1997); True, A History of Agricultural Education, 52–53. 32. True, A History of Agricultural Education, 64–68. 33. Ibid., quotation at 52; Lang, “Amos Brown.” 34. Albert H. Wright, The New York State Agricultural College (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1958); John R. Thelin, A History of American Higher Education (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004), 79–81; Morris Bishop, A History of Cornell (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962), 56. 35. For a discussion of the strong support of the state agricultural socie­ties, see Wayland F. Dunaway, History of the Pennsylvania State College (Lancaster, PA: Lancaster Press, 1946), 3–7. For biographical information on Watts, see Dickinson University, Encyclopedia Dickinsonia, http://­chronicles​.­dickinson​.­edu​/­encyclo​/­w​/­ed​_­wattsF​.­htm. 36. Farmers’ High School of Pennsylvania, Cata­logue of the Officers and Students of the Farmers’ High School of Pennsylvania for the Year 1859 (Philadelphia: W. S. Young, 1859), 32. 37. Peter L. Moran and Roger L. Williams, “Saving the Land Grant for the Agricultural College of Pennsylvania,” in The Land-­Grant Colleges and the Reshaping of American Higher Education, ed. Roger L. Geiger and Nathan M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 105–130; Dunaway, History of the Pennsylvania State College, 9–18. 38. On Eu­ro­pean developments, see Harold Perkin, “History of Universities,” in International Handbook of Higher Education, ed. James J. F. Forest and Philip G. Altbach (London: Springer, 2006), 159–206, quotation at 174; Daniel  W. Lang, “The ­People’s College, the Mechanics’ Mutual Protection Association, and the Agricultural College Act,” History of Education Quarterly 18, no. 3 (Autumn 1978): 295–321, quotation at 298. On the mechanics’ institute movement, see Joseph F. Kett, The Pursuit of Knowledge ­under Difficulties (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1994), 110–125. 39. Terry S. Reynolds, “The Education of Engineers in Amer­ic­ a before the Morrill Acts of 1862,” History of Education Quarterly 32, no. 4 (Winter 1992): 459–482; Theodore J. Crackel, West Point: A Bicentennial History (Lawrence: University of Kansas Press, 2002), 53–80; James William Kershner, Sylvanus Thayer: A Biography (New York: Arno Press, 1982). 40. Reynolds, “The Education of Engineers,” 459–482; Samuel Rezneck, Education for a Technological Society: A Sesquicentennial History of Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (Troy, NY: Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute, 1968); Roger L. Geiger, “The Rise and Fall of Useful Knowledge: Higher Education for Science, Agriculture, and the Mechanic Arts, 1850–1875,” in The American College in the Nineteenth C ­ entury, ed. Roger L. Geiger (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000), 153–169. 41. Bruce Sinclair, Philadelphia’s Phi­los­op­ her Mechanics: A History of the Franklin Institute, 1824–1865 (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1974). 42. Lang, “The ­People’s College,” 299. 43. Ibid.

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44. Quotations can be found in “­People’s College Prospectus” and “Minutes of the Mechanical School Association, November  25, 1851,” ­People’s College Rec­ords, 1848–1880, Harrison Howard Papers, Box 2, Cornell University Library, Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections. 45. Charlotte Williams Conable, ­Women at Cornell: The Myth of Equal Education (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1977), 36–38. 46. Lang, “The ­People’s College,” especially 303–306. 47. Daniel Lang estimates Cook’s estate and assets in Havana, New York, to be valued at the remarkable sum of $513,000. 48. On the changing fortunes of the artisan class, see Lang, “The ­People’s College,” 305–306. For the best discussion of Charles Cook’s influence and motivations, as well as his role in the demise of the original ­People’s College idea, see Daniel W. Lang, “The ­People’s College: An Experiment in Nineteenth C ­ entury American Higher Education (unpublished manuscript), 16–126. 49. William Barton Rogers, Objects and Plan of an Institute of Technology (Boston: J. Wilson, 1861), quotation at 17; A. J. Angulo, William Barton Rogers and the Idea of MIT (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2009), 86–123; Julius A. Stratton and Loretta H. Mannix, Mind and Hand: The Birth of MIT (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005). On the rise of mechanical engineering (with a focus on Thurston and Cornell University), see Gregory Zieren, “Robert H. Thurston, Modern Engineering Education, and Its Diffusion through Land-­Grant Universities,” in The Land-­Grant Colleges and the Reshaping of American Higher Education, ed. Roger L. Geiger and Nathan M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 195–216. For additional reading on engineering at the dawn of the land-­g rant movement, see Alan  I. Marcus, ed., Engineering in a Land-­Grant Context: The Past, Pres­ent, and F­ uture of an Idea (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2005). 50. Perkins, “History of Universities,” 177; Rosenberg, No Other Gods; William Clark, Academic Charisma and the Origins of the Research University (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006), 174. 51. Perkins, “History of Universities,” 174–178; Margaret W. Rossiter, The Emergence of Agricultural Science: Justus Liebig and the Americans, 1840–1880 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1975), 1–46; William Ashwell Shenstone, Justus von Liebig: His Life and Work (London: Cassell, 1895). For general coverage of Germany’s scientific advance, see Peter Watson, The German Genius: Eu­rope’s Third Re­nais­sance, the Second Scientific Revolution, and the Twentieth ­Century (New York: Harper, 2010), 225–238, 271–288. 52. See Russell H. Chittenden, History of the Sheffield Scientific School of Yale University, 1846–1922 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1928), 1:44–46. 53. Ibid., 4–21. 54. Alan Hirschfeld, The Electric Life of Michael Faraday (New York: Bloomsburg, 2006); James Hamilton, A Life of Discovery: Michael Faraday, ­Giant of the Scientific Revolution (New York: Random House, 2004); Maurice  P. Crosland, Gay-­Lussac: Scientist and Bourgeois (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004, originally published 1978); James  R. Hofmann, André-­Marie Ampère (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996); Elizabeth Cabot Cary Agassiz, Louis Agassiz: His Life and Correspondence, Volume 2 (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, 1885); Patrice Debré, Louis Pasteur (Baltimore:

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Johns Hopkins University Press, 1998); Philip Strong Humphrey and Lionel Tiger, eds., Charles Darwin: An Anthology (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2009). 55. Laurence R. Veysey, The Emergence of the American University (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1965), 10; Rosenberg, No Other Gods, 135–152. For an excellent discussion of the American migration to and experience in German universities, see Anja Werner, The Transatlantic World of Higher Education: Americans at German Universities, 1776–1914 (New York: Berghahn, 2013). 56. Robert W. Hill, “John Pitkin Norton’s Visit to ­England, 1844,” Agricultural History 8, no. 4 (October 1934): 219–222; William A. Lanard, “John Pitkin Norton,” The New En­glander (November 1852); Chittenden, History of the Sheffield Scientific School, 43–44. 57. Proposed Plan for a Complete Organ­ization of the School of Science, Connected with Yale College (New Haven, CT: Ezekiel Hayes, 1856), quotation at 4; Chittenden, History of the Sheffield Scientific School, 45–48. 58. See biographical entry on John A. Porter in Henry S. Olcott, Outlines of the First Course of Yale Agricultural Lecture (New York: C. M. Saxton, Barker, 1860). On the scholars’ underwhelming experience at Brown, see Bronson, History of Brown University, 287–296; Chittenden, History of the Sheffield Scientific School, 55–62. 59. Rosenberg, No Other Gods, 135–152; Werner, The Transatlantic World of Higher Education. 60. This quotation is from Evan Pugh to Samuel W. Johnson, March 14, 1858, as cited in Jacqueline M. Bloom, “Evan Pugh: The Education of a Scientist, 1828–1858” (MA thesis, Pennsylvania State University, 1960), 67. 61. Chester County Historical Society, Evan Pugh: Pioneer in Demo­cratic Education (Oxford, PA: Chester County Historical Society, 1964), 2–4. 62. Bloom, “Evan Pugh,” 57. 63. This quotation is from Evan Pugh, Göttingen Journal, September 15, 1855, reprinted in Bloom, “Evan Pugh,” 56. 64. Rosenberg, No Other Gods, 142. For an excellent overview of Evan Pugh’s education abroad see Roger L Williams, Evan Pugh’s Penn State: Amer­ic­ a’s Model Agricultural College (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2018), 18–36. Chapter 2

1. George Thomas, The Found­ers and the Idea of a National University (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2015); Gordon S. Wood, Empire of Liberty: A History of the Early Republic, 1789–1815 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009), 53–94. 2. Daniel Walker Howe, What Hath God Wrought: The Transformation of Amer­i­ca, 1815–1848 (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007), 243–284, 328–366; John Lauritz Larson, Internal Improvements: National Public Works and the Promise of Popu­lar Government in the Early United States (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2001). The quotation is from Joel Barlow, Prospectus of a National Institution to Be Established in the United States (Washington City: Printed by Samuel  H. Smith, 1806). 3. John Whitehead and Jurgen Herbst, “How to Think about the Dartmouth College Case,” History of Education Quarterly 26, no. 3 (1986): 333–349; Roger L. Geiger,

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The History of American Higher Education: Learning and Culture from the Founding to World War II (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2015), 160–186. 4. Michael F. Holt, The Rise and Fall of the American Whig Party: Jacksonian Politics at the Eve of the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1999); Howe, What Hath God Wrought, 525–612. 5. For an excellent discussion of how the advancement of agricultural science and technology fit within the macroeconomic frameworks of the Whig and proto-­ Republican po­liti­cal discourse (i.e., the works of po­liti­cal economist Henry Carey), see Ariel Ron, “Henry Carey’s Rural Roots, ‘Scientific Agriculture’ and Economic Development in the Antebellum North,” Journal of History of Economic Thought 37, no. 2 ( June 2015): 263–275. 6. Marc R. Nemec, Ivory Towers and Nationalistic Minds: Universities, Leadership, and the Development of the American State (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2006), quotation at 47. 7. Daniel P. Carpenter, The Forging of Bureaucratic Autonomy: Reputations, Networks, and Policy Innovation in Executive Agencies, 1862–1928 (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2001), quotations at 41–43. 8. Ibid.; Ronald N. Johnson and Gary D. Libecap, The Federal Ser­vice System and the Prob­lem of Bureaucracy: The Economics and Politics of Institutional Change (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994); Nemec, Ivory Towers and Nationalistic Minds, quotation at 11. 9. Ariel Ron, “Summoning the State: Northern Farmers and the Transformation of American Politics in the Mid-­nineteenth ­Century,” Journal of American History (September 2016): 347–374. 10. “An Act Donating Public Lands to the Several States and Territories Which May Provide Colleges for the Benefit of Agriculture and the Mechanic Arts, July 2, 1862,” in A ­Century of Lawmaking for a New Nation: U.S. Congressional Documents and Debates, 1774–1875, 37th Congress, 2nd Session, http://­memory​.­loc​.­gov. 11. For a quin­tes­sen­tial romantic biopic, see “Justin Morrill: Land for Learning,” Vermont PBS Documentaries, December 19, 1998. 12. Speech of Honorable Justin S. Morrill of Vermont, in the House of Representatives, June  6, 1862, Congressional Speeches—­Vermont Collection, Box 19, University of Vermont Archives. 13. Coy F. Cross II, Justin Smith Morrill: ­Father of the Land-­Grant Colleges (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 1999), 1–18. The quotation is reprinted in Alfred Charles True, A History of Agricultural Education in the United States, 1785–1925 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1929), 95. 14. See Cross, Justin Smith Morrill, 19–40; William Belmont Parker, The Life and Public Ser­vice of Justin Smith Morrill (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1924), 262–271; Earle D. Ross, “The ‘­Father’ of the Land Grant Colleges,” Agricultural History 12, no. 2 (April 1958): 151–186. 15. All quotations from Justin Morrill on his 1857 land-­g rant proposal are reprinted in I. L. Kandel, Federal Aid for Vocational Education: A Report to the Car­ne­gie Foundation for the Advancement of Teaching (New York: Car­ne­g ie Foundation, 1917), 4–5. 16. Ibid., 4–12, quotations at 10, 12. 17. Eric Foner, ­Free Soil, F­ ree ­Labor, F­ ree Men: The Ideology of the Republican Party before the Civil War (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995), 1–39. On the “free-­soil

