Knowing my love for the Ģ����ý, a family member recently surprised me with a unique gift for the holidays—a small leather rectangle stamped with the pre-1928 Rochester seal. They found it on eBay a while back but didn’t have much information regarding its history. Do you know its origins and what it might have been used for?
—Jason Buitrago ’07, ’14W (MS)

Your gift was originally tucked inside a pack of cigarettes, issued circa 1910. Though made of leather, it belongs to a long history of cigarette, or trading, “cards.”

As Maurice Rickards writes in his��Encyclopedia of Ephemera, “Cigarette cards were among the first items of ephemera to be produced specifically for collecting. Originating in America as cardboard stiffeners for the paper packs in which cigarettes were then sold, it was shortly realized that the . . . blank cards might serve some promotional purpose.”

What better way to convince consumers to keep buying than to distribute cards in limited-run series on topics of interest to people of all ages? Beginning in the late 1870s, cigarette companies issued cards with themes ranging from historical figures and literary characters to flags, flowers, and, of course, athletes.

American colleges and universities entered the mix around 1910. Appearing alongside Harvard, Yale, Princeton, and many others,��Ģ����ý��made it into��nearly every��set. By then, protecting package contents had become��largely secondary��to marketing, and companies began producing sets in other materials such as leather, silk, and felt.

Leather rectangles and triangular pennants appeared in��various colors, either “blind-stamped” like yours or with color accents. “Silks” came in two formats: small woven strips in solid colors featuring school names and seals, and more fragile printed four-by-five-inch silk panels tucked into cigar boxes.��One such design included a basketball and net, the first verse of “The Genesee,” the school yell, and the pre-1928 seal. Paper cards came in two sizes and depicted an energetic scene of students playing ice hockey—organized as a varsity sport in the fall of 1906.

There is no evidence of any objection to being included in these promotions, but the Archives holds no documents suggesting University administrators were consulted, either. And tobacco��wasn’t��the only vehicle: Weber Bakery in Irvington, New Jersey, also distributed cards,��perhaps licensing��the image from a tobacco company. Text on the back promised a different card packed with each loaf of bread every day for two months, and posed the question: “Which college is your favorite?”

Fair warning, though:��Acquiring��Ģ����ý��ephemera can be habit-forming. The Archives’ holdings grew significantly recently, thanks to a gift from Mark Zaid ’89 from his extensive collection. Look for the first installment—his postcards and tobacco ephemera—on the�� soon.

This story appears in the spring 2026 issue of Rochester Review, the magazine of the Ģ����ý.

In your 13 years as University archivist, what’s one question that’s stumped you but that you remain determined to answer?
—Tama Miyake Lung, editor, Rochester Review

My prize for “still looking for the answer” goes to the school song, “The Genesee.” Why do we only sing two verses, when it was written with three? For me, determining when we dropped the middle verse has been the first step to the why. There are a lot of clues and some distracting anecdotes but no definitive answer yet to this admittedly low-stakes question.

A 1916 article in the student newspaper, the , proclaims: “‘The Genesee’ as an Alma Mater is ideal, for it links our college to the river about which our city centers . . . its first notes are the signal for ‘on your feet’ and ‘hats off.’”

We all know —written in 1891 by Thomas Thackeray Swinburne (Class of 1892)—with music arranged by Herve Wilkins (Class of 1866).

“The Genesee” was embraced by students and within a decade became our alma mater. It’s the first entry in a songbook used at the Commencement Week festivities of 1893.

But Swinburne kept tinkering with it: A new version appeared in the Campus on December 14, 1898. The biggest changes were in verse three: Gone were the gathering force, the devious course, and forever loyal be, replaced by a mill-wheel, a grove, and vernal hours.

Was Swinburne more focused on improving the poem (in his view) than on lyrics? The revisions confused singers: Letters in the Campus urged upperclassmen to learn the new words so they would be in sync with the first-years. Luckily, the lyric reverted after a few years.

What evidence is there for when the switch to two verses occurred? A songbook pasted in the scrapbook of Raymond Ball (Class of 1914) may be the first printed indication, although freshman handbooks continued printing three verses.

