Stanford's Magnificent Circus: a Novel 1891
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Stanford’s magnificent circus: A Novel PART ONE 1891 by Jerry Franks Published by the Four-Leafed Press Aptos, California DEDICATED TO MEMBERS OF LELAND STANFORD JUNIOR UNIVERSITY’S PIONEERING CLASSES OF 1892, 1893, 1894 & 1895 My four-leaved clover groweth not Upon Parnassus steep, But on the Palo Alto hills Where Stanford poppies sleep; And though these song-weeds cluster not Beside the Muses' well, The Spring-filled Lagunita Lake Perchance may do as well; No brilliant bloom, but rooted deep In Stanford loyalty, Their still small voice may speak to those Who share that love with me, Who once within a cloistered place Were college mates of mine, In clover there four sweet years That bore the stamp devine Then, though this lyre have but two strings, One Love, the other Beer, I calmly dedicate them both To every Pioneer by Charles Kellogg Field, Class of 1895 iii FOREWORD “Stanford’s Magnificent Circus” was written to be entertaining, to be enjoyed. It is also hoped that the reader will gain a new appreciation of the challenges facing the administration, students and faculty of a new university created in the far west---Leland Stanford Junior University---if some historical knowledge is gained along the way, so much the better. It is so easy to forget that in 1891, vestiges of a tragic Civil War still hung in the air. A non-fictional character in this book remembered as a child what happened on the day Abraham Lincoln was shot as most of us remember what happened on the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated. A fictional character in this book almost participated, unwillingly, in an Indian Massacre; gunmen hired by the Southern Pacific Railroad killed another’s father in a shoot-out over disputed lands. Much of the western territory was still in dispute. It was into this setting that over four hundred men and women began the process of creating a university, some young like Bert Hoover, some veterans of Indian Wars like the fictional Fletcher Martin. Time has erased the memory of grand Stanford pranks such as the Flatcar Incident, which involved hundreds of members of the Pioneer Classes and the annual Senior vs. Faculty baseball games. Landmarks like the ‘95 oak, the chimney and the camp no longer exist. All are remembered and brought back to existence in these pages. Senator and Jane Stanford will always be honored for their contribution to higher education. They opened the doors of their new university to men and women who could pass certain academic standards---regardless of their status or monetary resources. That only a small minority was oriental and none were Jewish or Black was to be expected for the times. If it were not for them, one of our presidents may have stayed in Salem, Oregon and slipped into anonymity. If it were not for them, thousands of lives, like the author’s, would have been drastically different. Aptos, California June, 2004 v Contents Page 1. Dedication: Poem by Charles Kellogg Field, Class of ‘95………………….iii 2. Foreword……………………………………………………………………………v 3. Crude 1891 Map of LSJrU and Environs………………………………………vii 4. “Hail, Stanford, Hail!” by Professor Albert W. Smith………………………..ix 5. Prologue: Olmsted’s Letter to Stanford…..………………………………….. 1 6. Early Arrivals………………………………………………………………………13 7. The Gathering…………………………………………………………………….. 69 8. Opening Day Ceremonies……………………………………………………….111 9. The Flatcar Prank………………………………………………………………..151 10. Reception at Roble Hall…………………………………………………………193 11. Ghostly Appearances……………………………………………………………236 12. ’95 Oak Creation………………………………………………………………..275 13. Faculty vs. Seniors Baseball Game…………………………………………...317 14. Thanksgiving Holiday Plans…………………………………………………..350 15. Palace Hotel & Chinatown…………………………………………………. 378 16. Trek to Lick……………………………………………………………………. 420 17. 1891 Exit………………………………………………………………………. 454 18. Appendix………………………………………………………………………. 511 A. Bibliography……………………………………………………….… 513 B. Cast of Characters………………………………………………….. 517 ix ix Hail, Stanford, Hail! By Professor Albert W. Smith Where the rolling foothills rise Up toward mountains higher Where at eve the Coast Range lies In the sunset fire, Flushing deep and paling Here we raise our voices, hailing Thee, our Alma Mater Down the foothills to the bay It shall ring, As we sing, It shall ring and float away Hail, Stanford, hail ! Hail, Stanford, hail ! ix 1 Prologue Olmsted’s Letter to Stanford John Charles Olmsted stood in the doorway. Almost an hour before, his stepfather had called him and asked him, when it was convenient, to come into his office. In other words, when the inking job he was doing for the Leland Stanford Junior University Project was completed. He had just cleaned the German