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agenda” of the 37th Congress, see James McPherson, ­Battle Cry of Freedom: The Civil War Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 450–453. 18. Roger  L. Williams, George  W. Atherton and the Origins of Federal Support for Higher Education (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1991), quotation at 39. 19. Speech of Honorable Justin S. Morrill of Vermont, in the House of Representatives, June 6, 1862, quotations at 121, 124, Congressional Speeches—­Vermont Collection, Box 19, University of Vermont Archives. 20. Daniel Coit Gilman, “Our National Schools of Science” [reprinted from North American Review] (Boston: Ticknor and Fields, 1867), quotation at 16. See Nathan M. Sorber, “Creating Colleges of Science, Industry, and National Advancement: The Origins of the New ­England Land-­Grant Colleges,” in The Land-­Grant Colleges and the Reshaping of American Higher Education, ed. Roger  L. Geiger and Nathan  M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 54–59. 21. Roger L. Geiger, “The Rise and Fall of Useful Knowledge: Higher Education for Science, Agriculture, and the Mechanic Arts, 1850–1875,” in The American College in the Nineteenth C ­ entury, ed. Roger  L. Geiger (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000), 160–161. The quotations are from Gilman, “Our National Schools of Science,” 27–28. 22. This quotation is taken from an excerpt of Morrill’s views on the m ­ atter, as reprinted in Gilman, “Our National Schools of Science,” quotation at 504. 23. Daniel Coit Gilman, “Scientific Schools in Eu­rope: Considered in Reference to Their Prevalence, Utility, Scope and Desirability in Amer­i­ca,” Barnard’s American Journal of Education (March 1856: 315–328,), quotations at 323–327. 24. Russell H. Chittenden, History of the Sheffield Scientific School of Yale University, Vol. 1 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1928), 90–93; Yale University, Public Acts and Other Documents Relating to the Controversy between the Corporation of Yale College and the State of Connecticut (New Haven, CT: Hoggson and Robinson, 1895). The quotation from Brewer is found in “Letter from One of the Mechanics to the Editor,” The Palladium (June 9, 1865). The quotation from George Brush is reprinted in J. E. Lord, Yale or Storrs? The Land-­Grant Controversy in Connecticut (PhD diss., Yale University, 1974), 95. See also Daniel Coit Gilman, University Prob­lems in the United States (New York: ­Century, 1897), quotations at 123, 126. 25. The details of this dinner w ­ ere offered in a letter written by Professor Brewer, of which excerpts are printed in True, A History of Agricultural Education, 107–108 (italics in the original). 26. “Messages of Governor Coburn,” in Acts and Resolves Passed by the Forty-­second Legislature of the State of Maine, 1863 (Augusta, ME: Stevens and Sayward, Printers to the State, 1863), 288. 27. S. L. Goodale, Ninth Annual Report of the Secretary of the Maine Board of Agriculture (Augusta, ME: Stevens and Sayward, Printers to the State, 1864), Dr. Woods quotation at 187; Edward W. Hall, “History of Higher Education in Maine,” in United States Circular of Information, ed. H. B. Adams (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1903), 3–289.. 28. Nathan M. Sorber. “Early Land-­Grant Colleges and Students in the Northeastern United States: A History of Regional Access and Mobility Patterns in Maine,

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Mas­sa­chu­setts, and New York, 1862–1878.” Agricultural History 92, no. 1 (2018): 101– 23, quote p. 105. 29. Ibid.; David  C. Smith, The First C ­ entury: A History of the University of Maine, 1865–1965 (Orono: University of Maine Press, 1979), 1–5; Ezekiel Holmes speech “Lessons of the Hour before the Kennebec County Agricultural Society at Readfield,” October 20,1864, Ezekiel Holmes Collection, 1830–1948, File 1, Box 1, University of Maine Archives. 30. Cata­logue of the Officers and Students of the State College of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts, Orono (Bangor, ME: Benjamin A. Burr, Printer, 1868), 4; Merritt Caldwell Fernald’s exposé is in the document “History of Penobscot County,” Merritt Fernald Papers, Box 50, Folder 45, University of Maine Archives. 31. This discussion of the first land-­grant curriculum in Maine was first printed in Sorber, “Early Land-­Grant Colleges and Students in the Northeastern United States,” p. 106. 32. For the curriculum description, see Annual Report of the Maine State College for the Year 1873 (Orono: Maine State College, 1871), 36; Cata­logue of the Officers, 6; Smith, The First C ­ entury, 33. 33. Benjamin Bussey was a prominent Boston merchant and farmer who bequeathed part of his estate to Harvard University for “instruction in agriculture, horticulture, and related subjects.” In time, the proceeds of the gift w ­ ere used to establish the Bussey Institute, a school dedicated to agricultural science and experimentation. For a discussion of the Bussey Institute, see Samuel Eliot Morison, Three Centuries of Harvard, 1636–1936 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2001, originally published 1936), 323–364. 34. Harold Whiting Cary, The University of Mas­sa­chu­setts: A History of One Hundred Years (Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Press, 1962), 23–37; Acts and Resolves Passed by the General Court of Mas­sa­chu­setts in 1863 (Boston, 1863), quotations at 620. 35. Earle D. Ross, Democracy’s College: The Land Grant Movement in the Formative Stage (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1942), 70–71; Cary, The University of Mas­sa­chu­setts. For an excellent discussion of MIT’s place in Mas­sa­chu­setts land-­grant history, see Julius A. Stratton and Loretta H. Mannix, Mind and Hand: The Birth of MIT (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005). 36. On the educational background of Chadbourne, see New E ­ ngland Historic Genealogical Society, Memorial Biographies of the New E­ ngland Historic Genealogical Society (Boston: New ­England Historic Genealogical Society, 1907), 128–129; Cary, The University of Mas­sa­chu­setts, 23–37, quotation at 33. 37. Cary, The University of Mas­sa­chu­setts, quotations, including ­those from the Boston Journal of Chemistry, at 35–36. 38. See University of Mas­sa­chu­setts and Friedrich Wöhler, Charles Anthony Goessmann (Cambridge, MA: Riverside Press, 1917). 39. Richard  P. McCormick, Rutgers: A Bicentennial History (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1966), 88, 409–413. McCormick notes that Cook had been working as the state geologist, a position that gained him many associates in scientific circles and in the state­house at Trenton. See also William Demarest, A History of Rutgers College (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1924), 410.

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40. Demarest, A History of Rutgers College, 412; Roger  D. Hunt, Col­o­nels in Blue: Union Army Col­o­nels of the Civil War (Mechanicsburg, PA: Stackpole Books, 2007). 41. Williams, George W. Atherton, 60–63. 42. Atherton’s speech was reprinted in newspapers and journals across the country. For this work, the following publication was used: “Usefulness of the Agricultural Colleges,” American Educational Monthly (November 1873), quotations at 484. See also Williams, George W. Atherton, 66–74. 43. Con­temporary American Biography (New York: Atlantic Publishing and Engraving, 1895), quotation at 219. For enrollment numbers, see McCormick, Rutgers: A Bicentennial History, 92. 44. Donald C. Babcock, History of the University of New Hampshire (Durham, NH: University Press, 1941), 9–11, quotation at 10. 45. Ibid., 11. 46. Ibid., 11–13. 47. Ibid., 15–46, quotation reprinted at 20; Joseph B. Walker, Memorial Sketch of the Life and Character of Ezekiel Webster Dimond (Durham, NH: E. A. Jenks, 1877). On the weakness of the Chandler School, see Geiger, “The Rise and Fall of Useful Knowledge,” 157. 48. Babcock, History of the University of New Hampshire, quotation reprinted at 11. 49. Morris Bishop, A History of Cornell (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962), 54–70; Carl Becker, Cornell University: Found­ers and the Founding (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1943), 63–64, 81–89; True, A History of Agricultural Education, 173. 50. Daniel W. Lang, “The ­People’s College, the Mechanics’ Mutual Protection Association, and the Agricultural College Act,” History of Education Quarterly 18, no. 3 (Autumn 1978): 295–321; Daniel Bell, “The College That Almost Was,” Ithaca Journal (November 2, 1972); Ross, Democracy’s College, 76–78; True, A History of Agricultural Education, 56. 51. Becker, Cornell University, 90–110; Andrew Dickson White, The Autobiography of Andrew Dickson White (Charlottesville: University of V ­ irginia Library, 1996), 300, quotation discussing Ezra Cornell is at 102. 52. Bishop, A History of Cornell, 60–66. The quotations are from Ezra Cornell to the Trustees of the State Agricultural College, October 4, 1864, reprinted in Becker, Cornell University, 160–161. 53. Ezra Cornell to Francis M. Finch, January 27, 1865, Ezra Cornell Papers, Series I, Box 25, Folder 12, Cornell University Library, Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections. 54. An Act to establish the Cornell University, and to appropriate to it the income of the sale of public lands granted to this State by Congress, on the second day of July, eigh­teen hundred and sixty two, passed April 27, 1865, reprinted in Becker, Cornell University, quotations at 162–167. 55. White, Autobiography, 300; True, A History of Agricultural Education, 173. Quotations from the Senate hearing, including from defenders of the ­People’s College and the denominational colleges, are reprinted in Bishop, A History of Cornell, 67. 56. Andrew Dickson White to Gerrit Smith, 1862, reprinted in Becker, Cornell University, 154–157. 57. White, Autobiography, 371–372.

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58. Ibid., 371. 59. Andrew Dickson White to Henry Barnard, December 24, 1870, Andrew Dickson White Papers, Box 10, Cornell University Library, Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections (italics in the original). 60. White, Autobiography, 371. 61. Bishop, A History of Cornell, 169. 62. Andrew Dickson White to Henry Barnard, December 24, 1870. 63. White, Autobiography, 371. 64. Ibid., 372. 65. Andrew Dickson White to Henry Barnard, December 24, 1870 (italics in the original). 66. White, Autobiography, quotation at 371–373; Gregory Zieren, “Robert H. Thurston, Modern Engineering Education, and Its Diffusion through Land-­Grant Universities,” in The Land-­Grant Colleges and the Reshaping of American Higher Education, ed. Roger L. Geiger and Nathan M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 206–210; Geiger, The History of American Higher Education, 310. 67. Evan Pugh to Samuel Johnson, 1857, as cited in Charles E. Rosenberg, No Other Gods: On Science and American Social Thought (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1997, originally published 1976), 142. 68. Peter L. Moran and Roger L. Williams, “Saving the Land Grant for the Agricultural College of Pennsylvania,” in The Land-­Grant Colleges and the Reshaping of American Higher Education, ed. Roger  L. Geiger and Nathan  M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 108–111. Evan Pugh’s statement is quoted in D. J. Weller, ed., The Pennsylvania School Journal, Vol. 41 (Lancaster, PA: Wickersham, 1892), 294. 69. Moran and Williams, “Saving the Land Grant” —­quotations from Allegheny College and Pugh’s retort are at 111–118; Wayland F. Dunaway, History of the Pennsylvania State College (Lancaster, PA: Lancaster Press, 1946), 50–52. 70. Michael Bezilla, Penn State: An Illustrated History (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1985), 14–17. 71. Ibid., 18–25; Dunaway, History of the Pennsylvania State College, 94–110. 72. Herman  F. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island: A History of Land-­ Grant Education in Rhode Island (New York: Meredith Publishing, 1967), 1–62; ­Walter C. Bronson, The History of Brown University, 1764–1914 (Providence, RI: Brown University, 1914), 332. For newspaper coverage of the debates, see Providence Journal, January 16, 18, and 22, 1863. All Rhode Island newspaper clippings are available in the University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit URI Mform Area/ Sect.1 MFILM. 73. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island, 7–8; Bronson, The History of Brown University, 369–370; A Cata­logue of the Officers and Students of Brown University, 1867–68 (Providence, RI: Hammond and Angel, 1867), 30–31. 74. “Report of the Joint Special Committee on the Agricultural College,” in Rhode Island, Acts and Resolves Passed at the January Session of the General Assembly of the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, 1872 (Providence, RI: Providence Press, 1872), 1. 75. “Report of the Committee on Education in Relation to the Agricultural Department of Brown University,” in Rhode Island, Acts and Resolves Passed at the January

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Session of the General Assembly of the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, 1869 (Providence, RI: Providence Press, 1869), 1. 76. A Cata­logue of the Officers and Students of Brown University, 1875–76 (Providence, RI: J. A. and R. A. Reid, 1875), 41. 77. A Cata­logue of the Officers and Students of Brown University, 1872–73 (Providence, RI: J. A. and R. A. Reid, 1872), 25–26. 78. Bronson, The History of Brown University, 403–404. 79. Acts and Resolves of the General Assembly of the State of Vermont at the Annual Session, 1863 (Montpelier, VT: Freeman Printing, 1863). 80. The pamphlet was entitled “Farmers and Mechanics of Vermont” and is cited and discussed in Edwin Charles Rozwenc, Agricultural Policies in Vermont, 1860–1945 (Montpelier: Vermont Historical Society, 1981), 57. 81. Vermont Sheep Breeders Association, Register of the Vermont Sheep Breeders Association, Vol. 2 (Middlebury, VT: Tuttle, 1883). 82. Robert O. Sinclair, “Agricultural Education and Extension in Vermont,” in The University of Vermont: The First Two Hundred Years, ed. Robert V. Daniels (Burlington: University of Vermont, 1991), quotation at 179. 83. Hal  S. Barron, ­T hose Who Stayed ­Behind: Rural Society in Nineteenth-­Century New ­England (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 61. 84. Douglas Hurt, “Northern Agriculture ­after the Civil War, 1865–1900,” in Agriculture and National Development, ed. Lou Ferlager (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1990). 85. Sinclair, “Agricultural Education,” 179–180; Julian I. Lindsay, Tradition Looks Forward: The University of Vermont, a History, 1791–1904 (Burlington: University of Vermont and State Agricultural College, 1954). 86. Buckham, confident in his views, put ­these ideas in print. See Biennial Report of the Trustees of the University of Vermont and State Agricultural College for 1873–74 (Montpelier, VT: Freeman Steam Printing House, 1874), 9. 87. Ibid., 9–10. 88. Ibid., 11. 89. T. D. Seymour Bassett, “The Classical College, 1833–1895: Growth and Stability,” in The University of Vermont: The First Two Hundred Years, ed. Robert V. Daniels (Burlington: University of Vermont, 1991), 85–86; Kevin Dunn, “The Natu­ral Sciences and George Henry Perkins,” in The University of Vermont: The First Two Hundred Years, ed. Robert V. Daniels (Burlington: University of Vermont, 1991), 138–139; Sinclair, “Agricultural Education,” 184. 90. Biennial Report of the Trustees of the University of Vermont and State Agricultural College for 1873–74, 4. 91. See “Vermont Students in Other Colleges,” in ibid., 4–5. For further discussion of the state rivalry between UVM and Middlebury, see P. Jeffrey Potash, “Years of Trial: Religion, Money, War, Fire, and the Competition with Middlebury,” in The University of Vermont: The First Two Hundred Years, ed. Robert V. Daniels (Burlington: University of Vermont, 1991), 34–47. 92. Biennial Report of the Trustees of the University of Vermont and State Agricultural College for 1873–74, 7–8. 93. The quotation is cited in Lindsay, Tradition Looks Forward, 223.

