AMONG the pleasant friends who came to “Green Peace” were Professor and Mrs. Louis Agassiz. Thus it naturally happened that I was sent to the Agassiz School. The journey from South Boston to Cambridge took so long, in those days, that I gave it up after three months’ trial. As I was then only twelve years of age, I did not fully2 appreciate the advantages offered by the school—advantages of which girls from distant parts of the United States were very glad to avail themselves. The special feature of the school, however, even the youngest pupils were old enough to enjoy. Who could help enjoying the closing hour of the day when the scholars assembled in the big class-room to listen to a delightful3 talk from the lips of the great naturalist4 himself? As he stood before the great blackboard, now drawing figures, now explaining to us the development of the little animals whose growth forms the coral reefs, the movement of the glaciers5, or the reason of the gradual recession of Niagara Falls, we sat listening to his words with eager interest. He adapted himself to our youthful comprehension with the utmost ease—or, if there was any effort made, it was not an apparent one.
A great charm of these talks was that in them the professor brought us the fresh fruits of his own experience. He had personally investigated the glaciers before coming to America. The theory that they had once covered the earth originated with him, if I remember aright. He had also visited the coral reefs. I have understood from Prof. Alexander Agassiz that his father’s views about these were not fully accepted by later scientists. To the lay mind it would appear that Science is almost as fickle6 as Fashion!
Of Darwinism Professor Agassiz was a vigorous opponent. The new doctrine7 seemed to him irreconcilable8 with the idea of a divine Providence9, and would, he feared, destroy the faith of mankind. Professor Agassiz and Professor Asa Gray found themselves diametrically opposed on this question. There is a legend of a lively meeting between them in Cambridge, where words almost led to blows!
An account of the Agassiz School would be incomplete if it did not mention the Agassiz omnibus, a white, high-stepped vehicle which took its winding10 way through the thoroughfares of old-fashioned Boston, calling for the girls at streets and places which have now vanished into the past like the old ’bus itself, or, if they exist at all, exist only as soulless business streets, with great granite11 blocks of shops replacing the dear old houses shaded by lofty trees.
The purple-glass windows which they had inherited from an earlier generation (some are still to be seen on Beacon13 Hill) furnished indisputable proof of the wonderful virtue14 of early Boston boys, or of the extreme watchfulness15 of Puritan parents.
While there were some very studious girls, about whose profound learning wonderful stories were whispered, who patronized the Agassiz omnibus, there were also fashionable and rather frivolous16 young ladies among our number—who danced at balls and parties in the evening and as a natural consequence came to school very tired in the morning. Human nature in mid-Victorian days was very much as it is now. One sad memory is indissolubly connected with the Agassiz omnibus. It relates to the hats I wore—and to those which, had fate permitted, I should have liked to wear. The views of my dear mother on the subject of headgear differed from those of her neighbors. In Boston the sumptuary laws of this period prescribed that your hat should be as nearly as possible the exact ditto of that worn by every other woman and girl in the town. During this particular spring white-straw bonnets17, trimmed with green ribbon outside and pink ribbon inside, were the regulation wear. Now blue was my color, and my bonnet18 was garnished19 with a ribbon of bluish gray tint20, more becoming to me than the universal pink. I was prepared to accept this variation from type, the bonnet being pretty in itself. But, alas21! this was not the worst. Our mother also had an idea that round hats were more suitable for school-girls than bonnets. Accordingly, I was provided with a brown straw shade-hat, the brim of which seemed huge to my excited imagination. It was expected that I should wear this to school, reserving the bonnet for best.
I adopted the desperate expedient22 of wearing my winter bonnet out of the proper season. Oh, how I scrutinized23 the girls, as they entered the omnibus, to see how many still wore their winter bonnets! Several obligingly did so, but their number became daily less. At last I was driven from the burrow—or trench—of that velvet24 bonnet and obliged to come out into the open. A few times I tremblingly wore the huge round hat—the only one in the stage. Once or twice I took refuge in the Cambridge street-cars—but here lurked25 the danger of Harvard students with their critical eyes. At last I boldly put on the Sunday blue bonnet. What if it did fade and wither26 from too frequent exposure? At least I should be saved from wearing the despised round hat!
Even then, however, there were exceptions to this sumptuary law, practised in Cambridge itself, had I only known it.
It was perhaps in this very year, 1858, that Charles Francis Adams, Jr., then a student at Harvard, drew upon himself a remonstrance27 from his fellows on account of his headgear, to which he made the following reply:
“An Adams can wear any sort of hat he wishes.”
