F.A.P. Barnard: 10th President of Columbia University

By Tommy Song

Frederick Augustus Porter Barnard


Egoistic “College Agnostic” and Episcopalian Paternalism

Untold Stories of Servitude and the Ugly Truth of Barnard College

Prof. Karl Jacoby

May, 2018


The paper is divided into six parts, organized and separated chronologically to highlight important events and periods in Barnard’s life. The introduction, titled “Jane and the Branham Affair, 1859-1860” opens with the assault of Jane, one of Barnard’s slave at the University of Mississippi, and the story of Henry R. Branham, namesake of the “Branham Affair.”

“Congregationalism, Education, and Sexism” details the role of New England’s Congregationalist Protestantism—and its sexist practices—in Barnard’s educational development until college.

“Yale, Teaching, and Episcopalianism” highlights Barnard’s time at Yale, both as an undergraduate and as a tutor, as inseparable to his rise as a scientific scholar and educator. His conversion from Congregationalism to Episcopalianism is explained in terms of his professional career’s evolution.

“University of Alabama” details Barnard’s ties with the institution of slavery and how the ownership, persecution, and continued assault of human beings influenced his life in Tuscaloosa as a popular educator, ambitious scientist, and a Northern outsider.

“University of Mississippi” traces the Branham Affair in greater detail. With an elaboration upon the growing scientific influence of Barnard and the notion of a “College Agnostic”—a phrase coined by Robert McCaughey in Stand, Columbia—the section underscores and reiterates the role Episcopalian paternalism in Barnard’s governance.

“Columbia University and Barnard,” the last section, presents a portrait of Barnard that is comfortable and at the apex of his career—Northern scholar leading a Northern institution of Northern elite status. The section analyzes the rise and consolidation of a modern Columbia University, integral to the development of Columbia School of Mines, CSPS, and the School of P&S, and most importantly Barnard College. Here I explore the direct relationship between Barnard’s Episcopalian paternalism, egoistic “universitism,” and the broader Columbia. This last section also includes some of my thoughts on how we can grapple and progress with Barnard’s troubled legacy

Jane and the Branham Affair

On a cool Wednesday evening of May 11, 1859, two students of the University of Mississippi—J. P. Furnis and Samuel Humphreys—traversed the main campus and headed toward the home of Frederick Augustus Porter Barnard, then professor and chancellor of the University.[1] The Barnards—Frederick and Margaret—had left to Vicksburg the day before to attend what was to be the last meeting of the Southern Commercial Convention before the Civil War, because a trustee, with whom Barnard had a rocky relationship, requested his presence as a way of making peace.[2] In his absence, two slaves owned by Barnard—Jane and an unidentified woman, aged 29 and 34, respectively—looked after the Barnard residence that evening, oblivious to the imminent atrocities to unfold.[3] As daylight dimmed, Furnis and Humphreys broke into Barnard’s home; as Furnis probably silenced the unidentified woman, Humphreys, with “shameful designs upon one of the said servants,” attacked and raped Jane, which left her “incapacitated for labor” until the end of the academic year.[4]

When the Barnards returned to campus on May 17, Jane confessed to Mrs. Barnard, who told her husband of the events that occured during their absence.[5] Although no records indicate whether the University punished Furnis for being a bystander, Barnard sought swift justice for Humphreys, demanding the student to leave University grounds immediately.[6] Humphreys, initially in compliance with the infuriated Chancellor’s demand, later refused to leave campus until the faculty had tried him, arguing that the University’s laws protected his right for trial by the faculty.[7] On May 23, the faculty held the trial in its regular meeting, which ended in Humphreys favor after three rounds of voting.[8] The Southern-leaning majority of the faculty, though it agreed that Humphreys was guilty, refused to indict him, for they believed the evidence against him—“the statement of a negro as evidence”—to be insufficient, inconsistent with Mississippi’s state laws, which prohibited a slave from testifying against a white person in court.[9] The unsuccessful trial revealed deep divisions in the university, but Barnard personally wrote to Humphreys’ parents, requesting them to remove him from the University. In the midst of radicalizing pro-slavery sentiments in the University and the greater South, the Chancellor’s persistence ticked off the already-vocal critics of Barnard in Oxford, inspiring the “Branham Affair,” the greatest controversy of Barnard’s life that captured his essence as an educator: a university man who embraced an elite, American brand of Protestant paternalism that kept the powerless of the time kneeling before the powerful.

The “Branham Affair” began to take root when Henry R. Branham, a staunch pro-slavery physician at Oxford, retrieved the details of Humphreys’ trial from an anti-Barnard professor and relayed the information to editor J. D. Stevenson of Oxford’s Mercury, initiating a so-called “whispering campaign” against Barnard.[10] With a group of ultra-Southern professors and journalists, Branham—son-in-law of Barnard’s ousted predecessor Augustus Baldwin Longstreet (uncle of CSA Major General James Longstreet)—produced a barrage of accusations and rumors against Barnard, centering around the Chancellor’s use of a “negro testimony” to remove Humphreys.[11] The charges were as follows:

1st. That he (Barnard) was unsound upon the slavery question.

2nd. That he was in favor of, and did advocate; the taking of negro testimony against a student.

3d. That H. (a student) was arraigned and tried upon negro testimony…[12]

To the public of Mississippi and the broader South, Branham’s accusations represented a noble, Southern endeavor against the growing interventionist influence of Northern intellectuals and their ideals in Southern life, especially regarding slavery. Branham’s charges and their ramifications, retrospectively dubbed the “Branham Affair” by the trustees, eventually triggered Barnard to write to Mississippi Governor John J. Pettus, ex officio chairman of the trustees; the Chancellor requested Pettus to conduct a thorough investigation of Branham’s charges “at the earliest possible day,” so that he would be freed of the “injurious charges persistently uttered against [himself]” for the “prosperity of the University.”[13] Thus, in the first two days of March, 1860, Pettus summoned the board of trustees for an investigation and Barnard, standing before the trustees, famously declared in response to Branham’s charges:[14]

I was but doing my duty as a Christian master, to protect my servant from outrage; and that I am sustained in this view by the highest authorities…I was born at the North. That I cannot help. I was not consulted in the matter. I am a slaveholder, and, if I know myself, I am ‘sound on the slavery question…As to my sentiments on the subject of slavery, my record is clear for my whole life.[15]

The significance of Barnard’s words here are twofold. One, the contradiction between Barnard’s sentiments toward slavery in this excerpt and his views on the institution later in life indicate that for Barnard—for the ambitious Northern-born scholar who wanted a University under his reign to surpass Harvard’s academic excellence—the pro-slavery position represented a means of actualizing his self-interest, of constructing a reputation that facilitates the rise of his “Universitas Scientiarum,” as opposed to a Universitas Doctorum et Scholarium or Collegium Scholarium.[16] Two, Barnard’s description of himself as a “Christian master”—though it can be understood as another attempt by Barnard to portray himself as a true Southerner—illuminates an inseparable part of Barnard’s identity that shaped the rise of the modern Columbia University and subsequently one of its undergraduate schools, the progenitor of coeducation at Morningside Heights—Barnard College.