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94. For the engineering course of study, see Cata­logue of the University of Vermont and State Agricultural College, 1873–1874 (Burlington: University of Vermont, 1874). 95. Biennial Report of the Trustees of the University of Vermont and State Agricultural College for 1873–74, 13. 96. Matthew Buckham, Dead Languages Forsooth! (Burlington, VT: F ­ ree Press, 1908), Office of the President (Matthew Buckham) Rec­ords, Box 12, Folder 114, University of Vermont Archives; Matthew Buckham, “Some of the Less Obvious Benefits of a Liberal Education,” Office of the President (Matthew Buckham) Rec­ords, Box 12, Folder 131, University of Vermont Archives. 97. Noah Porter, The American College and the American Public (New Haven, CT: C. C. Chatfield, 1870), 223. 98. On the social origins and destinations of early northeastern land-­g rant colleges, see Nathan  M. Sorber, “Early Land-­Grant Colleges and Students in the Northeastern United States: A History of Regional Access and Mobility Patterns in Maine, Mas­sa­chu­setts, and New York, 1862–1878,” Agricultural History 92, no. 1 (Winter 2018): 101–23. 99. Ronald E. Mickens, Edward Bouchet: The First African-­American Doctorate (River Edge, NJ: World Scientific, 2002), 19–70. 100. Ibid.; Yale College Class of 1874, Biographical Rec­ord of the Class of 1874 in Yale College: Part Four, 1874–1909 (New Haven, CT: Tuttle, Moore­house, and Taylor, 1912), 17–18.

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Chapter 3

1. Eric Foner, Reconstruction: Amer­i­ca’s Unfinished Revolution, 1863–1877 (New York: HarperCollins, 1988), quotations at 512–513; Eric J. Hobson, The Age of Capital 1848–1875 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1975). 2. Foner, Reconstruction, 512–517; Charles Postel, The Populist Vision (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007). 3. Richard Hofstadter, The Age of Reform: From Bryan to F. D. R. (New York: Vintage Books, 1955), 60–73, quotation at 64. 4. Hofstadter, The Age of Reform, 60–130. See also Lawrence Goodwyn, Demo­cratic Promise: The Populist Moment in Amer­i­ca (New York: Oxford University Press, 1976); Steven Hahn, The Roots of Rural Pop­u­lism (New York: Oxford University Press, 1983); Robert C. McMath, Populist Vanguard: A History of the Southern Farmers’ Alliance (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1975). 5. Scott M. Gelber, The University and the ­People: Envisioning American Higher Education in an Era of Populist Protest (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2011); Scott M. Gelber, “The Populist Vision for Land-­Grant Universities,” in The Land-­Grant Colleges and the Reshaping of American Higher Education, ed. Roger L. Geiger and Nathan M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 165–194. 6. Hofstadter, The Age of Reform, 98. 7. Hal  S. Barron, ­T hose Who Stayed B ­ ehind: Rural Society in Nineteenth-­Century New ­England (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1984), 61. 8. Hal S. Barron, Mixed Harvest: The Second G ­ reat Transformation in the Rural North, 1870–1930 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 1997), quotation at 13.

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9. Wilbur Zelinsky, “Changes in the Geographic Patterns of Rural Population in the United States 1790–1960,” Geo­graph­i­cal Review 52, no. 4 (October 1962): 492–524; Harold Wilson Fisher, “Population Trends in Northwestern New ­England,” Geo­graph­ i­cal Review 24, no. 2 (April 1934): 272–277; David Davenport, “Population Per­sis­tence and Migration in Rural New York, 1855–1860” (PhD diss., University of Illinois—­ Urbana, 1983); Michael B. Katz, Michael J. Doucet, and Marl J. Stern, “Migration and the Social Order in Erie County, New York.” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 8 (1985): 669–702. 10. Clarence A. Day, “Grange Yesterdays: Based on the Journal of Proceedings of the Maine State Grange,” University of Maine Archives; Scott M. Gelber, “Academic Pop­ul­ism: The ­People’s Revolt and Public Higher Education, 1880–1905” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2008); D. Sven Nordin, Rich Harvest: A History of the Grange, 1867– 1900 ( Jackson: University of Mississippi Press, 1974). 11. Nathan M. Sorber, “The Rise of the Grange’s Yankee Land-­Grant Colleges,” in Science as Ser­vice: Establishing and Reformulating American Land-­Grant Universities, ed. Alan I. Marcus (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2015), 61–92. 12. See J. T. White, editor, The National Cyclopedia of American Biography: Being the History of the United States as Illustrated in the Lives of the Found­ers, Builders, and Defenders of the Republic, and of the Men and W ­ omen Who Are ­Doing the Work and Molding the Thought of the Pres­ent Time, Volume 25 (New York: J.T. White, 1967), 128. 13. The author has uncovered numerous letters between Herbert Myrick and grange leaders regarding land-­g rant reformation in University of Vermont, University of Rhode Island, and University of Connecticut archives. This includes correspondence discussing land-­g rant reformation strategy between Myrick and key instigators like Vermont grange master Alpha Messer, Charles Flagg of Rhode Island, W. W. Cooke of Vermont, and J. H. Hale of Connecticut. 14. Richard Burton, ed., Men of Pro­gress: Leaders in Business and Professional Life in and of the State of Connecticut (Boston: New ­England Magazine, 1898), 218; Norris Galpin Osborn, Men of Mark in Connecticut: Ideals of American Life Told in Biographies and Autobiographies of Eminent Living Americans (New York: W. R. Goodspeed, 1904), 373–375. The quotation is from “Farm School,” The Courant, unknown date, 1881, T. S. Gold Collection, Box 6, Folder 90, University of Connecticut Archives. 15. Alexander M. Ross and Terry Crowley, The College on the Hill: A New History of the Ontario Agricultural College (Toronto: Dundurn, 1999), 20–29, quotations at 24–25, 28. The McCandless affair in Ontario is discussed in Isaac Phillips Roberts, Autobiography of a Farm Boy (Albany, NY: J. B. Lyon, 1916), 180–181. 16. Ross and Crowley, The College on the Hill, 28. 17. “Farm School,” The Courant, quotations at 1; Walter Stemmons, The Connecticut Agricultural College—­A History (New Haven, CT: Tuttle, More­house and Taylor, 1931), 39. 18. Robert L. Cowan, “Henry Prentiss Armsby, 1853–1921: A Brief Biography,” Journal of Animal Science 86 (1988): 1836–1841; Jöns August Fries, Henry Prentis Armsby (State College: Pennsylvania State College Press, 1923). 19. All quotations in this paragraph are from H. P. Armsby, “The Storrs Agricultural School: Course of Study,” Report of the Secretary of the Connecticut Board of Agriculture, 1882, 1–5, photocopied address retrieved from Samuel Mead Papers, Box 1, Folder 1, University of Connecticut Archives. See also Stemmons, Connecticut Agricultural College, 45.

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20. Bruce M. Stave, Red Brick in the Land of Steady Habits: Creating the University of Connecticut, 1881–2006 (Lebanon, NH: University Press of New ­England, 2006), 4–5; Fries, Henry Prentiss Armsby, 5. 21. The Storrs school students’ social origin and c­ areer trajectory data w ­ ere created by cross-­referencing the names of students entering the school between 1882 and 1884 as identified in the University of Connecticut Registrar’s Office Rec­ords (Series IV), University of Connecticut Archives, with federal census folios. The website ancestry​.c­ om was used to retrieve federal census folios. 22. Committee of the Connecticut State Grange, ed., The Connecticut Granges (New Haven, CT: Connecticut State Grange, 1900); Solon Justus Buck, The Granger Movement: A Study of Agricultural Organ­ization and Its Po­liti­cal, Economic and Social Manifestations, 1870–1880 (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1913); Stemmons, Connecticut Agricultural College, 64; J. E. Lord, “Yale or Storrs? The Land-­Grant Controversy in Connecticut” (PhD diss., Yale University, 1974), 121–125, Hale quotations cited at 125. 23. “Sheffield Scientific School,” New Haven Register, March 10, 1887, XVI 58, quotations at 1. See also Lord, “Yale or Storrs?,” 125–135. 24. “The Storrs Schools vs. the Sheffield Scientific School,” in Report of Secretary of Connecticut Board of Agriculture, 1887, quotations at 1, ­Legal and Legislative Rec­ord Collection, Box 1, Folder 19, University of Connecticut Archives. 25. Russell  H. Chittenden, “Biographical Memoir of William Henry Brewer, 1828–1910,” National Acad­emy Biographical Memoirs, Vol. XII (Washington, DC: National Acad­emy of Sciences, 1927). 26. “The Storrs Schools vs. the Sheffield Scientific School,” quotations at 3–9. 27. Ibid., quotations at 9–10. For John Kirkland’s grange activities, see John Augustus Spalding, Illustrated Popu­lar Biography of Connecticut (Hartford, CT: Press of the Case, Lockwood, and Brainard Com­pany, 1891), 63. 28. The Connecticut State Library Connecticut General Assembly Database shows that Hale only served during the 1893 legislative session. 29. A description of the legislation is available in Stemmons, Connecticut Agricultural College, 69. 30. “Would It Meet a Veto!” New Haven Register, March 13, 1893, L1, 61, quotations at 1. 31. “Plea of the Storrs School,” New Haven Register, March  14, 1893, L1, 63, all quotations at 1. 32. Ibid. 33. “A Victory for Storrs, the Farmers Win in the House,” New Haven Register, March 30, 1893, L1, 76, general coverage of the debate and quotations are at 1. 34. “Why He Signed the Bill?,” New Haven Register, April 21, 1893, L1, 95, quotations at 1. For the author’s additional work on this takeover, see Nathan M. Sorber, “The Rise of the Grange’s Yankee Land-­Grant Colleges,” in Science as Ser­vice: Establishing and Reformulating American Land-­Grant Universities, ed. Alan  I. Marcus (Tuscaloosa: University of Alabama Press, 2015), 63–65. 35. For background on the Hatch Act, see Alan Marcus, Agricultural Science and the Quest for Legitimacy (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1985), 188–216. 36. Herman F. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island: A History of Land-­Grant Education in Rhode Island (New York: Meredith Publishing, 1967), 17–18. Myrick’s mail-

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ing lists from the Phelps Publishing Com­pany (including subscribers of Farm and Home, New E­ ngland Homestead, and Springfield Homestead) ­were used to publicize and expand the campaign for land-­grant reformation in Rhode Island, Vermont, Connecticut, and New Hampshire. For an example of Myrick’s influence in Rhode Island, see Herbert Myrick to Charles Flagg, January 26, 1891, State Experiment Station Collection (Charles Flagg Papers), University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 37. The content of the speeches and information on the business of the meeting can be obtained in the Rhode Island County Journal, August 26, 1887, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit; Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island, 17–18; Sorber, “The Rise of the Grange’s Yankee Land-­Grant Colleges,” 65–68, quotations at 66. 38. Sorber, “The Rise of the Grange’s Yankee Land-­Grant Colleges,” 66–67. Complete coverage of Robinson’s pre­sen­ta­tion before the committee and its response is available in Providence Journal, February 1, 1888, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 39. All quotations are from Providence Journal, February  1, 1888, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 40. Acts and Resolves Passed by the General Assembly of the State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, at the January Session, 1888 (Providence, RI: Freeman, 1888), 218–219, quotation at 219. 41. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island, 25; Sorber, “The Rise of the Grange’s Yankee Land-­Grant Colleges,” 65–68, quotations at 67. 42. For Charles Flagg’s role at Oakland Beach, see Rhode Island County Journal, August 26, 1887, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. His social background information was retrieved from census folios at www.ancestry​ .­com, and his educational history was taken from Mas­sa­chu­setts State College, The General Cata­logue of the Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College (Amherst: Mas­sa­chu­setts State College, 1886). 43. Board of Man­ag­ers, Minutes, October 25, 1888, Rec. Gr. 120a, 1888–1935, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 44. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island, 27; Lucy C. Tucker, “Pages from the History of Rhode Island State College” (unpublished manuscript), 2, Comins Tucker Papers, Rec. Gr. 132, Box 1, Folder 1, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit; Board of Man­ag­ers, Second Annual Report of the Board of Man­ag­ers of the Rhode Island State Agricultural School and Experiment Station, Made to the General Assembly at Its January Session (Providence, RI: E. L. Freeman and Son, 1890). On the hiring of Washburn, see Board of Man­ag­ers, Minutes, September 17, 1889, Rec. Gr. 120a, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 45. For Washburn’s requests to the senate, see Board of Man­ag­ers, Second Annual Report of the Board of Man­ag­ers, 10–31. 46. On personnel changes, see Board of Man­ag­ers, Minutes, June 14, 1889, Rec. Gr. 120a, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit; Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island, 36–37; E. W. Allen, “American Contemporaries—­ Homer  J. Wheeler,” Industrial and Engineering Chemistry 21, no.  5 (1929): 510–511. Wheeler would have a long ­career at the institution. He retired in 1913 ­after serving as acting president and director of the experiment station.

