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argued that teaching was at least as important
as research for the historian.
In his 1956 presidential address to
the American Historical Association he
threw down the gauntlet to his colleagues
in a speech entitled "We Shall
Gladly Teach." And he did so himself,
gladly, with flair and elegance.
He was easily the most polished platform
performer of his epoch. Indeed,
he was so much a part of the life of the
University that when students were
asked their field of concentration, some
replied simply, "Dexter Perkins."
N or did the responsibility of the
scholar end at the campus edge. Dexter
Perkins touched Rochester's civic life,
as was said of Philadelphia's Benjamin
Franklin, in "every wholesome spot."
He helped build the City Club into
an important forum for the discussion
of public affairs; he created the Rochester
branch of the Association for the
United Nations and made it the largest
chapter in the country; he was the
city's first official historian, the first
Friend of the Public Library.
With his wife, Wilma Lord Perkins
'18, he was always a patron, and a
paying one, of that wonderful mixture
of ideas and movements which makes
Rochester such an unusual and arresting
place. He even demonstrated his
boundless optimism by seeking to
elevate local journalism with the contribution
of editorials and columns. In
retirement, the City Council, in a moment
of uncharacteristic statesmanship,
awarded him its highest citation.
Above all, Dexter Perkins was an
unabashed, though not uncritical,
American patriot. His adult life embraced
two World Wars and a Great
Depression, the rise of totalitarian
governments, the breakdown of international
order, the fragile accomplishment
of the League of Nations and
United Nations, and the erosion of
American supremacy around the
globe.
But he never wavered in the conviction
that the United States, with all its
faults and failures, was still "the last
best hope of earth," that it remains the
most reliable repository of democracy
and the values of free peoples everywhere.
He often referred to the" American
spirit" in international affairs; he
lavished time on building the Salzburg
Seminar of American Studies into a
center for disinterested dissemination
of scholarship and information about
the United States to most of Europe;
and he volunteered his counsel to the
State Department and War College
whenever they had the good sense to
ask for it. He always believed that, in
the long run, this country would redeem
the promises it made to the world
two centuries ago in Philadelphia.
Despite all these public achievements,
what those of us who knew him
cherished most was the wonderful
abandonment that Dexter brought to
everyday life. Anyone who rode with
him in an automobile at his steady, unremitting
forty miles an hour around
Rochester streets learned early that the
sporting life was not confined to the Indianapolis
500.
Between the River Campus and the
old Prince Street Campus, as he careened
along Alexander Street, he
would instruct me on the proper
behavior of a junior faculty member
while the constant danger led me to
speculate only on the slim prospect that
I would live long enough to be
anything else.
When he had a small ailment, he
prided himself on locating a doctor
who, after diagnosis, concluded that
his cigars and cocktails supplemented
each other and, indeed, each needed
the other. His parties, and in fact departmental
meetings, had a spontaneity
and effervescence that sprang from
his own personality rather than the
occasion.
In short, Dexter Perkins always
seemed larger than life. He was chairman
of my department, yet he was also
a commanding figure in the historical
profession. He was the most popular
teacher on campus, but he could also
fill any auditorium in the city for a lecture.
He wrote for fellow scholars, yet
he also engaged the general reading
public. He enjoyed academic company,
but he was also completely at
ease with those of economic power and
political influence. He explained
American history to his countrymen,
but he also interpreted it to an international
audience.
He is still larger than life .•
Richard C. Wade '43, '45G is Distinguished
Professor of History at the Graduate Center, City
University of New York.
This essay appeared originally in the Rochester
Times-Union and is reprinted with permission.
The accompanying photo was made in 1952 by
Ansel Adams.
In 1975, at the inauguration of President
Sproull, the University awarded
Dexter Perkins one of the first of its President
's Medals for distinguished service.
He had earlier received a UR honorary degree,
in 1956, the same year he got one
from Cornell.
Cherished as much for his boundless
good humor as he was respected for his
uncommon achievement, he received, in
1970, an Alumni Citation to Faculty,
the penultimate paragraph of which offers
an illuminating illustration:
"Former colleagues still recall a stated
faculty meeting in which, mirabile dictu,
the {old business' was disposed of in
fifteen minutes. Dean Hoffmeister called
for {new business. ' There was a moment's
silence, a shuffling of feet, and
then afamiliar high-pitched voice: {We
might engage in a little group singing. ' "
The ultimate paragraph stated that the
University's alumni presented their highest
award to Dexter Perkins "with deep
appreciation of a great man and an unconquered
spirit. "
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