YaleU^^ersii-LibiaP;

39002008234602

YALE UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY

BOOKS BY HENRY CABOT LODGE
Published by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

EARLY MEMORIES. 8vo  nel, $2.50
THE STORY OF THE REVOLnTION. Illus
trated. 8vo  net, $3.00
A FRONTIER TOWN, AND OTHER ESSAYS.
12mo  net, Sl.SO
A FIGHTING FRIGATE, AND OTHER ES
SAYS AND ADDRESSES. 12mo . net, $1.50

EARLY MEMORIES

EARLY MEMORIES

BY
HENRY CABOT LODGE

'Qtio desiderio veteres renovamus amores
Atque dim missas flemus amicitias."
— Catullus, Carm. XCVI.

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1913

COPTBIQHT, 1913, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

Published September, 1913

Mo
MY CHILDREN AND GRANDCHILDREN
I DEDICATE
THESE MEMORIES
OF MY CHILDHOOD AND YOUTH

PREFACE
To begin a book with an apology is never desirable. Where,
however, one writes about one's self or ventures to record one's
personal recollections, some slight explanation seems almost neces
sary. Yet for what is contained in these pages I can give no
better warrant or excuse than a passage from a very great writer
who, it is to be feared, is not so much read now as he ought to
be, or as he once was:
"The life of every man," says our friend HerrSauerteig, "the
life even of the meanest man, it were good to remember, is a
Poem; perfect in all manner of Aristotelean requisites; with be
ginning, middle and end; with perplexities and solutions; with
its willstrength (Willenkraft) and warfare against Fate, its elegy
and battle-singing, courage marred by crime, everywhere the two
tragic elements of Pity and Fear; above all, with supernatural
machinery enough, for was not the man born out of Nonentity;
did he not die and miraculously vanishing return thither?"
Nothing really is easier than to find words of excellent appear
ance to explain the compelling motives for writing one's memoirs
or reminiscences or autobiography. Whatever we may say, how
ever, whatever ingenious phrases we may employ, the main pur
pose is to write about one's self, and the efficient reasons may all
be summed up in the simple sentence: "I do it because it gives
me pleasure." In fact, to the well-regulated mind there is no
pleasure equal to that of talking about one's self, and one's satis
faction is not diminished by the inexorable necessity of seeming
to talk about other people. My preface is already too long, even
by these few words, and I will therefore end it here, trusting
blindly for what is to follow in the assertion of Leslie Stephen,
that "no autobiography is dull."

CONTENTS
FAOB
Preface  vii
CHAPTER I. Heredity  3
II. Earliest Memories: 1850-1860  14
III. The "Olympians": 1850-1860  39
rV. Boyhood: 1860-1867  59
V. Boyhood— My Last School: 1860-1867 ... 81
VI. 'The War: 1860-1865  112
VII. Europe: 1866-1867  135
VIII. Harvard: 1867-1871  180
IX. Retrospect and Contrast  200
X. Europe Again: 1871-1872  225
XI. STARTiNa IN Life: 1873-1880  244
XII. Public Men and Men of Letters .... 276
Index  353

EARLY MEMORIES

CHAPTER I
HEREDITY
Every one in giving an account of himself would like,
I think, to begin with the words of the Due de Choiseul at
the opening of his memoirs: " Je ne vous parlerai pas, Mon
sieur, de ma naissance. L'on m'a toujours dit que j'etais
gentUhomme aussi ancien que qui que ce soit. J'ignore
absolument ma genealogie qui est, comme celle de tout le
monde, dans les livres qui traitent cette matiere." We may
still say, with a gentleman and a scholar who lived many
years before the Due de Choiseul: "Honestissimum enim
est majorum vestigia sequi, si modo recto itinere prseces-
serint," ^ but it must be admitted that times and manners
have greatly changed since the minister of Louis XV wrote,
with a fine disdain, in this fashion. The httle world where
"everybody" could find his genealogy in "the books" has
departed. The waves of democracy have submerged the
old and narrow lines within which the few sat apart, and
definition of a man's birth and ancestry has become more
necessary. Moreover, Darwin and Galton have Hved and
written, Mendel has been discovered and revived, and the
modern biologists have supervened, so that a man's origin
has become a recognized part of his biographer's task.
Therefore, he who writes of himself must follow the practice
of those who write the lives of people other than themselves.
My father was John Ellerton Lodge, a merchant of Bos-
' PHn. lib. V. Epist. VIII, Kukula ed., Leipzig.
3

4 EARLY MEMORIES
ton, an owner of ships engaged in commerce with China.
He was the son of Giles Lodge, who was born in London in
1770, the son of Matthew Lodge, a merchant, and Eliza
beth Ellerton. The EUertons were an old famUy in the
north of England, where a priory on the Swale and an
abbey on the Derwent commemorate the antiquity of the
race and their devotion to the church, both foundations
bearing the Ellerton name. The abbey was still in the pos
session of the family in 1866. At that time a cousin of my
father had changed his name to John Lodge Ellerton in
order to inherit the property, which, I think, was of shght
pecuniary value, and, as he had no children, he asked my
mother to let me take the name of Ellerton and remain
in England, a proposition wisely dechned without previ
ous consultation of the person most concerned, although I
should have cheerfully ratified the decision.
According to Burke's "Royal Descents," Matthew
Lodge was descended from Francis Lodge, archdeacon of
KUlaloe at the beginning of the seventeenth century. I
find in Dwyer's "History of the Diocese" that the name of
the archdeacon was Thomas Lodge, that he was archdeacon
from 1624 to 1638, and that he was a graduate of Oxford.
There are four of the name in the Oxford hsts of about
that period, and it was not possible, with such research as
I could give, to identify the archdeacon. I should have
liked to connect him with Thomas Lodge the poet, but be
yond the fact that the arms of my ancestors are identical
with those of the poet's father, a rich grocer and Lord
Mayor of London in 1563, I could discover no evidence
of relationship. My grandfather, Giles Lodge, who, as I
have said, was born in London in 1770, was in the West
Indies in 1791 on business for his brothers, who were mer
chants in London and Liverpool. He was caught at Santo
Domingo in the rising of the blacks which occurred in

HEREDITY 5
August of that year. Presence of mind and the fact that
he spoke French fluently enabled him to escape the mas
sacre and take refuge on an American schooner which
brought him to Boston. Coming to Massachusetts by the
merest accident, he found a good business opening in Bos
ton, settled there, became a merchant and the correspond
ent of his brothers, and never returned to England; in fact,
he never left America again. In 1800 he married Mary
Langdon, the daughter of John Langdon, who had been a
stationer, then a captain in the Continental army during
the Revolution, and who finally held a place in the custom
house, to which he was appointed by Washington. John
Langdon's cousin, Samuel Langdon, was the president of
Harvard CoUege at the time of the Revolution, and prayed
for the troops drawn up on Cambridge Common on the
evening of June 16, just before they set out for Bunker
HiU. The Langdons were descended from John and Philip
Langdon, who came to New England in the seventeenth
century, saUors and ship-captains, and such their descend
ants continued to be for a hundred years. John Langdon's
wife, the mother of Mrs. Giles Lodge, was Mary Walley,
the daughter of Thomas WaUey, a prosperous merchant of
Boston, grandson on the mother's side of Thomas Brattle,
one of a family eminent in Colonial times, and on the
father's side grandson of John WaUey, lieutenant-general of
the Canadian expedition in 1690, and later a judge of the
Supreme Court.
My grandfather, Giles Lodge, died in 1852 in the eighty-
third year of his age. I have been told that he knew me,
and was pleased to like me, but of him personally I have,
of course, no recollection whatever. His portrait shows
that he was fair, and the face which looks out from the
picture is handsome, gentle, and refined. The family tra
dition represents him as a gentleman of somewhat deter-

6 EARLY MEMORIES
mined character, "whose word was law," and whose laws
were promulgated in the most concise form and were sub
ject to no debate. My mother always spoke of him with
great affection, and said that he was invariably most kind
to her. Apart from his picture, the family tradition, and
some business letters, I have nothing which throws any light
upon him or his character except his cane and a few books,
my father's small portion, I suppose, of the library, which
was divided among many children. A cane would not
seem to be a very illuminating witness, and yet this particu
lar stick has seemed to me full of meaning. I have never
been able to use it; it is not long enough for me — thus
showing that its owner was a short man. It is a blackthorn,
with a long steel ferrule, and a large irregular piece of ivory
fitted tightly down on the top. It is very thick, very for
midable as a weapon, very determined in appearance. Al
together, it is a stick with a great deal of sturdy character,
like its possessor. It is a cane which might have supported
the tottering footsteps of any man, and yet it distinctly sug
gests, as one grasps it, that its owner never either wavered
or tottered in his walk.
The books with my grandfather's name written on the
fly-leaves, in his neat, precise hand, tell another story and
seem to show another side. Most of them are, as one
might expect, eighteenth-century classics: "The Spectator,"
"The Tatler," "Hume's Essays," and the like. Neat little
volumes, good editions, in excellent contemporary binding,
they, too, seem characteristic of their possessor. Then
there are Pope's translations of the Iliad and Odyssey, also
in the "reliure de I'epoque," which is much worn by use
rather than by time. But the surprising book is a very
pretty and complete edition of Spenser, evidently much
read in its day and generation. I have often wondered
what the element was in my grandfather's temperament

HEREDITY 7
which drew him to the great Elizabethan and made him
love and read the "poets' poet," so alien to the taste of the
eighteenth century and to the pursuits of a hard-working
merchant and man of business.
My father's mother I never even saw. She died before
I was born, and, except for the fact that my mother was
fond of her, I know nothing about her. There is a hard
portrait of her in the possession of the family, painted by
Rembrandt Peale. The features are clear and well-cut,
but my poor grandmother is so disfigured by the turban
she has on that it is difficult to tell whether she was good-
looking or not. It was a hideous fashion, that of the turban,
so prevalent in those early nineteenth-century days, and
when I read of the game of whist in which Mr. Pickwick en
gaged at Bath I used to wonder, most irreverently, if the
Dowager Lady Snuphanuph looked like my grandmother's
portrait. Now the wheel of fashion has revolved, and I
see indications of the renascence of the turbans of our
grandmothers. My mother was Anna Cabot, the daughter of Henry
Cabot and Anna Blake, the daughter of John Welland
Blake, descended from William Blake, who was a cousin
of Robert Blake, the great admiral of the Commonwealth.
William Blake came to Massachusetts in 1630, was for forty
years town clerk of Dorchester, and left many descend
ants. My grandmother Cabot died before I was born,
but she was one of the women who make such a deep im
pression upon those about them that I have always felt
as if I had known her. Not only in the family, but from
all my grandfather's old friends, I used to hear continually,
until the. last one who remembered her had passed from
the stage, of her beauty and grace, her abiding charm and
fascinating quahties. Venerable gentlemen, when I had
grown up, used to teU me of her many attractions with such

8 EARLY MEMORIES
emphasis and insistence that I frequently had an imeasy
feeling at the back of my mind that they were thinking how
unlike she was to some of her grandchildren. None the
less, it was pleasant to hear such things said of her, and
her bust by Greenough and her portrait painted by an
English artist when she was in Europe in 1837 certainly,
so far as they can, bear out the tradition.
My grandfather, Henry Cabot, was the son of George
Cabot and Elizabeth Higginson, who were double first
cousins. In this way my grandfather was doubly descended
from the Reverend Francis Higginson, a graduate of Cam
bridge, England, and the first minister of the first church of
Salem in 1630. My colleague. Senator Hoar, was also a
descendant of Francis Higginson, and one day he told me,
with great satisfaction, that through Francis Higginson
we were both descended from the sister of Chaucer. I
received the information with due respect because Mr.
Hoar seemed so pleased, but I confess the connection struck
me as a trifle remote.
The Cabots came to Salem from the island of Jersey
toward the close of the seventeenth century. They were
a numerous race in the Channel islands, of pure Norman
extraction, as Stowe gives one of that name in his list of
those who accompanied Wilham the Conqueror to England.
From this Norman island stock came the Chabots and
Rohan-Chabots and others of the name in France, as well
as the Italian branch, including the navigators, or their
immediate ancestors, as is shown by the identity of arms
and other evidences. The two brothers who settled in
Massachusetts married and had many descendants. My
great-grandfather, George Cabot, left college in his sopho
more year to go to sea, became a sea-captain and suc
cessful merchant, and took a large part in the privateering
of the Revolution. He then entered pubhc life, was in the

HEREDITY 9
Provincial Congress, in the State constitutional convention,
in the State convention to ratify the Constitution of the
United States, and was chosen United States senator in
1791. At the end of five years he resigned and retired from
public service, declining the secretaryship of the navy to
which he was appointed by John Adams when that depart
ment was established. He continued, however, to be the
leader of the Hamiltonian Federalists in Massachusetts
imtn his death, and in 1814 was president of the Hartford
convention. He was the friend of Washington and a very
intimate friend of Hamilton, whose measures he strongly
supported when he was in the Senate.
Mr. Samuel E. Morison, who has made a most thorough
study of the pohtics of that period, in his paper upon "The
First National Nominating Convention of 1808," describes
Mr. Cabot's position at that time in the following words:
"The chief support of the CHnton coalition came from
Boston. Otis, whose eloquence, it is said, turned the bal
ance in favor of DeWitt Clinton in the Federalist convention
of 1812, was equally strong in favor of George Clinton in
1808. Another powerful advocate of coalition was George
Cabot. Cabot since 1804 had occupied in his party a posi
tion similar to that of Jefferson in the Republican party
after 1808. From Brookline, as from MonticeUo, the active
party leaders received letters that spoke with authority.
Easily the intellectual leader of his party since the death of
Hamilton, George Cabot in his study at Brookline saw what
no other Federahst had the wisdom to see, that a page of
democratic evolution had been turned, and the days of
Federahst ascendancy had passed never to return."
Soon after my graduation from Harvard I pubhshed
Mr. Cabot's letters, with an accompanying memoir. I omit
ted, through ignorance of its existence, the description of
him given by William EUery Channing in his article upon

10 EARLY MEMORIES
the "Union," which I ought to have put by the side of
Webster's brief eulogy. I now place it here, because it is
the best estimate of Mr. Cabot's character and services by
a contemporary that I have ever seen. I will give what
Mr. Webster said first, and then Channing's more elaborate
analysis. In his brief autobiography^ Mr. Webster wrote:
"To my endeavors to maintain a sound currency, I owe
the acquaintance and friendship of the late Mr. Cabot,
who was kind enough to think me entitled to his regard."
In his speech before the New England Society of New
York in 1843 he said: "And the mention of the father of
my friend, Mr. Goodhue, brings to my mind the memory
of his great colleague, the early associate of Hamilton and
of Ames, trusted and beloved by Washington, consulted on
all occasions connected with the administration of the
finances, the establishment of the Treasury Department,
the imposition of the first rates of duty, and with everything
that belonged to the commercial system of the United
States — George Cabot of Massachusetts."
Channing, more elaborate, wrote as follows:
"We know not in what manner we can better communi
cate our views of the Federal party, of its merits and de
fects, than by referring to that distinguished man, who was
so long prominent in its ranks; we mean the late George
Cabot. If any man in this region deserved to be called its
leader, it was he, and a stronger proof of its political purity
cannot be imagined, than is found in the ascendency which
this Olustrious individual maintained over it. He was the
last man to be charged with a criminal ambition. His mind
rose far above office. The world had no station which would
have tempted him from private life. But in private life, he
exerted the sway which is the worthiest prize of a lofty
ambition. He was consulted with something of the re-
1 Writings, &c., of Daniel Webster, National Edition, Vol. XVII, p. 26.

HEREDITY 11
spect which was paid to an ancient oracle, and no mind
among us contributed so much to the control of public
affairs. It is interesting to inquire by what intellectual
attributes he gained this infiuence; and, as his character
now belongs to history, perhaps we may render no unaccept
able service in delineating its leading features.
"We think, that he was distinguished by nothing so
much as by the power of ascending to general principles,
and by the reverence and constancy with which he adhered
to them. The great truths of history and experience, the
immutable laws of human nature, according to which all
measures should be framed, shone on his intellectual eye
with an unclouded brightness. No impatience of present
evils, no eagerness for immediate good, ever tempted him
to think, that these might be forsaken with impunity. To
these he referred all questions on which he was called to
judge, and accordingly his conversation had a character of
comprehensive wisdom, which, joined with his urbanity,
secured to him a singular sway over the minds of his hearers.
With such a mind, he of course held in contempt the tem
porary expedients and motley legislation of common-place
politicians. He looked with singular aversion on everything
factitious, forced, and complicated in policy. We have
understood, that by the native strength and simplicity of
his mind, he anticipated the lights, which philosophy and
experience have recently thrown on the importance of leav
ing enterprise, industry, and commerce free. He carried
into politics the great axiom which the ancient sages car
ried into morals, 'Follow nature.' In an age of reading,
he leaned less than most men on books. A more independ
ent mind our country perhaps has not produced. When we
think of his whole character, when with the sagacity of his
intellect we combine the integrity of his heart, the dignified
grace of his manners, and the charm of his conversation,

12 EARLY MEMORIES
we hardly know the individual, with the exception of Wash
ington, whom we should have offered more willingly to a
foreigner as a specimen of the men whom America can
produce. "Still we think, that his fine qualities were shaded by
what to us is a great defect, though to some it may appear
a proof of his wisdom. He wanted a just faith in man's
capacity of freedom, at least in that degree of it which our
institutions suppose. He inclined to dark views of the
condition and prospects of his country. He had too much
of the wisdom of experience. He wanted what may be
called the wisdom of hope. In man's past history he read
too much what is to come, and measured our present capac
ity of pohtical good too much by the unsuccessful experi
ments of former times. We apprehend, that it is possible
to make experience too much our guide; and such was
the fault of this distinguished man. There are seasons, in
human affairs, of inward and outward revolution, when new
depths seem to be broken up in the soul, when new wants
are unfolded in multitudes, and a new and undefined good
is thirsted for. These are periods, when the principles of
experience need to be modified, when hope and trust and
instinct claim a share with prudence in the guidance of
affairs, when in truth to dare is the highest wisdom. Now,
in the distinguished man of whom we speak, there was little
or nothing of that enthusiasm, which, we confess, seems to
us sometimes the surest light. He lived in the past, when
the impulse of the age was towards the future. He was
slow to promise himself any great amelioration of human
affairs; and whilst singularly successful in discerning the
actual good, which results from the great laws of nature and
Providence, he gave little hope that this good was to be
essentially enlarged. To such a man, the issue of the
French Revolution was a confirmation of the saddest les-

HEREDITY 13
sons of history, and these lessons he applied too faithfully
to his own country. His influence in communicating
sceptical, disheartening views of human affairs, seems to us
to have been so important as to form a part of our history,
and it throws much light on what we deem the great polit
ical error of the Federalists."
As I conclude this brief outline of my New England an
cestry I am struck by the lack of what is usually conspicu
ous in such pedigrees— the clerical strain. Except for
Francis Higginson, eminent indeed among New England
divines as the first minister of Salem, and pathetic in his
early death, brought on by his devotion to his people and
his belief, I find on both sides merchants and sailors, sea-
captains and soldiers, men of action and men in business
and in public life, but no clergymen. They seem on both
sides likewise to have been, as a rule, hardy, active, and suc
cessful, taking part in the life of their time, and filling a place
in the world, whether large or small, by work and energy.