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47. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island, quotation at 45. 48. For the physical description of Washburn and the reaction of Kingston farmers, see “Dictation of ‘Off Rec­ord’ Conversation with William Clarke, Class of 1898,” The John C. Weldin and Donald D. Webster Oral Histories of Rhode Island State College, Mss. Gr. 202, Box 2, Folder 8, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit; “Dean Adams Interview,” The John C. Weldin and Donald D. Webster Oral Histories of Rhode Island State College, Mss. Gr. 202, Box 1, Folder 1, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 49. State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, “Our Agricultural School,” in Sixth Annual Report of the State Board of Agriculture, Made to the General Assembly at Its January Session, 1891 (Providence, RI: E. L. Freeman and Son, 1891), all quotations at 206–207. 50. Ibid., p. 211. 51. Ibid., 209–211. 52. State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, “Address by President Andrews,” in Sixth Annual Report of the State Board of Agriculture, Made to the General Assembly at Its January Session, 1891 (Providence, RI: E. L. Freeman and Son, 1891), 64. 53. State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, “Remarks,” in Sixth Annual Report of the State Board of Agriculture, Made to the General Assembly at Its January Session, 1891 (Providence, RI: E. L. Freeman and Son, 1891), 72. 54. State of Rhode Island and Providence Plantations, “The Laboratory, the School and the Farm,” in Sixth Annual Report of the State Board of Agriculture, Made to the General Assembly at Its January Session, 1891 (Providence, RI: E. L. Freeman and Son, 1891), 82. 55. Coverage of the first meeting is available in “Agricultural Fund,” Providence Journal, May 16, 1891, quotations at 1, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 56. Coverage of the second meeting is available in “Agricultural Fund,” Providence Journal, April 21, 1891, quotations at 1, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 57. Ibid. 58. Coverage of the third meeting and all quotations are available in “Agricultural Fund,” Providence Journal, April 23, 1891, 1, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 59. Board of Man­ag­ers, Second Annual Report of the Board of Man­ag­ers, 11, Miscellaneous Archives 1863–1992, Box 24, Folder 256, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 60. For an overview of the course of study during the agricultural school period, see Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island, 26–43. 61. Board of Man­ag­ers, Second Annual Report of the Board of Man­ag­ers, 12–13. 62. Lucy Tucker, “When I Was a Student” (unpublished manuscript), Lucy Comins Tucker Papers, Rec. Gr. 132, Box 1, Folder 1, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 63. See “Gradu­ates,” in Report of the Board of Man­ag­ers, 1914, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit; names cross-­referenced with census folios retrieved from www.ancestry​.­com. 64. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island, 57–60.

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65. Ibid., 59. This quotation was relayed to former student Lucy Tucker (then secretary to Washburn). See “Tucker Interview,” The John C. Weldin and Donald D. Webster Oral Histories of Rhode Island State College, Mss. Gr. 202, Box 1, Folder 1, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 66. Donald C. Babcock, History of the University of New Hampshire (Durham, NH: University Press, 1941), 15. Dimond’s personal investment in the farm convinced local agricultural society leader John Conant of Dimond’s commitment to agriculture, and ­later, Conant compensated Dimond’s estate for the purchase. On the life of Jeremiah Sanborn, see Henry  H. Metcalf, New Hampshire Agriculture Personal and Farm Sketches (Concord, NH: Republican Press Association, 1897), 226–227. 67. Babcock, History of the University of New Hampshire, 54. 68. T ­ hese figures ­were presented in the Boston Journal in 1885, and Babcock, History of the University of New Hampshire, cites t­ hese numbers at 67. Marilyn Tobias, Old Dartmouth on Trial (New York: New York University Press, 1982), 170, 176, argues that only a modest percentage of gradu­ates became farmers and that more students came from Vermont than from New Hampshire. 69. This quotation was republished in “Fields of Dreams: UNH in the Formative Years,” University of New Hampshire History Exhibit, University of New Hampshire Online Archives. Retrieved from http://­www​.­library​.­unh​.­edu​/­museum​/­exhibits​ /­fields​-­dreams. 70. The grange critique is reprinted in Babcock, History of the University of New Hampshire, 79–81. 71. Tobias, Old Dartmouth on Trial, quotations at 2. 72. The Pattee letter and the Thompson bequest are discussed in Babcock, History of the University of New Hampshire, 74–91, quotations at 74, 77, 79. 73. Excerpts from The Portsmouth Journal and the Daily Dover Demo­crat are reprinted in Babcock, History of the University of New Hampshire, 91. 74. Justin Morrill to Matthew Buckham, October 4, 1875, Office of the President (Matthew Buckham) Rec­ords, Box 12, Folder 135, University of Vermont Archives. 75. Paul M. Searls, Two Vermonts: Geography and Identity, 1865–1910 (Lebanon, NH: University Press of New ­England, 2006). 76. Robert O. Sinclair, “Agricultural Education and Extension in Vermont,” in The University of Vermont: The First Two Hundred Years, ed. Robert V. Daniels (Burlington: University of Vermont, 1991), 183; Julian I. Lindsay, Tradition Looks Forward: The University of Vermont, a History, 1791–1904 (Burlington: University of Vermont and State Agricultural College, 1954), 220–231. For a full account of the Morrill-­Poland campaign, see Coy F. Cross II, Justin Smith Morrill: F­ ather of the Land-­Grant Colleges (East Lansing: Michigan State University Press, 1999), 96–97, 100–105; Edwin Charles Rozwenc, Agricultural Policies in Vermont, 1860–1945 (Montpelier: Vermont Historical Society, 1981), 64. 77. Cata­logue of the University of Vermont and State Agricultural College, 1873–1893 (Burlington, VT: ­Free Press Association, 1888); Sinclair, “Agricultural Education,” quotation at 184. 78. This information was produced by cross-­listing part-­time students’ names with vari­ous Vermont Town Reports, University of Vermont Archives. Several of ­these students ­were officials in the local government or teachers within schools, and ­these individuals w ­ ere neither practicing farmers nor ­children of farmers but ­were likely

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attending for scientific interest. The data on students’ courses of study is from Cata­ logue of the Officers and Students of the University of Vermont and State Agricultural College, 1890–91 (Burlington, VT: F ­ ree Press Association, 1891). The data on c­areer trajectories is from the published list of gradu­ate ­careers in Cata­logue of the Officers and Students of the University of Vermont and State Agricultural College, 1896–97 (Burlington, VT: ­Free Press Association, 1896). 79. Quotation reprinted in Rozwenc, Agricultural Policies in Vermont, 64. 80. Justin Morrill to Matthew Buckham, October 22, 1888, Office of the President (Matthew Buckham) Rec­ords, Box 12, Folder 156, University of Vermont Archives. 81. David C. Smith, The First C ­ entury: A History of the University of Maine, 1865–1965 (Orono: University of Maine Press, 1979), 15. 82. Statistics for gradu­ates’ occupations ­were compiled from listings in the Cata­ logue of the Maine State College, 1885–1886 (Augusta, ME: Sprague and Son, 1886). 83. Statistics of gradu­ates’ class origins w ­ ere compiled by cross-­referencing the Cata­logue of the Maine State College, 1885–1886, and the United States Federal Censuses of 1860 and 1880. The website ancestry​.c­ om was used to retrieve census data. For U.S. farmers in 1870, the top quartile for real estate value was greater than $10,626 and for personal property was greater than $3,456. This procedure for assessing farmers’ income was borrowed from J. Gregory Behle and William Edgar Maxwell, “The Social Origins of Students at the Illinois Industrial University, 1868–1894,” History of Higher Education Annual 18 (1998): 93–110. 84. Statistics for gradu­ates’ class origins ­were compiled by cross-­referencing the Cata­logue of the Maine State College, 1885–1886, and the United States Federal Censuses of 1860 and 1880. 85. Simon Crosby, “A Tribute to M. C. Fernald,” Merritt Fernald Papers, Box 50, Folder 45, University of Maine Archives. 86. Clarence Day, Grange Yesterdays (based on the Journal of Proceedings of the Maine State Grange), University of Maine Archives. 87. “Bio of Frederick Robbie,” in Collection of Biographical Sketches, prepared u ­ nder the direction of Henry Chase (Portland, ME: Lakeside Press, 1893). 88. Address of Governor Robbie to the Senate of Maine, 1883 (Augusta, ME: Sprague and Son, 1883), 43. 89. Ibid. 90. See Cata­logue of the Maine State College, 1878 (Augusta, ME: Sprague and Son, 1878). 91. Address of Governor Robbie to the Senate of Maine, 1885 (Augusta, ME: Sprague and Son, 1885), 32. 92. Smith, The First C ­ entury, 19–24. 93. The quotation is reprinted in Harold Whiting Cary, The University of Mas­sa­chu­setts: A History of One Hundred Years (Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Press, 1962), 59. 94. Ibid., quotation at 64. 95. Michael Bezilla, A History of Agriculture at Penn State (University Park: Penn State University Press, 1991). 96. The exception that proves the rule is the case of New Jersey and Rutgers University. The agricultural sector was the smallest in New Jersey in the late nineteenth ­century, as the state had already under­gone significant industrialization and economic realignment. Therefore, the grange was only a modest po­liti­cal force in New Jersey,

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and ­there w ­ ere no populist campaigns against Rutgers like ­those in other states. For this reason, New Jersey is the only case that did not experience po­liti­cal agitation during the land-­g rant reformation and is thus not covered in this chapter.

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Chapter 4

1. Alba M Edwards, “Comparative Occupation Statistics for the United States, 1870 to 1940.” In Sixteenth Census of the United States: 1940, edited by Alba M. Edwards, ii–206 (Washington, DC: United States Printing Office, 1943). 2. On the economic realignment and the rise of the m ­ iddle class, see Stuart M. Blumin, The Emergence of the ­Middle Class: Social Experience in the American City, 1760– 1900 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1989). 3. C. Wright Mills, White Collar: The American M ­ iddle Class (Cambridge: Oxford University Press, 1951), 64–65. 4. Blumin, The Emergence of the ­Middle Class. For a study that discusses the earliest formations of the cultural attributes of a new m ­ iddle class existence, see Karen Halttuten, Confidence Men and Painted ­Women: A Study in ­Middle Class Culture in Amer­i­ca, 1830– 1870 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1982). On middle-­class f­amily life and home culture, see Mary Ryan, Cradle of the M ­ iddle Class: The F­ amily in Oneida County, New York, 1790–1865 (New York: Cambridge University Press, 1983). For middle-­class gender construction and views on sex, see Gail Bederman, Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880–1917 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995), E. Anthony Rotundo, American Manhood: Transformations in Masculinity from the Revolution to the Modern Era (New York: Basic Books, 1993). 5. Daniel A. Clark, Creating the College Man: American Mass Magazines and Middle-­ Class Manhood, 1890–1915 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000). 6. See reprinted quotations in F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Complete Works of F. Scott Fitzgerald: Novels, Short Stories, Poetry, Articles, Letters, Plays and Screenplays (New York: e-­artnow, 2015). 7. Roger L. Geiger, The History of American Higher Education: Learning and Culture from the Founding to World War II (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2015), quotation at 365. 8. Roger L. Geiger, “The Crisis of the Old Order: The Colleges in the 1890s,” in The American College in the Nineteenth ­Century, ed. Roger L. Geiger (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000), 264–276. 9. For high school growth in Connecticut, see Public Documents of the State of Connecticut, Volume 4, Part 1 (Hartford, CT: Connecticut General Assembly, 1902). For an excellent discussion of the links between secondary education growth and transformations in higher education, see Marc A. VanOverbeke, The Standardization of American Schooling: Linking Secondary and Higher Education, 1870–1910 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008). 10. Clark, Creating the College Man, quotation at 19. On class-­based discourse and social constructions of male identity in the late nineteenth c­ entury, see Bederman, Manliness and Civilization. On masculinity and the land-­grant context, see Nathan M. Sorber, “Making College Manly: Land Grant Colleges, Gender Identity, and M ­ iddle Class Formation in the Nineteenth C ­ entury” (research paper presented at the Annual Conference of the Association for the Study of Higher Education, Vancouver, 2009).