His fellow-student, my brother-in-law, related this story to me many years afterward28, in a grieved spirit. I assured, him that Charles Francis Adams, Jr., was right. Certain families of the Hub possessed29 at that date a prescriptive right to dress as they pleased, every one knowing who they were.
Young Mr. Adams, far from showing conceit30, was simply illumining the way for us all in the direction of personal independence.
The Agassiz School was held in the professor’s own pleasant house on Quincy Street, Cambridge, very near Harvard College. Probably the older girls were conscious of this fact, but I was too young to bear it much in mind. The students whom I met occasionally in the street seemed to me great and august beings. Time, however, brings its revenges. In later life, when my sons were undergraduates, I had occasion to revisit Cambridge. The students no longer inspired me with awe31; whether they were afraid of me or not I cannot say.
In his charming wife Professor Agassiz had a most efficient helpmeet who entered into all his plans and followed his work with loving zeal32 and intelligence. Mrs. Agassiz, who survived her husband for many years, was a very charming woman. She had a noble and whole-souled nature, which one fancied was contagious33, for the moment at least. I think it would have been impossible to do a mean thing while in her company.
In the days of the Agassiz School she was still a young woman, and we all felt that she was the presiding genius of the establishment as she flitted from room to room in her pretty, trim morning dress and cap with its fresh flowing ribbons, which seemed to correspond so well with the sweetness and freshness of her disposition34. She heard the lessons of the younger pupils, but I am sure that she exercised a sweet and wholesome35 influence over all the scholars, old and young.
Prof. Alexander Agassiz taught in his father’s school. I remember him in those days as a handsome, rather melancholy-looking young man who was suspected of being afraid of the biggest girls. Not long afterward he married one of them, Miss Anna Russell, daughter of my father’s old chum, George Russell. Prof. Alexander Agassiz was much more reserved and grave than his father, whose genial36 temperament37 was full of warmth and sunshine. Occasionally he also gave us a lecture.
During many years of his life, Louis Agassiz worked through a great part of the night, sleeping very late in the morning. It is said that one Sunday morning Mrs. Agassiz, while dressing38 for church, suddenly called out, “Agassiz! there is a snake in my boot!” To which the Professor drowsily39 replied, “I wonder where the others are!”
I remember a lecture where he showed us an orange to represent a sea-urchin. With a sudden movement he opened the fruit, which we then saw had been cut, into the form of a starfish, thus showing the relationship between the two types of creatures, and the audience burst into applause.
In 1859 our parents made a visit to the West Indies which our mother described in A Trip to Cuba. We children stayed with various relatives and friends, Mrs. Charles H. Dorr, at that time living in Jamaica Plain, hospitably40 receiving me. I thus came to know the young girls living in that pleasant suburb, and to attend the school of Miss Lucia M. Peabody. The double attraction was so strong that I was willing to take the trip of some six miles daily, for more than three years, walking from South Boston to the Jamaica Plain horse-car in Boston.
Miss Peabody not only loved study herself, but made it attractive to others. She was an excellent teacher, to whom I owe much gratitude41.
If it had not been for Charlotte Bowditch, I should have been the first scholar in arithmetic. But Charlotte, who was a granddaughter or great-niece of the famous navigator, was hopelessly ahead of us all. This was an excellent thing for my vanity.
Among my school memories is that of a very extraordinary dictionary belonging to one of my friends. The learned German—he must have been a German—who compiled it had evidently been imposed upon by some wag. Thus the synonyms42 for “to die” were given as “to kick the bucket,” “to hop12 the twig,” “to go to Davy Jones’s locker44.” I do not think the book was vicious, but it abounded45 in slang. Perhaps it was prepared for the use of sailors in foreign ports!
Our physical culture began early. We learned to swim without especial instruction, each one of us following out his or her own ideas, brother Harry46 keeping his head under water, sister Julia paddling dog-fashion, I swimming on my back.
We learned to ride very young, beginning with José, a little Spanish donkey presented to us by Albert Sumner, a brother of Charles. He had been for some years the mount of Mr. Sumner’s daughter Kate, and was an animal of high character. In his letter of introduction Mr. Sumner duly sets forth47 José’s many excellent traits, mentioning also that as he came from Barbary he must be a pure Barb48! He was a gentle animal, but possessed of the amiable49 determination characteristic of his species. He never bit, kicked, nor scratched, but he was a person of dignity and his movements were marked by great deliberation. The only way in which we could coax50 him out of a walk was to run before him, holding out a piece of bread. This soon became fatiguing51 to the advance courier.
When we had a children’s party, he was brought out for the entertainment of the visitors. José did not like to have strange children on his back, and could tell at once when the reins52 were in the hands of an inexperienced rider. In this case he would turn toward the fence, putting his head and forefeet under the lowest board. He thus obliged the child either to dismount or to come in contact with the fence. Sometimes he would vary the proceedings53 by running to the barn.
