Dear Professor Van Ingen! Why does everybody who knew him well say
this at the mere mention of his name?
He was a Hollander who had come to this country in the studio of an
artist friend in Rochester about the time the college was completed,
and was the accepted candidate in 1865 for the art professorship. A
clever artist; an inspiring teacher; a true gentleman; a good friend.
Tennyson's lines once quoted of him express most nearly the common
sentiment concerning him,--"One too wholly true to dream untruth."
He was here at the opening of the college, and made one of the
resident (unmarried) members of the Faculty that year. In the summer
vacation of 1866, he returned to Holland to be married, and brought
his wife back with him.
[Illustration: HENRY VAN INGEN
1865]
He had rooms in the north wing the first year of his coming, and used
to relate in his characteristic quiet, humorous way many amusing
anecdotes of that chaotic time. One I recall enjoying keenly. It was
midwinter and intensely cold weather. His room was on the west side in
the north wing, and one night the high wind and raging snow storm
combined to make his quarters uninhabitable. Towards morning he could
stand it no longer but got up and dressed himself, and putting on hat
and overcoat thought he would spend the rest of the time before
breakfast in the college parlors, trusting to find some heat in the
registers. Making his way through the dark corridors two flights down,
he reached the parlor, where in the dawning light he saw a group of
students huddled close to the register that happened still to have
comfortable warmth remaining. The experience of cold and discomfort in
the students' rooms had matched his, so they had anticipated him in
dressing and with shawls and cloaks were spending the rest of the
night down stairs. He knew them all, had a cordial welcome, and the
party began in subdued tones to talk and laugh and have a merry time.
An hour, perhaps, went on this way, when a timid cough from the
doorway arrested their attention. Winnie--Miss Lyman's maid--stood
there. "If you please, Miss Lyman heard the voices in her room above,
and sent me down to inquire what was the matter." The situation was
explained briefly and the maid retired. With Miss Lyman's strict
notions, how she was going to take this independence of action was the
question, but they had begun to forget it when the jingling of spoons
and cups heralded approach of Winnie a second time,--"Miss Lyman sends
her compliments, and as you have been up so long, she had me make a
little hot coffee for you which she hopes you may enjoy." There was a
big tray with equipment of her own lovely china and silver service,
and a heaped up plate of crackers, and this was all the notice the
gracious lady ever took of the matter.
His studio and lecture room were in the old art-gallery on the fourth
corridor and here, surrounded by his devoted disciples, he held sway.
He had a large band of followers all his life here, and every one of
them will testify he taught them more and higher than the art he loved
so well.
Dr. Taylor in his remarks at the funeral service of Maria Mitchell
said aptly that the word "genuineness" conveyed the truest impression
of her. Transfer the same characterization to Henry Van Ingen, and you
have the perfect expression also of the man.
Professor Van Ingen continued in the service of the college for
thirty-six years, or until his death in November, 1898.
"He scarce had need to doff his pride or slough the dross of earth;
E'en as he trod that day to God, so walked he from his birth,
In simpleness and gentleness and honor and clean mirth."