thirty-four and of these nine taught music, the largest department in the college and—as we that were in it thought—the most important.

The first catalogue, issued 1865-66, shows the whole number of students as 353, all unclassified, owing to the inequalities of preparation. Among this number were many very far advanced in general scholarship, but who had certain exceptional deficiencies preventing their entering a regular class at once. By the end of the second year, however, all were graded. It is not strange that at the outset so many should be unfitted to enter, when hitherto no preparation for women to take a college training had been provided for in the land.

It was a wonderful thing when Vassar opened for a girl to have the chance to go to college, and the contrast between then and now when it is quite a matter of course, and not at all an exceptional thing, strikes me rather sharply, as I see a privilege counted so precious once made light of in these days, or worse—wholly disregarded.

The numbers continued without much change, 411 in 1871, stretching to the limit suitable provision for them. If this seems pitiful to you, one of a thousand to-day, remember that at the first, 300 was about the highest number reckoned on, and for this number accommodations were none too plentiful with recitation rooms, art-gallery, library and museum all in one building. Many of the earliest students will recall making one of seven in a "fire-wall" parlor, other suites being crowded in similar proportion; but however uncomfortable and dissatisfied she might have been, the girl made little complaint, sustained, doubtless, by the proud consciousness of being a pioneer student in the first college for women ever established.

By the tabular statement with this will be seen the steady increase of proportion of students in full collegiate standing.

There was an importance attaching to the students in full standing, a sort of aristocracy, if you please, not defined or put in words, but none the less felt and appreciated. Even the teachers who had upper class work shared this, and those not so favored would say on occasion in mock grievance,—"I am only a Prep. teacher" or "only a music teacher," as the case might be.

In 1868-69 the first resident graduates were recorded, Louise Parsons and Mary Reybold.

The specials in art and music were required to pass the regular preparatory entrance examinations, and to take two collegiate studies in connection with their special work. This arrangement was abolished in 1892 when the history and theory of music and of art were made to count towards a degree.

The trustees voted to close the Preparatory Department, June 8, 1886.

The first class to graduate was in 1867. They were four in number—"the immortal IV"—as Dr. Raymond characterized them at the planting of their class ivy, for there were then no class trees by adoption. No diploma was given to the class on the day of graduation, the trustees hesitating to admit the propriety of the term Bachelor of Arts as applied to women. Instead, the four received a sort of special certificate stating their proficiency "in science and the arts." Later, the next year, when the matter was satisfactorily adjusted, they received the regular parchment document.

The early fortunate possessors of the degree of A.B.—once given only to men—were regarded with admiring awe, and they had not to strive much for any desired position coveted. A successful young woman teacher of experience entered college to go through the course in two years, to the wonder of some friends who regarded her as having no need of a degree. "I want it for commercial purposes," was her shrewd reply. She had her reward in advancement far beyond what hitherto had been perfectly satisfactory. It is now a matter of course that a candidate for any position should have a college education, and the well earned degree confers no special distinction. Indeed, it has come to pass that the almost indifferent comment is, "Well, what has she done since?"

A favorite question to the college girl was, "What good does this higher education do? Can you make a better pudding for it?" "I'll tell you what good the college does," laughed a certain bright student, "it is a great place to take the starch out of one! Why, at home I thought I was somebody; here I find the only somebody is the best scholar in the classroom."

The President taught mental and moral philosophy as the catalogue stated it. He also gave some lectures in history, as did the professor of ancient and modern languages and the professor of English. Under the term natural philosophy came mathematics, physics and chemistry, and the term natural history covered the wide field of science now separated into special departments. Biology was taught under zoology, and an amusing incident in class at one time was when one of the number (afterwards a surgeon and doctor) exclaimed in dismay at sight of the eye of an ox laid on her table for dissection, "O Professor, mayn't we have forks?"

The second year of the college was little changed from the first, and so the distinction of being "an aborigine," as Miss Mitchell dubbed the officers that came in '65, was bestowed on a few of us who had just missed that date. She always brought some little present for the band on her return to college each year, and it delighted her to add a fresh anecdote, told as we walked down a corridor, her large, serious eyes twinkling with fun.

"How did the college look when you came in '67?" is a question often asked me. It was a February night after a day of snow, rain and sleet, when the six o'clock train from New York landed me at Poughkeepsie. Then came the long drive out to the college over the heavy muddy road, unlighted beyond the city limits, which were not built out as thickly as now, and from Bull's