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11. A biographical essay on Max Schaffrath was printed in “Storrs College Commencement: This Morning’s Graduation Exercises,” December 9, 1898, President Office Rec­ords—­Koons, Box 1, no. 5, University of Connecticut Archives. Max discusses his ­brother’s attendance at Exeter Acad­emy on several occasions; the best description is in Max Schaffrath to Paul Schaffrath, November 20, 1896, Max Schaffrath Papers, Box 1, no. 1, University of Connecticut Archives. 12. Report of the Trustees of Storrs Agricultural College for 1893, as cited in Walter Stemmons, The Connecticut Agricultural College—­A History (New Haven, CT: Tuttle, More­house and Taylor, 1931), 78. 13. Quotations are taken from Stemmons, Connecticut Agricultural College, 79–84. The song “The Most Popu­lar Song of the Day” was first printed in the college newspaper The Lookout, May 1899. 14. Max Schaffrath to Paul Schaffrath, March 11, 1897, Max Schaffrath Papers, Box 1, no. 2, University of Connecticut Archives. 15. Max Schaffrath to Paul Schaffrath, June 22, 1897, Max Schaffrath Papers, Box 1, no. 2, University of Connecticut Archives. 16. Stemmons, Connecticut Agricultural College, 86. 17. Max Schaffrath to Paul Schaffrath, November 1, 1896, Max Schaffrath Papers, Box 1, no. 1, University of Connecticut Archives. 18. This conversation began in Max Schaffrath to Paul Schaffrath, October  21, 1896, Max Schaffrath Papers, Box 1, no. 1, University of Connecticut Archives. The discussion was continued in Max Schaffrath to Paul Schaffrath, November 20, 1896, Max Schaffrath Papers, Box 1, no. 1, University of Connecticut Archives. 19. Max Schaffrath to Paul Schaffrath, November 20, 1896, Max Schaffrath Papers, Box 1, no. 1, University of Connecticut Archives. 20. Max Schaffrath to Paul Schaffrath, December 8, 1896, Max Schaffrath Papers, Box 1, no. 1, University of Connecticut Archives. 21. The quotations in this sentence and the preceding one are in ibid. 22. See academic and collegiate life successes in “Storrs College Commencement, June 1898,” President Office Rec­ord—­Koons, Box 1, no. 5, University of Connecticut Archives. 23. Max Schaffrath to Paul Schaffrath, June 9, 1898, Max Schaffrath Papers, Box 1, no. 3, University of Connecticut Archives. 24. Cata­log of Gradu­ates and Former Students of the Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College (Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­setts, 1916), 36. 25. Bruce M. Stave, Red Brick in the Land of Steady Habits: Creating the University of Connecticut, 1881–2006 (Lebanon, NH: University Press of New ­England, 2006), 7–9. 26. Typescript copy of President George Flint’s address to the State Board of Agriculture, quotations at 4–10, T.  S. Gold Papers, Box 6, Folder 9, University of Connecticut Archives. 27. Farmington Valley Herald, April 6, 1901, University of Connecticut Archives. 28. On the personnel and mission changes ­under Flint, see “Scientific Notes and News,” Science 14, no. 344, (August 2, 1901):192; “The Storrs Trou­ble: A Review of the Agricultural College Case,” unknown date, copy available in President Stimson Papers, MSS 19860001, Box 1, no. 4, University of Connecticut Archives.

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29. Herman  F. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island: A History of Land-­ Grant Education in Rhode Island (New York: Meredith Publishing, 1967), 123. 30. The quotation is from “Report of the President,” in Fifth Annual Report of the Board of Man­ag­ers of the Rhode Island College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts (Providence, RI: E. L. Freeman and Son, 1893), 24 (italics in the original). 31. On the history of Anne Bosworth, see Annual Reports of the Corporation, Board of Man­ag­ers, of the R.I. College of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts, 1892–1902, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 32. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island, 81–83. 33. “Object of the Institution,” in Ninth Annual Report of the Board of Man­ag­ers of the Rhode Island College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts (Providence, RI: E. L. Freeman and Son, 1893), quotations at 15. 34. Norwich Bulletin, August 9, 1901, President Stimson Papers, MSS 19860001, Box 1, no. 4, University of Connecticut Archives. 35. “John Hosea Washburn,” Providence Journal, March  30, 1902, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 36. For the original statement from the Association of American Agricultural Colleges and Experiment Stations, see A. C. True and H. H. Goodell, eds., Proceedings of the Twelfth Annual Convention of the Association of American Agricultural Colleges and Experiment Stations, Held at Washington DC, November 15–17, 1898 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1899), 15–16. 37. “The College Replies,” Providence Journal, April 6, 1902, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 38. The full charges ­were reprinted in “Hearing on Charges against President Washburn,” Providence Sunday Journal, May 11, 1902, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 39. This story was revealed in “Dean Adams Interview,” John C. Weldin and Donald  D. Webster Oral Histories of Rhode Island State College, Mss. Gr. 202, Box 1, Folder 1, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 40. The meeting testimony is available in Providence Sunday Journal, May 11, 1902, University of Rhode Island Special Collections and Archives Unit. 41. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island, 127. 42. See Eigh­teenth Annual Report of the National Farm School (Bucks County, PA: Oppenheim, Collins, 1915). 43. Quotations are from “Salons Visit Storrs,” Hartford Courant, May 19, 1901, and “Storrs School Difficulty,” New Haven Register, August 7, 1901, President Stimson Papers, MSS 19860001, Box 1, no. 4, University of Connecticut Archives. For the complete encounter, see Stemmons, Connecticut Agricultural College, 97–110. 44. Quotation in “Letter to the Editor,” Hartford Times, August 12, 1901, President Stimson Papers, MSS 19860001, Box 1, no. 4, University of Connecticut Archives. 45. Quotations in New E­ ngland Homestead, August 24, 1901, President Stimson Papers, MSS 19860001, Box 1, no. 4, University of Connecticut Archives. 46. “President Flint Writes Open Letter to Mr.  Morse,” Hartford Courant, August 26, 1901, President Stimson Papers, MSS 19860001, Box 1, no. 4, University of Connecticut Archives.

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47. “C. Z. Morse Writes Reply to President Flint’s Statements,” Hartford Times, August 27, 1901, President Stimson Papers, MSS 19860001, Box 1, no. 4, University of Connecticut Archives. 48. “Storrs Loses Another,” Hartford Times, August 9, 1901, President Stimson Papers, MSS 19860001, Box 1, no. 4, University of Connecticut Archives. 49. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island, 138–139. 50. Data tabulated from “List of Gradu­ates,” in Report to Board of Man­ag­ers, 1914, Miscellaneous Archives Collection, University of Rhode Island Archives. 51. On the presidency of Rufus Stimson, see Stemmons, Connecticut Agricultural College, 111–131. For a discussion of Stimson’s background and commitment to agricultural outreach, see Gary E. Moore, “The Forgotten Leader in Agricultural Education,” Journal of the American Association of Teacher Education in Agriculture 29, no. 3 (1988): 51–58. The grange support quotation is from the document “Hearing on S. J. R. 91, S. J. R. 92 and S. J. R. 118, All Related to Connecticut Agricultural College,” ­Legal and Legislative Rec­ord Collection, Box 1, no. 4, University of Connecticut Archives.

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Chapter 5

1. Richard L. McCormick, The Party Period and Public Policy: American Politics from the Age of Jackson to the Progressive Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 1988), 269. 2. Ibid.; Steven J. Diner, A Very Dif­fer­ent Age: Americans of the Progressive Age (New York: Hill and Wang, 1998). 3. Robert H. Wiebe, The Search for Order, 1877–1920 (New York: Hill and Wang, 1967). 4. For the broader narrative on the relationship between the bureaucratic state and the land-­g rant complex, see Christopher P. Loss, Between Citizens and the State: The Politics of American Higher Education in the 20th  ­Century (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2012). 5. As quoted and discussed in Scott  J. Peters, “ ‘­Every Farmer Should Be Awakened’: Liberty Hyde Bailey’s Vision of Agricultural Extension Work,” Agricultural History 80, no. 2 (Spring 2006): 190–219, quotations at 192. 6. Scott J. Peters, “Introduction and Overview,” in Engaging Campus and Community: The Practice of Public Scholarship in the State and Land-­Grant University System, ed. Scott J. Peters, Nicholas R. Jordan, Margaret Adamek, and Theodore R. Alter (Dayton, OH: Charles F. Kettering Foundation, 2005), 4. 7. Roy V. Scott, The Reluctant Farmer: The Rise of Agricultural Extension to 1914 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1970), 145–148. 8. Ibid., 64–106, institute data at 105, 106. 9. Ibid., 64–104; the quotation from the Hatch Act is reprinted at 97. 10. Edward Eddy, Colleges for Our Land and Time: The Land-­Grant Idea in American Higher Education (New York: Harper and B ­ rothers, 1957), 82–112. 11. See Peters, “ ‘­Every Farmer Should Be Awakened.’ ” 12. Morris Bishop, A History of Cornell (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962), quotations reprinted at 157–158. 13. In 1871, Myron Cassius Kasson would become Cornell’s first recipient of the degree in veterinary science.

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14. “Statistics of the Class of 1878,” Cornell University Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections. 15. Vice President Russell to Andrew Dickson White, July 28, 1870, Andrew Dickson White Papers, Box 9 mss, Cornell University Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections. 16. In New Hampshire, the land-­grant college lost the talented agricultural professor Jeremiah Sanborn to Missouri, and Maine lost a nationally recognized engineering scholar to Michigan. 17. This letter is reprinted in Bishop, A History of Cornell, 159. 18. Isaac Phillips Roberts, Autobiography of a Farm Boy (Albany, NY: J. B. Lyon, 1916), 184–185. 19. Ibid., 179–181, quotations at 177. 20. The story of the grange meeting and del­e­ga­tion visit was first told in Andrew Dickson White, The Autobiography of Andrew Dickson White (Charlottesville: University of ­Virginia Library, 1996), 370. 21. From the Proceedings of the New York State Grange, 1875, as cited in Colman, Gould P. Education and Agriculture: A History of the New York State College of Agriculture at Cornell University (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1963), 67–70, quotation at 68. 22. For an overview of Cornell’s outreach efforts to the New York farming community during this period, see Ruby Green Smith, The P­ eople’s College: A History of New York State Extension Ser­vice in Cornell University and the State (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1949). 23. A useful, though dated, biography of Bailey is Philip Dorf, Liberty Hyde Bailey: An Informal Biography (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1956). For more recent insights, see also Zachary Michael Jack, “Introducing Sower and Seer, Liberty Hyde Bailey,” in Liberty Hyde Bailey: Essential Agrarian and Environmental Writings, ed. Zachary Michael Jack (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2008), 1–37. 24. For the text and summary of the Nixon Act, see New York State College of Agriculture, Thirty-­third Annual Report of the New York State College of Agriculture at Cornell University and the Agricultural Experiment Station, 1920 (Albany, NY: J. B. Lyon, 1921), quotation at 121. 25. Scott, The Reluctant Farmer, 142–143; Eddy, Colleges for Our Land and Time, 104. 26. Scott, The Reluctant Farmer, 146–147, quotation at 147. On the mid-­nineteenth-­ century origins of Nature Study, especially the role of Louis Agassiz, see Sally Gregory Kohlstedt, “Nature, Not Books: Scientists and the Origins of the Nature-­Study Movement in the 1890s,” Isis 96 (2005): 324–352. 27. Kevin C. Armatage, The Nature Study Movement—­The Forgotten Pop­ul­ar­izer of Amer­i­ca’s Conservation Ethic (Lawrence: University Press of Kansas, 2009), quotations at 3, 214–215. 28. Liberty Hyde Bailey, Agricultural Education and Its Place in the University Curriculum (Ithaca, NY: Andrus and Church, 1893), quotations at 3–8. 29. Peters, “ ‘­Every Farmer Should Be Awakened.’ ” 30. Bailey, Agricultural Education, 8. 31. Peters, “ ‘­Every Farmer Should Be Awakened,’ ” quotations at 195. 32. Liberty Hyde Bailey, ed., The Princi­ples of Agriculture: A Text-­Book for Social and Rural Socie­ties (New York: Macmillan, 1898), quotation at vii.

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33. Coleman, Education and Agriculture, 175–180, quotation at 180. 34. Kenyon L. Butterfield, “An Untilled Field in American Agricultural Education,” Popu­lar Science Monthly ( July 1903; italics in the original). 35. Herman  F. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island: A History of Land-­ Grant Education in Rhode Island (New York: Meredith Publishing, 1967), 140–148. 36. Association of Agricultural Colleges and Experiment Stations, Proceedings of the Annual Convention of the Association of Agricultural Colleges and Experiment Stations, Vol. 19 (Washington, DC: Government Printing Office, 1905). 37. Kenyon L. Butterfield, Inauguration of Kenyon L. Butterfield as President of the Mas­ sa­chu­setts Agricultural Society (Amherst: Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College, 1906). 38. Wayne  D. Rasmussen, Taking the University to the P­ eople: Seventy-­five Years of Cooperative Extension (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1991).