Congregationalism, Education, and Sexism

Three years before the War of 1812, on May 5, Frederick A. P. Barnard was born in Sheffield, Massachusetts. His father, Robert Foster Barnard, was a well-known lawyer and senator of the state and came from a family of prominent English noblemen; his mother, Augusta Porter, was a daughter of a physician, whose ancestry involved English politicians with close relations to the monarchy, as well as, and perhaps more importantly, a long line of Yale graduates that forewarned young Frederick’s ties with New Haven.[17]

At the time of Barnard’s birth and boyhood, the town of Sheffield represented a single parish, “subject to a pastor of the dominant Congregational persuasion.”[18] Congregationalism, originating from the Puritan colonists of 16th century New England, dominated much of the surrounding area in which Robert and Augusta raised Barnard. With regards to socio-political life, many New England townships, like Sheffield, operated within a system of independent Protestantism that defined and executed the day-to-day activities of all residents, centering on “their reverential awe of spiritual guide,” but not on “their relations to the [others of the] Christian world.”[19] Education, too, developed and functioned within the Congregational system, as evidenced by the founding of Harvard and Yale Colleges as institutions of Congregationalist clerical training and by the fact that Sheffield—a small, Congregationalist town—sent one or five students each to Yale or Williams, colleges of Congregationalism[20] Considering the aforementioned prominence of the Barnards and Porters in a predominantly Congregationalist environment, the fact that Barnard’s life, especially his education, was heavily immersed in and influenced by his exposures to New England congregationalism makes perfect sense.

It should be of no surprise, then, that Barnard’s life in learning began with and revolved around the “meeting house,” the town’s church which its people refused to call by its title because of their hostility toward the diminutive classification of Sheffield as a “parish,” not a “society.”[21] First, in the meeting house—through his observation of church customs and practices—Barnard began to learn of America’s realities, namely the separate spheres of women and men that probably developed the foundation for Barnard’s sentiments toward women and coeducation. With the church choir, which the townspeople referred to as “singers,” Barnard realized that “the ‘men singers’ [were] on one side, and the ‘women singers’ on the other,” like two separate wings.[22] Young Frederick also noticed that the meeting house pews were “enclosed by partitions so high” that they concealed “the occupants of their neighbors…the design being…to guard the pious meditations of young people from being distracted by the contemplation of the charms of the opposite sex.”[23] Here the phrase “young people” contrasts the phrase the “opposite sex,” for Barnard’s words suggest that “young people” who partook in “pious meditations” did not include the “opposite sex;” that “the opposite sex” distracted the other sex, “young people,” through its “charms;” that “pious meditations” were more worthy for boys than girls. Lastly, on the meeting house pews and galleries—in which the former permitted the mingling of sexes due to families, but the latter prohibited the co-seating of women and men—Barnard recalled:

In the pews the sexes sat promiscuously...In the galleries…there was a “man’s side” and “woman’s side”...an effectual safeguard against the dangers of person proximity…[that] afforded to the undevout the incidental advantage of being able to contemplate each other’s features from a favorable point of view.[24]

Along with these examples of Barnard self-absorbing America’s sexist realities in the meeting house, other events fortified the ties between Congregationalism and Barnard’s early education, as well as sexism and Barnard’s mind. For example, the district school of Sheffield, which Barnard attended between the ages of three and four, required all of its students to recite the Catechism every Saturday morning and tested the children on their knowledge of the Commandments.[25] Moreover, when Barnard “reached the mature age of six years,” his father introduced him to the study of humanities by recruiting the clergyman of Sheffield to teach his six-year-old, with a few other gifted children in the town, “rudiments of the Latin tongue.”[26] Although the reverend’s teachings lasted briefly, combined with the district school, they represented some of many instances in which Congregationalism permeated Barnard’s life and mind through American scholastic traditions of church schools and tutoring, which, with its division of sexes, shaped Barnard’s perceptions of women—“the opposite sex” as distracting and inferior—that would later influence his decisions in Columbia’s coeducation movement.[27] As Barnard entered his teenage years and more traditional settings of scholastic education, however, he began to develop within himself a growing antipathy toward Congregationalism, owing to his love of academic disciplines over religious instruction. Thus, Barnard prepared for the entrance examinations at Yale College, a Congregationalist institution, that would transform him in so many ways, including his religious denomination.

Yale, Teaching, and Episcopalianism

On September 7, 1824, Barnard arrived at New Haven with his father to take his entrance examinations.[28] Because of the extensive early education in the humanities inspired by his father, as well as his cousin who tutored him in arithmetic all summer long, Barnard felt confident in almost all areas of studies that appeared in the entrance examinations at Yale.[29] And to little surprise, Yale College admitted Barnard into the freshmen class of 1824. At fifteen years old, he was the youngest among those admitted.[30]

Barnard’s success did not stop at admissions. Although his class was “unusually strong,” the youngest excelled and surpassed his peers. By sophomore year, Barnard had become “the leader of the whole college in Pure Mathematics and the exact sciences,” overshadowing his cousin, a senior at the time, who had tutored him in mathematics just two years before.[31] By the time of graduation, Barnard, still the youngest, stood second in the honor list, outranked by a single student who had performed better than only in classics.[32] Despite the compilation of honors and reverence Barnard enjoyed throughout his undergraduate years, however, he did not remember his academic work in college to be memorable; rather, he thought the opposite. “It was to me a period of almost literal self-education,” Barnard recalled, three years before his death.[33] Owing to a cut-throat, competitive culture in which the extra help signified failure, Barnard said that the life of study in his undergraduate years only entailed unwanted, arduous labor imposed on them by drunk tutors and inaccessible professors, both of which regarded students as “distressing moral wrecks.”[34] Perhaps, Barnard chose the path of an educator because of the incompetence and indifference he observed in most of his instructors.