Indeed, running away was one of José’s accomplishments54, so inconsistent is donkey nature. The fences at South Boston were from time to time adorned55 with little posters bearing the legend: “Lost—a small brown donkey. The finder will please return him,” etc.
Once my brother Harry, who was perhaps eight years of age, received an official letter beginning, “Sir, your ass1 is in the pound.”
José was from time to time the shrine56 of a singular pilgrimage. A group of people, bearing a child sick with whooping-cough, would arrive at “Green Peace” and ask to interview our donkey. The parents took their station, one on each side of José, and passed the child to each other three times over and under the animal. In order to make the cure complete, a piece of bread was put in the donkey’s mouth and then given to the child. The superstition57 rests on the theory that the donkey is a sacred animal, since Christ once rode on him; witness the cross upon his back.
We owned for a time another donkey—Billy—who possessed a most unamiable disposition. He was not our friend and companion like José, and we did not ride on his back. He formed part of a donkey tandem58 which we drove at Newport, our uncle Sam having given us a delightful pony-carriage and harness. When we went abroad in this little conveyance59 a dreadful danger lurked by the wayside, for the Andersons’ donkey lived in a field bordering on the road over which we were obliged to pass. Like the evil spirit in the story of the Three Goats Brausewind, he accosted60 us in a very rude way. José and Billy were evidently moved by the appeal of their fellow-donkey, and we were greatly troubled in mind. For a tandem, as every one knows, is a most difficult team to drive, even when undisturbed by asinine61 conversation.
My father trained us all to ride first with a leading-rein, afterward alone. By his side we rode many miles about the country. With Cora, our pretty but imperfectly broken colt, I had some terrifying moments. We were in the habit of going out tête-à-tête, she and I, and all would go well until we met an ice-wagon, or crossed a certain railroad bridge. Then she would shy and run, but fortunately I did not fall off.
Lorenzo Papanti, his dancing-classes and his hall, were among the institutions of old Boston. It was said that this accomplished62 veteran had instructed three generations of Bostonians in the art of dancing. He was by no means young when I first remember him, although his dark wig43 doubtless made him look older than he really was; his blue-gray eyes would have appeared less fishlike, his complexion63 less red and mottled, had he appeared before us without this adornment64. For a man with a bald head to teach dancing might, it is true, seem incongruous. He was always in evening dress, dignified65 and graceful66 in his movements, as became one of his profession. Age had no power to wither him. He bore a strong resemblance to William Warren, the noted67 actor. When I saw portraits of the latter on cigar-boxes labeled “Boston’s favorite,” I supposed they were likenesses of Papanti.
In these days of division of labor68 it seems wonderful to remember that he had no assistant. He taught us to dance, playing at the same time on his fiddle69. He kept us in good order, routing the truants70 out of the dressing-rooms if we stayed there too long to play and talk. He had the Italian genius for governing, inherited, doubtless, from the ancient Romans.
When Mr. Papanti sounded a preliminary flourish on his fiddle and asked us to take partners for the quadrille or the lancers, the boys did not rush joyously71 forward, as might have been expected. Our master was often obliged to lead them out in a long, reluctant line, dragging back as much as they dared. With some twenty or thirty boys in tow, he would approach the girls, who were not very encouraging. It was pleasanter to dance with your girl friends than with strange boys who had little to say. A certain Master J—— once ejaculated, “My stars!” in talking to his partner. We considered this very bad form. There were one or two little boys of greater conversational72 powers whom we admired.
Mr. Papanti duly instructed the elect of the class in the gavotte. It was a proud moment when you were chosen to take part in this. The “shawl” dance was even more select. The single couple—a brother and sister—who danced this had reached the height of human ambition at Papanti’s.
The hall had a delightful spring floor, the like of which I have never beheld73. It yielded beneath your feet like a live thing!
When we were children dancing was one of our home pleasures. Our mother, who had an endless store of operatic airs in her memory, would sit down at the grand piano at the children’s hour. As her nimble fingers struck the keys away we all went, each doing a pas seul of some sort.
To sister Julia belongs the credit of inventing the “frog” minuet. This is only suitable for very young children. You go down on your hands and knees, then you lift first the right arm and knee, after that the left, all in time to the music. The movement is rather slow.
My mother’s passionate74 fondness for music and love of dancing in her youth have been mentioned elsewhere. Small wonder that these dramatic airs, as she played them, stirred the little daughter to whom dancing was the natural mode of expression. My performances were no doubt admired by the family much more than they deserved. As we were still lingering in a certain degree of Puritanism, the invention of fancy dances was then rare.