CHAPTER II
EARLIEST MEMORIES: 1850-1860
I WAS born in Boston, as I have been credibly informed,
on May 12, one pleasant Sunday morning in the year 1850.
The house in which this event occurred belonged to my
grandfather, Henry Cabot, for whom I was named. It was
a square stone house of smooth granite, large, comfortable,
facing south, and open on all sides. Two short streets caUed,
respectively, Otis Place and Winthrop Place, ran out of
Summer Street, and, curving to the left and right, met, and
thus formed a horseshoe. At the bottom of the horseshoe
stood our house, having on one side a smaU private lane, which
was closed by an iron gate. This lane led to our stable and
thence turned to the east and meandered in the form of an
alley into Franklin Street. It was not much used except
by the owners and as an access to our stable, but it offered
a short cut to the business quarter of the town, which was not
overlooked by those who were familiar with the neighbor
hood and anxious to save time. One morning somebody
encoimtered Rufus Choate, who lived in Winthrop Place,
hurrying down this alley, and expressed surprise at meeting
him there. "Yes," said Mr. Choate, "ignominious, but
convenient," and passed on.
Back of the house was a garden, an ample garden, which
ran out also beside the house to the street. Here stood a
weather-worn marble statue of a garden nymph, which,
with the assistance of a young friend, Sturgis Bigelow, I
pushed over one happy day, and was thereby involved in an
14

EARLIEST MEMORIES : 1850-1860 15
Hiad of woes, not because of the mischief itself, but because
I undertook to lay the responsibility upon my companion,
a mean-spirited effort that aroused my father's just anger,
which I greatly dreaded, although he never inflicted the
slightest physical punishment upon me. The garden was
a sunny and sheltered spot, and behind the nymph of
bitter memories stood some fine pear-trees, much cherished
by my father, and I have still the medals with which then-
fruit was crowned at various horticultural expositions.
As I recall the old house (it was not really very old, but
it was large and sohd and spacious, with a fine air of age
and permanence) it seems to me that there was an atmos
phere about it and its garden, and about the quiet court in
front, and the like solid houses surrounding it, which no
longer exists in Boston or in any American city. All that
quarter of the town indeed was pervaded by the same atmos
phere. Hard by was Summer Street, fined with superb
horse-chestnut trees, beneath whose heavy shade the sober
weU-built houses took on in spring and summer an air of
cool remoteness. Farther to the east, where Summer and
Bedford Streets came together, stood the New South Church,
with a broad green in front and trees clustering about it.
A httle farther still and more to the south of us was Essex
Street, which was dignified by great Enghsh elms. Two of
these ehns, a short distance beyond the house where Wendell
Phfllips hved, lingered on long after trade had taken posses
sion of the whole region. They seemed, in their last days
of gaunt survival, like a melancholy protest against the
destruction of the old town.
It was long before I reasoned out the underlying meaning
of all this, long after our old house and garden had been
swept out of existence by the new street which was pushed
through into the quiet court to make way for the roaring
tides of business, which now ebb and flow over the spot

16 EARLY MEMORIES
without anything resembhng a private house to be seen
anywhere in the neighborhood. The fact was that the year
1850 stood on the edge of a new time, but the old time was
stiU visible from it, still indeed prevailed about it. I do not
think that it was in itself a very remarkable year, and it
has always seemed to me most noteworthy on account of
the extreme and disagreeable ease with which one's age
could be computed from it, but the year 1850 came never
theless at a memorable period and had memorable com
panions. I have often said and written that there was a
wider difference between the men who fought at Water
loo and those who fought at Gettysburg or Sedan or
Mukden than there was between the followers of Leonidas
and the soldiers of Napoleon. This is merely one way of
stating that the application of steam and electricity to
transportation and communication made a greater change
in human environment than had occurred since the earhest
period of recorded history. The break between the old and
the new came some time in the thirties, and 1850 was well
within the new period. Yet at that date this new period
was stiU very new, hardly more than a dozen years old,
and the ideas of the earher time — the habits, the modes of
life, although mortally smitten and fast fading — were still
felt, still dominant. The men and women of the elder time
with the old feelings and habits were, of course, very
numerous, and for the most part were quite unconscious
that their world was shpping away from them. Hence the
atmosphere of our old stone house, with its lane, its
pear-trees, and its garden nymph, indeed of Boston itself,
was stiU an eighteenth-century atmosphere, if we accept
Sir Walter Besant's statement that the eighteenth century
ended in 1837. At aU events, it was an atmosphere utterly
different from anything to be found to-day.
The year 1850, too, stood well beyond the zenith of the

EARLIEST MEMORIES : 1850-1860 17
romantic movement, which in outward seeming continued
in full control, but which was in reality upon the downward
slope, as one can easily see to-day. On the other hand, the
unrest, which was apparent in all directions, and the revolt
against the reaction of 1815, was just culminating. Two
years before, in 1848, the outbreak had come in Europe,
and the movement which was to result in the consolidation
of the United States and of Germany, in the unification of
Italy, the hberation of the slaves, the emancipation of the
Russian serfs, and the wide extension of democratic and
representative government, was resuming its sweeping and
victorious march, which had been checked at Waterloo. It
was the day of the human-rights statesmen just rising to
power, of the men who beheved that in political hberty was
to be found the cure for every human iU, and that all the
world needed in order to assure, human happiness was to
give every man a vote and set him free. Thus it hap
pened that the year 1850 came at the dawn of a new time,
at the birth of new forces now plainly recognized, but the
meaning and scope of which are as yet httle understood,
and the results of which can only be darkly guessed, because
the past has but a dim Ught to throw upon the untried
paths ahead. Yet, none the less, that which was first
apparent to the child bom in 1850, as he came to conscious
ness during the next ten years, was the old world which
still surrounded him, for a child, happily for himself, sees
only what is near to him — his present seems to have
existed always and is haunted with no shadow of change.
In 1850 Boston had a population of one hundred and
thirty-three thousand, which by 1860 had risen to one hun
dred and seventy thousand, about one-fourth of the present
population of the city proper, if we take the average for
the decade. The whole State of Massachusetts had only a
million people in 1850, less than one-third of its population

18 EARLY MEMORIES
to-day, much less even than the population now gathered
in Boston and in those suburbs which can be distinguished
by no outward sign from the city itself. The tide-waters of
the Back Bay still rose and fefi to the west of the peninsula,
and that large region now filled in and covered with hand
some, houses had no existence. The best houses of that day
were in Summer Street and its neighborhood, then just be
ginning to yield to the advance of trade, or else were clus
tered on the slopes of Beacon Hill. Opposite to us in Win
throp Place, for example, were two large stone houses with
yards or gardens like our own, one occupied by Joshua
Blake, my great-grandfather's brother, the other by Samuel
Cabot, and later by George Bancroft, the historian. On
one side our neighbors were the HunneweUs and on the
other the Bowditches. In Winthrop Place lived Rufus
Choate, and close by in Summer Street or its immediate
vicinity were the houses of Daniel Webster and Edward
Everett, of the Grays, Gardners, Frothinghams, Bigelows,
Lees, Jacksons, Higginsons, and Cushings. The list might
be indefinitely extended, but I have mentioned names
enough to show, especially to Bostonians, the character of
that quarter of the town now extinct except for purposes
of trade and commerce.
Boston itself was then small enough to be satisfying
to a boy's desires. It was possible to grasp one's little
world and to know and to be known by everybody in one's
own fragment of society. The town still had personality,
lineaments which could be recognized, and had not yet lost
its identity in the featureless, characterless masses insepara
ble from a great city. I do not say that this was an advan
tage; I merely note it as a fact. Local character may easily
be repellent. Many of us prefer not only the interests and
pleasures which only very large cities can give, but also the
unmarked vagueness which is typical of huge hordes of

EARLIEST MEMORIES : 1850-1860 19
people as it is of the wastes of ocean. Whatever its merits
or defects, however, Boston in the first decade of the sec
ond half of the nineteenth century had a meaning and a
personality, and even a boy could feel them. It may have
been narrow, austere, at times even harsh, this personality,
but it was there, and it was strong, manly, and aggressive.
It would still have been possible to rally the people in 1850,
as they were once rallied against the British soldiers on a
certain cold March evening with the cry of "Town born,
turn out!"
Yet again, whatever the advantages or disadvantages of
this condition, Boston in those days offered for a small boy
an opportunity to live contentedly within its limits. We
could play in each other's gardens or yards, for generous
gardens and large yards still existed, a bequest of the eigh
teenth century, when there seems to have been more land
and more leisure for city gardens than there is to-day. Best
of all, we had the Common, where we could disport our
selves as of right. There we played all the games, rising,
as we went, on to football and baseball. There in winter
we coasted on the "Big HiU" and on the long path running
from the Park and Beacon Street corner, very near to the
other "Long Path" made memorable by the "Autocrat,"
but which was less suitable for sleds than for lovers.
We skated, of course, on the Frog Pond; and on the
Common we also waged Homeric combats with snowballs
against the boys from the South Cove and the North End,
in which we made gaUant fights, but were in the end, as
a rule, outnumbered and driven back. What was more
serious, the ever-increasing number of our opponents grad
ually [by sheer weight pushed us, and still more our suc
cessors, from the Common hills and the Frog Pond to
seek coasting and skating in the country. This was luckily
not such a heavy infliction as might be supposed, for be-

20 EARLY MEMORIES
tween 1850 and 1867, when I went to Harvard, the country
was reached as soon as one stepped outside the city hmits.
One had but to cross the mill-dam to attain to the country,
for the towns close to Boston were in those days small and
rural and had not yet become paved portions of the big,
absorbing capital.
I have spoken first of that which is most important to a
well-constituted boy, as I hope that I was — the oppor
tunities for play and amusement. But what is technically
called education began at the same time. I remember
distinctly hearing my father say one evening: "That big
boy is five years old and cannot read. It is time that
he went to school." The statement gave me no pleasure;
quite the contrary. My world, I thought, was very well as
it was. However, the command had gone forth from the
Olympians, and to school I went the following autumn. A
friend of my mother, Mrs. Parkman, had formed the idea
of getting together the sons of a few of her friends who were
about the same age as her own boy, and thus making a little
school which she could teach herself. The plan was car
ried out with marked success. The school was small, the
boys were picked. Mrs. Parkman took an intense, affec
tionate, and personal interest in each one of us, the kind of
interest that no money could buy; and then she was herself
very different from any school-teacher I have ever known
or heard of before or since. A descendant of John Ehot,
the apostle to the Indians, of the best New England stock
on both sides of the house, she was a well-bred woman in
the fullest sense, and, what was rarer perhaps in those days,
a woman of the world in the best sense. She possessed un
usual abilities, real learning, and was widely read. When I
was at her school I regarded her with the settled hostility
with which I think most vigorous boys regard any one who
tries to teach them anything which is not a sport. In later

EARLIEST MEMORIES : 1850-1860 21
years, after I had graduated from Harvard, married, and
settled in Boston, Mrs. Parkman became one of my best and
dearest friends. There are few friendships which I look
back to with more pleasure. She was one of the cleverest
and wisest women, one of the cleverest and wisest persons,
I have ever known. I delighted to talk with her about
everything which was interesting me as a young man. She
had both wit and humor, wide knowledge of men and
books, and intense beliefs, as well as strong likes and dis
likes, but she never meant to be intolerant or unfair. She
died prematurely and made a great gap in my friendships,
one of the kind which time closes perhaps but never fills.
I suppose that I then learned to read and write, because
I have no clear remembrance of a time when I did not pos
sess those two accomplishments. I am certain that I was
taught the rudiments of arithmetic, because such acquisi
tion as I effected was painful, both at the moment and in
recoUection. Anything relating to figures or mathematics
I regarded with a settled hate, both then and afterwards.
I also remember that I began the study of French, which I
liked, and I think I recall it chiefly because the teacher,
Doctor Amaux, tall, thin, grave, dark, and solemnly polite,
presented a figure the like of which I had never seen before
upon my little Boston horizon. These were some of the
things I learned or which were thrust into me, but of edu
cation in its true sense I got nothing except a single sentence
from Mrs. Parkman: " Use your mind. I do not care what
you answer if you only use your mind." At the time her
words seemed to me merely the outcry of a very natural
irritation, a distinctly hostile utterance, yet in some way
the phrase clung to my memory, and in years long after I
came to think that to know how to use one's mind com
prises pretty nearly the whole of education. There is, how
ever, one recollection connected with this first school, al
though very far removed from any idea of tasks and lessons,

22 EARLY MEMORIES
which I must record. Mrs. (Fanny) Kemble at that time
hved much in Massachusetts, where she was warmly admhed
and had many friends, especially among the women of my
mother's age. One of her closest and most intimate friends
was Mrs. Parkman, and I remember Mrs. Kemble's coming
to the school and reading to us. I had forgotten that there
was another reading at Mr. Ticknor's house for the benefit
of the children until my old friend Henry Parkman re
minded me of it. She read that noblest of old baflads,
"Chevy Chase," which I recall, and no doubt other poems
or plays the recollection of which has perished. How she
looked I cannot now picture to myself, for the first image is
blotted out by a much later one obtained when I heard her
read in public on several occasions and when she was an
elderly woman. What I retain of that earliest time is the
memory of her deep, melodious voice and a sense which
lingers with me stiU that she was an awe-inspiring person
age at whom I gazed in round-eyed wonder.
But Boston and winter — although I loved the heavy
snow-storms and the coasting and skating — Bostoii and
winter and school and what passed for education were not
only the lesser but the worser part of life. The joy of
living in its full sense was united indissolubly with the
summer and the sea. I had something of the sea in
Boston, for my father was a China merchant, and, after
the fashion of the merchants of those days, had his office in
the granite block which stretched down to the end of Com
mercial Wharf. His counting-room was at the very end
in the last division of the block, and from the windows I
could look out on the ships lying alongside the wharf. They
were beautiful vessels, American clipper ships in the days
when our ships of that type were famous throughout the
world for speed and stanchness. I wandered about over
their decks, making friends with the captains, the seamen,
and the ship-keepers, and taking a most absorbing interest in

EARLIEST MEMORIES : 1850-1860 23
everything connected with them. They brought me from
China admirable firecrackers and strange fireworks, fasci
nating in appearance, but which I could not "make go"
at aU. From them, too, came bronzes and porcelains
and pictures and carved ivories, which I was wont to look
at wonderingly, and ginger and sweetmeats and lychee-nuts
(then almost unknown here), of which I used to partake
with keen delight. For the teas and silks which filled the
holds I cared nothing, but the history and adventures of
the ships interested me greatly. I was indifferent to those
which my father had bought and which rejoiced in such
names as the Alfred Hill and Sarah H. Snow, but I cared enor
mously for the others, which he had bmlt and named himself.
One was the Argonaut, his "luckiest" ship, in which he told
me I had an interest or share. I stiU have a stiff picture
of her painted by a Chinese artist in the Western manner,
and a very beautiful ship she must have been. Second only
to the Argonaut in my affections were two named for the
heroes of one of my father's best-loved books, the Don
Quixote and the Sancho Panza. Then there were stiU others,
crack ships in their day, whose names appealed to my
imagination — the Kremlin, the Storm King, the Cossack,
and the Magnet. But over all was the mystery and the
fascination of the sea, and those who have been born at
its edge and have fallen under its spell are never happy
when long parted from the ocean and the ships. Long
fellow has given once for all in verse what many a New
England boy, born by the sea, has felt and, having once
felt, has never forgotten:
"I remember the black wharves and the slips,
And the sea-tides tossing free;
And Spanish sailors with bearded lips,
And the beauty and mystery of the ships,
And the magic of the sea."