Of all things that Yale offered to him, Barnard valued human connections the most. His diligence and intelligence “won for him high esteem of his superiors”—like that of chemistry professor Benjamin Silliman and mathematics professor Denison Olmstead, both of whom Barnard kept in touch with throughout his life.[35] For example, at the University of Alabama, where Barnard worked for eighteen years starting 1837, Barnard took in Olmstead’s son as a lab assistant to provide him with hands-on experience in chemistry.[36] Along with the bonds he made with a few instructors who he revered, Barnard also cherished the relationships he formed with many of his classmates, fellow Yalies, and Yale personnels. In the Linonian Society, a literary society of which Barnard was a member, Barnard rejoiced at the brilliance and eloquence of the other members of his literary society, noting these “other fellows” as influential in the development of his oratory and writing skill and in providing “many of the most profitable hours of my college life.”[37] Through his friendships and connections from New Haven, Barnard often found sources of emotional support, life advice, and career moves throughout his life, as evidenced by the long records of correspondence between him and his Yale friends, as well as their families.[38]

Considering the importance of Yale relationships in Barnard’s life, it is unsurprising that Barnard’s conversion from Congregationalism to Episcopalianism—an aspect of Barnard’s life that later impacted Columbia and beyond—also arose from a Yale friendship. Although Barnard’s childhood pointed to Congregationalism as the sole denomination of truth and rejected all other forms of Protestantism, during his time in the College, Barnard learned of the Episcopalian ministry, particularly that of New York City, through a friend studying theology.[39] Upon reading several works on Episcopalianism that his friend gave to him, Barnard decided that “Episcopacy was either of direct apostolical institution or an universal, and therefore normal, development of the ministry established by the Apostles of Christ.”[40] Thus, after consulting his father, Barnard decided to convert, regularly attending St. Thomas’ Church at the corner of Broadway and Houston Street until he left for Alabama in 1837. During these years of Episcopalian worship, Barnard taught at various educational institutions—from the Hartford Grammar School to Yale College to the New York Institution for the Deaf and Dumb—accruing experience and combatting his hereditary disease of deafness.[41] Despite the exacerbation of his hearing ability, Barnard made several noteworthy accomplishments during this time. At Yale, he implemented a new system of specialized tutorship that transformed the curricula at New Haven and beyond, guaranteeing him a position of professorship that he hastily postponed because he didn’t want to wait for the appointment.[42] At the aforementioned New York institute, Barnard singlehandedly revolutionized the instructional methods in educating students of special needs, earning national attention.[43] However, his successes in all the schools he worked for did not inspire him; considering himself a scientist, Barnard was ready to leave New York by the late 1830s, in search of a career more deeply involved in science.[44] He sought to be appointed as a professor at his alma mater through his mentor Professor Silliman, but Barnard’s conversion to New York’s Episcopalianism costed him the position that would have been his if he had waited a few years back.[45] Luck, however, rested with Barnard, for, on his way back from visiting Silliman, he serendipitously ran into Basil Manly, President of the University of Alabama, who offered him the position of mathematics and natural philosophy professor at the newly erected Southern University.[46] Barnard accepted right away, oblivious to the slew of happenings that would plague and taint his mind until his death; that would illuminate the following undergraduate rumination of Barnard as accurate and prescient.[47]

Scholastic rank in college depended…as literary or professional rank in the world depends always, upon the consensus of opinion of the community which sees and judges it…A man’s superiority was acknowledged because it was felt, not because he could point to a high ‘mark’ on the term record.[48]

Thus, unsuspecting of all the drama that would arise with “the consensus of opinion of the community which sees and judges it,” Barnard headed toward a new “frontier” of his scientific and educational endeavors. With his Northern background, Northern education, and Northern Episcopalianism, Barnard, willingly, stepped into the deep, antebellum South, which he would not leave until the Great War.

University of Alabama

Barnard’s arrival and transition at Tuscaloosa seemed smooth—at first. As a young, passionate professor of mathematics and natural philosophy, Barnard “brought vigor and originality” into the classrooms and onto the University campus, regardless of his deafness.[49] Within the school grounds, Barnard built lasting relationships with his students and colleagues through his approachable manner and know-it-all intelligence.[50] He made scientific discoveries, produced original works of poetry, regularly wrote for the American Journal of Education, became an ordained deacon in the Episcopal Church, successfully compelled the state of Alabama to construct its very own observatory, and transformed the University of Alabama into a nationally-competitive institution, at least for a few years.[51] All of his shining accomplishments and still-celebrated endeavors in Tuscaloosa, however, were buttressed, facilitated, or actualized by the enslaved people and labor of Alabama.

The University opened its doors to fifty-four students in 1831, six years prior to when Barnard met President Manly.[52] Since its opening, it developed and evolved through its dependence on slaves. As Manly suggests in his “Report to the Trustees” in 1839, the number of enslaved people in the University—both personal and University-owned—easily exceeded double digits.[53] Professor of natural sciences Landon Cabell Garland, for example, arrived at the University in December of 1847 with “three wagonloads of Negro slaves,” totaling over sixty people.[54] According to the 1855 Alabama state census, Manly himself owned 38 slaves that year, meaning, just two white men, Garland and Manly, owned nearly a hundred people.[55]

Barnard was no exception; in fact, Barnard was worse than most slave-owners on campus, as records indicate that he owned multiple people and conveniently supported pro-slavery faculty from the beginning of his career at Tuscaloosa.[56] Although the majority of slaves at the University of Alabama remain nameless since slaves were counted not considered, President Manly’s personal diaries mention some names of Barnard’s slaves, like “Little Mary,” Morgan, Luna, Tom, and Johnson.[57] To see more names of the enslaved discovered thus far, please refer to the appendix at the end of this paper for a partial list of identified names at the University of Alabama, as the table—considering the identified was just a few of the toal—illuminates just how pervasive slavery was at Southern universities like Alabama.

Among all of Barnard’s slaves, the number of which cannot be discerned, Sam, the “College Servant,” is the most well-known.[58] Originally “hired” by the University, Sam was presented to Barnard by the Resident Trustee and placed under the jurisdiction of the Faculty; he “was employed in attending on the public rooms, and in rubbing and cleaning the apparatus in the chemical and philosophical department.”[59] While Sam primarily filled the role of Barnard’s personal lab-assistant, other slaves associated with Barnard performed menial tasks, from cleaning his residence to carrying coal in the winter.[60] Most slaves at the University had similar responsibilities, but they diverged from those like Sam in that they mostly served the students, carrying out tasks like such:

To carry fuel to the rooms.

To make fires.

To adjust the beds daily.

To sweep the rooms and passages daily.

To scour the floors,—twice, yearly;—one in April—once in the summer vacation.

To carry sufficient water to the rooms,—once a day, between October 1st and May 1st;—twice a day, between May 1st and October 1st.

