
The academic year is nearing its bittersweet end, as marked by The Argus’ final issue before the summer break. Finishing the spring semester has always been a reason to celebrate at the University and enjoy its eccentric customs. With commencement on the horizon, this week’s Argives columnist unearths the oldest, oddest ways to commemorate the completed year on campus that are now lost to time.
The Argus published an unattributed article entitled “Incremation of Mathematics” on July 16, 1868. The Argus began publishing that year, making the incremation one of the first end-of-year traditions to be recorded in this college paper.
“One of the oldest of College customs is the celebration in honor of the conquest of Euclid and his compeers…but not until last year were the ceremonies public,” The Argus wrote. “The class of ’70 ‘burned Matthew’s corpse’ on Washington Park at 11 o’clock on Monday evening last.”
Fear not. Matthew was merely math personified, and his corpse consisted of textbooks used throughout the year.
“[The students] were led by a band performing upon combs and pasteboard horns, which produced music as appropriate as it was peculiar,” The Argus reported. “All were costumed as monks…and the long black robes…drawn over their heads, gave a decidedly funereal look to the procession as it followed the bier that conveyed their vanquished foes.”
The mourning mathematicians marched down to Main Street, attracting the attention of Middletown residents. A curious, cheerful crowd packed into the enclosure devoted to the ceremony and formed a circle around the students.
“After a dirge sung by all the mourners, the priest…made an invocation to the infernal deities,” The Argus wrote. “We hope they understand Greek better than we do. Then came a chant, bidding a ‘lasting farewell’ to ‘poor Matthew,’ and consigning him, with their best wishes, to an infinite rest.”
Following a final farewell, Matthew was ready for the great beyond.
“After a ‘hymn,’ the well-worn books were placed upon the funeral pyre, an immense pile of wood,” The Argus recounted. “The priest then poured out libations of kerosene, and applied the torch.”
Matthew was instantly engulfed in flames, a cathartic sight for the University’s victorious scholars.
“As the flames shot upward the class marched with solemn tread around the blazing victims, and sung the ‘carmen funereum’ [funereal song], which was interspersed with groans and cries…for their departing friends,” The Argus wrote. “The line of march was then taken up, the band struck up ‘Yankee Doodle,’ and the last remains of the Mathematics of ’70 were borne to their final resting place.”
Soon after setting their sophomore textbooks ablaze, the class of 1870 was ready to graduate. On July 2, 1870, The Argus published an unattributed article entitled “Class Day of ’70” to commemorate the happy event.
“We cannot speak too highly of the singing,” The Argus wrote. “It was excellent. Aside from…having an unusually large number of good singers, they have spared no pains in…drilling those who most needed drilling.”
Music has remained central to commencement at the University, albeit less often in a cappella form. Another custom that took place is less familiar today: the presentation of four now long-lost prizes.
“After another song came the various Class presentations, distinguished as Scientific, Professional, Agricultural and Military,” The Argus wrote. “Goode presented Van Denburg with a large bug, which he classified as a Radiate Mammalian, Bachiapod Masupial, together with a long scientific name.”
George Brown Goode, class of 1870, only presented the scientific award. He soon became the first curator of the Wesleyan University Museum. The George Brown Goode Biological Collection, which boasts icons like Shelley the Glyptodon, still reflects his legacy.
The three remaining winners took home an array of surgeons’ tools, a small plow, and a hulking wooden sword representing the professional, agricultural, and military prizes, respectively. Next came a series of ceremonial speeches that culminated in the class prophecy, another custom less likely to appear at commencement in 2025.
“The Prophesy by Mr. Gill was capital,” The Argus reported. “He held the attention of the audience for over three-quarters of an hour. It requires a lively immagination and a peculiar descriptive talent to write a good prophesy; and these qualities were well combined in the prophet of ’70. But we could not help laughing, to hear him prophesy that some unfortunate ones would never get married. It seemed so strange.”

The class day for the next year of graduates was similarly brimming with strange customs that have since fallen by the wayside. On June 30, 1871, The Argus narrated the festivities in an unattributed article entitled “Class Day of Seventy-One.”
“The class performed a new and interesting ceremony, in which G. S. Wentworth acted the star part,” The Argus wrote. “He…spiritualized the Class of ’71, and, at her shrine, was about to lay his gift, when he was interrupted by a number of the other well-wishers of the old lady, who in turn presented her with a variety of articles…to while away the lonely hours of her old age.”
The parting gifts included an apron, a ball of yarn, a pair of spectacles, and a snuff box, but the graduating class still had more presents in store.
“Following the ceremony at the ‘shrine’ of ’71, came the presentation of a gift to each one of the classes,” The Argus recounted. “E. B. Birdsey represented ’71, and donated on their behalf, a hat, six by two on the inside, to the Juniors, a cane…to the Sophs, and a horn like the smoke-stack of a locomotive, to the Freshmen.”
A witty speech—regretfully unrecorded in the article—accompanied each present, hopefully explaining why the seniors selected it.
Practically all of these early customs surrounding the completion of the academic year are unrecognizable or obsolete today, yet the farewell ceremony’s bittersweet end has remained constant.
“The ‘Farewell Ceremony’ was exceedingly beautiful in design and execution,” The Argus observed. “The ‘Breaking of the Wreath’ was symbolic of the severing of the class. As the blossoms were scattered, so would the boys be separated.”
Hope Smith can be reached at hnsmith@wesleyan.edu
“From the Argives” is a column that explores The Argus’ archives (Argives) and any interesting, topical, poignant, or comical stories that have been published in the past. Given The Argus’ long history on campus and the ever-shifting viewpoints of its student body, the material, subject matter, and perspectives expressed in the archived article may be insensitive or outdated, and do not reflect the views of any current member of The Argus. If you have any questions about the original article or its publication, please contact Archivists Lara Anlar at lanlar@wesleyan.edu, Hope Smith at hnsmith@wesleyan.edu, and Maggie Smith at mssmith@wesleyan.edu.
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