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Chapter 6

1. For general themes on land-­g rant coeducation, see Andrea  G. Radke-­Moss, Bright Epoch: ­Women and Coeducation in the American West (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2008). 2. T ­ here w ­ ere notable exceptions in the region, especially at Cornell. Famed naturalist Louis Agassiz argued that Cornell was making a grave ­mistake in admitting ­women, who would prove unable to navigate advanced studies, distract the male students, and devalue the standing of the university. 3. Sue Zschoche, “Dr. Clark Revisited: Science, True Womanhood, and Female Collegiate Education,” History of Education Quarterly 29, no. 4 (Winter 1989): 545–569. On the ­legal, biological, social, and po­liti­cal foundation of the “separate-­spheres ideology,” see Nancy  F. Cott, The Bonds of Womanhood: ­Woman’s Sphere in New ­England (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1977); Carroll Smith Rosenberg and Charles Rosenberg, “The Female Animal; Medical and Biological Views of W ­ oman and Her Role in Nineteenth ­Century Amer­i­ca,” Journal of American History 60, no. 20 (1973): 332–356; Carl N. Degler, At Odds: ­Women and the ­Family in Amer­ic­ a from the Revolution to the Pres­ent (New York: Oxford University Press, 1980); Linda K. Kerber, ­Women of the Republic: Intellect and Ideology in Revolutionary Amer­i­ca (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000); Linda  K. Kerber, No Constitutional Right to Be Ladies: ­Women and the Obligations of Citizenship (New York: Hill and Wang, 1998); Catherine Clinton, The Other Civil War: American ­Women in the Nineteenth ­Century (New York: Hill and Wang, 1984). 4. On anti-­coedism, see Charlotte Williams Conable, ­Women at Cornell: The Myth of Equal Education (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1977), 115–121, 139–141. On variations in academic and social experiences between first-­and second-­generation land-­grant w ­ omen, see Nathan M. Sorber and Roger L. Geiger, “The Welding of Opposite Views: Land-­Grant Historiography at 150 Years,” Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 29 (2014), 405–406. 5. Kerber, ­Women of the Republic; Patricia A. Palmieri “From Republican Motherhood to Race Suicide: Arguments on the Higher Education of ­Women in the United States, 1820–1920.” In ASHE Reader on the History of Higher Education, edited by Harold S Wechsler, Lester F Goodchild, and Linda Eisenmann (Boston, MA: Pearson Custom

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Publishers, 2007):.204; Margaret  A. Nash, ­Women’s Education in the United States, 1780–1840 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005); Roger  L. Geiger, The History of American Higher Education: Learning and Culture from the Founding to World War II (Prince­ton, NJ: Prince­ton University Press, 2015), 206–207. 6. Barbara Miller Solomon, In the Com­pany of Educated ­Women: A History of ­Women and Higher Education (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1985), quotation at 32. 7. Dana Goldstein, The Teacher Wars: A History of Amer­ic­ a’s Most Embattled Profession (New York: Doubleday, 2014). For a review of the historiography of teacher preparation, see Christine A. Ogren, “The History and Historiography of Teacher Preparation in the United States: A Synthesis, Analy­sis, and Potential Contributions to Higher Education History,” Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 28 (2013): 405–458; Anne Firor Scott, “The Diffusion of Feminist Values from the Troy Female Seminary, 1822–1872,” History of Education Quarterly 10, no. 1 (1979): 3–26. 8. Geiger, The History of American Higher Education, 206–210; Elizabeth Alden Green, Mary Lyon and Mount Holyoke: Opening the Gates (Hanover, NH: University Press of New E ­ ngland, 1979). For an illustrative example of a “Holyoke s­ ister” and how Holyoke contrasted with other female seminaries, see Margaret A. Nash, ‘ “ ‘A Salutary Rivalry:’ The Growth of Higher Education for ­Women in Oxford, Ohio, 1850–1875,” in The American College in the Nineteenth ­Century, ed. Roger  L. Geiger (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000), 183–195. 9. Christine  A. Ogren, The American State Normal School: “An Instrument of ­Great Good” (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005); Geiger, The History of American Higher Education, 272–273. 10. Roger L. Geiger, “The Era of the Multipurpose Colleges in American Higher Education,” in The American College in the Nineteenth ­Century, ed. Roger  L. Geiger (Nashville, TN: Vanderbilt University Press, 2000), 127–152; Geiger, The History of American Higher Education. 11. Solomon, In the Com­pany of Educated ­Women, quotation at 53; Radke-­Moss, Bright Epoch, 1–40. 12. John D. Thomas, University of Vermont (Charleston, SC: Arcadia, 2005), 37. 13. Carol Sonenklar, We Are a Strong, Articulate Voice: A History of ­Women at Penn State (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2006). 14. Donald C. Babcock, History of the University of New Hampshire (Durham, NH: University Press, 1941), 64. 15. Bruce M. Stave, Red Brick in the Land of Steady Habits: Creating the University of Connecticut, 1881–2006 (Lebanon, NH: University Press of New E ­ ngland, 2006), 216–217. 16. Solomon, In the Com­pany of Educated W ­ omen, 85–87; Megan J. Elias, Stir It Up: Home Economics in American Culture (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), 8–9. 17. Elias, Stir It Up, quotations reprinted at 18. 18. Solomon, In the Com­pany of Educated W ­ omen. On the transition from domestic courses to home economics, and the tension between practical and scientific study, see Rima D. Apple, “Liberal Arts or Vocational Training? Home Economics Education for Girls,” in Rethinking Home Economics: W ­ omen and the History of a Profession, ed. Sarah Stage and V ­ irginia B. Vincenti (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2004), 79–95.

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19. See Maresi Nerad, The Academic Kitchen: A Social History of Gender Stratification at the University of California (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 1999). 20. Conable, ­Women at Cornell, quotation at 115. 21. Elias, Stir It Up, 1–17. 22. The quotations from Anthony’s speech and Cornell’s response are reprinted in Waterman Thomas Hewett, Frank  R. Holmes, and Lewis  A. Williams, Cornell University—­A History (Ithaca, NY: University Publishing, 1905), 259–260. This is also discussed in Conable, ­Women at Cornell, 58. 23. Ezra Cornell to Eunice Cornell, February 18, 1867, Ezra Cornell Papers, Box 29, Folder 3, Cornell University Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections. 24. Lucy Washburn to Ezra Cornell, February 1869, Ezra Cornell Papers, Box 32, Folder 9, Cornell University Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections. 25. Ezra Cornell to Lucy Washburn, February 26, 1869, Ezra Cornell Papers, Box 32, Folder 9, Cornell University Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections (emphasis in the original). 26. Lucy Washburn to Ezra Cornell, March 2, 1869, Ezra Cornell Papers, Box 32, Folder 9, Cornell University Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections. On Washburn’s graduation, see Cornell University, The Ten-­Year Book of Cornell University (Ithaca, NY: University Printer, 1908), 550 (emphasis in the original). 27. Conable, ­Women at Cornell, 65. 28. Cornell Era, March 30, 1870, vol. 2, 1869–1870, no. 25, Cornell University Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections. The students w ­ ere responding to a “letter to the editor” from the previous week (March 23, 1870) in which Vice President Russell criticized the editors’ views on coeducation. 29. Quotations from President White are from Andrew Dickson White to Gerrit Smith, July 21, 1874, Andrew Dickson White Papers, Correspondence, Box 17, Cornell University Division of Rare and Manuscript Collections. They are also reprinted and discussed in Solomon, In the Com­pany of Educated ­Women, 52. For a discussion of White’s journey to investigate coeducation at Oberlin, Antioch, Michigan, Northwestern, and the University of Illinois, see Morris Bishop, A History of Cornell (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962), 146. 30. The quotations from Henry Sage are from his public remarks at the founding of Sage College, published in Proceedings of the Laying of the Corner Stone of Sage College of the Cornell University, May 15, 1873 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1873), 14; Bishop, A History of Cornell, 149–150. 31. Bishop, A History of Cornell, 115. 32. Sorber and Geiger, “The Welding of Opposite Views,” 407. For works that discuss male preoccupation with social constructions of masculinity in the context of higher education, see E. Anthony Rotundo, American Manhood: Transformations in Masculinity from the Revolution to the Modern Era (New York: Basic Books, 1993); Gail Bederman, Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880–1917 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1995); Nicholas  L. Syrett, The Com­pany He Keeps: A History of White College Fraternities (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2009). 33. Conable, ­Women at Cornell, 98–132.

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34. On the socioeconomic profile of Maine’s land-­g rant college in its early years, see Nathan M. Sorber, “Early Land-­Grant Colleges and Students in the Northeastern United States: A History of Regional Access and Mobility Patterns in Maine, Mas­sa­chu­ setts, and New York, 1862–1878,” Agricultural History 92, no. 1 (Winter 2018): 101–123. 35. Annual Reports of the Maine State College of Agriculture and the Mechanic Arts (Augusta, ME: Sprague, Owen and Nash, Printers to the State, 1874), quotation at 11. 36. It would be another twenty years before campus accommodations would be available to ­women, in the meantime leaving female students to arrange lodging with private families in the village of Orono. 37. Merritt Caldwell Fernald, History of the Maine State College and the University of Maine (Orono: University of Maine, 1916), quotations at 244–245. 38. The rec­ords of the “Ea­glet Literary Fraternity” at the Maine land-­grant college can be found in the Charles F. Colesworthy Papers, MS 108, Box 1, no. 5, University of Maine Special Collections. 39. Conable, ­Women at Cornell, 115–117. 40. All quotations from the male student are reprinted in “Letter to the Editor,” College Reporter, vol. 3, March 1877, 6, University of Maine Special Collections. 41. Ibid. (all italics in the original). 42. See Annual Report of the Maine State College of Agriculture and the Mechanic Arts (Augusta, ME: Burleigh and Flynt, Printers to the State, 1891).

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Conclusion. Land-­Grant Memories, Legacies, and Horizons

1. Roger L. Williams, George W. Atherton and the Origins of Federal Support for Higher Education (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1991). 2. Alan Marcus, Agricultural Science and the Quest for Legitimacy (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1985); Alfred Charles True, A History of Agricultural Education in the United States, 1785–1925 (New York: Arno Press, 1969). 3. Nathan  M. Sorber and Roger  L. Geiger, “The Welding of Opposite Views: Land-­Grant Historiography at 150 Years,” Higher Education: Handbook of Theory and Research 29 (2014): 385–422, quotation at 401. 4. Ibid., 399–404; Gregory Zieren, “Robert  H. Thurston, Modern Engineering Education, and Its Diffusion through Land-­Grant Universities,” in The Land-­Grant Colleges and the Reshaping of American Higher Education, ed. Roger L. Geiger and Nathan M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 195–216. 5. Sorber and Geiger, “The Welding of Opposite Views,” 414–415. 6. Earle D. Ross, Democracy’s College: The Land Grant Movement in the Formative Stage (Ames: Iowa State University Press, 1942). 7. Scott J. Peters, “Storying and Restorying the Land-­Grant System,” in The Land-­ Grant Colleges and the Reshaping of American Higher Education, ed. Roger L. Geiger and Nathan M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 335–354. 8. Cf. J. Gregory Behle and William Edgar Maxwell, “The Social Origins of Students at the Illinois Industrial University, 1868–1894,” History of Higher Education Annual 18 (1998): 93–110; J. Gregory Behle, “Educating the Toiling ­People: Students at the Illinois Industrial University, Spring 1868,” in The Land-­Grant Colleges and the Reshaping

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TO PAGES 1 7 6 –1 7 9

of American Higher Education, ed. Roger L. Geiger and Nathan M. Sorber (New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Press, 2013), 73–96; Nathan M. Sorber, “Early Land-­Grant Colleges and Students in the Northeastern United States: A History of Regional Access and Mobility Patterns in Maine, Mas­sa­chu­setts, and New York, 1862–1878,” Agricultural History 92, no. 1 (Winter 2018): 101–123. 9. Gail Bederman, Manliness and Civilization: A Cultural History of Gender and Race in the United States, 1880–1917 (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1985); Anthony Giddens, The Class Structure of Advanced Socie­ties (New York: Unwin Hyman, 1975), 23–40, 100–132; Scott M. Gelber, The University and the ­People: Envisioning American Higher Education in an Era of Populist Protest (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2011). 10. Michael Mumper, Lawrence  E. Gladieux, Jacqueline  E. King, and Melanie  E. Corrigan, “The Federal Government and Higher Education,” in American Higher Education in the Twenty-­first ­Century, ed. Philip  G. Altbach, Patricia  J. Gumport, and Robert O. Berdahl (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011), 113–138. 11. On this transition, see Martin Trow, “Prob­lems in the Transformation from Elite to Mass Higher Education,” in Martin Trow: Twentieth ­Century Higher Education, ed. Michael Burrage (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2011), 86–142. 12. Walter Stemmons, The Connecticut Agricultural College—­A History (New Haven, CT: Tuttle, More­house and Taylor, 1931); Herman F. Eschenbacher, The University of Rhode Island: A History of Land-­Grant Education in Rhode Island (New York: Meredith Publishing, 1967); Donald  C. Babcock, History of the University of New Hampshire (Durham, NH: University Press, 1941); Harold Whiting Cary, The University of Mas­sa­ chu­setts: A History of One Hundred Years (Amherst: University of Mas­sa­chu­setts Press, 1962); David C. Smith, The First C ­ entury: A History of the University of Maine, 1865–1965 (Orono: University of Maine Press, 1979); T. D. Seymour Bassett, “The Classical College, 1833–1895: Growth and Stability, Overview,” in The University of Vermont: The First Two Hundred Years, ed. Robert V. Daniels (Burlington: University of Vermont, 1991). 13. Michael Bezilla, A History of Agriculture at Penn State (University Park, PA: Penn State University Press, 1991). 14. Morris Bishop, A History of Cornell (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962), 233–302. For Cornell University’s early development and its place among con­temporary universities, see Roger L. Geiger, To Advance Knowledge: The Growth of the American Research Universities, 1900–1940 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1986), 1–56. 15. Julius  A. Stratton and Loretta  H. Mannix, Mind and Hand: The Birth of MIT (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2005). 16. See chapter 5. 17. See Burton J. Bledstein, Culture of Professionalism: The ­Middle Class and the Development of Higher Education in Amer­i­ca (New York: Norton, 1976); Daniel  A. Clark, Creating the College Man: American Mass Magazines and Middle-­Class Manhood, 1890–1915 (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2000). 18. John R. Thelin, A History of American Higher Education (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2004). 19. Charlotte Williams Conable, ­Women at Cornell: The Myth of Equal Education (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1977), 62–97.

