March 31, 1970 LADIES AND GENTLEMEN: Once upon a time a very long time ago things on the Stanford Farm were different. Some will argue that they were better - others will say they were worse - but even with the generation gap all will agree they were indeed different. These were the days when the dorms were considered low cost housing - the pill was something you took for a headache - grass was something you played football on - speed was something in excess of the 45--mile state limit - and students were content to leave the running of the University largely to the administration and the trustees, conceding, if they debated the subject at all, that the track records of Ray Lyman Wilbur, Herbert Hoover, and their colleagues, perhaps had given them some superior qualifications in this respect. Stanford was an isolated pastoral retreat providing financial sustenance to a grateful village called Palo Alto. It was connected remotely to civilization in San Francisco by a lightly traveled four-lane super highway called the Bayshore. It dispensed higher education, as it was then conceived, to some 5, 000 relatively passive students, grateful for the privilege of being there. This privilege was subject to immediate withdrawal for any serious infraction of a code of conduct, unwritten but clearly understood. Some 4, 500 of these were male who, while fastidious by today's standards, were known as "Stanford Roughs" because of a certain casualness of dress and neglect of the razor. In