24 EARLY MEMORIES
Such I know was my feeling, and I can see now the look
of the wharf and the men and the ships as I gazed at them
from the window of the counting-room or wandered about
their decks.
I am happy to find that I am not alone in my memory
of the wharves and ships of those early days. In his charm
ing book about "Boston New and Old," my friend and con
temporary Russell Sullivan says: "Here, at Commercial
Wharf, too, and at Lewis Wharf, came in the merchantmen.
The lofts and ground floors of the buildings were stored
with products of the Indies; midway, sunny counting rooms
overlooked the water, the loading and discharging vessels.
There, where the merchants spent their days, the wide,
comfortable spaces fitted with time honored furniture, with
paintings of chpper ships upon the walls, had a look of well-
ordered repose, and, between cargoes, were, indeed, at times
so quiet that the gentle lap of the harbor-waves could be
heard against the wooden piers below. There was always
a fragrance of mingled spices in the air which tranquil dig
nity pervaded. They had their rough and tumble days, to
be sure, when bags of ginger, cases of nutmegs and flat bales
of dusty palm-leaf swung up from the hold so fast that the
tally-clerks lost count, confusion reigned and tempers went
by the board. The troops of small boys who came collect
ing foreign postage stamps and the decorative shipping-
cards of elaborate design which were in vogue, must have
been a pestering nuisance, yet were civilly endured. Only
a few ill-natured consignees hung out signs warning off these
youthful mendicants."
I remember one product of the Indies discovered by
Columbus which Mr. Sullivan fails to mention, although it
was an import from which the youth of the period drew an
immediate revenue. On India Wharf, and no doubt on
others, were frequently gathered in serried ranks lying side

EARLIEST MEMORIES : 1850-1860 25
by side large groups of great hogsheads filled with West
Indian molasses. Those who came to buy not infrequently
left the long stick with which they tested the contents stand
ing in the bung-hole of the cask. To draw forth this stick
dripping with molasses was sunple, then, regardless of dht
and impurities, to run the finger along it and convey the
finger to the mouth was the work of a moment. It is not
a form of gluttony which would attract me now, but my
friends and I enjoyed this black molasses hugely, although
not even theft could add to its intense and cloying, if dirty,
sweetness. Of the boys who went stamp-collecting I was also one,
and have no doubt that I was frequently a "pestering nui
sance," but it was a fascinating pursuit although rarely
successful. There were no "plulatehsts" in those days. I
doubt whether even Shakespeare's "well-educated infant,"
if he had hved then, could have defined the word. We had
to get our stamps where we could, from good-natured friends
and relatives who received foreign letters, by exchange, or
by purchase from each other. There were wild legends of
rare stamps having been obtained from the offices of for
eign merchants on the wharves, and we wandered about
asking for them with splendid and seldom-rewarded perse
verance, buoyed up by the hope that we should find some
ofl&ce where the value of postage-stamps was unknown, and
where the precious triangles of the Cape of Good Hope, or
the rare issues of Mauritius or AustraHa or Java, would be
poured into our outstretched palms. It only happened
now and then; the dream seldom came true; but there was
a hvely excitement about these expeditions and the eternal
charm of treasure-hunting, as weU as a sense of adventure
in prying into forgotten corners and going into afl sorts of
out-of-the-way places, which was very gratifying to boy
nature. A favorite spot in the quest for stamps was the

26 EARLY MEMORIES
rooms of the Missionary Society, which occupied the top
floor of a house in Pemberton Square. Never by any
chance did we get anything there. The gentlemen engaged
in converting the heathen had, I think, an accurate concep
tion of the value of the stamps affixed to letters coming from
the distant islands with which they corresponded. But we
were repaid for our toilsome ascent of several flights of
stairs by the httle museum maintained by the society. It
was a Polynesian collection — feather capes, war-clubs,
spears, hideous idols, and endless curiosities which rejoiced
our hearts. I hope that collection has been preserved, and
if I knew where it was I would go to see it even if I was
compelled to take an elevator to ascend to its resting-place.
I can see, too, in the backward glance at the old wharves
and counting-rooms, that which begot them, the shipyard
at Medford, long since departed, and Mr. Lapham, the
ship-builder, and the vessels on the stocks. It was one of
the most exciting joys of my life to drive out to Medford
with my father and stroll about the shipyard while he in
spected the ship in process of construction. I am far from
decrying steel and iron, but for mere grace and beauty the
old clipper ship from the day she spread her wings and set
out under full sail can never be approached by anything
made of metal with smoking chimneys and military masts.
I have drifted with the ships far away from the summers
of my boyhood, but the mention of my drives with my
father to Medford brings me naturahy back to them, be
cause in the spring it was his habit on Sunday, the one day
he had free from business, to drive down to Nahant to see
our little place and inspect the gardens, in which he took a
keen interest. There were no Sunday trains in those days,
and electric cars were stiU in a remote future, so that the
only way of reaching the desired spot was to drive.
Our vehicle was a large buggy. We changed horses

EARLIEST MEMORIES: 1850-1860 27
at Lynn, leaving our own horse there to be fed, and
went on to Nahant with a horse from the hvery-stable.
At Nahant we lunched, bringing our luncheon with us,
examined the work on the place, and wandered about
by the edge of the sea and among the closed houses,
which only took off their shutters and opened their eyes
when summer came. These empty, shut-up houses gave an
an- of remoteness and solitude to the httle peninsula much
more tangible than if it had been merely uninhabited. To
a small boy the whole expedition had a taste of adventure
which was very satisfying. The part, however, which I
liked most was the drive. My father was the best of com
panions. He had that somewhat rare gift of being perfect
company to a child. He was the kindest and most generous
of men. I never remember a harsh word from him except
on one or two occasions, when he spoke to me sternly be
cause he thought I was not telling the truth or was exhibiting
either physical or moral timidity. He was a man of great
courage, entirely fearless, and was said to have had a high
temper, but although I realized his courage I never knew
that he had a temper until one night, when, as we were
going to the theatre, at a dark place on the Common, two
men pushed into us; there were words, I saw something
ghtter in one man's hand, and then he was knocked down
in the snow by my father, who merely said as we passed on:
"I think that fellow had a knife." My confidence in my
father was so absolute that at the moment the whole affair
appeared to be altogether commonplace and natural. As
I look back upon it now it does not seem quite so simple.
There had been a storm and the weather was just clearing.
I can see the shine of the distant gaslight on the new-faUen
snow, the sudden coUision of the two men with my father,
then one of them on his back in the white drift with some
thing glittering in his hand. Then we were walking quietly

28 EARLY MEMORIES
along again, and I have no recoUection of either fright or
excitement. My faith in my father was too great to admit
such emotions. Perhaps I shall be pardoned if I say a few
words here about him, for he fUled a dominant place in my
earliest years. He was open-handed and generous in the
highest degree to the poor, to all who were connected with
him, to any one whom he could help. When the war came
he was unable to go, for he was not only too old, which he
would not admit, but he had injured his knee in a fall from
his horse, could not walk freely and rode with difficulty.
But he was an intensely loyal man and gave to the support
of the war in every way. It was the habit to subscribe
money to equip regiments. John C. Ropes, afterwards an
eminent lawyer and distinguished military historian, raised
a great deal of money for this purpose. He told me that
my father always gave, and on one occasion when there was
some especial need my father handed him a check signed in
blank and told him to fiU it up as he pleased. Mr. Ropes
said it was the only blank, signed check ever given to him.
My father enjoyed above aU things the power of giving.
He was overwhelmed, overburdened with business cares,
which broke him down and caused his premature death.
My mother begged him to retire, as he had an ample fortune
for those days, but his reply was: "If I retire and live on a
fixed income I shaU not be able to give as I do now, and I
want to be able to give without stopping to think about it."
But it was not his generosity, although he was continu
ally giving to me, which made those Sunday drives so fas
cinating. It was his companionship. To the simple, short,
and famihar journey he contrived to impart a charm and
an interest which never failed in their attraction to the smaU
boy who sat beside him. The little incidents of the road
assumed the proportions of adventures, filuminated by the
jokes they provoked and the riddles and conundrums they

EARLIEST MEMORIES: 1850-1860 29
suggested, which, unlike a true Yankee, I was very slow in
guessing. Like most men of well-balanced minds, my father
had his pet superstition — the very ancient one of picking up
a horseshoe as the bringer of good luck. I am inchned to
think that he cultivated the superstition for my benefit,
because keeping a lookout and occasionally seeing and
gathering in a horseshoe gave an added excitement to the
drive, and brought the precious sensation, when fortune
favored us, of "treasure-trove." The propensity thus ac
quired I have both resisted and indulged all my life. Then
we would speculate about the horse we should get at Lynn
when we changed, and on our arrival there the business of
changing horses and the conversation with Mr. Goldthwaite,
the proprietor, were to me an unending source of pleasure
and made me think that I was having the same experiences
as those which befell Mr. Pickwick in his immortal travels
in stage-coaches. My father also talked freely to me and
we held long conversations. He talked to me about his
ships, and about the place at Nahant, and about his cotton-
mUl, and about politics, and above all, he used to repeat
poetry to me, not only nonsense jingles, or the simple
rhymes of the school-room, or the verses of Cowper and Mrs.
Hemans, of CampbeU and Southey, but he would recite to
me long passages from Scott and Gray, and above all from
his two favorite poets, Shakespeare and Pope, a queer
combination. I then first heard and learned the noble and
beautiful verses of the "Elegy in a Country Churchyard,"
but my father's favorite among Gray's poems seems to
have been for some unfathomable reason "The Bard." So
deeply were its lines impressed upon me as a chUd, that to
this day I cannot repeat
" Ruin seize thee, ruthless King,
Confusion on thy banners wait!"

30 EARLY MEMORIES
without feeling the thrUl which the words gave me when a
little boy. I cannot remember the time when I did not
know the "Universal Prayer," or when I could not recite
"The stag at eve had drunk his fill," and
" Awake, my St. John, leave all meaner things
To low Ambition and the pride of kings."
My idea of what the last poem meant was as vague as my
knowledge of Bolingbroke, but the swing and the ring of
the verses greatly caught my fancy. Then, too, it was that
there came to me the first intimation of the existence of
Homer by hearing that
" Aurora now, fair daughter of the dawn.
Sprinkled with rosy light the dewy lawn,"
and that heroes called AchiUes and Hector and Ulysses had
many fights and adventures, all described in the like formal
and sonorous fashion. It was in this way that I acquired an
affection for Pope's roUing and balanced lines, which was
found quite odd when I grew up, because Queen Anne's
poet had long been out of fashion. My father was fond
of books and hked to talk of them to me, young as I was,
and my own reading took, of course, the line of my father's
fancies. He was very fond of Cervantes, and I early became
famUiar with our Ulustrated copy of "Don Quixote," pored
over the pictures and read all that I could understand. He
was a lover of Scott, and in my tenth year I read aU the
Waverley Novels through from beginning to end. I have
repeated the performance more than once since, but the
joy of that first reading can never be felt again. The
pleasure of living in that other world fiUed with adventure
and with fascinating people was beyond description. I
understand that Scott is now no longer read and that the

EARLIEST MEMORIES: 1850-1860 31
young and wise regard him as a poor creature. If this be
true, the loss is the world's and the present generation's, and
" Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight."
In the same way I was led to an early admiration of Macau-
lay and to a far earher reading of Hawthorne, Dickens, and
"Robinson Crusoe." I am inchned to think, as I set down
the names of these books, which I turned to because my
father talked about them, that his tastes were conservative,
that he was not appealed to by the romantic or transcen
dental movement going on about him, and that, apart from
Shakespeare, his particular adoration, he was very eighteenth
century in his tastes. I am confirmed in this by the fact
that among his books, and he had many, there was a par
ticularly handsome and very complete set of Horace Wal-
pole, for whom he seems to have had a peculiar affection.
I am afraid that what I have just written wUl give the im
pression that I must have had the most precocious literary
tastes, which was not at aU the case. These books I have
mentioned I was led to read in part at least by hearing my
father talk of them, and Scott was purely voluntary read
ing on my part, as was hkewise the case with "Peter Sim
ple" and "Midshipman Easy" — a very great work. But I
also devoured eagerly aU the children's books of the time,
especiaUy fairy tales, for which I had an inexhaustible appe
tite. I lovingly perused aU the works of Jacob Abbott, as
weU as "Sandford and Merton," one of the most preposter
ous books ever written, but which had an undoubted charm
that I find it hard to explain. I was familiar with the poems
of Jane Taylor, and accepted as perfectly natural the fero
cious punishments therein meted out to youthful trans
gressors. The extremely humorous side of those poems,
quite unintended by the authoress, has been, I may add, a

32 EARLY MEMORIES
source of real pleasure to me all my life, as I have been able
to recaU those jingling verses better than many more valu
able things. I also read aU Miss Edgeworth's writings —
"Parents' Assistant," "Frank," "Harry and Lucy," and
"Rosamond and the Purple Jar," At that time the intol
erable didacticism of the stories did not bore me, nor did I
have the satisfaction of appreciating the brutal immorality
of such persons as Rosamond's mother in her treatment of
her luckless and deceived offspring.
But I have spent a long time in getting to Nahant and
my summers there. I have drifted away on the sea of htera-
ture as I did before on the clipper ships. Neither perhaps
is so very distant, for Nahant has been much connected
with literature, and from her bold headlands she has watched
"the stately ships go on to their haven under the hiU" from
the days of the long, low boats of the Vikings to the huge
steamships throbbing and smoking as they come up out of
the ocean or start forth to Europe. A rock-bound peninsula
of singular beauty thrust out into the sea between Cape
Cod and Cape Ann, the home from the early part of the
seventeenth century of a few fishermen and farmers, Nahant
at the beginning of the nineteenth century began to draw
from Boston people who sought for life out of doors, by its
fine sea air and by the chance for fishing and shooting. In
the early twenties gentlemen from Boston bmlt a stone
hotel on the extreme point of the peninsula. Cottages fol
lowed, bmlt here and there on the cliffs and headlands, and
the place was fairly launched as a summer resort. It be
came weU known, sharing with Newport the distinction of
being one of the first and most famous of New England
watering-places. WiUis, and later Curtis, described it in
prose and Whittier pictured its beauties in verse. It finds
a place in more than one of Longfellow's poems, for he
lived there always in summer; and Emerson gave it a stanza:

EARLIEST MEMORIES: 1850-1860 33
¦'All day the waves assailed the rock,
I heard the church-bell chime,
The sea-beat scorns the minster clock
And breaks the glass of time."

Prescott and Agassiz made their homes at Nahant in sum
mer, and Motley and Sumner came there every year.
Then Mr. Paran Stevens, forerunner of the promoters and
combiners of a later day, cast his eyes upon it and deter
mined that he could make it a great watering-place like
Newport, a destiny for which Nahant was too smaU and
altogether unsuited. But this experiment was in full tide
when my earliest memory begins. The picturesque stone
hotel had given way to a huge wooden barrack containing
hundreds of rooms, ugly, tasteless, with no quality but size.
A telegraph fine was run to Lynn, "hops," concerts, and
baUs were of frequent occurrence, and various attractions
were generously furnished. After the hotel had practically
failed and was on the eve of extinction, in 1860, an imitator
of Blondin named John Denver came to Nahant, and I re
member him weU wheehng a man over a tight-rope stretched
high across one of the coves which indented the shore.
There was at the outset, however, a brief period of gayety
and success, the hotel was full, and fashion seemed to justify
the anticipation of Mr. Stevens. Its fame indeed even
traveUed across the ocean. On September 7, 1858, Henry
GreviUe writes in his diary: "An amusing letter from Fanny
Kemble, dated Nahant, U. S. (a favorite sea-bathing place
near Boston), received to-day, says: 'How you would open
your eyes and stop your ears if you were here! This enor
mous house is fUled with American women, one prettier than
the other, who look like fairies, dress like duchesses orfemmes
entretenues, behave like housemaids and scream hke pea
cocks.' " The glimpse through Enghsh eyes is not flatter-

34 EARLY MEMORIES
ing, but it is vivid and interesting, perhaps not without
value even now.
So far as my own knowledge is concerned I remember
only dimly that the Olympians of the famUy used to go to
the hotel for various entertainments, that there was music,
and that I was taken there once to see Signor Bhtz (why
Signor?) and his trained canaries. The only other recoUec
tion connected with the hotel in its brief hour of splendor is
of the first diplomatist I ever saw. I have met many since
those days, some most interesting men, but not infrequently
I have found them, especiaUy when they were what is caUed
"trained," quite arid and unprofitable. Lord Napier, min
ister from England to the United States in 1857, was very
distinctly of the former and most interesting class. He
brought letters to my father, and he and Lady Napier dined
often at our house and drove with my mother. A boy of
seven notes not at all the appearance of persons so old as
to be friends of his parents, but I have been told since that
Lady Napier was both charming and handsome. An old
photograph which lies before me, despite its imperfections,
certainly justifies the latter adjective. There were also
two Napier boys, who made a far stronger impression upon
my mind than did their parents. I remember plajdng and
fraternizing with them very cheerfully, although I had a
wholly vague, but none the less deep-rooted, hostUity to
England. This feeling was traditional and in the air, but
I am sure that I derived mine from my father. He had
been in England several times when a young man. I have
his passport, issued to him by Governor White, of Louisiana,
the father of my friend, the present chief justice of the
United States. My father then hved in Louisiana, where he
was engaged in business, but the governor of a State as a
source for passports curiously illustrates the alteration in
the power and position of the States since the early thirties.

EARLIEST MEMORIES: 1850-1860 35
He had enjoyed his visits to England, where he was very
kindly welcomed by his imcle and cousins, and I never heard
him speak harshly of any one whom he met. Nevertheless,
he resented deeply the attitude and policy of England toward
this country, as weU as the contemptuous abuse heaped upon
us by her writers, and this resentment became more in
tense when England's feeling toward us was revealed by her
conduct at the beginning of the CivU War. But although
my opinions were strong and sound as to Great Britain, I
played cheerfuUy and contentedly with the sons of the
minister and found them excellent companions.
The passing glamour of the big hotel, however, was only
an incident in the first summers which I remember. It
was Nahant itself that I cared for. Many, many years
afterward Senator Hoar said of me and to me in a speech at
Clark University, that I had suffered from one serious mis
fortune — I had not been brought up in the country. I told
him after the speech-making was over that I had one great
compensation in being brought up by the sea, and he ad
mitted the truth of what I said as a fact which he had for
gotten. The love of the sea which a child acquires who has
been reared at its very edge deepens through life, and
nothing can ever replace it. I played upon the beaches and
climbed about among the rocks; I loved the sea smUing
and beautiful in the midsummer heats, and I loved it even
more in the great gales of the autumn, when the huge waves
broke over the cliffs and ledges, fiUmg me with mterest and
excitement as I watched them by the hour together.
Nahant not only meant the sea and summer and out-of-
door hfe, but there was no school there, and, mstead of
lessons, I learned to swim and in tune to row and saU a boat,
accomplishments reaUy worth having and one of the rare
portions of my education which have been of use and pleas
ure to me my whole life through. There was, too, a certain

36 EARLY MEMORIES
enchantment about the place — the mystery and magic of
the sea, I suppose — and such dreams and imaginings as I
had were all connected with Nahant and not with Boston,
It is said that Robert Louis Stevenson once declaring that
"every chUd hunted for buried treasure," Henry James re-
phed "that he never had," to which Stevenson made the
obvious answer: "Then you have never been a child." I
was not at all imaginative, but I constructed an elaborate
romance of treasure hidden at Nahant, Little as I knew it
then, I was in a region peculiarly adapted for such dreams.
Captain Kidd and other pirates of the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, but especially Captain Kidd, are popu
larly beheved to have buried treasure all along the New Eng
land coast. As a matter of fact, they probably concealed
some of their plunder at various points, for little deposits
have been found here and there. The belief, however, was
magnificent and wide-spread, even if the treasure was small,
scattered, and imcertain. Not far from where I lived, al
though I never heard of it until much later, at a place caUed
Dungeon Rock, in the Lynn Woods, a worthy fanuly, under
the direction of mediums and spirits, slowly and painfully,
with hammer and chisel, drove a tunnel into the sohd rock
in search of a cave where an Indian princess, an Indian
chief, and sundry pirates had been imprisoned with all
their treasures by a landshde or earthquake, of which geology,
differing with the spirits, gave no indication. The work of
these poor people afterward became an attraction to sight
seers, and they earned a Uving by the fees they received for
exhibiting the labors of their wasted fives,
I also got a glimpse of the Captain Kidd belief many
years later. One summer in the eighties a good-looking
elderly man came to me and asked permission to dig on my
place at Nahant, near East Point, just by the edge of the
chff. He said that the spirits had told him precisely where

EARLIEST MEMORIES: 1850-1860 37
the treasure was buried in large pots packed in a great chest.
Mindful of my own early visions, I gave him the required
permission, but after his excavation had reached such a
size that it began to threaten serious damage I told him to
stop and sent him away. He went obediently, but came
back at night secretly and dug more and deeper, enlarging
the hole to the serious distress of my gardener, and naturally
finding nothing. He was a fine-looking, sturdy man who
had worked aU his life as a bridge-bmlder and contractor,
and his hard-earned savings were being absorbed by crafty
mediums who were encouraging him in his search for buried
treasure. I have strayed far from my own early imaginings,
which were as innocent of any knowledge of Kidd and
seventeenth-century buccaneers as they were of spiritual
manifestations and designing mediums. Mine was simply
the boy's dream of buried treasure, I made up my mind
that, on the side of one of the cliffs near the house where I
then hved, there was a cave which had been closed up by the
faU of a rock suggested by a long crack and a projecting shelf.
I fixed the place in my memory by slipping there one day
when I was pounding the rock, and as I feU I brought my
teeth sharply together, biting clean through my tongue, an
incident as real as my cave was imaginary and a good deal
more painful. But although I made no impression on the
hard surface of the rock, I pictured the cave in my
mind and fitted it up and fUled it with treasure, greatly to
my own satisfaction. I became finaUy so pleased with my
invention that I confided an account of it to my companion
and contemporary, Sturgis Bigelow, who has reminded me
that I peopled the cave not with every-day pirates, but with
the leading characters in the "White Chief," a thriUing
work by our favorite novelist, Mayne Reid. Bigelow was
so mterested that I gave him to understand that I had seen

38 EARLY MEMORIES
all these wonders, and I produced an old and rusty shot
gun which I had found in the garret as something which I
had brought from the cave. He was duly impressed, so
much so indeed that he told his father and then informed
me that his father said that there was no such cave and that
the gun had probably belonged to my grandfather. What
defence I made I do not remember, but this unpleasant
scepticism not only impaired my reputation for truth, but also
wrecked my own belief, and I do not recall that I sought
further to develop my cave, which was a loss I have never
ceased to deplore. My only other attempt to carry out my
dreams of buried treasure had an equaUy unfortunate end
ing, RusseU SuUivan, RusseU Gray, and I and one or two
other boys put some of our hard-gotten quarters and half-
dollars in a small box and buried it deeply in a sand-bank
which ran along the edge of the marshes where Arlington
Street now is. Then from time to time we would go secretly
and mysteriously and dig up the box and examine it. The
pleasure of this performance is almost as hard to explain as
that of Stevenson's "Lantern Bearers," but I can testify
that it was quite as real and quite as exciting. One sad day,
however, we found that our box had been broken open and
rifled. Sullivan and I, quite unjustly I think, suspected
one of our fellow treasure-hiders and treated him with
marked coolness. I am inclined to believe that some more
practical treasure-seeker from the "South Cove" had ob
served our movements and had proflted accordingly. But
in any event this melancholy experience terminated my
effort to acquire or to pretend to acquire buried treasure.