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20. Ibid. 21. Roy V. Scott, The Reluctant Farmer: The Rise of Agricultural Extension to 1914 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1970), 37. 22. Daniel Mark Fogel, “Introduction,” in Precipice or Crossroads?, ed. Daniel Mark Fogel and Elizabeth Malson-­Huddle (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2012), xix–­xliii. xix. 23. Mark G. Yudof and Caitlin Callaghan, “Commitments: Enhancing the Public Purposes and Outcomes of Pubic Higher Education,” in Precipice or Crossroads?, ed. Daniel Mark Fogel and Elizabeth Malson-­Huddle (Albany, NY: SUNY Press, 2012), 63– 78, quotation at 66. 24. Kellogg Commission on the F ­ uture of State and Land-­Grant Universities, Taking Charge of Change: Reviewing the Promise of State and Land-­Grant Universities (Washington, DC: National Association of State Universities and Land-­Grant Colleges, June 1996). 25. Kellogg Commission on the ­Future of State and Land-­Grant Universities, National Association of State Universities and Land-­Grant Colleges, Returning to Our Roots: Student Access (Washington, DC: National Association of Land-­Grant Colleges and Universities, Office of Public Affairs, 1998); Kellogg Commission on the ­Future of State and Land-­Grant Universities, National Association of State Universities and Land-­Grant Colleges, Returning to Our Roots: The Engaged Institution (Washington, DC: National Association of Land-­Grant Colleges and Universities, Office of Public Affairs, 1999); Kellogg Commission on the F ­ uture of State and Land-­Grant Universities, National Association of State Universities and Land-­Grant Colleges, Returning to Our Roots: The Student Experience (Washington, DC: National Association of Land-­ Grant Colleges and Universities, Office of Public Affairs, 1997); Kellogg Commission on the ­Future of State and Land-­Grant Universities, National Association of State Universities and Land-­Grant Colleges Returning to Our Roots: A Learning Society (Washington, DC: National Association of Land-­Grant Colleges and Universities, Office of Public Affairs, 1999). ­There ­were additional reports on campus culture, an executive summary, and a post-­commission evaluation. 26. Pamela Martin Fry, “Liberal Studies, Undergraduate Curriculum, and the Land-­Grant Idea,” in The Modern Land-­Grant University, ed. R. J. Sternberg (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2014), 135–152. 27. Jorge  H. Atiles, Chris Jenkins, Patricia Rayas-­Duarte, Randall  K. Taylor, and Hailin Zhang, “Ser­vice, Cooperative Extension, and Community Engagement,” in The Modern Land-­Grant University, ed. R. J. Sternberg (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2014), 59–81. 28. See Howard Segal, “Reengineering the Land-­Grant University: The Kellogg Commission in Historical Context,” in Engineering in the Land-­Grant Context: Past, Pres­ent, and ­Future of an Idea, ed. Alan I. Marcus (West Lafayette, IN: Purdue University Press, 2005), 137–161. 29. See Sorber and Geiger, “The Welding of Opposite Views.” 30. See Eva Klein and James K. Woodell, Higher Education Engagement in Economic Development: Foundations for Strategy and Practice (Washington, DC: APLU, 2015).

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Index

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Note: Page numbers in italics indicate figures. Adams, Abigail, 153 Adams, John Quincy, 45, 46 Adams, John ­Sullivan, 79 African American students, 4, 7–8, 82–83 Agassiz, Louis, 40–41, 70, 73, 83 Agricultural Wheel (organ­ization), 85 Allegheny College (Pa.), 75 Allen, William, 76 Alvord, Henry, 7, 9, 100 Amherst College (Mass.), 28–29, 60–61, 118 Ampère, André-­Marie, 40 Andrews, Elisha, 103, 105–8 Andrews, John, 59–60 Angell, James, 80 Anthony, Susan B., 36, 160–61 Armitage, Kevin, 143 Armsby, Henry, 91–93, 102, 118, 178 Army Corps of Engineers, 34 Association of American Agricultural Colleges and Experiment Stations (AAACES), 129, 131, 147 Association of Public and Land-­Grant Universities (APLU), 186, 187 Atherton, George W., 7, 9, 63–64, 76, 118, 177–78 athletic programs, 15, 121, 123, 179; at Cornell University, 164; at Storrs Agricultural College, 127 Auger, Charles Pierson, 98 Bailey, Liberty Hyde, 12, 16, 137, 141–46, 165 Barbour, Volney Giles, 80–81 Barron, Hal, 79, 87 Bartlett, Samuel Colcord, 110–11 Barton, Benjamin Smith, 20–22 Beaumont, Élie de, 40 Bederman, Gail, 11 Beecher, Henry Ward, 28

Berlin, University of, 39 Berzelius, Jöns Jakob von, 39 Bishop, Morris, 70 Bisworth, Anne L., 130 Bledstein, Burton, 10–11 Bloomer, Amelia, 36 Bouchet, Edward Alexander, 82–83 Bowdoin College (Maine), 58 Boyer, Ernest, 186 Brewer, William H., 31–33, 43, 57, 95–96 Brewster, David, 40 Brigham, A. A., 130 Brown, Amos, 30–32, 67–68 Brown, Delia E., 157 Brown, Emma, 169 Brown University, 3, 15, 43, 81; African Americans at, 83; civil engineering at, 34; as land-­g rant institution, 76–79, 88, 100–108, 129 Bruce, Robert, 82–83, 134 Brush, George, 43, 57, 94 Bryan, William Jennings, 85 Bryn Mawr College (Pa.), 155 Buchanan, James, 54 Bucher, J. E., 130 Buckham, Matthew, 1–3, 80–81, 112–16 Bunsen, Robert, 31 bureaucratization, 5, 10–11, 18, 48–49, 137, 182 Burrows, Thomas, 76 Butterfield, Kenyon, 12, 16, 137, 145–48 Calder, James, 156 Caldwell, George, 43 Calhoun, John, 45 Callahan, David, 99 Car­ne­g ie, Andrew, 84 Car­ne­g ie Foundation, 186

237

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2 38 I ndex

Carpenter, Daniel, 48 Cary, Harold, 61, 118 Chadbourne, Paul Ansel, 60, 61 Chandler Scientific School (Dartmouth), 66–67, 110 civil engineering programs, 34–35, 173. See also engineering programs Clark, Daniel, 10–11, 123 Clark, William Smith, 14, 60, 61 Clarke, B. F., 105 Clarke, Edward, 151, 163 Clarke, John G., 132 classical curriculum, 23–25, 173; at Brown, 78, 107; at Cornell, 73; at Vermont, 80, 81, 114; at ­women’s schools, 155; at Yale, 20, 24, 94 Clay, Clement, 54 Clay, Henry, 13, 45, 46 Cleveland, Grover, 48, 100 Coburn, James, 58 coeducation, 8–9, 16–17, 150–71, 180–81; in Connecticut, 98–99; at Cornell University, 156, 160–65, 170–71; Greeley on, 36; history of, 153–60; at land-­grant colleges, 155–71; at Maine State College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts, 166–71; at mechanics’ institutes, 36–37, 67; re­sis­tance to, 17, 36–37, 160–61; at western U.S. schools, 25. See also ­women students Collier, Peter, 80 Columbia University, 21, 34 Conable, Charlotte, 159 Connecticut Agricultural College, 3. See also Storrs Agricultural College (Conn.) Connecticut State Agricultural Experiment Station, 90, 92 Connecticut State College, 128–29, 133 Cook, Charles, 37, 67–68 Cook, George, 62 Cooke, Josiah P., 59 Cooke, W. W., 114 Cornell, Ezra, 68–70, 73, 84, 174; on coeducation, 160–61, 170; death of, 74, 163; portrait of, 71 Cornell University, 14, 69–74, 81–82, 118–19, 173–74, 178; coeducation at, 156, 160–65, 170–71; correspondence courses at, 142, 145; establishment of, 69–73; extension programs of, 140–45, 165; home economics at, 159; mechanical arts at, 70–74; Nature Study program at, 143; Sage College of, 163; tuition at, 183–84 correspondence courses, 142, 145, 184

Cream Hill Agricultural School, 90 Crosby, Simon, 117 Crosby, Thomas, 66 Cross, Ellen A., 156 Cushman, George, 144–45 Cushman, Samuel, 103 Dartmouth College (N.H.), 3, 14, 15, 46; Chandler Scientific School of, 66–67; as land-­g rant institution, 63–65, 88, 108–12; scholarships to, 82; as science school, 19; ­women students at, 157 Darwin, Charles, 41 Davis, John W., 107 Davis, Marcia, 169 Davy, Humphry, 39 Delafield, John, 30, 32 Demo­cratic Party, 3, 46–47, 51, 85. See also progressive politics democ­ratization of education, 11–12, 183–84; Morrill on, 50–51; Ross on, 6–8, 11, 139, 161–62, 174 depression of 1870s, 1, 14, 84, 118 Dewey, John, 137, 144 Dimond, Ezekiel, 14, 43–44, 65–67, 108–9 Drake, William, 129 Drowne, Solomon, 26 Durant, William, 155 Dwight, Timothy, IV, 19–20 D’Wolf, John, 26 Eaton, Daniel, 57 École Polytechnique, 33–34 Eddy, Edward, 6, 7, 8, 8 Edmonds, J. B., 6 Elias, Megan, 158–60 Eliot, Charles William, 63 Elmira Female College (N.Y.), 154–55 Emerson, Charles, 66 Emery, Alicia, 169 engineering programs, 10, 33–35, 59, 64, 80–81, 173 Eschenbacher, Herman, 134 Exeter Acad­emy (N.H.), 125–26 extension programs, 138–40, 159, 180, 184, 187; Butterfield and, 145–48; Cornell and, 140–45, 165 Faraday, Michael, 40 Farmers’ Alliance, 85, 86 Farmers’ High School (Pa.), 31–32, 74–75 Farmers’ Institute, 108, 138 Farrington, Sarah, 169

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Fernald, Merritt Caldwell, 59, 166 Field, George Wilson, 130 Fitzgerald, F. Scott, 121 Flagg, Charles, 101–2, 106–7 Flint, George, 122, 127–29, 132–34, 135, 175 Fogel, Daniel Mark, 182 Foner, Eric, 54, 84 Fraser, John, 76 Fredonia Acad­emy (N.Y), 161 Free-­Soil Party, 47 French, Henry, 60 French Revolution, 20, 33–34 French universities, 33–34, 40 Gardiner, Robert Hallowell, 27 Gardiner Lyceum, 27–28, 58–59 Gay-­Lussac, Joseph Louis, 20, 39, 40 Geiger, Roger, 9 Gelber, Scott, 10, 85–86, 176 gender roles, 4, 150–53; middle-­class, 123, 164; suffrage and, 36, 49, 50; working-­ class, 11, 141, 176. See also coeducation; ­women students German universities, 14, 24, 34, 38–44, 61 Giddens, Anthony, 176 Giessen, University of, 39 Gilman, Daniel Coit, 10, 14, 55, 56, 152; on land-­g rant colleges, 64, 175, 188; as Sheffield Scientific School founder, 56–57, 84 Goessmann, Charles A., 61, 102 Gold, Theodore Sedgwick, 90, 91, 94–95 Goodell, Henry, 7, 9 Gorham Acad­emy of Maine, 30 Göttingen, University of, 39, 43, 61 Gould, Annie M., 169 Gould, Jay, 84 grange (Patrons of Husbandry), 1–4, 14–16, 87–88, 175–76; colleges of, 15, 50; in Connecticut, 94–99; in Maine, 116–18; Morrill and, 112–16, 184; in New York, 140–41, 144–45; re­sis­tance to state college model, 122, 131–35, 179; in Rhode Island, 100–108 Greeley, Horace, 36, 160 Greene, Benjamin Franklin, 34 Greenfield Acad­emy, 153 Hale, Benjamin, 27 Hale, J. H., 94, 97–99, 133 Hamilton, Alexander, 45 Hamilton, Ellen E., 156 Hammond, Edwin, 79