drafting pen he was using and put it back into its polished walnut case. “Yes, sir, what can I do for you?” he asked Frederick Law Olmsted, the celebrated Landscape Architect. Frederick was engrossed with something he was doing at his desk but he immediately turned around in his swivel chair and faced John. Frederick was sixty-three years, bald-headed with bushy white hair, long at the sides. His grizzly beard drooped over his shirt hiding whatever tie he might have worn that day. Even though expensive, his clothing looked like he had been digging in the garden. His best friend described him as “an ancient philosopher.” A poorly dressed one, John had thought. Frederick’s vigorous blue eyes flickered into a smile as he greeted John. “I need your help. Here, sit beside me.” He motioned to one of the wooden side chairs. “Would you like a brandy or something a little stronger? I have it here in its usual place.” “No, I’m fine, Frederick.” John settled in his chair and tried to appear at ease but with his long fingers intertwined and his legs awkwardly akimbo, he looked oddly uncomfortable for such an elegantly dressed man. “We missed you at supper,” Frederick looked genuinely interested in John’s whereabouts. “I thought I told you about the engagement I had with friends in Boston. Fellows I knew at Yale. We regularly get together for some ale and gossip.” John paused. He knew Frederick was making small talk to put him at ease. He asked, “Is it about the Stanford Project? That seems to be on your mind, lately.” “Yes, it is.” Frederick stretched his arms as he spoke, “I’ve just had the arduous task of writing a well-mannered letter to Ariel Lathrop a man I intensely dislike. These days, I find it easier to take a pick to hard ground.” With his head and eyes, Frederick motioned to the desktop behind him. “It is 2 the letter you see on my desk, completed but not yet in its envelope. I’d like to talk to you about what I wrote.” As Frederick spoke, he looked at John, intently. It had been some time since he had really looked at his stepson. Unlike others in the family, John was shy and diffident. He did not come into Frederick’s office unless asked. He was perfectly happy to remain at his drafting board, performing all the difficult and detailed tasks that went with the landscape architecture business. John was thirty-seven years old, always well groomed with a neatly trimmed beard. He dressed immaculately in nicely fitted Prince Albert suits. He had the delicate features of his deceased father, Frederick’s brother. His long face and nose reminded Frederick of an El Greco painting. John and Frederick were not close. Perhaps it was because after John’s father died, Uncle Frederick had married his mother. John was well aware of the problems Frederick had with Senator Stanford and his unpleasant brother-in-law, Ariel Lathrop. From what he had heard, he liked neither of them. “I assume the letter ends our relationship with the Senator and his boorish brother-in-law.” “Yes it does.” “So, be it. We have lots of other work to do. I know their changes of heart have worn you down. If you think it is time to break it off, it is.” “I wish it were that simple. You know how people perceive me as being obstinate to a fault and I know they are right. I’m afraid that my obstinacy could now be the only reason we are continuing to work on the Stanford Project. That is why you are here” “You want my advice?” John was surprised. “I want you to hear me out. Tell me what you think.” With both hands, Frederick lifted his nickel-plated reading glasses from his nose and carefully placed them by the unsealed letter. “ I am sure you are already familiar with most of this from the letters I wrote you and my ranting in the office but I want to make sure you have the full story of my dealings with the good Senator and the ignoble Ariel and why I want to cut off our relationship with them as a fisherman cuts snarled bait.” During the seconds that followed, Frederick and John shifted in their seats as if readying themselves for a journey. Frederick spoke, “You, of course, know it began well enough. You were present when Codman (an intern working at the firm) excitedly entered 3 our premises and told us about his discussion with General Walker, president of MIT, his alma mater.” John said, “As I remember it, Harry (Henry Codman) said that Senator Stanford had tried to recruit Walker for the post of president of the new university he and his wife were founding in California as a memorial for their dead son. Walker declined the offer but agreed to act as a consultant. Harry thought it was a tremendous opportunity for us and he helped arrange for you to visit the General.” Frederick smiled at the memory. “I didn’t know Walker beforehand, but we got along famously.