CHAPTER III
THE "OLYMPIANS": 1850-1860
These memories of my first ten years aU melt together.
I cannot pick them apart and date them, as other more
fortunate writers of reminiscences seem able to do. I can
only give them in mass as they arise before me out of the
dead years. But some of the figures of that time stand
forth very clearly before my mental vision, both those
who made my little world and those whom I afterward
knew to be of importance in the larger world of men
and whom I stUl distinguish salient and defined despite
the uncertain and fluctuating lights of one's earlier mem
ories. I have already spoken of my father, who was so much to
me as companion and friend. In the little home world my
mother fUled the largest place, and for fifty years her devo
tion, affection, and sympathy never failed me. She was a
clever, high-minded, high-spirited woman, very weU edu
cated according to the standards of Boston in the thirties,
and had made a long tour with her family through Europe
in 1837, something not so common at that time as it is now.
She was a great reader, and from my earhest years is asso
ciated in my mind with reading and a love of books. It was
from her that I first heard of Byron and SheUey. She was
one of the early admirers of Browning in the days before
his popularity, and it was to her that I owe my first acquaint-
39

40 EARLY MEMORIES
ance with the poet, who among aU those near my own time
or contemporary with it, during a long period, meant most
to me. My only sister was seven years older than I, a great
gap when one is under ten, but I was extremely fond of her
as she was of me. I looked up to her, of course, and felt
bitterly at times her very natural preference for older so
ciety than mine, but I rejoiced exceedingly whenever I could
be with her.
Last but by no means least in the household was my
grandfather, Henry Cabot, for whom I was named. He
was over seventy when I first recaU him clearly; a taU, erect,
very fine-looking man who gave no impression of age or
feebleness. He went to his club (the old Temple Club)
and down-town every day, although he had no business,
having long since retired from the bar, and he was a zealous
theatre-goer. When not at the theatre he was always at
home in the evenings and used to sit up very late, reading,
as I was told. He certainly got up late in the morning and
I seldom saw him without a book. It seemed to me as if
he knew everybody and that everybody knew him. His
friends were constantly coming to see him, I thought at
the time that they were all of his age, which I regarded as
enormous, I learned later that some of them were young
men, the fact being that he was a very agreeable and charm
ing man who attracted both young and old. He had, as I
look back on it, most perfect manners, and left the reputa
tion of an exceUent talker, although of that I could not
judge. He was always very kind to me, but I looked up to
him with awe, for he impressed me with an air of distinc
tion which I could not have defined then, but which I fully
realize now. I do not know why I had that feeling of awe,
because he was always most gentle in his manner, and as
he had a way, if I asked him for money, of pulling out a
handful of change and letting me take my choice among

THE "OLYMPIANS": 1850-1860 41
the coins I felt a peculiar affection for a person addicted
to a method of giving quite unexampled in my experience,
I used to try his patience, I fear, by urging him 'to tell me
how he hid under the sideboard and watched Washington
at breakfast with his father when the President stopped at
my great-grandfather's house in Beverly, on his journey
through New England m 1789.
Many years afterward there came to me in a curious
way a written reminder of this little incident which had
strangely enough escaped destruction. When I wrote my
memoir of George Cabot in 1876 I went carefuUy through
the Washington papers in the State Department and took
copies of aU the correspondence between Washington and
Mr. Cabot. I did not find anything relating to the Beverly
visit, nor indeed was there any reason why I should have
found an3rthing. Some fifteen years later my friend,
WUliam Endicott, then in the Department of Justice, was
directed to examine aU the papers in the archives rela
ting to the acquisition of the District of Columbia and the
laying out of the city of Washington, in order to settle
some question which had arisen in regard to the title to the
Potomac flats. There was an immense mass of papers,
including many letters from Washington, all official and all
relating to the estabhshment of the Federal city. Yet in
this unlikely company Mr. Endicott discovered my great
grandfather's letter inviting Washington to stop at his
house in Beverly. Washmgton preserved everything in
the way of correspondence, but how this little note from
a friend had strayed into such a coUection has never been
explained. I wiU give it here because it is connected with
my story and also because it seems to me to have the
pleasant grace of the elder day when Horace Walpole was
writing letters and Gibbon was telling the story of the
Roman Empire.

42 EARLY MEMORIES Beverly,
October 24, 1789.
Sir: The public papers having announced "that the President
of the United States is on his way to Portsmouth in New Hamp
shire," it immediately occurred to me that your route would be
through this village, and that you might find it convenient to
stop here and take a little rest: should this prove to be the
case, permit me. Sir, to hope for your acceptance of such accomoda
tion and refreshment as can be furnished in my humble dwelling,
where two or three beds would be at your disposal.
I am fully aware that by indulging this hope I expose myself
to the imputation of vanity as well as ambition and therefore
should hardly dare to have my conduct tried by the cool maxims
of the head alone, but would rather refer it to the dictates of my
heart, which, in the most affecting concerns of life, I believe to be
a sure guide to what is right.
I have the honor. Sir, to be with sentiments of the most pro
found respect your devoted and most obedient servant
George Cabot
The President of the United States
I have always hked since to think, as I have recaUed
this trifling anecdote, that I have known and talked with
some one who had seen Washington. But this was the only
incident of the past I ever extracted from my grandfather.
I used to importune him to teU me stories of the distant
time when he was a boy and especiaUy all about his father.
I remember weU his kindly refusal and his then adding:
" My boy, we do not talk about farmly in this country. It
is enough for you to know that your grandfather is an
honest man." It is a regret to me now that I never could
get more from him, for he had seen much of the world and
had known many interesting people. He entered Harvard
in the class of 1800, but became involved in one of the ab
surd outbreaks common in those days and known as coUege
rebelhons, and did not graduate. He was at Cambridge
long enough, however, to be a member of the Porcellian

THE "OLYMPIANS": 1850-1860 43
Club, and I remember how glad I was to find his name on
the list when I became a member of the club myself, more
than seventy years later. Washington AUston was in the
same class, and my grandfather kept up his friendship with
him always.
Mr. Cabot was also a lifelong friend of Daniel Webster,
personally as well as politicaUy. They were both fond of
gun and rod, and I have a long letter from Webster teUing
my grandfather about a day's fishing and describing the
trout he had caught, which is I think worth giving here
for the glimpse that it affords of the sport of many years
ago: Sandwich, June 4,
Saturday mor'g
6 o'clock
Dear Sir: I send you eight or nine brook trout, which I
took yesterday, in that chief of all brooks, Mashpee, I made a
long day of it, and with good success, for me, John was with me,
full of good advice, but did not fish — nor carry a rod,
I took 26 trouts, all weighing  17 lb 12 oz.
The largest (you have him) weighed at Crokers . . 2 " 4 "
The 5 largest  3 " 5 "
The eight largest  11 " 8 "
I got these by following your advice; that is, by careful &
thorough fishing of the difficult places, which others do not fish.
The brook is fished, nearly every day. I entered it, not so high up
as we sometime do, between 7 & 8 o'clock, & at 12 was hardly
more than half way down to the meeting-house path. You see
I did not hurry. The day did not hold out to fish the whole
brook properly. The largest trout I took at 3 p. m, (you see I
am precise) below the meeting-house, under a bush on the right
bank, two or three rods below the large beeches. It is singular,
that in the whole day, I did not take two trouts out of the same
hole, I found both ends, or parts of the Brook about equally
productive. Small fish not plenty, in either. So many hooks

44 EARLY MEMORIES
get everything which is not hid away in the manner large trouts
take care of themselves. I hooked one, which I suppose to be
larger than any which I took, as he broke my line, by fair pulling,
after I had pulled him out of his den, & was playing him in fair
open water.
Of what I send you, I pray you keep what you wish yourself,
send three to Mr. Ticknor, & three to Dr. Warren; or two of the
larger ones, to each will perhaps be enough — & if there be any
left, there is Mr. Callender & Mr, Blake, & Mr, Davis, either of
them not "averse to fish." Pray let Mr, Davis see them — es
pecially the large one — As he promised to come, & fell back, I
desire to excite his regrets, I hope you will have the large one
on your own table.
The day was fine — not another hook in the Brook, John
steady as a judge — and everything else exactly right, I never,
on the whole, had so agreeable a day's fishing tho' the result,
in pounds or numbers, is not great; — nor ever expect such an
other. Please preserve this letter; but rehearse not these particulars
to the uninitiated.
I think the Limerick not the best hook. Whether it pricks too
soon, or for what other reason, I found or thought I found the fish
more likely to let go his hold, from this, than from the old fashioned
hook. Yrs,
D, Webster,
H, Cabot, Esq.
I cannot close these imperfect recollections of my grand
father without a word as to his only sister, Elizabeth, the
widow of Doctor Kirkland, sometime president of Harvard
College, She died in 1852, so that I have no memory of her,
but she was a remarkable woman — clever, given, I fear, to
speaking sharply, with more attention sometimes to wit than
to the feeling of others, possessed of great strength of char
acter and entire courage both in conduct and opinion. She
married Doctor Kirkland after her father's death, and when
her husband resigned the presidency of the college they went
abroad in 1829, They traveUed widely, going to Syria and

THE "OLYMPIANS": 1850-1860 45
Egypt, where she was the first of American women certainly
to ascend the Great Pyramid. They saw many interesting
people; I have letters to them from Lord Jeffrey, Lord Hol
land, James Martineau, and others in England. Some years
since I published a selection from Mrs. Kirkland's letters in
the "Proceedings of the Massachusetts Historical Society."
They give an interesting picture of travel in Europe in 1829-
31. ChUdless herself, she centred her love and hopes
upon my uncle, George Cabot, and when he died, in 1850,
she transferred her affection, at once intense and concen
trated, to me. I was taken every day to see her in her
apartments in Summer Street, not far from where we lived,
and I have been told that I returned her affection as strongly
as was possible for a httle chUd. When she came to die she
ordered every one to leave the room, as she said that she
wished to die alone. I could not be persuaded to pass the
house afterwards until I was permitted to go through her
rooms and satisfy myself that she was gone away, "all
gone," as I then expressed it. Mrs, Kirkland is not even
a dim memory to me now, but as I recall those early days
I cannot pass by in sUence one who gave to me at the dawn
of life so much love and care.
Among the people who were constantly at the house I
well remember Charles Sumner, He was the friend of my
grandfather and of my father, too. He came frequently to
dinner when he was at home and passed several weeks with
us always at Nahant, a habit which he maintained until his
death. But in those first ten years he is only a figure in
memory — tall, solemn, impressive, and looked at by me
with distant awe. He is vivid to me in that period upon
only one occasion, and then he stands out on the back
ground of memory very sharply indeed. It was not long
after Preston Brooks's attack upon him in the Senate cham
ber. Brooks, as is well known, came up to Sumner sitting

46 EARLY MEMORIES
at his desk, with his knees under it, and beat him over the
head with a loaded cane, whUe other Southerners stood about
ready to prevent interference. Sumner struggled to his
feet, tearing the desk from its fastenings, tried to seize his
assaUant, and feU senseless. The brutality of the deed was
only equaUed by its thorough cowardice. To come sud
denly upon a defenceless man and beat him over the head
with a loaded cane whUe friends stand about to prevent
interference requires a courage about on a level with that
displayed by a boy who tears off the legs and wings of a fly.
Yet this performance was lauded throughout the South as
not only proper but gallant. The South was full of brave
men, but slavery had so perverted them that they could
applaud this cowardly and savage deed.
In the North the assault excited deep indignation.
Anson Burlingame, then a member of Congress from Massa
chusetts, one of the most briUiant of the younger leaders in
the anti-slavery movement, conspicuous alike for courage
and eloquence, denounced the deed of Brooks in fitting lan
guage. Speaking in the House of Representatives on June
21, 1856, he said:
", , , Sir, the act was brief, and my comments on it
shall be brief also, I denounce it in the name of the Con
stitution it violated, I denounce it in the name of the sov
ereignty of Massachusetts, which was stricken down by the
blow, I denounce it in the name of civUization which it
outraged, I denounce it in the name of humanity, I de
nounce it in the name of that fair play which bullies and
prize-fighters respect. What! strike a man when he is
pinioned — when he cannot respond to a blow! CaU you
that chivalry? In what code of honor did you get your
authority for that?"
Thereupon Brooks, who was also a member of the House,
challenged him. Burlingame accepted the challenge, named

THE "OLYMPIANS": 1850-1860 47
rifles as the weapons, and an island in the Niagara River
outside the jurisdiction of the United States as the place of
meeting. Brooks, who apparently had no love for arms of
precision or an imdisturbed meeting, declined, aUeging that
he could not pass safely through the Northern States. This
refusal was as characteristic as the assault. He died not
long afterwards. It must be admitted, however, that
Brooks achieved the success which he no doubt sought, for
he secured a place in history just as RavaUlac and Felton
and Bellingham had done before, and as WUkes Booth did
not long afterwards. A place in history indeed is always
to be had if a man wUl go deep enough into infamy. In this
way Brooks remains, "a noteless blot on a remembered
name." His assault upon Sumner roused the flghting
spirit of the North, and was one of the potent causes of the
war, so that the South had good cause to rue the hunting
of that day.
My friend, Mr. J. M. Cochran, of Southbridge (Massa
chusetts), with whom I had the pleasure of serving in the
legislature in 1880 — my first session — has kindly sent me
the foUowing verses, which will illustrate the feeling of
the North at that moment. I find that curiously enough
they were written by William CuUen Bryant, and are
given with four others in Godwin's Life.
"To Canada Brooks was asked to go
To waste of powder a pound or so,
He sighed, as he answered, ' No; No; No;
They might take my life on the way, you know.
For I am afraid, afraid, afraid.
Bully Brooks is afraid.'
" ' Beyond New York in every car
They keep a supply of feathers and tar.
And they put them on with an iron bar,
I should be smothered before I got far.
And I am afraid, afraid, afraid, —
Bully Brooks is afraid.' "

48 EARLY MEMORIES
Very characteristic was Sumner's revenge, which he took
first in the midst of the war and again years afterwards when
the cause in which he had suffered and to which he had
given his life was triumphant, when slavery had perished and
the South was beaten and crushed. On May 8, 1862, he
offered a resolution declaring it inexpedient to place upon the
regimental flags the names of victories won over our feUow
citizens. Three years later he opposed placing in the Cap
itol " any picture of a victory in battle with our own feUow
citizens." In 1873 he introduced a resolution to remove the
names of battles with our fellow citizens from the Army-
Register and the regimental flags. He wished, he said, to
obliterate all trophies and monuments of civil war. He was
far ahead of his time. The bitterness of the strife was still
undiminished, and his own legislature in Massachusetts cen
sured his action. But, looking into the future, Sumner had
as little sympathy with the hatreds bred by the war as
he would feel to-day with the false sentimentahty which
would have the government at its own expense erect monu
ments to the men who tried to destroy it, and draw no
distinction between those who saved the Union and those
who fought to tear it asunder. When he died a distin
guished Southerner, Mr. Justice Lamar, eulogized him in a
speech that startled the country, which then learned from
the hps of a former foe what generosity of soul and largeness
of mind had been shown by the victim of Brooks's brutality
when he stood forward first of aU to plead for a true recon-
cUiation between the people of the States so recently at war.
Of all the detaUs of the Brooks assault and of its deep
significance I knew nothing at the time. My memory is
merely that one afternoon my father took me to the State
House, to the point which was then the corner of Mount
Vernon and Beacon Streets. He lifted me up and placed
me on the coping of the terrace wall so that I could look

THE "OLYMPIANS": 1850-1860 49
over the heads of those about us. Thence I saw a crowd
stretching far away and filling the streets in every direction.
Presently an open carriage drove up with some gentlemen
seated in it and stopped near the spot where I was placed.
Then a tall man, who I knew was Mr. Sumner, stood up in
the carriage, and at the sight of him a shout rose from that
crowd the like of which I have never heard since, and I have
heard, in the course of my hfe, many crowds, and some mobs,
cheer and yeU. Then memory drops the curtain and I re
member no more. In after-years I spoke of this recollection
many times, both to my family and to others, but nobody
seemed to recaU the incident, and I began to think that it
was aU a trick of memory, which is so fond of tricks. At
last Mr. Pierce's biography appeared, and there at the
proper point appeared an account of the scene which I re
membered. Years afterwards I found among my mother's
papers a copy of the Boston Atlas for Tuesday, November 4,
1856. In that veracious chronicle I read that Mr. Sumner
had passed the previous Sunday at the house of Mr. Law
rence in Brookhne. The next day he drove to the Roxbury
fine, where he was received by the mayor and Mr. Quincy.
There the procession was formed and marched to the State
House, Then the reporter continues: "The scene at the
State House was beyond description. The area in front,
the long range of steps leading to the capitol, the capitol
itself, the streets in the vicinity, the houses, even to the
roofs, were packed with human beings. The assembled
thousands greeted him with long-continued cheering," Of
what foUowed, according to the newspaper, such as a speech
by the governor and the like suitable performances, I re
member nothing. But I can stUl see the tall figure stand
ing up in the carriage; I can stUl hear the shout of the crowd,
and I know now why that cheering, as the Atlas caUed it,
branded itself on my young memory. It was the note of
fierceness in it, of deep-seated anger, the cry for vengeance

