Campus Grows With McCosh Makeover, New Residential Colleges

Entering McCosh 50 for a freshman-year survey course, I scoured the rickety front row seats for an impossible dream: a left-handed desk for my sinister writing requirements. Dashed as I was, I settled for, and into, a dexterously outfitted seat, contorted my body, spiral notebook, and pen, and proceeded to listen to the professor blissfully as I unwound my twisted form. It was then I discovered that, unlike high school, college lecture halls were not primarily meant for writing.

The replacement of McCosh 50’s “squeaky floor and aging seats” brought to mind an article I wrote for The Daily Princetonian 52 years ago.

My article featured a discovery by Peter Malcolmson ’70: a wide range of detritus in the bases of McCosh classroom desks.

This memorabilia included a note from Alfred V. S. Olcott 1909 shortly after the completion of McCosh Hall. Also discovered were an empty box of Gillette “no honing, no stropping” razor blades and an empty Ex-Lax package. And empty boxes of Egyptian Deities and Lucky Strike Green cigarettes. There was too much to mention — Mr. Malcolmson unearthed three large boxes.

In PAW’s photo of McCosh 50 in the December article, the chair bases look solid. They appear to lack the openings in the old-style chairs. If so, what a shame! The new chairs may have cushions, but Princeton students will no longer be able to leave evidence of their culture behind, in their chairs, and later generations will have fewer clues to current and future generations’ thoughts, lifestyles, and habits.

At a time when Billy Graham was going strong as an evangelist, a noted evangelist from England gave a talk one evening in McCosh 50. I was sitting in the balcony, and at the end of the talk, he called people to come forward to commit themselves to Christ.

I already was Christian, although with some questions, and at that time, I thought, “If God really is present, now would be the time for ‘Him’ to confirm that fact by making Himself known to me.” Shortly thereafter I was overwhelmed by a rush of energy, coursing through my body, that I had never experienced before (or since). It kept coming and coming, somewhat like a shiver, but much, much stronger. I thought, “This is the way God is making His presence known.” (And I still think so.) The force of the continuous energy receded, but it stayed with me, in decreasing doses, as I walked back to my dorm room.

As a professor of comparative literature and German for 40 years, I have heard (and given) countless lectures about literature. But the lectures of A. Walton Litz ’51 in the course “Modern Literature,” held in McCosh 50 in the spring of 1970, still stand out for me. He commanded the room, containing a full audience, including a small sprinkling of females, during that first year of coeducation. 

I would never have imagined that one could give an entire lecture on a single poem, but Professor Litz achieved this masterfully, holding us rapt. He was just as adept at lecturing on an author’s life or on a novel. The texts and authors in that course are for me still, more than 50 years later, bound up with the memory of A. Walton Litz and of that venerable lecture hall.

The article about the growing campus and the upgrade to McCosh 50 brought back one of my favorite memories. When it was time for the Class of ’72 to select courses for our final semester, word got out that there was going to be a course with no grades, no quizzes or tests, nothing to do to get credit other than one “paper, program, or project,” as the course summary read. Religion 301: Studies in Theology was to be taught by Professor Victor Preller ’53 *65, a well-liked and appreciated lecturer.

We seniors scrambled to get our course cards in before Preller’s course was oversubscribed. The course had so many students sign up for it that the only academic room on campus large enough was McCosh 50. It was an evening lecture, so the first week of February, we headed over early to grab our seats. Seniors brought coolers of ice-cold beer and plunked ourselves in the balcony seats, awaiting Professor Preller. McCosh 50 was standing-room-only.

When he strolled out onto the stage, the hall erupted in applause. He waited for quiet, then walked slowly to the podium, scanned the “orchestra” seats from right to left, and back again. He then did the same for the balcony. Then, leaning in to the microphone, he calmly said, “We all know, don’t we?” He brought down the house, and received a standing ovation.

Preller was a great lecturer. It was a great evening escape to listen to him once a week that semester.

What happened in McCosh 50? That’s easy. Type “Daily Princetonian archives” into Google, and find your way into “The Daily Princetonian: Larry Dupraz Digital Archives.” (Larry was a Princeton Packet pressman assigned to the Prince account, who became the newspaper’s resident grown-up for many years.) Inside the archive, type “McCosh 50,” but first, do yourself a favor. Navigate to “Advanced Search” and limit your search to, say, hits for “McCosh 50” in your own years at Princeton. 

My own browsing turned up a McCosh 50 lecture by the civil rights leader then known as Stokely Carmichael (Sept. 22, 1966); a midterm English 201 exam (Nov. 1, 1966); and a poetry reading by W.H. Auden (March 6, 1968). 

Be careful, though: you might get lost...

I was an engineering major so didn’t get into McCosh 50 very often, but I do have vivid recollection of a special event on a cold, damp midweek evening in February of 1962. Bob and Ray (for those too young to have enjoyed them, droll radio and TV humorists of the time) were scheduled to be there for a special event. The room was packed. The audience was starved for a laugh. Bob and Ray were late, really late, but nobody left.

Finally they arrived and as they took the stage to set up their mics and a little video screen, the place erupted with wild cheering and applause for what seemed an eternity. Bob and Ray just sat there on the stage not moving. Finally, as the cheering started to subside, Bob said simply, “Hello, Ray,” and the place erupted again. After another eternity, as the noise started to subside Ray said simply, “Hello, Bob,” and yet another eruption.

Eventually, they got down to business, which was trying out a number of new humorous radio and TV bits to be used in ads for Tip Top bread. The applause and cheers never matched the opening uproars, but hundreds of undergrads went back to their dorms filled with joy from this little break in their gray, dreary winter.