Any services besides these, must be in their own time, and for their own proper perquisites.[61]

While these tasks, stated in the University’s regulations, paint a picture of what a day in the life of a University slave might have looked like, there exists an embedded history of violence below the surface of this already-loathsome record of enslaved labor. Thus, to completely understand the relationship between Barnard, slavery, and the University of Alabama, one must understand that the presence of slavery did not stop at subordination and labor; it entailed violence, especially from the students. In 1845, eight years after Barnard’s arrival, the University deemed the issue of student violence against University slaves became pressing enough—after a student, without reason, pierced Moses, a slave, in the arm with a metal fork—that the trustees incorporated a new statute into the University’s bylaws that prohibited student-initiated assault and punishment against on-campus slaves:[62]

A student shall not be permitted to inflict corporal punishment upon any servant employed by the University for any neglect of duty, or for other actual or alleged offence. The student’s remedy against a servant, in all cases, shall be to give information to the President or some other member of the Faculty.[63]

The new statute of 1845 did not stop much. Moses—who experienced a series of assaults that became known as the “Moses mishaps”—was one out of many who substantiated this unchanged reality.[64] In 1846, a year after the faculty implemented the regulation, a student severely injured Moses and the University fined him a single dollar.[65] In 1850, after a group of students stole a turkey from President Manly’s house and beat Moses for telling Manly.[66] Others experienced similar episodes of unrestrained violence, as most, if not all, students of the University came from a slave-owning families and communities. In 1851, for example, Sam got in an argument with Tom, one of Barnard’s male slaves, and beat him, which led to a mob of students whipping Sam.[67] The interactions between the faculty and students may have changed after the new regulation, but violence from students persisted. Furthermore, if student assaults decreased gradually, violence came from the faculty, as evidenced by Manly’s account of his punishment for Sam: “[Sam] behaved very insolently… refused to measure or receive a load of coal…By order of the Faculty, he was chastised...Not seemingly humbled, I whipped him a second time, very severely.”[68] 

With the knowledge of Barnard’s ties to slavery and the University’s violence against slaves, the aforesaid array of accomplishments by Barnard—like the construction of the Alabama State Observatory and the various scientific progresses made in the University—become distasteful. Moreover, Barnard’s description of his time in Tuscaloosa—sixteen years in total—as “some of the happiest and most fruitful years of his life” indicates that for the deaf, Northern-born professor, life in the deep South was enjoyable and convenient, more so than his years at New Haven, Hartford, or New York.[69] Thus, his successes in Tuscaloosa—which inarguably influenced his reputation, career, and future election to Columbia’s presidency—cannot be analyzed separately from slavery in his life and the University of Alabama.

Despite his fond memories of his convenient life in Alabama, Barnard, as his professorship passed the ten-year mark, began growing apart from the University due to frequent conflicts with Manly, leading to his resignation in 1857. Although Manly had been the one to recruit Barnard in the first place, the Baptist, secessionist president looked upon Barnard’s various Northern identities with contempt.[70] With a variety of disagreements that arose between Barnard and Manly, during a time of exacerbating radicalization in regional politics, Barnard’s place in Tuscaloosa became murkier with every passing month.[71] 1854, in particular, proved to be a poignantly challenging—and consequently Barnard’s last—year in Alabama. Manly’s administration, despite Barnard’s strenuous and continuous objections, implemented an elective approach to studies “wherein students were allowed to choose their studies, subject to the professors’ approval.”[72] This system eliminated what paralleled the “required curriculum” of Yale, or Columbia’s Core: “[it] temporarily replaced the class system where every Freshman took the same courses, every Sophomore took the same courses, and so forth.”[73] Barnard—who had elevated the reputation of the University through personal accomplishments alone—disagreed with the University President, arguing that such a system would offer unnecessary liberties to the already-rebellious undergraduates and undermine the efficiency of governance.[74] Barnard believed that the leader of a University must necessarily consolidate his power for maximum efficiency in accomplishing the objectives in educational progress, as he would later do at Columbia. Aimed at Manly, he wrote in a letter to the editor of the local newspaper: “It is true, therefore, that the existing college system is dependent for its successful operation, in a very eminent degree, upon the kind of men to whom its administration is entrusted.”[75]

The dissenting and fuming President, therefore, politicized this curricular dissent by underlining Barnard’s alignment with Yale’s curriculum and his own with that of the University of Virginia, of Thomas Jefferson.[76] In this atmosphere of increasing hostility and irreparable disagreements in pedagogical issues that meshed with the North-South dichotomy and debates on slavery, Barnard began preparing for his impending exit, voluntary or involuntary. As he nervously explained in an 1854 letter written to Edward Claudius Herrick, a Yale librarian with whom he forged a close relationship, Barnard foresaw a “general rebellion” rising from the horizon, and the Northerner of Southern guise intended to leave before such an uprising emerged in Tuscaloosa:

I think it not improbable that my chair…may be vacant here, in the course of the next six months…I wish to be able...to name some fit person to take my place. I ask you if you can think of any one…I am sorry to say that I believe it would be half the battle to a candidate for a place here, to have been born South of the Potomac…“We are in the midst of a revolution, bloodless as yet” as Mr. Clay said. In other words, the college is in a state pretty nearly approaching a general rebellion. We dismissed thirty four men yesterday.[77]

Barnard predicted his departure correctly. After receiving an offer from the University of Mississippi, he submitted his letter of resignation. His farewell was abrupt, but his life in Alabama—one so rooted in black servitude, white dominance, and regional schism—left Barnard with several qualities that would later define Columbia University. Scholastically, Alabama equipped Barnard with an honorable reputation in the American communities of science—thanks to his successes in astronomy and chemistry—that would be essential in developing a Universitas Scientiarum, a practical, scientific University like that of Germany which he envisioned in his institutions.[78] Ideologically, Barnard likely carried two thoughts: one, constructing and maintaining a University involved enormous room for dissent; two, minimizing dissent, or maximizing assent—through rule of force or power of sympathy—represented the most efficient path toward taking control of any institution, even if that meant defending indefensible atrocities like slavery, as he did with the aforesaid Branham Affair. Thus, Barnard headed toward the state of Mississippi, where even greater conflicts awaited him.[79]

University of Mississippi

After Barnard realized his vision for University education in Alabama did not match that of the Manly administration, he decided to continue his endeavors in the University of Mississippi. However, since Alabama, Barnard’s perception of his place in the South as a Northern educator began to taint, as evidenced by his decision to be ordained as an Episcopal priest in 1854, right before he moved to Mississippi.[80] Barnard enjoyed his life in Alabama and the prospect of forming new relationships did not excite him in the slightest. Perhaps Barnard thought his newfound priesthood would alleviate the transition process and help him meet new people in Oxford, maybe even alleviate the Southern anxiety towards his Northern identities; or perhaps Barnard genuinely considered the possibility of leaving academia after his conflicts with Manly. Regardless of his intention, Barnard knew his new involvement in Episcopalianism would entail some form of betterment, deliver some kind of joy, purpose, or progress in his life, as he wrote: “Bishop Cobbs resided in Montgomery, and I desired to be ordained by him before leaving his diocese [of Alabama].”[81]

Thus, as Barnard prepared to leave Alabama, he also began preaching, starting with Selma, where the aforesaid bishop of the Episcopal diocese of Alabama ordained him.[82] The same sermon given at Selma, he also delivered in Tuscaloosa on October 15, 1854, as well as in Oxford after his move, on November 5. Considering Barnard gave the same sermon in both Tuscaloosa and Oxford, the content of the sermon illustrates his state of mind during this time and its primary questions; the following quote from the Gospel of John, which starts the sermon, and the inquiry that accompanies it both illuminate exactly that:

John. V. 40: “Ye will not come to me that ye might have life”

…Nothing can be more transparently evident than that man is either not created for this world only, or that he is created in vain. But whence shall the satisfaction of man’s higher destiny come?[83]

Here Barnard suggests that men are destined for more than just “this world,” that “man’s higher destiny” is reachable. He clarifies later in the sermon that one must necessarily have faith in God and faithfully execute the duties as a Christian to reach this “higher destiny.”[84] While this excerpt may seem hardly significant, Barnard’s doubts toward his new position in Mississippi—coupled with his boundless ambition in academia that inspired him to be hopeful—reveal the uncertainties that occupied his mind regarding when his own “higher destiny” would arrive, whether his new life in Oxford would deliver such a future to him. To Barnard’s dismay, this “higher destiny” did not greet him in Mississippi, only hostility and dissent didi; he would have to wait until the Civil War forced him northward to see his vision of the University come to life.

Barnard’s miseries at the University of Mississippi effectively began in 1857, when Barnard’s Methodist forebear Augustus Baldwin Longstreet resigned after a financial scandal.[85] In the search and election of a new University leader, a conflict between the Episcopalian majority and Methodist minority within trustees began to form when the latter attempted to eliminate Barnard, the Northern Episcopalian, from the race by smearing his scientific scholarship.[86] However, owing to the Episcopalian majority of the trustees at Mississippi and support from his allies—like that of the Alumni of University of Alabama—Barnard, professor of mathematics and natural philosophy, exited the realm of professorship and reached the apex of his new University.[87] In short, a war between Mississippi Episcopalians and Methodists began brewing the moment Barnard received the position of governance and would culminate into the aforementioned Branham Affair. 

Chancellor Barnard, from the outset, differed from Professor Barnard and his predecessor Longstreet. With administrative power and newfound agency, he began transforming, or at least attempted to transform, the University of Mississippi into an institution of his dream: a German-modeled, graduate-focused research University that surpassed the likes of Harvard in practical, science-based education.[88] Thus, Barnard brought sweeping reforms. In 1857, his first year as Chancellor, Barnard implemented a new regulation into the University’s Laws that prohibited the cancellation of classes for political reasons, because the number of cancellations increased dramatically with heightened interest in politics during the 1850s and in turn seriously affected, at least in Barnard’s mind, the quality of study.[89] The next year, he published his Letter to the Honorable Board of Trustees of the University of Mississippi, a 112-page essay in which Barnard sketched his vision of a universitas scientiarum—a research “institution that would include all the branches of science, medicine, culture, law, classical studies, civil and political history, and oriental learning” so that it met the practical demands of the age and its people.[90] Through the Letter, Barnard attempted to convince the trustees of the University and the people of the state to desire such an institution, for the state university, to a degree, depended on changes in public opinion for implementation of new policies.[91] Yet, to Barnard’s disappointment, his Letter generated more pushback than support from both within and outside the University. The public and the press viewed the writings of the new Chancellor, a Northerner, with great skepticism, perhaps inevitably. The trustees and evangelical clergy of Mississippi, too, mostly responded with negative feedback, bringing back the issue of slavery like Manly did in Alabama, with some calling the University of Barnard’s vision as a “citadel of atheism” and “a hotbed of abolitionism.”[92] 

With the happenings of 1858, Barnard realized that even after his elevation to Chancellor, he did not possess enough power to enact meaningful changes without the authority that Southerners naturally gave to those of Southern birth and background; that as a Northerner in the antebellum South, any kind of opposition to his ideas and reforms would come with an accusation of Unionism and abolitionism. Barnard’s letters to Eugene Woldemar Hilgard—a Mississippi state geologist who became inseparable friends with Barnard due to their common devotion to science—reveal the Chancellor’s feelings toward the University of Mississippi and his life in the South during this trying period. In 1857, for example, Barnard wrote to Hilgard: “There is nothing new here…It is very lonesome; and I am almost miserable.”[93] A little over a year later in November, after the assault of Jane by Humphreys in May, Barnard’s words to Hilgard indicated exacerbation in his conditions and emotions, as he wrote, “Excuse this hardly time. I have not been well, and am still hardly myself.”[94] Then, in January of 1860, at the height of the Branham Affair, Barnard sent the following letter to Hilgard, informing him of the death of Nathan, one of his slaves.[95]

My Dear Doctor,

Though I have too much on my hand to be able to write, I send this line to tell you that my poor servant, Nathan, died on Sunday last and was buried on Monday. The same night my cellar was feloniously entered, and his little hoard dug for, and I suppose removed, as it cannot now be found.

Until the thing was done, I had not heard, myself, where he had placed it. My wife broke down as soon as Nathan died and would not attend the funeral. She is better now.[96]

Previous scholarship of Barnard or the University of Mississippi neither possess nor indicate any records of Nathan. The significance of Nathan here can be taken as trifold. One, Nathan’s identity, as explicitly described by Barnard himself in the letter above, complicates the two-year report of the “University of Mississippi Slavery and the University Working Group” and renders the 1860 Federal Censuses as incomplete, since it claims that Barnard only owned two women slaves when in reality he definitely owned at least three, or probably owned more than three.[97] Two, that Barnard owned more than two slaves during his time in the University of Mississippi suggests that although he later denounced slavery as an institution, slavery had to represent a source of convenience, assimilation, or protection, or all the above. Three, Barnard’s diction and the Mrs. Barnard’s reaction to Nathan’s death imply that both Barnards had supposedly grown attached to, and cared for, Nathan; this highlights the Chancellor’s Episcopalian paternalism, which restricted the liberties of those subordinate to them—enslaved black people—in the subordinates’ supposed best interest—keeping them safe and productive through bondage.

By the summer of 1860, a few months after the trustees’ investigation of Branham, Barnard seemed to be at his lowest, for he knew that his dreams of creating an unmatched Universitas Scientiarum had been completely crushed after the Branham Affair and its subsequent damage to his reputation in the state. He confessed to Hilgard, in worse-than-usual handwriting, “I am wholly unfit to write to you. I feel like laying up entirely.”[98] At this point, the Chancellor’s desire to leave the University had become apparent and those trustees who supported him—like soon-to-be Inspector General of CSA Jacob Thompson—urged him to remain calm, patient, and unaffected.[99] Yet when the Civil War took over the nation and the state of Mississippi seceded from the Union, Barnard left Oxford with the first chance granted to him. Although he lied through his teeth, Barnard clarified his real sentiments toward slavery and the South during his northward journey during the Civil War. Publishing an open letter to Abraham Lincoln, Barnard admitted to his loyalty to the Union, revealing all of his past defenses of slavery as strategic moves toward political expediency in University politics.[100] Ultimately, Barnard’s departure can be understood as inevitable, as the Chancellor left all of his possessions and property behind in Oxford: the largest collection of scientific instruments in the nation that he envisioned as a part of his failed University; and all of his slaves, including Jane.