50 EARLY MEMORIES
of a people who had been insulted, outraged, and wronged.
It would have been well for the South if that scene and
sound had made the same impression upon the Southern
people which it made upon the boy of six, although I
fear that they would have understood it as little as I did.
Yet it might conceivably have caused them to think, a use
ful exercise in which they did not much indulge during
those bitter days.
Some time afterwards — it must have been in 1859 or
1860, because the scene was not in Winthrop Place but in
our new house on Beacon Street — Mr, Sumner, who had
been in Europe, came, as was his habit, to dine with us.
In the middle of the dinner he arose from his chair and
stretched himself upon the sofa because the pain in his back
was so severe that he could not sit up longer without rest
ing himself. He never fully recovered, I think, from the
effects of the assault, for the spine was more or less per
manently affected.
Thus it came about that my first impressions of pohtics
were tragic, and I imbibed in this way an intense hatred of
slavery, which I connected with Southerners and Demo
crats. The detaUs were misty and the reasoning vague,
but the sentiment was vigorous and the general result fairly
accurate. Another figure that I recall in the Winthrop Place days
was Rufus Choate, sometime Whig Senator from Massa
chusetts, always a great lawyer and advocate, a speaker
of remarkable originality and compelhng eloquence, a real
scholar, and a man of exceptional brUhancy and charm. He
hved near us in Winthrop Place, and one evening in early
summer, when my bedtime was drawing on, the maid said
to me, as we sat by the window: " There is Mr. Choate." I
looked and saw a taU man with black hair and dark, deep-
set eyes stroll slowly by, his hat pushed back and his coat-
sleeves drawn up as if for coolness. That is aU, and as it

THE "OLYMPIANS": 1850-1860 61
stands it is not a very interesting contribution to our knowl
edge of Mr. Choate, and yet that his figure should be vivid
to me across aU these years, that a single glimpse of him
should have left such a lasting picture on a chUd's mind,
shows, I think, what striking quahties the man must have
had, so impalpable and yet so powerful that, piercing the
vesture of decay, they fastened themselves indehbly upon
the memory of a httle boy. I do not remember ever seeing
Mr. Choate again, and this one vision of him must have
been shortly before his death, as he died prematurely in
1859. It is rather odd that I do not recall him on other
occasions, for my father greatly admired Mr. Choate, and
we all knew the fanuly weU. A cousin of mine much older
than I married one of Mr. Choate's daughters, and in after-
years, through which their friendship has been one of my
best possessions, I have seen in her and in her sister, Mrs.
BeU, the charm, the cleverness, the brilliancy and the un
ending humor for which Mr. Choate was famous.
Mr. Choate's power with juries was universally known
in his lifetime, but this side of a great lawyer's career is un
fortunately evanescent, like the glories of celebrated actors,
which of necessity rest only upon tradition and upon what
was written about them by their contemporaries. I was,
of course, bom too late to have seen Mr. Choate before a
jury or to have heard him speak in public, but his reputa
tion was stUl aU-pervading at the bar when I studied law,
and from the lawyers of that day and from his memoirs I
have come to the conclusion, after comparison with the
accounts of other great lawyers, that he ranks with Erskine
and advocates of that class, and that he has never been sur
passed before a jury except by Webster in the single speech
at the White murder trial, Mr, Choate left behmd him not
only this great reputation, but also countless anecdotes of his
wit and humor and picturesque habit of speech. These, for

52 EARLY MEMORIES
the most part, have been published, but there are one or
two of the many I have heard which I think are not in
print, and are certainly not well known.
There was a story famous in its day, and given in his
"Life" by Mr. Brown, of Mr. Choate cross-examining a
man who had turned state's evidence against his companions,
who were charged with murder on the high seas and whom
Mr. Choate was defending. This man was the most im
portant witness for the government, and Mr. Choate drew
out of him the story of how the murder was planned and
then asked: "How did they induce you to join?" "Why,"
said the witness, "they told me that we should be aU right
because, even if we were caught, there was a man in Boston
named Choate who would get us off if we were found with
the money in our boots." There was a roar of laughter in
the court-room, and at this point the story always stopped.
An eye-witness told me that Mr. Choate waited, perfectly
undisturbed, untU the laugh had subsided, then proceeded,
and working on the reply just made, broke the witness
down and greatly impaired the weight of his testimony. In
fact, I believe that he secured the acquittal of his chents.
Another story which was always a favorite of mine, be
cause the touch was so light, was that relating to a chent in
a great patent suit. After the junior counsel had thoroughly
prepared the case he took the client, who wished to state his
case to Mr, Choate personally, to see the senior counsel.
The client began: "Of course, Mr. Choate, you understand
the principle of the Jacquard loom?" "Certainly," said
Mr. Choate, who had never heard of the loom before; "of
course, of course. But assume, for the moment, that I do
not understand the principle of the Jacquard loom and
expound it to me as a preliminary."
There is one more story, and it shall be the last, which
I am sure has never been printed and which I heard in a

THE "OLYMPIANS": 1850-1860 53
curious way. When I was in Congress, General Butler,
whom I had fought for years politically and whom I had
never met, came one morning into the House. I happened
to be passing near where he was standing, and Mr. S. S.
Cox, of New York, stopped me and introduced me to him.
After a few words General Butler asked us to come over to
his house, which was near the Capitol and is now the office
of the Coast Survey, and lunch with him. We had a very-
pleasant luncheon, but the one thing in the conversation
which I remember was this story of Choate, It was apro
pos of a certain claimant who just then had a bill before
Congress to pay him for some improvement in rifles which
he had made at the time of the war. "He was always in
venting things," said General Butler. "When he was a
young man he invented some baking machinery and set up
a factory equipped with it in New Hampshire. The inven
tion wasn't worth a damn, and the concern faUed, and, of
course [I hked General Butler's 'of course' at this point],
it burned down. The insurance companies refused to pay,
and the claimant retained Mr. Choate and me to sue them,
I took charge of the case, but the claimant insisted on see
ing Mr, Choate, and so one day I took him to Mr, Choate's
office and the claunant told his story. When he had gone
I said to Mr, Choate: 'What a har our client is.' Mr,
Choate, looking at me with his melancholy eyes, rephed: 'I
would not say that, Mr, Butler; caU him an inventor
rather,' " I have again wandered far from my early days,
but Mr, Choate is always a temptation whenever one speaks
or writes of him, and his early death prevented my ever
knowing him after I had grown up.
With Mr, Motley (the historian) the case is different.
He stands out very distinctly among my earliest memories,
and I came to know him very weU in later years. He and
Mrs, Motley were mtunate friends of my grandfather and

54 EARLY MEMORIES
of my father and mother, I used to call them "uncle" and
"aunt," although there was no relationship, and when they
were not in Europe they, with their daughters, used to pass
several weeks with us every summer at Nahant, Mrs.
Motley was a very handsome woman, strong in her affec
tions and her dislikes, enthusiastic, earnest, and full of
charm and fascination. I know that she charmed a small
boy who became very fond of her, and years only served to
confirm the boy's opinion. Mr. Motley I used to look at
in those days -with round eyes and loved to hear him talk,
although naturaUy I did not understand very weU aU that
he said; but he was so handsome, so spirited, with such an
exciting and inspiring manner, that he compelled the vagrant
attention even of a boy to whom the " Dutch Republic" and
the "Beggars of the Sea" then first appeared above the
mental horizon.
Mr. Longfellow lived at Nahant and I saw him from
earhest boyhood, but for some reason not explicable now he
did not become real to me, although I knew many of his
poems, imtU much later. On the other hand, Mr. Agassiz
is one of my earliest and strongest remembrances. This
was the case partly, I suppose, because Mrs. Agassiz was
an intimate friend of my mother, partly because my sister
went to Mr. Agassiz's school in Cambridge, but chiefly, I
think, because whenever a strange fish was caught off our
shores my father always said that he was going to show it
to Mr. Agassiz, who would know aU about it. This struck
me as an evidence of surprising wisdom, as indeed it was,
although I did not know that it implied that the question
was to be asked of the greatest living authority on fishes,
past or present. Moreover, Mr, Agassiz was a man who
impressed a boy just as he did every one who came in con
tact with him. His fluent English with the marked French
accent, quite strange to a chUd; the atmosphere of strength,

THE "OLYMPIANS": 1850-1860 55
both physical and mental, which seemed to pervade him;
the large, genial, kindly presence, the sense of power; all
alike were at once imposing and reassuring, leaving a mark
on the young memory not to be effaced.
I cannot recaU the time when Benjamin Peirce, the
eminent mathematician and a professor at Cambridge, was
not at once famUiar and impressive to me. Mrs. Peirce
was a cousin of my mother and the "Professor" was con
stantly at our house. His successful criticism of Leverrier's
computations of the variations of Uranus and his discovery
of the fluidity of Saturn's rings had already made him
famous and laid the foundation of that international repu
tation to which the long hst of honors conferred upon him
by foreign societies, as duly set forth in the Harvard cata
logue, bears imposing witness. Of all this I knew nothing
then, and the names of his mathematical achievements are
aU that I have learned since. But he made a profound im
pression on my imagination. I heard him spoken of always
with admiration, and I gathered that he was a man of vast
and mysterious knowledge, not understood by most people,
which was true enough, but the effect on my mind was to
make me regard him as a species of necromancer or magician.
His appearance fostered the idea. He wore his black hair
very long, after the fashion of his youth. He had a noble
leonine head and dark, deep-set eyes. His voice possessed
a pecuhar quahty. It was without any metaUic or ringing
note, but as if shghtly veUed, and very attractive for some
reason which I have never clearly deflned. Altogether he
had a fascination which even a chUd felt, and all the more
because he was full of humor, with an abounding love of
nonsense, one of the best of human possessions in this vale of
tears. I know that I was always delighted to see him, be
cause he was so gentle, so kind, so full of jokes with me, and
"so funny." As time went on I came as a man to know

56 EARLY MEMORIES
him well and to value him more justly, but the love of the
chUd, and the sense of fascination which the chUd felt, only
grew with the years.
Among the companions of my uncle, George Cabot, at
the Latin School, was John Fitzpatrick, who became greatly
attached to my uncle and kept up his friendship with our
family after the latter's early death. Fitzpatrick rose to
be Bishop of Boston, which was far from being then the
Irish and Catholic city it has since become. He was known
to every one as "Bishop John," and was a most exceUent
man, very popular, and greatly beloved. He came a great
deal to our house, especially in summer, for there was no
Roman Catholic church at Nahant then, and he or Father,
afterwards Bishop, Healey used to celebrate an early Mass
in our "Union" church which had never been consecrated
and of which my father was warden and treasurer. "Bishop
John" was not only very kind to me, but the best of com
panions, genial, affectionate, and sympathetic. He had a
high regard for my father, who used to help him very lib
erally with his poor people, and was especially generous to
the orphan asylum, for whose head. Sister Ann Alexis, my
father had deep admiration.
Yet another whom I remember well at that time was Doc
tor Henry Bigelow, the father of my friend, Sturgis Bigelow.
He belonged, in common with my own parents and aU those
of my friends generaUy, to what Mr. Kenneth Grahame has
so happUy called the "Olympians," the grown-up persons
who wield a despotic, unquestioned, and apparently un
reasoning authority over the destinies of smaU boys. But I
distinguished him as different from the others, not merely
because I heard my father speak of him with admiration, but
because of the personal impression he made upon me. He
was an ardent sportsman, and his house was full of dogs and
guns and firearms of aU descriptions, which were, of course,

THE "OLYMPIANS": 1850-1860 57
irresistibly aUurmg to any properly constituted boy. But
there was something about the man hhnself which makes him
stand out in the past as I try to revive the boyish recoUec-
tions. I think it was mainly his extraordinary clearness of
statement, the feeling of finality in aU he said, qualities
which always give a sense of power and mastery. I knew of
course that he was a doctor. I did not know that he was
the greatest surgeon of the day ua our country. StUl less did
I know, what many, many years after I was to learn, that
by his introduction of the system of reducing dislocations of
the hip by manipulation and by his revolution, then in the
distant future, in the operation of lithotrity, he was to re
lieve an incalculable amount of human suffering. I say that
I came to know these facts, but they are not generaUy known
even by the people who have profited by them. The dis
tinguished physicians and surgeons, who by their discoveries
and their self-sacrifice have done more than all others to
mitigate the physical miseries of humanity, are less recog
nized and remembered, I have often thought, than any
other benefactors of the race. Their names may have an
unpleasant association -with a disease or an operation, but
they themselves pass out of sight, although the hves they
led and the work they did, and their observation of human
nature, are more interesting than those of many of the men
about whom volumes have been written. In Doctor Bige
low, whom I knew weU and saw constantly untU his death in
1890, there was also a remarkable dexterity and lucidity of
mind, as weU as a capacity for rapid and brUhant generaliza
tion, which as a boy I always felt whUe listening to him and
which as a man I could define and appreciate.
Such were the men, seen by me now in the backward look,
who impressed me in those early years as in some undefined
way more interesting than the rest, and who were to my
mind in their effect upon me, or in what I heard, of greater

58 EARLY MEMORIES
importance than others. Yet this serious sense of their
importance, although strongly felt, did not put them at all
in the class of those who were heroes to me at that moment.
It merely set them apart. My heroes then were at once
nearer and better understood, more famihar and more ad
mired. The event in which I think I felt the most passionate
interest at that time was the great fight between Heenan
and Sayers, The manner in which the English crowd broke
the ropes, when Heenan had finaUy got Sayers in chancery
and in another minute would have broken his neck or won
the fight, fiUed me -with an anger which I stUl think just,
but at which I now smUe and wonder. It seemed to me that
no greater injustice had ever been committed than this
act of violence, which led to the declaration that it was a
drawn fight. It was my first experience of what is caUed
fair play in England, and I do not think that I ever wholly
recovered from it, although I have seen so many instances
of it since that I have come to appreciate what it means.
From this vivid recoUection of the famous battle, it may be
gathered what sort of persons appeared reaUy heroic to me
when I was a small boy. They were men whose feats were
chiefly physical, great prize-fighters, athletes, riders, hunters,
and adventurers by sea and land, of whom I read, and their
more humble exemplars in the stable, by the river, or on
the playing-field, -with whom I loved to associate and whom
I watched admiringly from a distance.

CHAPTER IV
BOYHOOD: 1860-1867
I MUST begm this chapter after the Shandean manner
by going back and telhng what happened during the period
covered by its predecessors and which was there omitted.
There were various incidents before the year -with which
this chapter begins which I cannot pass over in silence, be
cause they were so important to me and loomed so large in
my smaU hfe at that time.
In the year 1858 we were obliged to leave Winthrop
Place, as Devonshire Street was opened through from the
rear and passed directly across the site of our house and
garden. My father, therefore, bought No, 31 Beacon Street,
and thither, when he had practicaUy rebuUt the house, we
went to live in 1859, after some months at the Revere
House, necessitated by the delays occasioned by the altera
tions. Thirty-one Beacon Street had belonged to Mr.
Samuel Ehot, a weU-known and greatly respected citizen in
the Boston of those days. He had served in Congress as a
conservative Whig from one of the Boston districts, and
going into business late in life had lost all his property
when the firm with which he was connected was carried
down in the panic of 1857, a disaster so wide-reaching in
its effects that I weU remember the feeling of gloom which
seemed to oppress every one during that year. Thus it
came about that Mr. Eliot's house and all that it contained
was sold for the benefit of his creditors. My father in
59

60 EARLY MEMORIES
buying it tried to do everything in his power to soften the
blow which had fallen upon Mr, Eliot. He offered to take,
and took, at the valuation which the famUy caused to be
placed upon them, any articles in the house which they
wished to dispose of. But my father was especially dis
tressed at the thought that Mr. Eliot would be compeUed
to lose his library. He therefore made inquiries, indirectly,
to find out whether Mr. Ehot would accept the hbrary if
it were bought from the assignees and presented to him.
Being satisfied on this point, he went to some of Mr, Ehot's
friends, raised the money, bought the library and gave it
to Mr, Ehot, None of the subscribers allowed his name to
be known except my father, who could not avoid doing
so as he was obliged to represent the others and make the
presentation. So much time has passed since then that
there can be no harm in giving the correspondence, which
affords a pleasant glimpse of the Boston of those days and
of the ways of her people. On a note from Mr, Ehot's son
(afterwards the distinguished president of Harvard Univer
sity), which said that his father would be gratified to re
ceive his library, my father had written:
You will see by the above that Mr. Eliot is willing to receive
the books as proposed. J. E. L,
Then on the next page he had the names (most of them
autographs) of the gentlemen who subscribed to buy in
the hbrary. As I have just said, they would not permit
their names to be known at the time; but now there is
no longer a reason for any concealment of their friendship,
and good-feeling, even delicacy as sensitive as theirs, would
not be shocked at allowing the left hand to know what the
right hand had done. The names are as foUows, a very
exceUent Boston list, as weU as a great tribute to Mr. Ehot

BOYHOOD: 1860-1867 61
and to the high and affectionate regard which was felt for
him by every one: Nathan Appleton,
WUham Appleton,
WUliam Sturgis,
Ozias Goodwin,
Henry Cabot,
John E. Lodge,
John Bryant,
David Sears,
WUliam Amory,
Wilham H. Prescott,
Josiah Bradley,
Francis Bacon,
I. Davis, Jr.,
W. H. Bordman,
N. Thayer.
The two foUowing notes complete the httle story:
March 9th, 1858.
MY DEAE sir: —
The receipt of the books which were moved to my present resi
dence yesterday renews the feeling of which I have had frequent
experience lately, of gratitude to my friends. As I do not know
to whom I am indebted for this act of considerate kindness and
marked generosity I must beg of you, to whom I owe the sugges
tion, I beUeve, to communicate to the parties my thanks in a suit
able manner and to assure them that a new association will be
formed -with my books, more valuable than all the wisdom or
beauty they contain and that I hope to make a proper use of them
and to leave them to my children as an evidence of the liberality
and thoughtfulness of those with whom I have lived and whom I
am proud to call my friends.
With grateful esteem,
Yrs Sam'l A. Eliot.
John E. Lodge, Esq.

