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      The Faculty was disturbed, but apparently did not take the matter too seriously at first and decided to allow the societies to continue, merely exacting pledges from all new students to join no society without approval by the Faculty; thus providing as they thought, for an early demise of the fraternities. It did not work out that way, however. The chapter of Alpha Delta Phi held that their society existed at least by sufferance of the Faculty, and proceeded to initiate members, a fact that was not discovered until March, 1847. Then followed a series of suspensions and re-admissions of students who had promised not to join these societies. Not only were they obliged to resign their membership, but the original members of Alpha Delta Phi were compelled formally to submit to re-admission to the University, pledging themselves not to consent to the initiation of any members of the University in the society in opposition to Rule 20. The matter rested here until the following November, when the society presented a second constitution, which was received by the Faculty with the announcement that they had no authority to legalize the society. This reply was answered by the students with a plea that if the Faculty had no authority to legalize their fraternity then they had no authority to forbid it. Later another fraternity asked for re-admission with similar results.

      Meanwhile these organizations were maintaining themselves. Letters to the Presidents of six Eastern colleges brought replies most unfavorable to the fraternities and seemed to indicate to the Faculty that elsewhere the fraternities were under a strict ban. The students, however, knew that the facts were otherwise and that fraternities were flourishing in most of the institutions where they had been established. Finally in December, 1849, a list of members of the Chi Psi fraternity, which included the names of many new students, was found in a University catalogue. The defense set up by the chapter was that they were not members of a society "in the University of Michigan" but "in Ann Arbor," that they did not meet on University grounds, and that they had admitted three members who were not students. One of these members was, in fact, a member of the Board of Regents. The society, therefore, was not connected with the University and did not consist of students. This defense was considered only an evasion and on the last day of the term in 1849 the Faculty announced that the members of Chi Psi and Alpha Delta Phi, whose names had in the meantime been made public, must cease their connection with the University, unless they renounced their connection with their fraternities. Of the members of these two societies seven withdrew their membership; the others were expelled. The members of Beta Theta Pi were not expelled until September, 1850, apparently because the constitution had not yet been signed, to the disgust of one member of the Faculty, who considered this excuse only a legalistic quibble. Some of the students expelled went to other institutions, some eventually returned to the University, while others ended their college days.

      This action naturally caused an uproar; neither the Faculty nor the Regents were unanimous in approval of these measures; while the citizens of Ann Arbor held an indignation meeting and appointed a committee to ask the Legislature for a change in the administration of the University. The Faculty prepared a report to the Regents stating their case strongly and even bitterly, characterizing the whole history of these three societies as "a detail of obliquities," and their "extended affiliations as a great irresponsible authority, a monster power, which lays its hand upon every College Faculty in our country"; they were also fearful of the "debauchery, drunkenness, pugilism, and duelling, … and the despotic power of disorder and ravagism, rife among their German prototypes." This report was signed by all the Faculty, though the opinion was not unanimous, nor had all the actions of individual members been consistent.

      The Regents also made a report sustaining the Faculty, and both were submitted to the Legislature, accompanied by a reply made by the seven reinstated students, who denied the charges. They even maintained that Rule 20 was a dead letter and that one of the Professors, when consulted at the time one of the fraternities was founded, did not disapprove, or quote this law. A memorial was also submitted by fifteen "neutral" students sustaining the Faculty and suggesting that the threatened legislation, which was advocated by the committee of Ann Arbor citizens, was the greatest obstacle to harmony. Unfortunately this legislative action was just what seemed inevitable for some time. The Ann Arbor citizens represented that the University was failing, and that the only way to save it was by an entire change in its organic law, the appointment of a new Faculty, and the recognition of that natural right of man—to form secret societies if he so elects.

      Their case before the Legislature, however, had been weakened by the action of two students who had circulated a week or so in advance a garbled and caricatured form of the Faculty report, which had been submitted honorably to the students to enable them to make a reply if they so desired. This undoubtedly prejudiced the student case when the truth became known, and the net result was no action by the Legislature on any of the memorials. With the withdrawal of the bill, the Faculty and the Regents were left to handle the question as seemed best to them. In the meantime, however, the opposition to the suppression of the societies had become so widespread and aggressive that one by one the fraternities were "conditionally" reinstated in October, 1850.

      While the upshot of all this hostility was, superficially, only a return to the status quo, the students had won their point. The germ of the trouble probably lay in the difference between the paternalistic attitude of the Faculty, traditional in all colleges of the time, and the beginning of a new and progressive spirit in University life. The students had been brought up in an atmosphere which developed individuality and self-reliance and they resented a meticulous regulation of their lives and doubtless contrasted it unfavorably with what they knew of European Universities. The whole fraternity struggle of 1848–50 may then be regarded, in part at least, as a successful effort on the students' part to ensure a different and more liberal policy toward student life and affairs on the part of the authorities.

      Not the least of the troubles this contest brought to the University was the revelation of its weakness, not only the plainly evident lack of harmony within the Faculty, but also the practical demonstration it furnished of the Faculty's lack of real power. The reasons for this go back once more to the act establishing the University, which allowed the Regents to delegate to the Faculties only such authority as they saw fit, in practice not any too much, for the Regents maintained apparently a close and personal supervision over the University. This was shown by the habit of some members of the Board, notably Major Kearsley of Detroit, of conducting final oral examinations at the end of the term. Major Kearsley, a veteran of the War of 1812, was something of a martinet and prided himself upon his learning; so he usually gave the students a very hard time. He was soon dubbed "Major Tormentum" from majora tormenta, the name given big guns, or cannon, in a Latin "Life of Washington" then used in the classes. His visits finally ceased after the students found out how to deal with him and came loaded with "grape and canister," as one member of the class of '48 put it, to return his heavy fire.

      From its earliest days the University insisted upon maintaining a non-sectarian character, but this did not imply any lack of religious training or supervision—quite the contrary, as has been suggested. The scarcity of representatives of the cloth on the first Board of Regents did not pass unremarked, and it was but a short time before several clergymen, one a Catholic priest, became members of the governing body, to offset the preponderance of lawyers and politicians and to furnish the Board the benefits of their presumably wider experience in educational matters. Every effort was made, however, to keep a proper balance among the different persuasions, and all the Protestant churches came to feel that they had almost a vested right to representation, as the long list of "Reverends" in the first Faculty list shows. Professor Williams was an Episcopalian; Dr. Whedon, a Methodist; Professor Agnew, a Presbyterian; and Professor Ten Brook, a Baptist. Whenever a vacancy occurred, the question of religious affiliations was at least as important in the ultimate selection of the candidates, as any qualifications in the subject to be taught. This situation naturally led to a certain degree of rivalry, partisanship, and lack of co-operation in the Faculty.

      To this the lack of a Chancellor during those earlier years only added further confusion. From the first the Regents had proposed the appointment of such an officer, but in the absence of any clear notion of their authority and his precise duties the matter was allowed to lapse, until the financial difficulties of the early years after the University opened made it clearly obvious that such an officer would be something of a luxury.

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