Columbia University and Barnard

In 1864, the Board of Trustees at Columbia University announced a vacancy in its presidency. Although Barnard should have had an unfavorable chance in becoming president as an outsider to Columbia, rumors of the trustees protecting a Confederate spy amongst them, coupled with a complete lack of viable candidates, led to the Board’s election of Barnard as the University’s 10th President.[101] Thus the anomalous presidency of Barnard, though opposed by most of the trustees throughout his reign and until his resignation, transformed Columbia in three major ways: it turned it into a modern university, provided a foundation for the afterlives of slavery on-campus, and inspired the formation of Barnard College, a product of Columbia’s Episcopalian paternalism that gradually became the beacon of feminist education in New York and beyond.

The Columbia that Barnard inherited in 1864 presented numerous challenges to Barnard. First, for Barnard—a “College Agnostic” who dreamed of the aforesaid Universitas Scientiarum—an unfavorable financial situation of Columbia College represented significant impediments in Barnard’s plans of expansion, which entailed generous use of the College’s funds to create various branches of the University, separate from the College.[102] This approach, of course, apart from its financial limits, invited opposition from the trustees, who feared that Barnard’s ambitious politics would waste the College’s finances and expand the role of president from a mere extension to their Board to the head of the modern university.[103] While Barnard never amended his relations with the trustees, he made sure to avoid the mistakes he made in Mississippi and Alabama. Instead of attempting to convert or persuade the trustees, Barnard would simply use outside voices to pressure the University to enact change, namely those of the faculty, New York’s Episcopal circles, and his colleagues in the sphere of American science.[104] Thus, regardless of conflicts with the trustees, Barnard’s initial efforts at Columbia can be boiled down to the consolidation of central authority in the University—the presidency—and the expansion of the University to increase its enrollment, revenue, and size—the various schools.

The first example of expansion emerged with the late School of Mines, better known as the Fu Foundation School of Engineering and Applied Science. The first accomplishment of Barnard’s presidency, the School of Mines opened with the mission of providing the technical and practical education that the Civil War, the 1849 Gold Rush, and the emergence of the West Coast popularized in the 19th century.[105] The new school attracted students immediately, expanding the University’s population significantly, as evidenced by the fact that the School of Mines was graduating twice as many students as the College after five years of its opening within the new University.[106] With the School of Mines as his first stepping stone, Barnard envisioned “a Columbia where the numerically moribund College was subordinated to the rapidly growing professional schools,” of which he would sit at the top as scholar supreme.

Along with the School of Mines, Columbia School of Political Science (CSPS) emerged and developed under Barnard’s presidency and John W. Burgess’ supervision. The CSPS, which would later become the current Graduate School of Arts and Sciences, owed its success first and foremost to Burgess, who designed and oversaw the programs of the school. While Barnard and Burgess both had passion and self-interest in the construction of a modern University rooted in the German education system, the two differed in their approach to and ideals of expansion. Yet when it came to the issue of constructing a professional school dedicated to the discipline of political science, which Burgess is often credited for as one of its early creators, Barnard and Burgess converged at the same point.[107] Despite resistance from some faculty and trustees in the 1880s, Barnard’s unmoving will to create this branch of the University helped Burgess push through. In a letter written to Barnard a few months before the President’s resignation, Burgess emphasized the role of Barnard in the success of his scholarship and the CSPS, even after nearly a decade of dissent in almost every other area of University-building, including coeducation:

My dear Friend…I cannot view the severance of our relations in The College but with the deepest sorrow. To your kind and generous support I owe all the success of the little service… The institution will never seem the same to me again. A man of your resignation is, I feel, prophetic of the future. May God bless you and preserve you for many years more and enable you to aid us still by your nice counsel and your devoted character.

Faithfully your friend,

J.W. Burgess[108]

The friendship between Burgess and Barnard that arise regardless of their disagreements reveal the fact that Columbia encompassed more scholars—more than that of the two Southern universities Barnard worked for—who aligned with Barnard on the issue of Universitas Scientiarum. People like Burgess disagreed with Barnard on who got to enjoy this new University, but the two inarguably agreed in the construction of it. Thus, considering the legacy of Burgess and his protege William Dunning, Barnad can be understood as one of the patrons of the Dunning School, for he offered the platform for Burgess to expand, disseminate, and crystallize his white-male, Anglo-Saxon, and Protestant historiography and political theories.

Another institution of Columbia that had ties with Barnard is the Columbia University College of Physicians and Surgeons (P&S). As an semi-autonomous body of the University, P&S seemed to be out of reach for Barnard; however, as his correspondence with Cornelius Rea Agnew—CC ’1849 and P&S ’1852 who served as New York’s surgeon-general—reveal, Barnard had a decisive role in the naming of P&S, as well as in using the advice of the city’s Episcopalians in the transformation of P&S, the School of Mines, and the broader University project. For example, Barnard wrote to Agnew in some of his letters that he sought Bishop Codman Potter, bishop of Episcopal Church of America, for advice in University politics, development of the P&S, and expanding the School of Mines.[109] Barnard’s frequent meetings with Bishop Potter, who also oversaw the construction of the Cathedral of St. John, reveal the traces of Episcopalianism in Columbia. And as Barnard enterd the last two decades of his presidency, those traces became noticeable in the trustees with the emergence of the coeducation debates, even more conspicuous with the emergence of Barnard College.

As Barnard continued to expand Columbia through various projects, he began to develop confidence in, or “optimism about the drawing power of Columbia’s professional schools [that] were borne out by the numbers.”[110] Thus, any kind of expansion in the number of people at Columbia, subsequently the diversity of people at the University, began to represent progress for Barnard. Thus, despite his lack of care for the intersectional progress of women and minorities, he remained open to the idea of admitting women as a means of expansion, social control of men, and diversification of the school.[111] To Barnard, the progress of women’s liberties in higher education represented another transformation that should take place under his reign, as he perceived such an expansionist movement as the natural, inevitable trajectory of American society and Columbia. With this increasingly inclusive, yet not necessarily progressive, tendency of the President, Burgess, with several Episcopalian trustees, began to vehemently oppose Barnard’s efforts in expansion via numbers.[112] Among such figures was Morgan Dix, an Episcopal priest of New York with a popular ministry in Trinity Church. Together, Burgess and Dix emphasized that Columbia University reserved itself for white men of Protestant backgrounds, not Jews, blacks, women, or really any other kind of minority; the two, with Reverend Dix as chair of the committee on coeducation discussions, successfully led the trustees to reject Barnard’s proposals of, and reports on, coeducation, Barnard’s second report in 1883 receiving no votes for his ideas from the trustees.[113]

Proving to be far more progressive and intersectional than those at Columbia, however, the public and the press of New York pressured the Columbia trustees to reconsider their votes, which led to the creation of the Collegiate Course for Women in Columbia College.[114] While the program ended in six years without much success, it offered an invaluable experience and point of leverage for Annie Nathan Meyer, who took the course and graduated from the program successfully. In truth, as Hannah Eyob’s essay on Barnard from the 2017 CU & Slavery seminar indicate, the anti-Semitic trustees of Columbia only named the separate women’s college after the Episcopalian President Barnard, because he represented the identity they wanted to preserve in Morningside Heights.[115] In truth, the role of Meyer in the development of Barnard warrants the College to be named after her and “Barnard College,” the name, can be understood as a nomenclatural manifestation of Episcopalian paternalism of the Columbia trustees.