Among those which I “originated” were dances for the four seasons, and the dagger75 dance—usually performed with a silver fruit-knife—of Lady Macbeth. Intimate friends of the family were allowed to witness these. Alas! I once cast the dagger from me with so noble a passion that it narrowly missed one of the guests. After that greater reserve was necessary.
Our mother was quick to recognize and to praise any little manifestation76 of talent or originality77 on our part. She did not look with an entirely78 favorable eye upon our competitors. Thus neither she nor I wholly approved of the performance of a little girl who danced the cachucha, with castanets, at a party in Providence. In the daytime the child was not as pretty as by gaslight. I suspect that she was freckled79. However, she did not again cross my orbit.
In West Roxbury lived another young girl who danced, Miss Emily Russell, a daughter of Mr. George Russell. Her performances were more ambitious than mine, being conducted on the footboard of a bedstead. Friends were invited to see these, one lady appearing in diamonds and a corn-colored barège. The costume aroused some criticism. I have already intimated that in old Boston it was necessary to dress with discretion80.
My father taught us to skate first with one foot, thereby81 avoiding some tumbles. There was a great revival82 of skating shortly before the Civil War. Jamaica Pond was in high favor, the cars going there being jammed with people. Father revived his skating, as did many older people, a certain general arousing unfavorable comment by appearing on double runners—i.e., skates with two blades.
To me the exercise was even more delightful than riding on horseback. I still dream of flying along on skates in the most wonderful manner.
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1
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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naturalist
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| n.博物学家(尤指直接观察动植物者) | |
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glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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fickle
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| adj.(爱情或友谊上)易变的，不坚定的 | |
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doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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irreconcilable
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| adj.（指人）难和解的，势不两立的 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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hop
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| n.单脚跳，跳跃；vi.单脚跳，跳跃；着手做某事；vt.跳跃，跃过 | |
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beacon
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| n.烽火，（警告用的）闪火灯，灯塔 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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watchfulness
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| 警惕，留心； 警觉（性） | |
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frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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bonnet
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| n.无边女帽；童帽 | |
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garnished
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| v.给（上餐桌的食物）加装饰( garnish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tint
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| n.淡色，浅色；染发剂；vt.着以淡淡的颜色 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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expedient
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| adj.有用的，有利的；n.紧急的办法，权宜之计 | |
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scrutinized
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| v.仔细检查，详审( scrutinize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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lurked
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| vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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wither
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| vt.使凋谢，使衰退，(用眼神气势等)使畏缩；vi.枯萎，衰退，消亡 | |
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remonstrance
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| n抗议，抱怨 | |
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afterward
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| adv.后来；以后 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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awe
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| n.敬畏，惊惧；vt.使敬畏，使惊惧 | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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contagious
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| adj.传染性的，有感染力的 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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drowsily
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| adv.睡地，懒洋洋地，昏昏欲睡地 | |
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hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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synonyms
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| 同义词( synonym的名词复数 ) | |
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wig
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| n.假发 | |
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locker
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| n.更衣箱，储物柜，冷藏室，上锁的人 | |
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abounded
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| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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barb
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| n.（鱼钩等的）倒钩，倒刺 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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coax
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| v.哄诱，劝诱，用诱哄得到，诱取 | |
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fatiguing
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| a.使人劳累的 | |
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reins
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| 感情，激情； 缰( rein的名词复数 )； 控制手段； 掌管； （成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的）保护带 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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tandem
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| n.同时发生；配合；adv.一个跟着一个地；纵排地；adj.（两匹马）前后纵列的 | |
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conveyance
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| n.(不动产等的)转让，让与；转让证书；传送；运送；表达；（正）运输工具 | |
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accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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asinine
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| adj.愚蠢的 | |
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accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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adornment
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| n.装饰；装饰品 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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fiddle
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| n.小提琴；vi.拉提琴；不停拨弄，乱动 | |
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truants
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| n.旷课的小学生( truant的名词复数 )；逃学生；逃避责任者；懒散的人 | |
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joyously
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| ad.快乐地, 高兴地 | |
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conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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beheld
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| v.看，注视( behold的过去式和过去分词 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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dagger
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| n.匕首，短剑，剑号 | |
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manifestation
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| n.表现形式；表明；现象 | |
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originality
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| n.创造力，独创性；新颖 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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freckled
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| adj.雀斑；斑点；晒斑；（使）生雀斑v.雀斑，斑点( freckle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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revival
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| n.复兴，复苏，（精力、活力等的）重振 | |
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