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Web Exclusives:
Under the Ivy Jan. 25, 2006: ‘We
had to have that clapper’ Ah, the ringing of the school bell, tolling a return to work for the overburdened student. There’s nothing quite like it as universal symbols go – which is why, no doubt, the clapper-nabbing tradition at Princeton persisted as long as it did. It’s a charming bit of mischief, and simplicity itself: Steal the clapper from the school bell, the bell won’t ring, and classes will never start. According to the Princetoniana Web page, stealing the clapper actually began as a way to beat the 9 p.m. curfew for Civil War-era Tigers. In 1863, a sophomore, Charles Reading, and a group of friends shipped the clapper off to New York, where it was put on exhibit; in the meantime, the Nassau Hall bell was rung with a hammer. Eventually, removal of the clapper became a tradition, a duty, and a mission of honor for the freshman class. In 1887, for example, the pilfered prize was melted down and recast into miniature clappers, which were sold for a dollar apiece. With the goal somehow shifting from disrupting curfew to disrupting morning classes, the rite continued into a new century. A Princeton Companion records that Clinton Meneely ’30, president of the company that made a Nassau Hall bell in 1857 that rang for nearly 100 years, once said his firm “received more orders for [clappers for] the Princeton bell than for any other in the company’s history”— more than 150 from 1911 to 1935. Stealing the clapper, though it became such a seemingly commonplace event, was in fact a feat that required cunning, forethought, and physical strength. An alumnus’s letter to then-President Harold W. Dodds published – anonymously, to be sure! – in a 1955 issue of PAW revealed just how difficult the task might be. The culprit wrote of his 50-year-old crime: “It was a bitterly cold night with a full moon, but we had to have that clapper. Unfortunately, we somehow lost our way in the upper reaches of Nassau Hall. The only way to get to the tower seemed to be through a skylight in the roof, below which were several glass-topped cases of, I think, geological specimens. When the broken pieces of the skylight crashed in part to the pavement and in part to the cases below, it seemed to the four freshmen that Admiral Dewey’s whole fleet at the Battle of Manila Bay had not made more of a racket. However, in the silence that followed no proctor’s footsteps were heard, so we proceeded through the skylight to the foot of the tower. “The slippery outwardly-declining ledge on which you had to stand in the zero cold, shoeless, while disengaging the clapper presented a formidable problem. That was ultimately solved by teamwork. But just as your unrepentant petitioner was about to unbolt the pesky thing, it struck the hour. May I inquire, Mr. President, if you have ever been atop that tower in similar circumstances?” President Dodds replied with graceful wit. “I am deeply impressed by the determination you and your classmates displayed … Of such is the strength of the Republic. Lesser men would have lost heart and retreated in panic at the crashing of the skylight, and while I regret to say that I have never had the rich experience of standing beside the bell while it struck the hour on a winter’s night, I fear that I would have fled, particularly if I were barefoot at the time. The real answer to the question will not be known, for I haven’t the courage to conduct the experiment this winter.” He nonetheless accepted with pleasure the generous check that the ultimately successful bell-burglar had enclosed to atone for the damage. Dodds wrote: “On cold nights this winter, when I hear the bell across the campus striking the hour, I will think of you, perched up there intent on your mischief and my heart will be warmed.” It looked as if the heart-warming tradition might come to an end around the time the letter-writer made his confession, however, as the University installed a mechanized ringer, which, it was announced, meant that the true clapper was no longer in use and had been welded into place. An official ban was instituted. And yet, just eight years later, it was discovered that the clapper was not welded in place, and students were able to snatch it once again (although the mechanized ringer kept up its work, diminishing the thrill of success). The tradition kept up for another 30 years, until in the early 1990s a series of student injuries forced the University to remove the clapper for good. There’s no telling how many hundreds of alumni, like that
1955 apologist, have memories of similar successful, and not-so-successful,
midnight raids. In a way, the final demise of the clapper-nabbing
tradition was the best possible outcome: more than 125 years of
clever plotting, daring escapades, and fond memories, with nary
a truly terrible outcome to spoil the fun.
Jane Martin ’89 is PAW's former editor-in-chief. You can reach her at paw@princeton.edu
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