Now, as we look back at the history of Barnard, both the College and the man, Frederick Barnard’s legacy as a slave-owner, an Episcopalian, and a “University man” brings forth questions of what can be done as Columbia and Barnard progress together. It cannot be denied that at its origin, and for at least the first few decades of the College, Barnard College forcibly embraced the spirit of “separate but equal” and delayed coedcation based on complete equality. With this knowledge, it is first essential to notice the effects of separatism and segregation and eradicate it to embrace intersectionality. As Eyob writes in the aforementioned essay, it is essential for all members of this University to recognize the endeavors of Barnard’s true founder, Annie Nathan Meyer, and the countless marginalized women, especially women of color like Zora Neale Hurston, who created an invaluable yet painfully-established precedent for generations of women to come. Columbia and Barnard must both recognize that legacies of Frederick Barnard and his work at the University still survive among us, concealed in the form of policy and practice that continue to marginalize and elevate certain segments of the University population.

Appendix A

List of Identified Names: Barnard’s slaves in UA and UM

[1] “Branham Affair” in Faculty Minutes (1859-1861), March 2, 1860, Box 1, folder 1.4, Faculty Minutes and Committees Collection (MUM00554), The Department of Archives and Special Collections, J.D. Williams Library, The University of Mississippi. 

[2] David G. Sansing, The University of Mississippi: A Sesquicentennial History, (Jackson, MS: University Press of Mississippi, 1999), 96.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Record of the testimony and proceedings in the matter of the investigation by the trustees of the University of Mississippi, on the 1st and 2nd of March, 1860 of the charges made by H.R. Branham, against the chancellor of the University, March 3, 1860, University of Mississippi Special Collections, J. D. Williams Library, University of Mississippi, 12.

[5] Ibid

[6] Record of the testimony and proceedings, March 3, 1860, 4.

[7] Craig Wilder, Ebony and Ivy (New York: Bloomsbury Press, 2013), 236-237.

[8] “May 23, 1859,” Box 1, folder 1.4, Faculty Minutes and Committees Collection (MUM00554), the Department of Archives and Special Collections, J.D. Williams Library, The University of Mississippi.

[9] Record, March 3, 1860, 4.

[10] Sansing, The University of Mississippi: A Sesquicentennial History, 97.

[11] Record of the testimony, March 3, 1860, University of Mississippi Special Collections, 5.

[12] Ibid, 4-5.

[13] “Branham Affair” in Faculty Minutes (1859-1861), March 2, 1860, Box 1, folder 1.4, Faculty Minutes and Committees Collection (MUM00554), the Department of Archives and Special Collections, J.D. Williams Library, The University of Mississippi. 

[14] Record of the testimony, March 3, 1860, University of Mississippi Special Collections, 25.

[15] Ibid, 4, 26.

[16] Letter, F.A.P. Barnard to Board of Trustees, March 1858, the Department of Archives and Special Collections, J.D. Williams Library, University of Mississippi.

[17] John Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, Tenth President of Columbia College in the City of New York (New York: Macmillan and Company, 1896),

[18] Ibid, 3.

[19] Ibid.

[20] J. William T. Youngs, The Congregationalists, Denominations in America (New York: Greenwood Press, 1998), 8; Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 2.

[21] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 3.

[22] Ibid, 6.

[23] Ibid, 4.

[24] F. A. P. Barnard, “How I was educated,” The Forum, May 1886, 218.

[25] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 18.

[26] Barnard, “How I was educated,” 218.

[27] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 3.

[28] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 32.

[29] Ibid.

[30] “Yale University Catalogue, 1824,” Nov. 1824, Yale University Publications Collection, Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Yale University, 15.

[31] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 33; “Yale University Catalogue, 1825,” Nov. 1825, Yale University Publications Collection, Beinecke Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Yale University, 11.

[32] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 33.

[33] Barnard, “How I was educated,” 218.

[34] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 33.

[35] Letter, Benjamin Silliman to F.A.P. Barnard, Box 5, Frederick Augustus Porter Barnard Papers, Columbia University Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University; Letter, Denison Olmstead to F.A.P. Barnard, Box 5, Frederick Augustus Porter Barnard Papers, Columbia University Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University; Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 33.

[36] James Benson Sellers, History of the University of Alabama: Volume One, 1818-1902 (Tuscaloosa, AL: University of Alabama Press), 70.

[37] Barnard, “How I was educated,” 218.

[38] Robert A. McCaughey, Stand, Columbia: A History of Columbia University in the City of New York, 1754-2004 (New York: Columbia University Press, 2003), 147-148; Letters, F.A.P. Barnard to D.E. Bartlett, Elias Loomis, and Edward Claudius Herrick, 1831-1856, Box 1, Frederick Augustus Porter Barnard Papers, Columbia University Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

[39] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 39.

[40] Ibid, 40.

[41] Charles B. Davenport, “Biographical Memoir of Frederick Augustus Porter Barnard, 1809-1889,” National Academy of Sciences Biographical Memoirs (Washington: National Academy of Sciences, 1938), 260

[42] Davenport, “Biographical Memoir of Frederick Augustus Porter Barnard,” 260.

[43] Davenport, “Biographical Memoir of Frederick Augustus Porter Barnard,” 260; McCaughey, Stand, Columbia, 148.

[44] McCaughey, Stand, Columbia, 148.

[45] Ibid.

[46] Sansing, The University of Mississippi: A Sesquicentennial History, 77.

[47] Ibid, 76.

[48] Barnard, “How I was educated,” 218.

[49] Sellers, History of the University of Alabama, 70.

[50] Manuscript note, “College Memories,” Warfield C. Richardson, June 20, 1899, W. S. Hoole Special Collections, University of Alabama; Typescript, Reminiscences of a Long Life: Historical, Political, Personal and Literary, William Russell Smith, 1889, NYPL Americana Collection, New York Public Library, 234-237. https://archive.org/details/reminiscencesofl01smit

[51] Sellers, History of the University of Alabama, 69-71; David M. Battles, Yea, Alabama! A Peek into the Past of One of the Most Storied Universities in the Nation (Tuscaloosa: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2016), 1.