239

Harris, Jed, 51 Harrison, Benjamin, 48 Harvard University, 59–60, 64; Lawrence Scientific School of, 59; as science school, 19, 21–22, 38 Hatch Act of 1887, 48–49, 95, 100–102, 137, 139 Hazard, Thomas, 100, 102, 103, 106, 107, 132, 134 historically black colleges and universities (HBCUs), 7–8, 83 Hitchcock, Edward, 28–29, 32, 60 Holbrook, Josiah, 27–28 Holmes, Ezekiel, 26–28, 32, 58–59 Holt, Nellie M., 169 home economics programs, 9, 158–59, 165, 184 Hosack, David, 21, 22 Hoskins, Thomas, 112 Howard, Harrison, 35 Humboldt, Alexander von, 39 Humboldt, Wilhelm von, 38–39 Hunt, Caroline, 158 “industrial colleges,” 35, 108–9 industrialization, 11, 18, 35, 136, 182; artisanship and, 37–38; demographic effects of, 120; market society and, 13; mechanical arts education and, 33–38; Taylorism and, 137 Innovation and Economic Prosperity (IEP) initiative, 187–88 Jacksonian democracy, 6, 35, 46, 51, 85 James, William, 134 Jameson, Zuar, 112 Jeffersonian democracy, 4, 85 Jewish students, 132 Johnson, Eldon, 7, 9 Johnson, Owen, 121 Johnson, Samuel, 14, 43, 57; Pugh and, 74, 173; Storrs Agricultural School and, 90, 91, 94 Johnston, James F., 40, 41 Kahn, Gustav, 92 Kansas, University of, 86 Kansas State Agricultural College, 86 Kellogg, Josiah Holcomb, 62–63 Kellogg Commission on the F ­ uture of State and Land-­Grant Universities, 185–88 Kingston Agricultural School (Conn.), 129–32, 134 Kinney, Lorenzo, 102

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Kirkham, John S., 96 Knights of L ­ abor, 85, 86 Know Nothing Party, 47 Koons, Benjamin F., 93, 94, 157 Ku Klux Klan, 8

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land-­g rant colleges, 5–17, 50, 172–88; admission to, 173, 176–77, 183–84; African Americans at, 4, 7–8, 82–83; coeducation at, 8–9, 16–17, 155–71, 180–81; evolution of, 12–17; history of, 6–12, 182–84; social mobility and, 175–76, 183; “state college” model of, 121–23, 131–35, 147, 179 Lang, Daniel, 35 Larson, John Lauritz, 23 Lathrop, Harriet, 129 Lathrop, John, 27 Lawes, John Bennet, 40 Liebig, Justus von, 31, 39, 41, 43, 51 Lincoln, Abraham, 54, 55, 182 lyceums, 12, 26–28 Lyell, Charles, 40 Lyon, Mary, 154 Maine State College of Agricultural and Mechanical Arts, 59, 166–71 Mann, Horace, 30 Mary Scharpe College for Young Ladies (Tenn.), 155 Mason, Lida A., 156 Mas­sa­chu­setts, University of, 60 Mas­sa­chu­setts Agricultural College, 14, 28–29, 118, 147, 159, 179 Mas­sa­chu­setts Institute of Technology (MIT), 38, 60, 158, 173, 178–79 Masser, Alpha, 115–16 Matthews, Annie, 169 McCandless, Henry, 90–91, 141 McCosh, James, 63 Mead, Samuel, 91 mechanical arts education, 33–38, 70–74, 173 Mechanical School Society, 36–37 Mechanics Association, 35–36 mechanics’ institutes, 26, 33–37, 67 Mechanics Mutual Protection Association, 35–37, 67, 160 Messer, Alpha, 2, 3 Mexican-­American War, 47 Michigan State College, 139 ­middle class @ bourgeois, 120–22 Middlebury College (Vt.), 79, 80, 177 Milford, George Washington, 83

military academies, 33, 34 Monge, Gaspard, 33–34 Monroe, James, 45 Moran, Peter, 32, 75 Morrill, Justin, 2–3, 49–54, 175, 180; ­career of, 51; Henry Clay and, 13; Flagg and, 106–7; grangers and, 112–16, 184; Hammond and, 79; on ­People’s College, 67–68; po­liti­cal views of, 10, 14, 47; portrait of, 52; reputation of, 6, 174 Morrill Act of 1862, 4–12, 48–49, 54–56; Connecticut and, 57–58, 124; implementation of, 5–6, 50, 172–84; Maine and, 58–59; Mas­sa­chu­setts and, 59–62; New Hampshire and, 64–67; New Jersey and, 62–64; New York and, 67–74; Pennsylvania and, 74–76; Rhode Island and, 76–79; Vermont and, 79–81 Morrill Act of 1890, 7, 15, 90–93, 97, 172–88; African American colleges and, 7–8; agricultural research and, 137; Connecticut and, 94–99; New Hampshire and, 108–12; Rhode Island and, 100–108; Vermont and, 112–16 Morrill Tariff, 13 Morris, John, 73 Morris, Lewis, 29–30 Morse, J. T., 133 Mount Holyoke College (Mass.), 154, 155 Myrick, Herbert, 88, 89, 100, 102, 118 Nash, Margaret, 25 National Education Association (NEA), 63 National Farm School (Pa.), 132 Nature Study movement, 143, 184 Nemec, Marc R., 10, 47 Nevins, Allan, 6–7 New Hampshire College Agricultural College, 110 New Hampshire College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts, 3, 14 New Hampshire College of Agriculture and Mechanical Arts, 63–65 New Jersey College for ­Women, 158 New York Agricultural College, 31, 43, 68 New York Mechanics’ College, 35 New York State Agricultural Society, 29–30 Newton, Isaac, 24 Nixon Act, 142–43 normal schools, 122, 154, 161 North Carolina, University of, 86 North Carolina State University, 86 Norton, John Pitkin, 14, 41–43, 42, 57

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Olcott, J. B., 90, 91, 95 Ontario Agricultural College, 90 organic chemistry, 39–40, 173 Ovid Acad­emy (N.Y.), 30–31 Page, Inman, 83 Paine, Thomas, 20 panic of 1854, 37 Parsons, Charles, 77 Pasteur, Louis, 40 Patrons of Husbandry. See grange Peck, William Dandridge, 21–22 Peckham, Nathan, 78 Pendleton Act of 1883, 48 Pennsylvania, University of, 20–21 Pennsylvania Agricultural College, 14, 61, 75–76, 156–57 Pennsylvania agricultural society, 31–32 Pennsylvania State College, 75, 118, 173, 178; home economics at, 159; ­women students at, 156 ­People’s College (N.Y.), 31, 35–37, 53, 67–69, 160 ­People’s Party, 85–87, 136 Perkins, George, 80 Peters, Scott, 137, 144, 174 Peters, Theodore C., 36, 37 Pettee, Charles, 110–11 Phillips, Wendell, 28 Poland, Luke “Brass Buttons,” 112–14, 113 polytechnic institutes, 13, 26, 33–34 Polytechnisches Institut (Vienna), 34 Porter, John A., 43, 138 Porter, Noah, 81 Priestly, Joseph, 20, 24 Prince­ton College, 34, 62, 63 prison ­labor, 35 progressive politics, 9, 16, 49–50, 136–49 Pugh, Evan, 14, 43–44, 61, 74–76, 84, 173 Pugh, George, 53–54 Purdue University, 173 racism, 7–8, 82–83 Radcliffe College (Mass.), 155 Radke-­Moss, Andrea, 8–9, 156 Ramsdell, Louise Hammond, 166–69, 168 Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (Troy, N.Y.), 34, 61 Republican Party, 47, 85

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Rhode Island Agricultural College, 3 Rhode Island Agricultural School, 103, 106, 108, 123 Rhode Island Society for the Encouragement of Domestic Industry, 77 Rice, Frederick, 103 Richards, Ellen Swallow, 157, 158 Robbie, Frederick “Farmer,” 117–18 Roberts, Isaac P., 119, 140–41 Robinson, Ezekiel, 77–78, 100–101 Robinson, Henry C., 97 Rocke­fel­ler, John D., 84 Rodman, Thomas C., 103 Rogers, William Barton, 38, 60 Roo­se­velt, Theodore, 136 Rosebrooks, Louisa, 158 Rosenberg, Charles, 44 Ross, Earle, 6–8, 11, 161–62, 174 Rudolph, Frederick, 7, 9, 24 Rush, Benjamin, 45 Russell, William C., 140 Rutgers College (N.J.), 62–64, 177–79; civil engineering at, 34; extension department at, 139; w ­ omen students at, 158 Sage, Henry, 163, 164 Sanborn, Jeremiah W., 109 Sanborne, Edwin, 66 Sare, John, 99 Schaffrath, Max, 123–27, 126, 134, 179 Schaffrath, Paul, 125–27 Scharpe College for Young Ladies (Tenn.), 155 scholarships, 82, 176, 183–84 science, schools of, 19–22, 25, 38, 46, 55, 172–73 Scott, Roy, 143, 180 Scottish Agricultural Chemistry Association, 40 Sellers, Charles, 23 Seneca Collegiate Institute, 30 Sheffield, Joseph, 43 Sheffield Scientific School, 3, 14, 15, 38, 188; establishment of, 56–58; founder of, 41; Gilman and, 56–57; Gold and, 94–95; Storrs Agricultural School and, 94–99. See also Yale College Shepherd, Charles, 29, 60 Sibley College of the Mechanical Arts (Cornell), 73–74 Silliman, Benjamin, 14, 18–22; journal of, 24; as lyceum lecturer, 28; Norton and, 41; portrait of, 21; science curriculum and, 24, 25, 46

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Silliman, Benjamin, Jr., 41–43 Simonds, William Edmond, 128 Sinclair, Upton, 136 Slosson, May Gorslin Preston, 165 Smith, Asa, 64–65 Smith, David, 116 Smith College (Mass.), 155 Smith-­Hughes acts, 149, 159 Smith-­Lever Act, 16, 137, 138, 159 Snow, Anna, 158 Solomon, Barbara, 153 Spencer, Jennie, 162, 163 Spencer, John W., 143 Stanton, Elizabeth Cady, 36, 160, 163 “state college” model, 121–23, 131–35, 147, 179 Steffens, Lincoln, 136 Stimson, Rufus, 134–35 Stockbridge, Serena, 103 Stone, Lucy, 36 Storrs, Augustus, 90 Storrs, Charles, 90 Storrs Agricultural College (Conn.), 90–99, 122–29 Strasbourg, University of, 40 suffrage, ­women’s, 36, 49, 50 Swallow, Lucy, 157

Veysey, Laurence, 11–12, 41 Vinal, Percia, 169

United States Department of Agriculture (USDA), 48, 55

Washburn, John, 102–5, 108, 122, 145, 175; at Kingston Agricultural School, 129–32, 134; portrait of, 104 Washburn, Lucy, 161, 162, 170 Washington, Booker T., 161 Washington, George, 45 ­Waters, Campbell, 128, 133 Watts, Frederick, 31–32, 74 Wayland, Francis, 43, 77 Weaver, James, 85, 86 Wellesley College (Mass.), 155 Wheeler, Homer J., 103, 134, 145 Wheeler, Horace, 130 Whig Party, 13, 46–47 Whitchler, George H., 109 White, Andrew Dickson, 14, 140, 175; on coeducation, 160, 162–64; Cornell University and, 68–74, 141, 178; on land-­g rant colleges, 63–64; portrait of, 72 White, Joseph, 63 Whitman, Minerva, 156 Wiebe, Robert, 137 Wilcomb, C. A., 109–10 Williams, Roger, 7, 9, 32, 54, 63, 75 Williams College (Mass.), 60–61 Williams Memorial Institute, 98 Wilson, Nellie, 157–58 Wilson, Woodrow, 136 Wisconsin, University of, 139, 158–59, 158 Wissenschaft, 38–39, 43, 44, 62 ­women students, 8–9, 16–17, 150–71, 180–81; at normal schools, 154, 161; at seminaries, 153–54. See also coeducation; gender roles ­Women’s Christian Temperance Union, 36 ­women’s suffrage, 36, 49, 50 Wood, Gordon, 22 Woodbury v. Dartmouth College, 46 Woods, Leonard, 58 Worcester Polytechnic College, 92 Wright, Arthur William, 82

Van Rensselaer, Martha, 165 Vassar College (N.Y.), 155, 162 Vermont, University of, 1–3, 15, 177, 179; civil engineering at, 34; coeducation at, 156; as land-­g rant institution, 79–81, 88, 112–16; scholarships to, 82 Verrill, Addison, 57

Yale College: classical curriculum at, 20, 24; scholarships to, 82; as science school, 19–20, 25, 38. See also Sheffield Scientific School Young, Charles, 66 Young Ladies Acad­emy of Philadelphia, 153 Yudof, Mark, 182

Talbot, Thomas, 118 Taylor, Marshall, 129–30 Taylorism, 137. See also industrialization temperance movement, 25, 36, 132 Thayer, Sylvanus, 34 Thompson, Benjamin, 111–12 Thumberg, Carl, 22 Tobias, Marilyn, 110 Troy Female Institute, 153 True, Alfred, 28 Tucker, Luther Henry, 62, 63 Turner, Jonathan, 53

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