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Before
the Fall
Letters
home from future Yale president A. Whitney Griswold painted a wry,
carefree picture of life in the Class of 1929. But the class, which
just had its 70th reunion, was soon to learn some hard lessons.
Summer
1999
by Judith Ann Schiff
Judith
Ann Schiff is Chief Research Archivist at the Yale University Library.
This
year's Yale reunions were distinguished by a very special gathering
of the Yale College Class of 1929.
As the official reunion roll ends with the 65th and after, this
unofficial 70th reunion -- which drew ten class members -- was a
remarkable demonstration of longevity and the Yale spirit. The first
Yale class to award degrees to more than 700 graduates, '29 produced
many notable alumni, including two whose contributions shaped Yale
intellectually and culturally in the 20th century more than any
other -- Paul Mellon and
A. Whitney Griswold.
The quarter-century history of the Class of 1929 proclaimed that
"no class was ever so swiftly and so thoroughly bereft of illusions
as the Classes of 1929." Graduating four months before the
stock market crash and the onset of the Depression, theirs was also
the last class "to enjoy a sunny break in the historical storms."
Born in the era of Teddy Roosevelt, they grew up in the shadow of
World War I and entered Yale in the fall of 1925. Yale in the late
twenties was in the throes of great upheaval-literally-as dozens
of campus area buildings were remodeled and razed to make way for
the building of the "New Yale." Some old traditions also
disappeared, most notably compulsory Daily Chapel, which was dropped
after two centuries in May, 1926.
A. Whitney Griswold, the future history professor and Yale president
(1950-63), penned vivid and humorous portraits of the era in letters
to his parents. The series begins sedately in September 1925, when
he proudly reports that he bought all of his books at the Yale Co-op
for $12.50. The next letter is a "true Whit" commentary
on the Freshman-Sophomore Rush: "Altho the Rush had been officially
called off, we knew the Sophs would kill any of us they caught outside
the Oval, so we, 859 strong, tore for the Oval, and shut the big
iron gates. Well, things began to quiet down, and a bunch of us
got banjos and things and began to sing like the true gentlemen
we were. Then a lot of pie-eyed sophs began to come into the Oval
and smash windows. We didn't do anything until two freshmen, who
lived in cottages off the Oval, and who had tried to go home alone,
came over the back fence of the Oval without a stitch on, and two
suits of B.V.D.s were thrown over after them. Then about 50 of us
got together, and made an attack on the sophs outside the Oval.
We chased them away, and then ran around the block, our object being
to strip all sophs we caught. We caught four and made them impersonate
Cupid back to the campus. You should have seen one guy walk across
the street with nothing on but the arm of sweater. I guess you shouldn't
at that."
By April 1926, Griswold's financial situation had badly deteriorated,
but as he wrote: "I'm not, however, the only penniless student
at this noble institution. Doc [Carl] Hardt has sold so many old
suits that he has to buy some new ones and is now worse off than
ever before, having 17 cents till May." Defending his squandering
of 25 cents a day for snacks, he continued: "I know this sounds
like a lot, but if you had feathered eggs that peeped at you, embalmed
beef, and defunct fish staring you in the face at least six times
a week, I'm sure a milkshake and a doughnut would find a place in
your pancreas, as we call it in Biology." (From freshman to
senior year, tuition rose by a third from $300 to $400.)
In the spring of 1929, Griswold's letters to his parents turned
poetic: "Just at present the miracle of spring is upon our
campus, the grass actually turning green in a few sunny places.
Languid seniors tasting of delights to come doff hats and coats
and snap their fingers at work. It is indeed becoming hard to stay
indoors over a fascinating volume on 'Economic Problems in Abyssinia.'"
His personalized commencement week schedule described Class Day
Exercises as "Deep Breathing, Flexing Biceps, Trunk Bending,
and Skinning the Cat. This should give you a clue as to what happens
to young men before they peddle bonds, etc."
But life was about to get more complicated than Griswold or his
classmates could have imagined. Prophetic of the economic disaster
soon to strike, the 1929 class poem by Washington Dodge, 2d, began:
"For one brief interlude we lived a dream, A golden dream that
lingers still with Spring." 
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