I was wondering if you could help me elucidate the history of the Rochester Plan? I became aware of this program my freshman year through the Career Center in Lattimore Hall. The carrot was that you didn’t have to take the MCATs if you successfully got in, but the program’s main point was to broaden your education by allowing you to take courses that you wouldn’t have otherwise taken or were too afraid to take while preparing to apply for medical school. It was an intensive process, involving the initial application, then a second application explaining how you would plan out your next three years of coursework plus two application essays on how you viewed your career after medical school and 10 years out (really testing planning and maturity here), and then Medical Center interviews (third cut). Over the years, I’ve run into other R-Plan members of different generations, and we all speak fondly of the trials and tribulations of the process and who we were interviewed by along the way.

—Edward Fox ’91, ’95M (MD)

The December 1975 issue of Currents, the University’s staff newspaper, announced that the Commonwealth Fund, a private foundation, had given $2 million in support of a multistrand proposal to “provide for closer integration of premedical and medical education; preparation for a variety of careers in the health professions besides medicine; and individualized programs crossing departmental and college lines and involving greatly expanded faculty advising.”

In choosing Rochester, the Commonwealth Fund identified the same interdisciplinary strengths and structures of the University that convinced John D. Rockefeller’s General Education Board to fund the School of Medicine in 1920.

To integrate “premedical and medical education,” the new model adopted a 2-4-2 framework. Undergraduates applied for admission to the School of Medicine and Dentistry (SMD) during sophomore year (the first “2”), spent the next four years in both undergraduate and preclinical coursework, and spent the final two years in clinical training.

As you note, acceptance into the early selection component of the Rochester Plan meant no worries about the Medical College Admission Test, or MCAT. Early selection also eliminated redundant coursework, thus providing the freedom to explore subjects more broadly in the humanities and social sciences.

More than 100 faculty from across the University planned the plan. Some formed interdepartmental “clusters” to develop new courses, majors, and departments available to all students. Taken together with the Center for Special Degree Programs (initiated in 1970 to enable students to build their own interdepartmental curriculum), this work might be viewed as laying the foundations for the Rochester Curriculum, established in 1995.

Another feature of the plan provided funding to support faculty interested in exploring disciplines beyond their own. These “Bridging Fellowships” are still funded by the provost’s office.

Undergraduate research was also part of the plan: The “Summer Program provided a means to formalize [an] informal process, [and] to show recognition for undergraduate summer research work.” In 1976, 62 students received stipends to undertake projects of their own design, and others participated without funding. Many wrote papers based on their projects: The Journal of Undergraduate Research debuted in November of that same year, containing 16 reports.

Based on your experience and that of your fellow early selection alums, the 2-4-2 program was a success. But it did not take hold on a larger scale either at Rochester or at the other institutions that later received funding to implement it.

In 1991, Rochester joined its peers in offering conditional admission to medical school as part of the undergraduate application process by launching the program. The last cohort of 2-4-2 students entered the program in 1997, and the at the medical school—emphasizing clinical training throughout the four years of medical training—started in 2000.

The Rochester Plan, with its many forward-looking goals, exponents, and participants, should be recognized for the trail it blazed a half-century ago.

A version of this story appears in the spring 2025 issue of Rochester Review, the magazine of the Ģ����ý.

Luke Auburn’s article “Bit by Mega Bit” (summer 2024) traces the first 50 years of the . In 1964 I entered UR as a transfer student. Prior to graduation the next year, I was employed part time in UR financing. Though the details are fuzzy after 60 years, I was entrusted with the routine processing of employee punch cards prior to my oversight of the actual in-house printing of staff and faculty paychecks.��Is there documentation of the beginnings of university administrative computing?

—Ronald Epp ’65 (PhD)

According to research done by the University’s Computing Laboratory Committee, Treasurer LaRoy Thompson wrote in an April 29, 1953, letter to President Cornelis de Kiewiet that “an order has been placed with IBM for rental of a Card Programmed Calculator (CPC).” Receipt of the equipment was at least nine months out, so the committee advised that a survey of offices that might use the CPC—registration, accounting, alumni records, fundraising, etc.—be conducted. In fact, multiple reviews were already underway.

Rewind to 1951: almost from the moment de Kiewiet became our fifth president, he initiated studies to evaluate the monetary and intellectual costs of maintaining two campuses and two undergraduate colleges versus returning to coeducation by unifying the undergraduate students on the River Campus, leaving the Memorial Art Gallery at Prince Street along with the Eastman School of Music dormitories. Perhaps no decision since its 1850 founding has so thoroughly affected every aspect of the University.

In spring 1952, an Accounting Committee survey reported that “non-uniformity” was uniformly present in payroll. The Hospital and College were each using National Cash Register (NCR) tabulating systems, having determined that the cost to rent an IBM machine was too high.