62 EARLY MEMORIES Wednesday
MY DEAR sir: —
Your note of yesterday shows me that your friends did not
err in supposing that you had a hearty appreciation of your beau
tiful hbrary and also that we did not overrate the cordial welcome
you would bestow upon it, a welcome such as we only accord to
our old and most valued friends.
I am but an humble instrument in the performance of this most
agreeable act, but I shall be most glad to assure your friends whose
happiness it was to assist in it, that greatly as they enjoyed re
storing to you these silent and yet eloquent monitors and friends,
their pleasure was equalled by yours in receiving them.
With great regard etc etc
J, E, Lodge
Hon, Samuel A. Eliot,
Another pleasant association with this purchase of 31
Beacon Street has come to me suddenly out of the past,
and I add it here. In looking over some papers of her grand
father, Mr, Prescott, Mrs, Roger Wolcott recently came
across this allusion in a letter written on February 22, 1858:
"The last item that I have heard is that Mr, Lodge has
bought Sam, Ehot's house in Beacon St, for $50,000, I
mean John E, Lodge, and I am glad that it has fallen into
the hands of an old acquaintance."
This change of houses brought us into an entirely differ
ent quarter of the city. Winthrop Place was in the old part
of Boston, that low land which lies between the hUls and
the sea, whUe Beacon Street, although not by any means just
opened or recently built upon, was the portion of the tovm
from which the new residence quarter was destined to
spring, pushing its way to the westward over the flats of
the Back Bay, still at that time marsh and water and
bridged by only one road, known as the MiUdam, which
stretched across the inlets to the mainland at Longwood.

BOYHOOD: 1860-1867 63
Thirty-one Beacon Street, where I passed many happy
years and where my mother continued to live for more
than forty years, untU her death in 1900, stood on the crest
of the hUl, not far from the State House and next to the
famous and historic home of the first signer of the Declara
tion of Independence. The Hancock house was a fine ex
ample of its period, good architecturally, bmlt very sohdly
of granite in the Colonial style of the eighteenth century,
and was raised above the street on a series of terraces. It
was my father's ambition to buy the house when it came
into the market and give it to the State, but he died a year
before the house was sold. Governor Banks had recom
mended the purchase of the Hancock house by the State
some years before, but when the opportunity came the coun
try was plunged in civU war, and the government did not
feel able to spend money on what seemed a mere sentiment.
So it was sold to private persons and torn down in 1863.
Thus perished by far the finest and historically the most
interesting of our Colonial houses, the buUding best worth
preserving, as a specimen of eighteenth-century domestic
architecture, which existed in New England or perhaps any
where in the old thirteen States. I was convalescent from
scarlet fever when the house was taken down and used to sit
at the window of my play-room and watch the men slowly
pry off one block of stone after another, for the masonry-
was so sohd that it could be accomplished in no other way.
I hated to see this done, for I was attached to the old house
and had often been in it and over it with Charles Hancock,
one of the sons of the last owner.
Our house, as I have said, stood on the crest of Beacon
Street and looked south over the Common, with its fine
trees, whUe from the side windows in the first years we could
see the street across the Hancock garden, filled -with hlac
bushes, the perfume of which, in our tardy spring, loaded

64 EARLY MEMORIES
the air with fragrance. Ours was a spacious house of gen
erous width and full of sunshine. I thought then, and think
still, that it was one of the pleasantest of situations and that
few city houses have one at all comparable to it.
The other great event in my life contemporary with
removal to a new house was my leaving Mrs. Parkman and
going to a new and, what was far more momentous, a man's
school, which was kept in a large room under Park Street
Church. It was a smaU private school, and the master was
Mr. Thomas Russell Sulhvan, a grandson of James Sullivan,
governor of Massachusetts at the beginning of the nine
teenth century and grand-nephew of John Sulhvan, the dis
tinguished Revolutionary general. Mr. Sulhvan had been
a clergyman before he became a schoolmaster and was an
accomplished man. He always seemed to me sad and op
pressed with care, owing, I suppose, to the fact that his
health was giving way. But he was a thorough gentleman,
kindly and good, and, although I regarded him as a natural
enemy at the time, I find now that I recall his memory with
affection and respect.
This change of school was to me a great event and ap
peared in the light of a promotion, as I fancy the first man's
school always seems to a boy. Yet I left Mrs. Parkman's
with secret regret, for I had the unmanly weakness, as I
considered it, to be fond of her, and I was much attached to
the boys who had been my companions in her house. I
do not know that one's schoolfellows are of much interest
to anybody except themselves, although I have always en
joyed the accounts of Lamb's and Coleridge's schoolmates,
most of whom are rescued from oblivion merely by that asso
ciation. I think, however, that all schoolboys have the
charm at the moment which possibUities always possess,
and afterward develop the interest which is inseparable
from looking backward and seeing how these possibilities

BOYHOOD: 1860-1867 65
of school and college finally worked out, and how constant
the rule is in these cases of the unexpected happening.
There is pleasure as weU as pain in such retrospects which
disclose the spectacle both of success and faUure, and the
humor of the early memories is often clouded by the pathos
or the tragedy -with which the little stories end —
" Some with lives that came to nothing,
Some with deeds as well undone;
Death came silently and took them
Where they never see the sun,"
Just as it happened to Galuppi's Venetians, It is a very-
old and very familiar story.
With those of my school companions at Mrs, Parkman's
who have lived, I have maintained my friendship and con
tinued to know them more or less intimately all my life.
Among them were Sturgis Bigelow, doctor, man of science,
lover of art, pubhc benefactor and friend of a lifetime;
Henry Parkman, successful and trusted business man and
lawyer, head of a great bank; Arthur Mills, successful like
wise in business, maker of his o-wn fortune, dead in 1907;
Livingston Wadsworth, my especial crony in those days,
who died when he was only fourteen, bringing me my first
boyish sorrow for a friend; his younger brother, Herbert;
my cousin Harry Lee, who died young; another cousin,
Samuel Cabot, odd, genial, lovable, who made an unex
pected fortune by his o-wn inventions and became a Shake
spearean scholar because he was be-witched by the Baconian
absurdity. They all seem very vivid and real as I write
their names, and it is pleasant to think that these first
friendships, made so long ago, remained unbroken except
by death. At Mr, Sulhvan's, made memorable to me by the fact
that I was there ferruled for the first time, while my friends

66 EARLY MEMORIES
lurked outside the door to count the blows, and see whether
I cried, I remember but few of the boys, I think I lost
sight of most of them after our brief two years together,
but there were a few whom I first knew there and whom I
have known ever since. One was Frank Hubbard, a cousin
and an intimate, with whom I shot and fished and traveUed,
but of whom I saw little in later life, as he did not go to col
lege. A second was Frank Jackson, also a kinsman, who
went on with me to my next school and thence to Harvard.
A third was George Lyman, a strong, active boy, ready for
any sport or adventure; in these later years a leader in our
Republican politics, chairman of our State committee, a
member of our national committee, and for twelve years
collector of the port of Boston, A fourth was Frank Chad-
wick, a friend and companion at Nahant, -with me at my
next school and in college, of whom I shaU have more to
say later. Yet another of them was Russell Sullivan, son of
the master, writer of plays and novels and charming stories,
a friend long years afterwards of Robert Louis Stevenson,
one of my intimates then, sharing my love of the theatre,
the most delightful of men and a lifelong friend, StUl
another intimate of those days, whom I had known from
the beginning as a neighbor, was Russell Gray, younger
brother of the eminent justice of the Supreme Court of the
United States, Horace Gray, He was just my age, but like
most of his fanuly so phenomenally clever at his books that
he was two years ahead of the rest of us, both at school and
coUege, None the less he too has been the friend of a life
time and he figures largely in the memories of my boyhood.
So also do the two Sargents, Horace and Lucius, sons of Gen
eral H. B, Sargent. Lucius, the younger, became in later
years one of my closest and best-loved friends. He was a
handsome, gallant boy, and was a gaUant and handsome
man, fuU of humor, charm, and fascination.

BOYHOOD: 1860-1867 67
In thus mentioning a few of the boys whom I knew at
the beginning of life, I am led to say something to which I
have long desired to give utterance, purely for my own satis
faction, of boys in general and of boy nature, a much mis
understood subject, so far as my observation goes, especially
in hterature. The misunderstanding arises, I fear, not from
ignorance so much as from unwillingness to teU the truth,
just as happens in the attempts of literature to describe the
lives of young men. Thackeray came nearer to it than any
one when he told the story of Pendennis, and yet he did not,
and I think he admitted that he did not, dare to tell the
whole truth. "There are subjects, my dear," said Major
Pendennis to his sister-in-law, "about which a young feUow
cannot surely talk to his mamma." It is eminently proper
that there should be such a restriction. It is equally true
that there are some things that no man says to young girls
or to innocent children, but when you assume that literature
must be framed according to those restrictions the truth
of literature to life is apt to be defective. The episodes in
"Pendennis" of Fanny and the Fotheringay and of Warring
ton's marriage were as far as Thackeray had the courage to
go in indicating a side of nearly every man's life which those
who -write the English language think it due to the great
fetich of respectabUity to suppress. Fielding and SmoUett,
li-ving in a time of much less "respectabUity," were more
truthful and are now thought coarse, but the nineteenth
century in England and America preferred suppression,
although, as Mr. George Sampson remarked of the under
petticoat: "After aU, you know, ma'am, we know it's there,"
From this attitude there has been of late years a revolt,
conducted, unluckily, for the most part by such inferior
hands that the result is even less lifelike than when Vic
torian "respectabUity" set its burdensome limitations upon
all writers. In France they have suffered from the hypoc-

68 EARLY MEMORIES
risy of vice, as in England and the United States from the
hypocrisy of virtue, and the result has been nearly as de
forming. The youthful Casanova, Chevalier de Seingalt, is
almost as rare among young men as the blameless prig and
is as unreal as a hero of the Romantic period like Pelham.
In the same way, although not for the same precise
reason perhaps, we have suffered from the suppressio veri in
regard to boys. The best analysis of boy nature at large
that I have ever seen, and I read it long after I had ceased to
be a boy, is that of Mr. HoweUs in "A Boy's Town." This
analysis is limited by the fact that it relates to boys in a
small country town in a newly settled country, and there is
some slight suppression, but the essential features are all
set forth. Mr. HoweUs points out the close resemblance of
boys to savages or primitive people as shown by their queer
adhesion to meaningless customs, such as doing certain
things only at certain times of the year, their odd supersti
tions wholly unconnected -with religion, their loyalty to
some code peculiar to themselves and ahen to every one
else, and their ready hero-worship, often misdirected but
at bottom generous and fine. He describes the mad en
thusiasm and excitement -with which they rush into any
new pursuit and the ease with which they tire of it and thrust
it aside, lacking, like savages, both foresight and tenacity
of purpose, something very different from obstinacy, in
which boys abound, AU these points are at once subtle
and true, speaking, as we must, of boys as a class and not
of the exceptional boys who prove the existence of the rule.
Most of these qualities are entirely overlooked by those
who have undertaken to write about boys. Consider, for
instance, the Jacob Abbott books. Heaven forbid that I
should underrate those works, for I read them over and
over again, and they had the same unfaUing attraction for
my children. The charm, I think, consists in the extreme

BOYHOOD: 1860-1867 69
realism of the incidents, a realism so dry and unrelenting
that it leaves the greatest of modern realists far behind.
It is, however, just this dry realism which chUdren like, al
though at the same time they adore fairy stories which appeal
only to their imagination. But the boys and girls who are
the heroes and heroines of these tales, from RoUo down, are,
hke Dryden's Mexicans, beings who never really existed
anywhere on sea or land. To the adult mind they are humor
ous, but chUdren accept them seriously and are fully con
tent with the matter-of-fact incidents of their lives.
Take another example: a book which was the favorite
with aU boys of my time, " School Days at Rugby," Up to
a certain point no better book describing boys was ever
written, Tom Brown and Harry East are real boys, real in
their activities, in their habit of regarding the masters as
their tribal enemies, in their shirking of lessons, in their
courage at games, in their complete lack of any sense of re-
sponsibihty, in their loyalty to their own code of honor, and
m the cheerfiU paganism of their hves. The story goes to
pieces when Arthur appears. When I read the story as a boy
I lost aU interest after Arthur took control, and revolted
against it, I could not analyze my feeling then or explain
it, but the reason is obvious enough. To the average healthy
boy Arthur appears to be a prig, which he was, and a hypo
crite, which he probably was not, but the great defect is
that he is unreal and untrue to boy life. Such boys no
doubt exist, but they do not convert other boys and send
them to head masters to experience a religious revival, be
cause most boys are natural and not artificial. The demon
of respectabihty conjoined with the then prevaUing fashion
of "muscular Christianity" took this means of marrmg an
otherwise excellent book.
The boys whom I knew, closely resembled Tom Brown
and Harry East before they held their camp-meetings with

70 EARLY MEMORIES
Doctor Arnold. They were as a rule the reverse of timid;
they fought a good deal among themselves and with others;
they learned their lessons after a fashion, some very weU,
some very ill; they had a portentous activity in mischief
which occupied much of their time; they had a large and
ignorant curiosity as to sexual relations, not morbid, merely
characteristic of the young animal; they all tried to smoke
and were cured, for the time at least, by being made violently
sick, and they had a strict sense of honor according to their
own strange code. They were in an odd way intensely con
servative. Youth is radical and revolutionary, but the chUd
is conservative. It is not the conservatism of age which
knows that changes are inevitable and instinctively bears and
resists them. The chUd contemplates no change. He re
gards the arrangement of his little world as final and resents
any other view. Hence his superstitions and his attachment
to certain seasons for certain games or sports. It is interest
ing to watch a child gradually outgrow these traits of the in
fancy of the race. The boys I knew loved secrets and useless
mystery, and, as Stevenson says in "The Lantern-Bearers,"
indulged in much "sUly and indecent talk"; they were
natural idlers, like savages, and, like savages, they had a ten
dency to be cruel, which disappeared as they grew up and
began to think. They were as a rule generous, and they
were certainly improvident, again until they began to think,
for the absence of connected thought among boys, their in-
abUity, to put it more exactly, to think coherently, makes
foresight impossible and allies them with savages, who repre
sent the boyhood of the race. Boys, as I knew them — and
I speak always of the average and of the majority — ^were
adventurous — an exceUent quality — and would run huge
risks for trivial objects, which was much less exceUent, The
boys with whom I lived and played would habitually ven
ture their necks climbing over the roofs of high houses or

BOYHOOD: 1860-1867 71
"shinning" up trees, in the one case for mischief, in the other
for birds' eggs. They would run every sort of risk on the
water or in it, or when the ice broke up in spring, just for
mere excitement. They had an unbridled love of explosives,
and few indeed were those who had not burned themselves
more or less with gunpowder. I was personally very for
tunate in this respect, for I think I was naturally cautious.
Except for pitching out backward and head first from an
express cart which I had not been invited to enter, and
knocking myself senseless on the stones of the gutter, and
on another occasion burning all the skin off my hand with
a train of gunpowder which I ignited with a view to im
printing my immortal initials on a window-siU, I came off
unscathed. Pain from accidents like these boys bear as a
rule -with savage stoicism, but their moral is very inferior
to their physical courage. They shrink from going contrary
to the public opinion of their own world, although they will
defy that of their elders -with a fine indifference. That all
men are hars we know upon high if hasty authority, but
although boys entangle themselves in deceptions and do
not always respect as they ought the division between
meum and tuum, those whom I knew were as a rule fairly
truthful, especiaUy to each other, and a boy who broke his
word was regarded with marked disfavor and contempt.
They also resembled savages or people of a low civilization
in their destructiveness. They liked to destroy for the mere
pleasure of destruction. A large part of the waking hours
of my friends and myself was given up to mere mischief,
from ringing door-bells and breaking -windows and street-
lamps to much more serious undertakings. We were in
consequence anything but popular in the neighborhoods
which we graced by our presence, and we went in perpetual
fear of householders whom we had wantonly injured, and
of policemen who, as we fancied, were on a constant look-

72 EARLY MEMORIES
out for us. I know that, like Mr, S-wiveller, the number of
streets which were closed to me steadUy increased, not
as in his case on account of debts, but from the dread of
just retribution at the hands of those whose property I
had injured.
Such were boys as I knew them, young heathens and
little Gallios for the most part, but rarely hypocrites. If
the outhne I have drawn is not fiattering, it is, I beheve,
correct, and these same boys by a large percentage turned
out well and became honest men and useful citizens. I
do not believe that they differed much from weU-born,
well-cared-for boys -with the same race traditions anywhere
else. They were at least pleasant to live -with, if you were
one of them, although I can conceive that they might often
have been a sore trial to those charged -with their bringing
up, as well as to other adult persons who had the misfortune
to be their neighbors. If they were frequently harsh, or
even cruel at times, to the timid or the weak, they had a
wholesome dislike of the youthful prig — especially if he was
a religious prig — for they felt that such boys must be in
sincere and they drove them out from among them.
Before I come to my next school I must teU of an in
cident which befell me at the end of my first decade, and as
my hfe has been singularly destitute of adventures I may be
excused for narrating this one. It is not a tale of adventure
by flood and field, but of a crime of which I was an involun
tary and, as it proved, an important -witness.
In the summer of 1860 I was as usual at Nahant, and
among my playmates was a boy slightly younger than my
self named Charles Allen Thorndike Rice, His father, Mr,
Henry Rice, and his aunts, Mrs, Grant and Mrs, Guild,
were aU friends of my father and mother. They lived in
summer with their mother, Mrs. Rice, and with the many
chUdren of the household I habitually played. The young

BOYHOOD: 1860-1867 73
Grants and GuUds I had always known. Allen Rice was a
new acquaintance and much prized by me. To explain the
situation I must first state some facts which were not known
to me at the time. Mr. Henry Rice's marriage had been
an unhappy one, and he and his wife had recently been
divorced in Maryland, where he then lived. The Maryland
court had awarded the custody of the child to Mr. Rice.
When Mr. Rice came to Massachusetts for the summer his
former -wife apphed for a writ of habeas corpus in order to
get possession of the boy. Judge Bigelow of the Supreme
Court, in an elaborate opinion, delivered on August 1, 1860,
gave the custody of the chUd unconditionally to his father.
Mrs. Rice, who was a passionate and determined woman, was
bent on gaining possession of her son and had already made
one attempt to abduct him. Charlie Rice, as I called him,
was always accompanied by a negro servant, a powerful
man, named Jackson, which seemed to me odd, but which
in the easy fashion of chUdhood I accepted without question.
As a matter of fact, the negro was armed and was there to
protect the chUd. He was always -with him except in the
house or when the boy was at school. The only moment,
therefore, when it was practicable to kidnap the chUd was
when he was actually in school, which I suppose his father
thought impossible, but which, as it turned out, was just
the occasion when the abduction was effected.
The school m question was a smaU one, kept by a Mr.
Fette, and lasted only for two or three hours in the morn
ing. It was not considered necessary that I should improve
my mind by lessons in summer, a deprivation which I bore
-with phUosophy, but as most of my friends enjoyed this edu
cational advantage I was in the habit of going to the school
about noon and waiting at the door for them to come out.
The school was held in a church, a building of the Greek
temple type, with a Doric portico after the fashion of the first