[52] Battles, Yea, Alabama! A Peek into the Past, 1.

[53] “Report to the Trustees of the University of Alabama, 1839” in Manly Diary 2, Basil Manly Sr., 1839, Manly Family Papers, W. S. Hoole Special Collections Library, The University of Alabama.

[54] Sellers, History of the University of Alabama, 79.

[55] Alfred Brophy, University, Court, and Slave: Proslavery Academic Thought and Southern Jurisprudence, (Oxford, UK: Oxford University Press, 2016), 150.

[56] Ibid.

[57] Sellers, History of the University of Alabama, 39-40; “Report to the Trustees” in Manly Diary 2, 1839.

[58] Basil Manly Diary, 1848-55, March 11, 1839, W. S. Hoole Special Collections Library, University of Alabama. 

[59] “Report to the Trustees” in Manly Diary 2, 1839.


[61] Typescript, Bylaws of the University of Alabama, W. S. Hoole Special Collections Library.

[62] Manuscript of General Meeting, March 24, 1845, University of Alabama Faculty Minutes, W. S. Hoole Special Collections Library; Brophy, University, Court, and Slave, 150.

[63] Bylaws of the University of Alabama, W. S. Hoole Special Collections Library.

[64] Manuscript, Bill of Sale, Board of Trustees of the University of Alabama, January 7, 1845, W. S. Hoole Special Collections, University of Alabama; Sellers, History of the University of Alabama, 38, 235.

[65] Minutes of General Meeting, February 16, 1846, University of Alabama Faculty Minutes, W. S. Hoole Special Collections Library.

[66] Sellers, History of the University of Alabama,236.

[67] Manly Diary 3, 112.

[68] Manly Diary 3, 65.

[69] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 87.

[70] McCaughey, Stand, Columbia, 149.

[71] Manuscript, “No just cause for a dissolution of the Union in any thing which has hitherto happened; but the Union the only security for Southern Rights,” F.A.P. Barnard, July 4, 1851, Box 8, F.A.P. Barnard Papers, Columbia University Rare Books & Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

[72] Battles, Yea, Alabama! A Peek into the Past, 148.

[73] Battles, Yea, Alabama! A Peek into the Past, 148.


[75] Barnard, Letters on Evils of College Government, 50.

[76] McCaughey, Stand, Columbia, 149.

[77] Letter, F.A.P. Barnard to Edward Claudius Herrick, May 17, 1854, Box 1, Frederick Augustus Porter Barnard Papers, Columbia University Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

[78] McCaughey, Stand, Columbia, 149.

[79] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 252.

[80]Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 195-196. McCaughey writes that, upon arriving at Oxford, Mississippi, Barnard decided to be ordained as a priest of the Episcopal Church in 1856. This is incorrect. Barnard decided to be ordained in 1854 and was ordained by Bishop Cobbs in Selma, Alabama.

[81] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 195.

[82] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 195; Manuscript of Sermons, “Preached at Selma, AL on October 6, 1854,” Frederick A. P. Barnard, October 6, 1854, Box 7, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

[83] Manuscript of Sermons, “Preached at Tuscaloosa, AL on October 15, 1854,” “Preached at Oxford, MS on November 5, 1854,” Frederick A. P. Barnard, Oct. 6, Nov. 5, 1854, Box 7, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

[84] Ibid.

[85] Sansing, The University of Mississippi, 74; Brophy, University, Court, and Slave, 147-148.

[86] Sansing, The University of Mississippi, 76.

[87] Sansing, The University of Mississippi, 76; Manuscript, Resolution of the Alumni of University of Alabama, July 16, 1857, Box 1, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

[88] Ibid, 66.

[89] Ibid.

[90] Manuscript, F.A.P. Barnard, Letter to the Honorable Board of Trustees of the University of Mississippi, March 1858, Box 8, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University; Sansing, The University of Mississippi, 66.

[91] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 209; Sansing, The University of Mississippi, 67.

[92] Brophy, University, Court, and Slave, 150.

[93] Letter, F. A. P. Barnard to Eugene Woldemar Hilgard, April 7, 1857, Box 2, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library; Columbia University.

[94] Letter, F. A. P. Barnard to Eugene Woldemar Hilgard, November 17, 1859, Box 2, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library; Columbia University.

[95] Letter, F. A. P. Barnard to Eugene Woldemar Hilgard, January 18, 1860, Box 2, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library; Columbia University.

[96] Ibid.

[97] “2-Year Report and Proposal for Future Projects,” UM Slavery and the University Working Group, October 15, 2015, J.D. Williams Library, The University of Mississippi, 18.

[98] Letter, F. A. P. Barnard to Eugene Woldemar Hilgard, June 10, 1860, Box 2, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library; Columbia University.

[99] Letter, F. A. P. Barnard to Jacob Thompson, August 23, 1861, Box 5, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library; Columbia University.

[100] Letter, “An Open Letter to the President of the United States, by a Refugee,” F. A. P. Barnard to Abraham Lincoln, January 21, 1863.

[101] McCaughey, Stand, Columbia, 150.

[102] Ibid, 170-171.

[103] Letter, George Armour to F.A.P. Barnard, October 15, 1888, Box 1, Frederick A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

[104] McCaughey, Stand, Columbia, 152, 159; Letters, William Cullen Bryant to F. A. P. Barnard, June 7, 1873, January 14, 1878, Box 6, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University; Letter, Howard Crosby to F. A. P. Barnard, February 15, 1884, Box 4, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University; Letters, Howard Crosby to F. A. P. Barnard, February 15, 1884, Box 4, F. A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

[105] James Kip Finch, A History of the School of Engineering, Columbia University (New York: Columbia University Press, 1954), 35.

[106] McCaughey, Stand, Columbia, 154.

[107] McCaughey, Stand, Columbia, 163.

[108] Letter, John W. Burgess to F.A.P. Barnard, May 8, 1888, Box 4, Frederick A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

[109] Letters, F. A. P. Barnard to Cornelius Rea Agnew, 1877-1885, Box 4, Frederick A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

[110] McCaughey, Stand, Columbia, 171.

[111] Fulton, Memoirs of Frederick A. P. Barnard, 412-413,

[112] Letter, F. A. P. Barnard to Morgan Dix, July 14, 1888, Box 4, Frederick A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University; Letter, Morgan Dix to F. A. P. Barnard, May 13, 1887, Box 4, Frederick A. P. Barnard Papers, Rare Books and Manuscript Library, Columbia University.

[113] McCaughey, Stand, Columbia, 167.

[114] Ibid.

[115] Bill Gartig, “The Episcopal Church’s History with Slavery and Racism,” Interchange, Nov. 2008.