Another office used the IBM service bureau in Rochester and paid for processing time rather than renting (and maintaining) the equipment directly. The processes for invoicing and purchasing were similarly distinct.

Meanwhile, Rochester faculty in a wide variety of departments were clamoring for an on-campus facility, but consultation with Cornell revealed that “. . . the IBM people are a little over-enthusiastic about our need for the CPC for scientific research.”

It appears that Rochester’s 1953 order was not fulfilled, and the University Computing Center would not open until early 1956.

A Burroughs E101 was received in April and an IBM 650 was installed in July. Senior staff included��Thomas Keenan ’47 and Patricia Eberlein, who would have faculty appointments in physics and business, respectively. Informal courses in programming were offered beginning in the fall.

As was often the case in the early decades of computing, many of the staff in the center were women. Far from being “hidden figures,” these women served as senior programmers and computer operators; taught classes in Fortran and running subroutines; and their publications were regularly announced in the newsletter of the Computing Center.

In the spring of 1957, registration of the University School students was piloted using the new system. “On the whole, we believe there is real merit in this type of application and feel that its continued use and development is warranted.” It would take another two years to complete the transition University-wide.

Within a few years, computer use at the libraries was underway, too. In November 1965, science libraries’ supervisor Phyllis Richmond wrote John Graham, dean of the School of Engineering, “In the process of planning future computer usage . . . please don’t forget the library! [We] will eventually need to tie in with the projected 3 trillion-bit computer (when built) at the Library of Congress via shared time or . . . [in cooperation] with Cornell, Syracuse and Buffalo, since none of us could afford the computer ourselves.”

Payroll was being processed using the IBM 650 well before you arrived on the scene; the facility was located in Taylor Hall, home of the University School. In the 1960s, the location of computing equipment would split according to purpose: administrative work would shift to Wallis Hall, with advanced academic and research machines occupying a new building near the corner of Elmwood Avenue and Mt. Hope (now the location of College Town).��

This installment of “Ask the Archivist” originally appeared in the fall 2024 issue of Rochester Review,��the magazine of the Ģ����ý.

As an anthropology student, I have been making efforts to avoid becoming a “fish trying to describe water” by regularly questioning my routine environment. One day my friend Michael and I decided to stop and intentionally read the inscriptions on the doors of the Rush Rhees Library—beautiful features often taken for granted.��

This led us to read the engravings on the walls of the lobby, informing onlookers about the development of the River Campus. A particular line stood out to us: “The names of all the givers and solicitors have been inscribed in a book which will be permanently preserved in this library.” ��

Our question to you is: does this mystical book actually exist? What is its significance, and how might a mere book reflect the grandeur of the campus’s constructional philosophy and donations?

—Joshua Jung ’26 and Michael Ding ’26

Your question could not be more timely, as we approach the centennial of the November 1924 Greater University Campaign that funded the construction of the River Campus. With the goal of raising “ten million in ten days,” the effort had contributions from schoolchildren and principals, office workers and executives—and just a few philanthropists—at giving levels from pennies to millions.��

How do you say “thank you” for a brand-new campus? President Rush Rhees had heard of the “books of remembrance” that recorded the names of British soldiers killed in the first World War. He wanted something equally distinctive for the University’s donors, along with the library inscription you discovered.

But while the Greater University Campaign lasted 10 days and the campus construction required three years, 13 years would pass before the book was completed. If its existence had not literally been carved in stone, it might have been forgotten.

Initially, the volume was to be ready in time for the campus opening on October 10, 1930. Just one week before, a letter from University Treasurer Raymond Thompson to University Librarian Donald Gilchrist contains the admonition, “Dr. Rhees wants this book exhibited in the Library at the time of the Dedication Exercises. . . . We must, of course, comply with [his] request without fail.”

But they did fail. A printed book might have been finished in time but would have lacked the desired splendor. Instead, the project was entrusted to Philipp Merz. The designer of the University seal and mace, Merz worked for architects McKim, Mead, and White on the Eastman Theatre and then was hired by Gordon and Kaelber for the River Campus.

In December 1931, Merz consulted Gilchrist about the book. Gilchrist suggested a visit to collector George A. Plimpton, who would “undoubtedly be delighted to permit you to examine the greatest collection of calligraphy, which he happens to own.”