74 EARLY MEMORIES
years of the nineteenth century, when classical buUdings
were much in vogue. So one fine summer morning (Satur
day, August 4, three days after the decree of the court) I
seated myself at the base of one of the aforesaid columns
to await the escape of my companions from their prison-
house, which was to occur in a few minutes. I was not a
conspicuous figure in the landscape, but I was an idle and
observant one. As I sat there, looking up and down the
quiet and perfectly empty country road — for Nahant was
a small place in those days, and the great hotel, of which I
have before spoken, had failed and was closed — my wander
ing attention was attracted by a buggy, rapidly driven,
which passed the church and went on to the end of the road.
There it turned and came back, turned again and repeated
the same movement. My father was a lover and o-wner of
horses and, as I shall explain later, I had a fine natural
taste for horses myself. The horse in this particular buggy
caught my eye and I set him do-wn as very handsome and
very fast.
Meanwhile I noticed another buggy which had stopped
farther do-wn the road without coming to the church at all.
From this second buggy two men ahghted, walked up the
street and stopped on the corner opposite the church. Idly
watching them I noticed that one was a smooth-faced, dark-
skinned young man -with black hair and that the other was
a stoutly buUt, older man, with reddish hair and beard.
Just as I was looking at them the first buggy came back and
drew up in front of the church close to where I was sitting.
A large man -with bro-wn hair, mustache, and flowing whiskers
of the style made famous by Lord Dundreary jumped out,
the other two men crossed over, and all three rushed into
the church. In a moment, as it seemed to me, the large
man -with the whiskers came out -with Allen Rice in his arms,
put him into the buggy, drew the boot over him, and drove

BOYHOOD : 1860-1867 75
away at top speed. Another moment and the other two
men ran out and up the street toward their buggy, with the
schoolmaster, his Newfoundland dog, his pupils, and I aU
in hot pursuit. The men reached their buggy and got
away before we could overtake them, and that was the last
I saw of AUen Rice for nearly twenty years. His mother
disguised him as a girl, and after some narrow escapes man
aged to reach Florida, where it was possible to conceal the
chUd, and thence contrived to make her way to England,
where young Rice was educated, going, I believe, to Oxford.
As for me, I went home from the scene of action full of ex
citement and told aU I had seen to my family, for it had
naturaUy made a profound impression upon my little mind.
That night as I was going to bed I heard voices outside the
house, and listening attentively distinguished Mr. Rice
saying something to my father which sounded like " Cabot
kno-wing aU about it." What this might portend I did not
know, but I remember a shght feeling of anxiety simUar to
that most famUiar sensation which was wont to beset me
when I thought that some scrape of mine was on the eve of
discovery. Little did I realize what importance I had sud
denly assumed, but the fact was that I was the only person
who had got a good look at the large man and who was
capable of identifying him, because the other two men,
when they seized the schoolmaster, had kept themselves
between him and the captor of the boy.
Two or three days later I was taken to Boston by my
father. We proceeded to the Charles Street Jail, where we
met Mr. Rice and some detectives. I was told to walk around
the whole range of ceUs, look into each and if I saw any one
of the three men engaged in the abduction at Nahant, to
point him out. I walked around as I was bidden, looking
into some forty cells and some very CAdl faces. When I
reached the last ceU, number one, I stopped and said: "That

76 EARLY MEMORIES
is the man who took Charlie." As he had meantime shaved
off his hair, mustache, and whiskers, the identification was
unusually prompt and complete. The man's name was
Nickerson. He was a livery-stable keeper, and he had been
employed by Mrs. Rice 'and her mother, who had become
by a second marriage Mrs. Bourne, and who was a woman
of large wealth, to kidnap the chUd, There was no tele
graph from Nahant in those days, and no police, so that by
driving straight to Boston the kidnappers had four miles or
half an hour's start. With great speed Boston could be
reached over the road in a little more than an hour, although
the distance was fifteen mUes, but in this way the train and
the delay at the Lynn station were avoided, Nickerson had
taken a weU-kno-wn trotting-horse which belonged to one of
his customers and which was valued at twenty-five hundred
doUars, a large sum in those days, and in this way he got
the boy to Boston before the news reached any one capable
of action, IncidentaUy, as I remember, he kUled the horse
by overdri-\dng, and Mrs. Bourne I suppose paid for it.
The reddish-haired man was named Smith and was a
hack-driver in the employ of Nickerson. He was arrested
and identified by Mr. Fette, although I also subsequently
identified him in court. The third man was never caught.
I remember being taken one day by the chief detective to
a shop where rope and t-wine were sold. On the way he
said: "Now you are my little boy. We are going to buy
some kite string, and I want you to look well at the young
man who sells it to us and teU me if you saw him at Nahant."
I was dehghted to buy kite string and carried out my share
of the plot perfectly. The salesman was young, dark-
haired, and smooth-faced, but he was not the third man,
I told my pretended father so as we walked off, the baU of
kite string tight under my arm. He seemed disappointed,
but I think it gave him confidence in my other identifica-

BOYHOOD : 1860-1867 77
tions, as sho-wing that I had a decided memory. The third
man, as I have said, was never taken, and I have no doubt
that this participant was Mrs, Rice herself, for she was en
tirely reckless, and her presence was probably necessary to
make sure that the right boy was picked up in the scramble.
Then came the proceedings of the law, I went before a
grand jury and told my story. There was a technical fiaw
in the indictment and I went before another grand jury and
told it again. Then, nearly eighteen months after the kid
napping, the case came on for trial at Lawrence, one of the
county seats of Essex County, Up to that time I had en
joyed myseh hugely, I had been treated as a person of
importance, I hked to go about -with detectives and visit
jaUs and buy kite string in an assumed character, and tell
my story to a few grand jury men in a qmet, empty room,
and then pocket -witness fees which represented a large
amount of wealth to me at that time. But when it came
to facing a crowded court-room it was a different matter.
My imagination had time to work, and as the day approached
I became very nervous and thought that I should break
down. My father was Ul and could not go with me, but
he promised me that if I told my story well, as I had told it
to him, and behaved creditably on the -witness-stand, he
would give me a gold watch. Even this aUuring prospect
did not cheer me, and I went -with my mother to Lawrence
and sat trembling m the witness-room in a very doleful
frame of mind. At last I was called, went out into the
crowded court-room, took the stand, and was sworn. The
scene rises vi-\ddly before me, for I seemed like a drowning
man to see everything at once — Nickerson and Smith,
whom I immediately recognized, judge and jury, counsel
and spectators. It was a briUiant winter's day, and the
court-room seemed full of light and people. For the first
time I noticed how differently a crowd looks when you

78 EARLY MEMORIES
are one of the crowd, and when you are the object of the
crowd's concentrated gaze. Mr. Ives, the district attor
ney, a very clever man, examined me in chief — ^that is, he
let me tell my story, which I did honestly I know, and
clearly I think, without either diminution or embroidery.
I had a good memory, the facts to which I was to testify
had made a sharp impression, and I had also told the tale
many times. Mrs, Bourne (or Mrs. Rice) had employed
strong counsel for the defence: Judge Abbott and Mr.
Charles Blake, then a rising man at the Boston bar, Mr.
Blake cross-examined me. He did not shake my story, for
there was nothing that could be shaken, so he resorted to an
old device to confuse me. He asked me where the second
buggy stood. That I told him exactly. Then: "Was the
curtain in the back up or do-wn? How far away was it?
Was it fifty yards? Was it seventy-five? Might it have
been a hundred yards?" and so on. To aU which I replied
truthfully: "I don't know," Suddenly I heard a deep
voice on my right say : " Mr, Blake, I think that wUl do. It
is perfectly e-\ddent that the boy is telling the truth," It
was the judge — Judge Lord, very well kno-wn in his day; a
man of sharp -wit and rough tongue, called in capital cases a
"hanging judge"; respected but feared by the bar and after
ward raised to the Supreme Bench of the State, He was a
strong and able judge and a sound lawyer. He may have
been rough with members of the bar, but he was very kind
to me. At all events, he ended Mr, Blake and I left the
stand, I had hardly reached the witness-room when I
burst into tears — I was only eleven — and said : " Oh, I made
a mistake; I must go back," and without waiting I rushed
again into the court-room, where, regardless of everybody,
I addressed the judge, whom I looked upon as my next
friend, and said: "I made one mistake. May I correct it?"
"Certainly, my boy," said Judge Lord; "say anything you

BOYHOOD: 1860-1867 7&
please," So I corrected the mistake, which I have entirely
forgotten — it was something quite trivial — and then left
the court-room for the second time, much elated.
In due course I received my watch, an English Frodsham
-with a hunting-case, which I began to wear when I was
eighteen and have worn ever since, and which had my name
and the date of the trial engraved on the inside, Mr, Rice
also gave me a seal ring, so that I felt very proud of my per
formance and very rich o-wing to my witness fees, which,
as I have said, represented to me at that time untold wealth.
Nickerson and Smith were convicted and got seven years
apiece, which they avoided by jumping their hea-vy bail
furnished by Mrs. Bourne, and thoughtfully betaking them
selves to Canada. That I might have incurred their hos
tUity, for I was a fatal -witness, did not occur to me at the
time, but some years afterwards, curiously enough, it came
over me that they might return, the last thing they would
or could have done, and take an exemplary revenge upon
my precious person. This gave me some uneasy moments,
especiaUy at night just before going to sleep. I suppose
those two men never thought of me again, except as a bit
of Ul luck in their estimable careers. The hero of the little
drama came again into my life many years later. Returning
from Europe AUen Rice bought the North American Review,
and converting that sober quarterly into a monthly, filled
it with conspicuous names, articles of current interest, and
made it very successful financially and for the purposes of
its editor. He took an active interest in politics, was a
strong Republican and a warm admirer of Mr. Blaine. By
President Harrison he was appointed minister to Russia,
and died suddenly in New York just on the eve of his de
parture for his new post. I saw Allen Rice on various occa
sions, dined at his house and wrote for his Review. He
seemed glad to renew the acquaintance of boyhood, and we

80 EARLY MEMORIES
came together like old friends who despite this fact had
never met before and had no past in common. The inci
dents connected -with our last sight of each other were, I
need hardly say, never alluded to.
The court-room at Lawrence was my first appearance in
public. I have faced many audiences since then, but none
which I have dreaded, and very few where my utterances
were so efficient in immediate results as they were at this
trial. It was my first and last appearance as a witness in
court.

CHAPTER V
BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867
In 1861 I left Mr, Sulhvan's and went to Mr, DixweU's
private Latin school, where I was to be prepared in due time
for coUege, Mr, DixweU had been head master of the Public
Latin school, the famous and historic school founded in
Boston at the very beginning of the Puritan settlement.
He had left that position to establish a school of his own, in
which undertaking he was highly and deservedly successful.
For five years he was a very important figure in my daily
life, and I remember him well both at that time and after
wards. I regarded him then, of course, as a tribal enemy
¦with whom there was necessarily perpetual war; but I am
sure that I always respected him, which was by no means
true of some of my other masters, both in school and college.
Mr, DixweU was a direct descendant of John DixweU, the
regicide, who sensibly took refuge in Connecticut when the
estimable Charles II came to the throne, I have thought
since, perhaps fancifully, that a certain stiffness and rigidity
which were observable in my master, who was a good deal
of a martinet and given to severe sarcasm at the expense of
stupid or disorderly boys, may have been inherited from
his conspicuously Puritan ancestor, who had passed sen
tence of death upon a king. But what I never doubted
was that Mr. DixweU was a thorough gentleman, albeit a
rigorous one, and that he was also a scholar and an accom
plished man. I can see him now, a slight, active figure,
81

82 EARLY MEMORIES
walking briskly into the school in the morning, always most
carefully although quietly dressed, and then mounting the
platform and caUing the school to order in a clear, dry voice.
I looked upon him -with hostUity o-wing to our official rela
tions, but that hostUity was tempered, as I have said, -with
respect and also -with a little fear. He exercised, I am sure, a
good influence upon me, for he had no patience -with sloven
liness of mind; he also taught weU, as I found when I reached
the top of the school and came under him. He was an espe
cially good critic and instructor in declamation, which oc
curred once a month, and was an exercise in which I began
very badly and ended by doing very weU, finally -winning
the highest marks, thanks to my master's ministrations. I
am sure that I write dispassionately of Mr. DixweU, for I
was never in favor with him, and indeed there was no reason
why I should have been. The first year that I was in the
school, mainly I think to gratify my father, I worked hard
and came out first in my class and third in a school of over
fifty boys. I found in an old school-book belonging to my
friend Sturgis Bigelow a list of the class at that time -with
appropriate comments appended to each name by some
other youth. These comments were without exception un
favorable, and I was described as "A miserable httle dig,"
an unfeigned tribute to my scholastic eminence, which I
soon ceased to deserve, for my high rank ended with that
first year. I found that I could do "weU enough" with
very little effort, and as very little effort suited my tastes
I stood "well enough" during the rest of my school years,
but never again upon the high places; whUe on the conduct
list, in company -with one or two other choice spirits, I sank
to the bottom, a pre-eminence which I readUy maintained.
I received the usual amount of what was then called
education, and which was certainly quite as good as what is
caUed education now. The old system was in force. We

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 83
spent a great deal of time on the Latin and Greek grammars
and mastered them thoroughly. We learned to read and
write Latin and to read Greek -with reasonable ease, going
as far as VirgU, Horace, and Cicero in the one and in the
other concluding with Felton's Greek Reader, which con
tained selections from nearly aU the principal poets and
prose-writers of Greece. To show the range of Felton's
selections I -wUl merely mention that when I was examined
for admission to Harvard I was called upon to construe the
famous fragment of Simonides describing Danae in the chest.
In addition to the classics we were drUled in algebra and
plane geometry, and were given a smattering of French as
weU as a course in Greek and Roman history. That we
should learn anything of modern history or of the history
of our o-wn country was thought quite needless.
All those dreary hours spent over the Latin and Greek
grammars seemed then a waste of time, and yet as mere
discipline they were, I think, as good as anything else, and
gave at least a sohd foundation upon which to build a knowl
edge of the classics if the recipient were so inchned, Sturgis
Bigelow said to me not long ago: "After all, we were pretty
weU educated. We learned to swim and ride, to box and
fence and handle a boat," As a commentary upon our edu
cation nothing could be better. We really learned "to swim
and ride, to box and fence and handle a boat," quite apart
from school, and they were all things well worth learning.
We also made many enduring friendships in the school
which went on through hfe. Among the boys whom I saw
most at Mr. DixweU's were Frank Chad-wick, who had been
-with me at Mr. SuUivan's, destined to be an artist, then and
now one of the most delightful of companions, a friend of
much earlier days, and a neighbor at Nahant, as I have
already said; Frank Amory, one of my lifelong friends,
whom I had known more or less before, but now we sat on

84 EARLY MEMORIES
the same bench, and when we went to college we roomed
together for the last three years; Edward Burgess, dead in
his prime, distinguished later as an entomologist, and still
later of world-wide fame as a great yacht designer. There
too was William Lawrence, now Bishop of Massachusetts,
whom I had also known before, but at Mr. DixweU's school
we were to sit side by side for six years, as we did later for
four more years in college. It would take too long to name
the many others above and below me in the school whom I
first met then and with whom I became intimate. It is
more interesting to try at least to give an account of what
Gyas and Cloanthus did than simply to catalogue the fact
that they existed and were strong.
Bigelow's description of our real education was in the
main correct; it was largely physical and very enjoyable.
We all swam at an early age, and at Nahant we passed most
of our time in the water or on it, for we also at an early age
learned to row and to saU a boat. S-wimming was the fa
vorite amusement. We would strip and plunge in anywhere
and at any time, I well remember one occasion when some
of my friends and I, ha-ving partaken of a heavy luncheon
at my house, were just leaving the table; my father asked
what we were going to do. We replied that we were going
in swimming. There was protest from the older persons
present, who had a queer elderly idea that violent exercise,
and especially s-wimming, immediately after eating was
likely to produce unfortunate results. Finally my father
said : " Go and ask Doctor Bigelow; if he does not object you
may go in. " Off we hastened to Doctor Bigelow, who was then
living near-by. We found him and put our question. He
looked at us with a quizzical smile and said : " I should not do
it myself, but nothing hurts boys. Yes, you may go in." So
we ran off, thinking Doctor Bigelow a very -wise man despite
the fact that he was old, and straightway went in swimming.

