From the Argives: The Argus’ First Letter to the Editor Argues Ponies, Plagiarism, and Plato

The Argus has published Letters to the Editor—both controversial and not—since its earliest days. The first article addressed directly to the editors appeared in 1868 and quickly sparked a back-and-forth between two students with unusually strong opinions on the study of ancient languages. The dispute drew attention across the student body, and the editors occasionally stepped in to keep the exchange from getting out of hand.

This initial letter raised concern about the growing use of “ponies,” English translations of assigned Greek and Latin texts. At the center of the debate was a charming metaphor: diligent students laboring up the mountain of language study, and those who, in critics’ eyes, took a shortcut, riding English translations to the top instead of making the climb themselves.

On Nov. 5, 1868, an author identified only as H.S.C., class of 1869, raised the alarm about the rising use of translation “ponies” among students struggling with Greek and Latin coursework. As a junior, H.S.C. expressed disappointment toward the younger class years and mourned what he viewed as the degradation of language study at the University.

Ponying, H.S.C. noted, used to be a private shame.

“Three or four years ago, if a man made use of such helps, he was careful to keep very quiet about it,” H.S.C. wrote. “He never displayed his well-ridden animal to a curious public.”

He described a shift from hidden, individual use to something more visible, suggesting that earlier students viewed ponying as improper even when they relied on it.

By the late 1860s, that discretion had effectively evaporated. H.S.C. conducted a class-by-class audit of students’ translation abilities with no shortage of equestrian metaphors. According to him, the class of 1868 had reduced the study of ancient languages to a laughingstock.

“’68 depended on one animal for their equestrian expeditions, or rather one usually rode for the entertainment of the others, who regularly assembled to witness the operation. This fact accounts for the appearance of a horse and his rider in one of their class pictures,” H.S.C. wrote.

Whether that class photo actually depicted a student with a translation tucked under his arm, or whether H.S.C. was embellishing, is lost to history. He similarly lamented about his disappointment in his own junior class.

“In junior year a large proportion statedly made flying visits to Plato, conversing with him in English rather than in his own vernacular,” H.S.C. wrote.

He suggested that students relied on translations for efficiency rather than sustained engagement with the original Greek.

The class of 1870 received a similar accusation.

“Probably ’70 have expended more of their pocket money on ‘horses’ than any preceding class,” H.S.C. wrote. “Of the Latin of Tacitus and the Greek of Aristophanes, many of these worthy gentlemen have a very indistinct idea. To them both of these renowned men of ancient times have been metamorphosed into English-speaking authors.”

He argued that reliance on ponying changed how students understood classical authors, effectively disregarding the significance of original texts.

Despite his criticism, H.S.C. refused to place all the blame on the students. He carefully noted that the perpetrators of this apparent fall from intellectual grace were not idle underachievers, but “men of good standing, unblemished record, and willing disposition” who “succumbed…to what they felt to be too great a pressure.” The cause, he argued, was not laziness but the overwhelming amount of work students were managing.

“Their reputation repels the accusation [of laziness]. Why then did they avail themselves of helps?” H.S.C. wrote. “Simply because they felt the burden heavier than their duty required them to bear unaided. And this not so much from any extravagant requirements in any one department as from the accumulated pressure of a multiplicity of duties.”

He also anticipated the objection that, as a senior, he had something to gain from this argument. H.S.C. addressed this accusation directly, noting that his class was now “without the circle where equestrian practice is called for, and hence we can have no selfish motives” in making it. He closed by citing Professor Thatcher of Yale against ponying, using an external authority to support his position. His detailed knowledge of students’ practices, however, left others questioning how he knew so much.

An anonymous member of the class of 1870, the very class H.S.C. had singled out, fired back two issues later. He published under the title “Justitia Fiat,” Latin for “let justice be done.” Rather than disputing the facts directly, he used H.S.C.’s own statements as evidence against him.

The author opened by invoking Galileo, deploying Latin, and arguing that, if ponying had been as secretive as H.S.C had described it—if no student ever displayed his “well-ridden steed”—there was only one way H.S.C. could have known about it.

“In the midst of such secrecy no one could speak with certainty of equestrian expeditions other than his own,” he wrote.“Thus we see, in the opening sentences, a frank confession utterly at variance with the general spirit of the article.”

He built on this assumption of H.S.C’s involvement, framing H.S.C.’s sympathy toward his own classmates as self-serving.

“Having quieted the conscience of his class, the author proceeds with commendable honesty to confess the sins of others,” the second author wrote.

He further suggested that H.S.C. excused his own group while criticizing others, then turned to the specific charge against 1870 and their use of translations on Aristophanes. 

In defending his class, he explained where their ponies came from.

“How many ponies ’70 had on Aristophanes, ’69 should know with great exactness; for they all came to us by a hereditary descent as distinctly marked as the apostolic succession,” Student 2 wrote.

His explanation exposed that translations circulated between classes and were passed down over time.

The defense functioned as an admission. He closed by appealing to reputational damage beyond campus, noting that “friends far away have been mortified by a flippant statement of serious evil.” He focused on how the claims affected the class’ reputation rather than denying the practices themselves.

