I can't wait for spring break to arrive, but I'm not exactly looking forward to what will greet me upon my return: April Open House. Though I freely admit to feeling quite nostalgic as hoards of pre−frosh swarm the Hill, it's difficult not to feel a little cynical as I wait for massive tour groups to stop blocking the entrance to my dorm. Of course, this overcrowding wouldn't have been an issue had I attended Tufts when the entire student body was smaller than my "Principles of Economics" lecture last semester.
In light of the pending admissions decisions for the Class of 2015, I began to wonder how I would have fared as an applicant in the late 1800s, despite the fact that my gender would have barred me from admission. Although Tufts did not ask lengthy essay questions or request YouTube supplements, the requirements back then were still fairly strict.
Rather than submitting an application, prospective students came to campus and completed an entrance examination the June before their first year. The exam covered a wide range of subjects — if "wide" can be taken to mean classical history, languages and literature. Students taking this exam in 1888 were tested on Caesar, Cicero, Virgil and Ovid in Latin, as well as Homer's writings in their original Greek. Students also solved problems in arithmetic, algebra and plane geometry; demonstrated their knowledge of ancient Greek and Roman history and geography; and translated a passage of "The Iliad" into English. And no need to worry about running out of time: This exam lasted for two days.
But let's say you came out of the womb reading Virgil and could practically translate ancient Greek in your sleep. What could you expect once you arrived for the 1888−89 academic year? To say the least, Tufts was a pretty happening place to be.
In the spirit of a true Tufts education, the class of 1888 represented a geographically diverse mix of three states. Of the 21 students in this class, 14 came from Massachusetts, six came from Vermont and one brave soul ventured all the way from Maine. And although I'm still uncertain as to what this term actually means, the class of 1888 lists ten additional "Special Students" in its yearbook, including a young man from São Paulo, Brazil. Therefore, a whopping 3 percent of the undergraduate population was comprised of international students (or international student, I suppose).
But enough about demographics; how was the social scene? For starters, we didn't have fraternities, but instead "Greek Letter Societies." Jumbos had the option of pledging Theta Delta Chi, Zeta Psi or Delta Upsilon, all of which are still represented on campus today. Even if you chose not to participate in Greek life, you wouldn't have been a social outcast. In fact, the entire university convened every day for the required morning prayers in Goddard. (The effectiveness of this requirement is debatable, however. A faculty letter in the 1889 yearbook stated: "You worried us considerably last [semester] because you cut chapel so much; it doesn't look well.")
Much like the Tufts of today, the class of 1888 represented a wealth of musical talents. Jumbos of yesteryear could sing in the Glee Club, strum along in the Banjo Club or play in the College Orchestra. I'm not sure, though, that a cornet, three violins, two flutes, two clarinets and a piano, which comprised the entirety of this last ensemble, actually qualify it as an "orchestra."
And as if this rousing social scene wasn't enough of a draw, the strong sense of school spirit surely would have convinced you to attend Tufts. Although we recently lost a beloved Tufts tradition (R.I.P. NQR), I believe we can all learn a lesson in school spirit from the class of 1888 by examining their mind−blowingly creative official class cheer:
"Eighty! eighty! eighty−eight! rah! rah! rah! rah! eighty−eight!"
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