The job was monumental: The 228-page book includes the names of 13,711 donors and the 738 men and women who participated in the fundraising. It is possible that Merz grew bored with repetitive parts of the task, because despite Thompson’s numerous letters, by 1938 only about 68 pages had been received. By June 1941, something had to be done, especially after librarian John R. Russell reported an encounter much like your own: “Another visitor has just asked to see [the book], after reading the carved statement in the foyer.”

With no word from Merz, the University found an accomplished calligrapher closer to home. Ruth E. Gutfrucht, soon to begin a long and illustrious career on the faculty of RIT, worked quickly but still required a year.��

By July 1943, the completed book, bound in dark blue leather, was on display at last. It does match the campus’s grandeur and the contributors’ generosity, blending expert calligraphy, sparkling gold leaf, and crisp handmade paper, and featuring the familiar design elements that Merz created for the Eastman School and River Campus and that we are so fortunate to enjoy in our “routine environment.”

Learn more and view some pages of the .��

This installment of “Ask the Archivist” appears in the summer 2024 issue of Rochester Review,��the magazine of the URochester.

I am interested in learning more about the University’s honor code that I recall that my older brother, Jim Diez ’65, was involved in developing when he was a student. It was a thrill when Jim was accepted to Rochester, the first person in our family to go to college. He was a biology major with a strong interest in nature vs. nurture conversations. He later earned a PhD in bio-behavioral genetics. I didn’t know a lot about his time at the U of R, but a few things stood out—his interest in the honor code, for example, and the fact that he heard John Lewis speak on campus in 1964, which inspired Jim to go to Missouri during spring break to register voters.

—Julie Reynolds

To approach your question in reverse chronological order, your brother had three opportunities to hear John Lewis on the ’s River Campus on . The 24-year-old Lewis first presented a workshop in Todd Union on nonviolence for those students interested in registering voters over spring break. He then spoke at the Alpha Delta Phi house (your brother’s fraternity), and, finally, gave a formal evening speech in what is now Douglass Commons.

Your brother was also a news editor for the Campus Times, a member of Yellow Key (sophomore men’s service group), the Mendicants (junior men’s honor society), the Forensic Society, and the Newman Club. And with classmate Christine Scott ’65, he was cochair of the Students’ Association Committee on Academic Honor Codes.

In December 1964, the committee offered a new honor code for their fellow students to vote on. The code, based on the principle that “Each student is responsible for his own actions and is expected to maintain the ethic of the academic community,” also stipulated that “if a student observes another cheating, he is urged to discuss the violation with the offender, and encourage him to discuss the offense with his professor.” If the offender took no action, the student would be expected, but not required, “to report [them] to the Student Honor Board.”

As a percentage of the student population, incidents of cheating in 1964 were probably fewer than in the 19th century. An in the Rochester Campus (forerunner of the Campus Times) reported, “It is very evident . . . that the habit of ‘cribbing,’ or cheating in recitations and examinations, is not decreasing in our college . . . . The Faculty tell us that they do not wish to put themselves in an attitude to detect and punish . . . but . . . they are bound in honor to protect the honest men, of whom we are glad to say there are many. . . .”��

Joseph Gilmore, professor of English from 1868 to 1908, agreed. His recommendations in an undated proposal to monitor exams may have elicited the Campus editorial noting: “It is certainly very amusing to see the students seated in two long lines, facing in, and every man exactly ten feet from each of his neighbors. Then . . . imagine two professors pacing up and down between the lines . . . and you have the Rochester style of examination.”

Voter turnout for the 1964 honor code was done by roll call. Turnout was 80 percent of the student population, but the proposal failed to pass. Although 49 percent were in favor of the honor code, that was just 1 percent shy of the number needed to send it to the faculty for consideration.

The 1964 proposal was not the first, or last, time an honor code was put forth. (Read about through the years.) The earliest honor code was developed in 1910 and passed in 1912. While it effectively ended for the undergraduate men around 1917, it was retained for at least another decade by the College for Women and the Eastman School of Music.��

The faculty’s academic honesty regulations preexisted the honor code, although their first appearance in student handbooks may have been in 1929.��

The most recent revision of the regulations was approved in May 2023 to address ChatGPT and other AI technologies. It includes a pledge for students to write on their exams or graded work: “I affirm that I will not give or receive any unauthorized help on this exam, and that all work will be my own.”

This installment of “Ask the Archivist” originally appeared in the spring 2024 issue of Rochester Review,��the magazine of the URochester.