“It had been our opinion that statements so transparent hardly demanded refutation, but having met those so unsophisticated as to credit and be annoyed by them, we took this method of placing them in their true light,” he wrote.

H.S.C. returned in the following issue, published Feb. 4, 1869. H.S.C. had been accused, using his own words, of the very practice he criticized. He addressed the editors directly and responded point by point.

H.S.C. identified his opponent not by name but by behavior.

“Some brave defender of the fair fame of ’70 has undertaken… a professed refutation… by making a personal attack on me, at the same time in a very chivalric manner shielding himself by enjoining on you entire [secrecy] as to the author,” H.S.C. wrote.

He criticized the anonymity of the response, framing it as a lack of accountability.

To the accusation that he was mentally unfit, H.S.C. responded with sarcasm and an allusion to a nearby asylum. “He might have suggested the propriety of my removal to an institution of a different character from this, not far distant, and designed for persons in my assumed mental condition.”

H.S.C. then addressed the ponying accusation.

“Is it a very difficult thing for one who has ‘ground’ out an obscure passage to discover in the smooth rendering of a classmate unmistakable evidence of ponying?” H.S.C. wrote. “It might appear so to one whose practices have never put him in condition to judge.”

He defended himself by arguing that familiarity with difficult translation work enabled him to recognize when others relied on prepared versions.

On the Aristophanes ponies, which the anonymous author had claimed descended from 1869, H.S.C. noted he was “very willing to admit that he is better-informed as to the source of them” than himself, since he had “never had occasion to inquire whence they might have been obtained.”

H.S.C. suggested that detailed knowledge of this ponying problem implied that his opponent secretly participated in the practice.

“It might be a matter of speculation, though, how he is able to speak so positively on the subject,” H.S.C. wrote.

In contrast to his nameless opponent, H.S.C. signed off with his initials and a biting one-liner.

“This unknown junior has essayed to demolish.”

Another anonymous opponent appeared with an article in the next issue, published Feb. 25, 1869. This one wrote under a new title, “Fiat Lux,” Latin for “Let There be Light,” and took a different approach. Instead of arguing with H.S.C., he wrote a piece that treated ponying as a familiar part of student life, remaining lighthearted and practical.

“Friend, thou hast used the horse;—of course thou hast,” the author wrote.

He set aside the question of guilt and assumed shared experience of doing what one must to keep their head above water studying dead languages before the dawn of the internet: “We have had the proverbial advantages of that best of all teachers—experience.”

The author presented himself frankly as someone who knew the practice firsthand, effectively admitting his participation in the activity and extending an olive branch, goading H.S.C. to admit that he, like all students, have been pony-riding their way through ancient language studies. 

The piece became most revealing when he described how students actually used translations. Translations, he argued, filled gaps rather than replacing the work entirely.

In Latin, he suggested restraint. “Drop your daily pinch of salt on the tails of the principal points only—leaving unassisted genius to fill up the blanks,” he wrote.

Greek, he treated as a different case: “Greek Grammar is…synonymous with despair.”

He attributed the greater reliance on translations to the subject’s difficulty.

He pointed to students relying on local speakers to translate German assignments. “Call on some boot-maker of Teutonic extraction…. There will then be no difficulty in inducing him to translate a few pages for you.”

After several rounds of rhetorical table tennis, The Argus’ editors intervened to end the exchange and clarify where responsibility lay in the same Feb. 25, 1869 issue.

“The present issue contains not a little in regard to this somewhat hackneyed subject,” The Argus wrote.

They signaled that the topic had been exhausted.

“In regard to the author of ‘Justitia Fiat,’ [his] knowledge of ponying is derived solely from observation; the author of ‘Fiat Lux’ speaks for himself,” the editors wrote.

They cleared the earlier anonymous defender while declining to shield the author of “Fiat Lux,” leaving his descriptions to stand on their own.

Two issues later, on March 18, 1869, The Argus’ editors, effectively referees, returned once more after hearing reactions to “Fiat Lux.” 

“The author of the editorial in question…so mingled fun and reality in the treatment of really serious subjects, that the article was liable to misconstruction,” The Argus wrote.

They acknowledged that the satire had been received as something closer to instruction on translation.

To clear the air, the editors made it a point to write that “The Argus does not endorse nor advise ‘ponying.’”

At the same time, the editors acknowledged the pressure that had been at the center of the debate from the start:

“Those who have fulfilled the preparatory requirements ought not to be compelled to spend… more than six hours study[ing],” The Argus wrote. “This with three hours in recitation makes nine hours, a fair day’s work.”

They set a clear expectation for workload while distancing themselves from the practices described.

“Hoping that the article in question will produce no misapprehension…we here let the subject drop,” The Argus wrote.

With that, the editors closed the discussion, and the ponies were retired to their stables.

Hope Cognata can be reached at hcognata@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 Hope Cognata at hcognata@wesleyan.edu and Lara Anlar at lanlar@wesleyan.edu.