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 85
No evU results followed. The diagnosis was accurate. "0
fortunati nimium!" If boys could only reahze the mesti-
mable good fortune of being a young, healthy, growing ani
mal perhaps they would cherish it more than they do. The
swimming was also accompanied by the joy of lying naked
on the warm rocks under the hot sun, and thus gradually
tanning our skins a dark bro-wn. Later in coUege there was
much competition among the studious youth in coloring as
black as possible clay or meerschaum pipes, but it was far
better sport to color our skins in the air and sunlight, as
well as infinitely more healthful.
I do not remember the exact time when I first had a sail
boat, but it must have been when I was about thirteen years
old, and I had a boatman who went with me and taught me,
and from whose guardianship I was, as a matter of course,
eager to escape. One day Frank Chadwick and I were out
-with him, and he, -wishing to go ashore, tied the boat up at
the wharf and departed, after making us promise to wait
just where we were. The promise broke as soon as the boat
man was out of sight, and we cast off and began tacking back
and forth in the bay. WhUe thus pleasantly and happily
engaged to our o-wn complete satisfaction a big New York
yacht. The Idler, came in, and as she was' running -wing and
-wing, her great saUs took all the -wind out of our little one
just as we were crossing her course. We lost steerageway,
and The Idler saw us too late to sheer off. We beheld Fate
rushing upon us, knew not what to do and did nothing. I
saw a gentleman whom I knew, Mr. WUliam Otis, run up
to the bow of The Idler. He recognized us and caUed out
"Jump overboard!" Ha-ving no views of my own, over I
went and Chadwick after me, our little boat being swept
aside by the yacht and not seriously injured. I remember
a bad moment before I rose to the surface, when it flashed
over me that I might come up under the yacht; but in an

86 EARLY MEMORIES
instant I had my head out of water, saw the big black hull
gliding by, and then was quite at my ease. We paddled
about and were picked up in a few minutes, and I remember
Mr. Otis saying that he had alarmed the people on the yacht
when he told us to jump overboard, but as he knew very-
well that in the water we should be quite safe he did it
without hesitation, I and my friends soon learned to saU a
boat very competently, and later I became the owner of a
little sloop upon which I passed many hours every summer
untU I left college.
We boys in those days went also much into the country,
for there was real country then within easy reach of Boston,
and we gave many spare hours to walks and expeditions of
various sorts, often, I am sorry to say, in pursuit of birds'
eggs, to which we were wont to devote our Saturdays and
holidays. Then later we went shooting on the cape and else
where, and some of us, hke Bigelow and Chad-wick, became
capital shots, which I never did, although I gave a great deal
of time to both the shotgun and the rifle. These weapons
were put into our hands very early, as it seems to me, and,
as I guess, through the influence of Doctor Bigelow,
Altogether, when I look back upon it I think that we
had a great deal of vigorous outdoor hfe, which is better
than many forms of education. We also played aU games
assiduously — football, baseball, hockey, and the rest, varied
in winter by coasting, skating, and savage snowball fights
on the Common with boys from the South End and the
back of Beacon HUl, whom we called "muckers," and who
usually defeated us o-wing purely to superior numbers, as I
have always religiously believed. I was never very apt or
successful at these games and sports except in steering a
double-runner which I had buUt and planned myself and
which I managed with skUl, but I engaged in them aU with
the utmost energy, and that, after all, is the really important

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 87
thing. The merit of athletic sports is not what they bring
to the nines and elevens and eights who are pictured and
advertised in the newspapers. Indeed, to the champions
I am inclined to think that they are often harmful, both
from the physical strain and the fleeting notoriety. The
true value of athletic sports is to the average boy like
myself, who never arrives at any distinction, but who in
this way learns to like rough-and-tumble games and to be
fond of vigorous and wholesome exercise and of outdoor
hfe. I have left to the last the form of outdoor sport which
I liked best at the beginning and which has been my friend
and my enjoyment aU through my life, and that is riding.
My father owned and drove fast trotting-horses and also
rode regularly -with my sister, so that we always had a stable
fuU of horses of various kinds. As far back as I can remem
ber I used to be put upon one of my father's or sister's
horses and aUowed to ride it round the yard at Nahant,
Then came riding lessons in Boston under the instruction
of Mr. Thuolt, a foUower of Kossuth, a living and very
robust reminder of the nearness of the great year of 1848.
He was a Hungarian and had served in the Austrian cavalry,
a tall, large, fine-looking man, very kind to small boys.
He also gave us lessons in the broadsword, and I kept for a
long time the wooden representative of that weapon with
which I used to practise the cuts and passes.
At last, in 1861, my father gave me a horse of my o-wn.
He was a small horse, as big as a polo-pony, of pure Morgan
stock, the famous Vermont strain, very handsome, very spir
ited, very fast in all gaits, and very inteUigent. He learned
to know me as if he had been a dog, and would do anything
I asked of him. I was, as I have said, fond of firearms and
I trained "Pip" — he was named Pip because my father
said I had such "Great Expectations" of him — to stand so

88 EARLY MEMORIES
that I could fire a pistol from his back, which not only satis
fied my sense of the general fitness of things, as derived
from Mayne Reid, but also enabled me on one occasion to
kUl a dangerous dog which used to spring out at me on a
certain country road. I cannot resist saying as much as
this about one of the best and best-loved friends of my
boyhood. I rode him for many years, and when I outgrew
him drove him in a light wagon. He lived to a ripe age;
he was never " sick or sorry " for a day, so far as I remember,
and he never refused a fence or declined to go anywhere
when I asked him, either to take a jump or to follow me.
The epoch-making summer when Pip was presented to
me was also marked by the fact that we passed it at New
port instead of at Nahant. I think my father had an idea
of buying a house there and wanted to try the place for a
summer. But that which makes Ne-wport in 1861 truly
memorable to me is that there I really learned to ride, for
when I had got a firm seat Parker, our English coachman,
put up some bars in the lane behind our house and taught
me to jump, for which I have always held him in grateful
remembrance. Ne-wport itseh was not to my taste at that
time. Its character and its life were much the same then
as now, but the scale of living was far more modest. The
great houses and small palaces of the Newport of to-day
had then no existence, although there were some handsome
vUlas, the most considerable being that of Mr, Bareda, the
Peruvian minister, which, -with its terrace, excited my youth
ful admiration, Bellevue Avenue was not yet entirely
buUt up, Bateman's Point was reached by a long country
drive among outlying farms destitute of houses, and every
thing else was proportionate. The bathing was the same
as now; the gayety, the society, the "dull, mechanic pacing
to and fro" which was called dri-ving on the avenue, were all
much as they are at the present time. There was a great

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 89
deal of fine dressing, an abundance of handsome horses and
carriages from four-in-hands down, and all the paraphernalia
which have since been developed to such an amazing degree.
But if the scale was smaller in those days there was, I believe,
better taste as well as less -vulgarity and ostentation than are
seen there to-day. The large hotels with which every
American watering-place has begun its career were not yet
extinct. The Ocean House, the FUhnore, and the Bellevue
were stUl in active existence, but the Atlantic House was
being prepared, I think, for midshipmen, as, owing to the
war, the Academy was to be transferred from Annapolis to
Newport. The Academy was not formally transferred untU
October, 1861, but the midshipmen were at Fort Adams, I
beheve, and when I was again in Newport, in 1864, they were
occupying the old Atlantic Hotel,
How my famUy enjoyed their summer there I do not
know, but I regarded Newport -with great disfavor, I
missed my friends, I disliked the artificial life, I preferred
the rocks of Nahant and deep water to swimming in bathing
clothes from a flat beach, I found some compensation
in catching blueflsh and in saUing about the harbor, but
the alleviation was slight. It was therefore with joy that
I returned to Boston, especiaUy as the vacation was not
quite over and I was able to go to Nahant for a few days'
stay at our gardener's house, which I particularly liked to
do, and pass my days -with Chadwick, While I was there,
on the night of September 11, the huge wooden barrack
of a hotel -with which Mr, Paran Stevens had intended to
convert Nahant into a fashionable watering-place took fire
and burned to the ground, A very splendid fire it was, seen
far up and do-wn the coast and by distant vessels out at sea
as it blazed up on its lonely promontory, I say politely
"took fire," but the hotel had been whoUy unoccupied for
some weeks, and I fear it may be said, as General Butler re-

90 EARLY MEMORIES
marked of the baking machinery, "It was a failure and of
course it burned." The hotel had faUed utterly, and Mr.
Paran Stevens, as Bishop Clark, of Rhode Island, said to me
years afterwards, "got out in what is civiUy called an adroit
manner," leaving his partners with the property and the
debts. After the fire the estate came on the market and
my father made an effort to induce some of his friends in
Nahant to join in buying it in order to rebuild the old smaU
hotel. The attempt came to nothing, because in that war
time nobody wished to buy Nahant land, so my father
bought it himself, gave up all idea of going to Newport, and
began to prepare the place for his own house. He did not
live to carry out his plans, but in later years my sister and
I buUt our houses there, left our old vUla which belonged
to my grandfather, and have hved at East Point ever
since. My account of sports and outdoor life has led me to
Newport and back to the Nahant hotel fire, but I would
not have it supposed, as I wish to give all the influences
which were at work on my hfe, that I had no other occupa
tion than sports and athletics, supplemented by general
mischief and destructiveness in my idler moments.
There was, in the first place, one occupation neither
athletic nor physical in its nature from which I derived
much excitement, a great deal of amusement, and I venture
to think some real information and instruction. This was
going to the theatre, for which I came by accident to have
unusual opportunities. The first time I was ever taken
to the theatre was to see the pantomime and baUet of
"CindereUa." I remember the scene of the kitchen and
the chUd by the fire, then the pumpkin turning into a
coach, and then nothing more. I was told long afterwards
that at that point I fell heavily asleep, and in that condition
was carried home and put to bed. But after this first

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 91
broken recollection, the date of which I cannot fix definitely,
theatrical memories grow very numerous. Those which fill
the largest space relate, of course, to the Ravels, the famous
brothers, four at first, and then graduaUy d-windling as each
retired untU only one remained. The rope-dancing and
tumbling, the athletic feats, and the ballets, which formed
part of the performances, were like everybody else's, and
although they filled my childhood with wonder I have seen
aU these things done a thousand times, and done much
better and -with greater difficulties and larger risks. But
the Ravels themselves in their pantomimes I have never
seen equaUed, and I have watched such performances care
fully in many places. Their agUity, their humor, their
dumb show were not only perfect in themselves, but of ex
traordinary dramatic quality. Any one who recalls Fran-
Qois or Gabriel in the two little plays entitled "Pongo" and
"Jocko," or the "Wonderful Apes," wUl understand what
I mean, for in those impersonations it was not the feats of
dexterity and agUity which they performed, but the acting
which impressed one most, Antoine Ravel was the best
and most comic clo-wn I have ever seen, and I have seen
many, AU his fun, too, was in pantomime, so that he had
to amuse his audience solely by action and play of feature,
without the aid of the aged, clumsy, and sometimes coarse
jokes of the clown of the circus ring. In the "Magic
Trumpet" and the "White Knight" he was especially
effective, but I also remember being thrUled by. the exciting
scenes of "Bianco," by "Raoul, or the Magic Star," by
"Robert Macaire," and by "Mazulm, or the Night Owl,"
aU long since vanished from every stage.
The first serious play I ever witnessed was "Julius
Caesar." My grandfather took me to see it at the Howard
Athenaeum, because he said that I ought to see that play
when given by such a company. I was very young at the

92 EARLY MEMORIES
time, but I enjoyed it aU hugely and was deeply stirred. It
was indeed a remarkable cast. E. L. Davenport, a first-
rate actor of the old school, was Brutus, Edwin Booth was
Cassius, La-wrence Barrett was Mark 7\jitony, and John
McCuUough was Caesar. They were all young men except
Davenport, and all rose to the first rank, Booth, of course,
being the greatest and even then the star. I did not faU
asleep that afternoon, and every part of the performance is
as vi-vid to me as if it were yesterday. I have seen the play
many times since, but I doubt if it has ever been given
better than on that occasion, so memorable to me as my
first experience of a great play worthUy enacted. Brutus
and Cassius, of course, impressed me most, but I have never
forgotten Antony in a green toga dehvering the great ora
tion. How well Barrett did it I do not know, but I remem
ber that it made me eager to join the Roman mob and
avenge the death of Caesar on the spot.
My father and grandfather took me to see the Ravels
and Shakespeare, and ha-ving thus acquired a taste for the
theatre I soon began to gratify it independently. Those
were the days of stock companies, of standard plays, and of
changing bUls, "Long runs" had not yet become predomi
nant, and the stage was not then filled, as it so largely is
to-day, with comic operas of various degrees of inanity,
-with variety shows and exhibitions of chorus girls' figures
and dresses, or of the absence of both. The Boston Museum
had an excellent stock company, the chief figure in which
was WUliam Warren, a comedian of the best school and
highest order. He was finest in high comedy, but he was also
admirable in farces; and many a one by Morton, whose debt
to Labiche I did not then realize, have I seen him give. I
must not, however, confuse early recoUections -with the
later ones of a time when I was better able to appreciate
Warren's dehghtful art. What I preferred in those young

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 93
days was melodrama. I discovered that a seat in the gal
lery cost only twelve and one-half cents, or ninepence, as it
was caUed at that time, and many a Wednesday or Satur
day afternoon, in company -with Frank Jackson or Russell
SuUivan, whose fondness for the drama corresponded with
mine, did I betake myself to the somewhat heated atmos
phere of the upper regions of the Museum and revel in the
performance of "Jeanie Deans" or the "Colleen Ba-wn."
Those happen to be the plays which recur to me most vi-vidly,
although I do not know exactly why it should be so. In
thinking of the former I stiU feel a thriU when I recall the
scene on the heath or that in which Jeanie meets Queen
Caroline. Perhaps my affection for Scott made the play
clearer to me. As to the "CoUeen Bawn," we were so cap
tivated by it that RusseU Sullivan and I rigged up some
scenery in my play-room and there gave an abbroAdated
version of Mr. Boucicault's work, consisting chiefiy of the
attempted drowning of the Colleen Bawn and her rescue
by Myles na Coppaleen, or "Myles of the Ponies," as the
play-bUl carefuUy informed those who were so unfortunate
as to be unfamUiar -with the Irish language. In this
performance RusseU Sullivan, destined to write for the
stage more than one successful play, took the part of the
CoUeen and I played that of Myles. Who was induced to
take the necessary part of the viUain, Danny Mann, I do
not recall, but nothing less than the hero satisfied me, and
as the proprietor of the theatre I laid claim to it. The
audiences I think were small, consisting of a few other boys
and friendly servants, but I am sure that the drowning and
rescue with the plunge of Myles into the water, represented
by paraUel strips of paper of proper color as on the stage,
gave great satisfaction to the performers, if to no one else.
I have indeed very tender recollections of the old Museum
as the source of many pleasures. It had, besides the theatre,

94 EARLY MEMORIES
a real museum fUled -with all sorts of curiosities, strange
pictures, and oddities of every kind brought chiefly from
Polynesia and Africa. The museum part served to soothe
the susceptibilities of persons from the country who thought
it wrong to go to a theatre but not to a museum. If a the
atrical performance happened to be going on within the
precincts of a museum these worthy people could under that
condition witness it without endangering their spiritual or
moral welfare. AU along the front of the museum building
ran three or four rows of lights, gas-burners in white globes,
and thus Uluminated it seemed to me a place of splendor
and enchantment, fiUl of a vast promise of strange and mys
terious delights. When the buUding was torn down, some
years since, I felt a real pang at the disappearance of those
lights, for I knew that no others existed or ever would exist
which could give me the same sensations or awaken the
same fascinating associations. Just before the final disap
pearance of the buUding I noticed one day, as I was passing
by, the red flag of the auctioneer. I dropped in and found
that the old properties of the theatre were being sold. It
was a strange collection: worn-out dresses of velvet and
tinsel in which courtiers had once strutted in brief and gas-
ht brilliancy, musty costumes of peasants, old guns, hal
berds, drums, and all the panoply of mock war, pasteboard
goblets from which the gUding had dropped away, a strange
and motley collection, sordid, worn, dirty, valueless. I
thought how often these melancholy relics must in their day
have dazzled and deceived my eyes, and I confess I turned
away -with sad reflections in my heart and a wish that I had
for a moment the gift of Charles Lamb so that I might have
done justice to all these poor old vanities and pretences,
dusty and decayed, lying there in the harsh, unsparing light
of day, and to the tender sentiment, the pleasant memories
which they inspired in at least one of those who were idly

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 95
looking at them in the hour when they were despised and
rejected of men.
Let me not forget here another species of performance
far removed from the legitimate drama in which I took an
almost equal interest. This was the negro-minstrel show,
for that was the heyday of negro minstrels. They had
regular and permanent establishments in aU the large cities.
The one in Boston was that of Morris Brothers, Pell and
Trowbridge, and many an hour have I passed in their in-
teUectual society, to the great detriment of my limited
pocket-money. "BiUy" Morris, the "bones" of the com
pany, I think, was one of the well-known flgures of Boston.
He was a taU man, vsdth the largest black mustache I ever
saw on a human being. He dressed in the most resplendent
manner, with a huge diamond cluster pin in his shirt-front,
and I used to stare at him, when I passed him in the street,
-with no little interest and admiration. He was most gor
geous and conspicuous in winter. Sleighing, when good, was
one of the favorite winter amusements of Boston, and there
was a great deal of racing on the old Brighton Road, where
some very fast trotting was indulged in. That road on a
good day was one of the sights of the tovm, and we boys used
often to go there either legally in a famUy sleigh or on foot,
or quite iUegally by "cutting on behind" the sleighs of other
people. AU the sporting men and owners of fast horses
were there to be seen, but none was so brUliant as "BUly"
Morris in black furs driving a very fast horse, and with his
great mustache, which looked lUie part of the furs, visible
from a long distance.
All that I have thus far -written of my early theatrical
experiences relates to the period preceding that supposed
to be covered by this chapter, and it was also before 1860
that an event happened which gave me the unusual oppor
tunities of which I spoke at the outset. The Boston Theatre

96 EARLY MEMORIES
was buUt in 1853-54 by a company composed whoUy, I
think, of gentlemen who desired to have a place where operas,
for the performance of which no suitable buUding then ex
isted, could be given. The return to the shareholders on their
investment was to be in the form of seats, as is the case -with
many opera-houses. The subscribers carried out their proj
ect on the most generous scale and buUt one of the largest
theatres in the world. It seated over three thousand peo
ple, and had a reaUy superb stage, exceeding in -width and
depth, I beheve, any then existing. The theatre was also
amply pro-vided -with lobbies and foyers, and possessed
two large exits on a level -with the street. The acoustic
properties were perfect; Joseph Jefferson said, when he
first tried it for "Rip Van Winkle," that he could "hear
his whisper creep round the walls." The proprietors,
knowing that it would have to be both theatre and opera-
house, buUt it without boxes in order to save space. The
new theatre was, in fact, everything that it should have been,
but it did not succeed. Boston could only support grand
opera for a few weeks even at the comparatively modest
prices of those days, and for a stock company, which, after
the prevaUing fashion, was to occupy the stage during the
rest of the year, it was far too large and could not be fiUed by
them sufficiently to pay. At all events, whatever the reason,
the theatre feU into financial difficulties. In this state of
affairs my father was chosen president of the board of di
rectors, and although, hke every one else, he only owned a
few shares, and although he was already burdened with too
many heavy business cares, he threw himself into the work
of sa-ving the theatre "with his wonted zeal and energy.
His theory was that the only way to make the theatre
self-sustaining was to let it out to the travelhng companies
for a few weeks at a time, and especially to those which pro
duced pantomimes, melodramas, or spectacles requiring a

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 97
large stage. In this way he thought that the theatre could
be maintained at the minimum of expense and -with an as
surance of a constant variety which would fiU the house.
As -with most innovations, there was an anxious period at
the outset, but some time before he died the theatre was pay
ing, and the same system pursued under subsequent owner
ship has made it very profitable do-wn to the present day.
My father's thus taking control of the theatre not only
gave me free entrance to aU performances and to the direct
ors' box, but enabled me to extend my operations to every
part of the theatre. Together with my friend Sturgis
Bigelow, who had tastes in this respect just like my own, I
quickly estabhshed close aUiances with aU the employees of
the theatre, and especiaUy with the keeper of the stage-door
and the property-man, so that we were soon as familiar
behind the scenes as in front of the curtain. One of the
companies most popular at that period was a hybrid or
ganization which combined circus and drama — drama of a
large, scenic, and spectacular kind in which horses played a
conspicuous part. The performance opened -with a regular
circus, for the stage was large enough to accommodate a
ring, and then foUowed the play. The two plays I remem
ber best were the "Cataract of the Ganges" and "Tippoo
Sahib." The former culminated in the heroine's escape
from the wicked priests by way of the falls, down which
real water flowed and which nature had arranged with low
steps so that an educated horse could gaUop up them.
"Tippoo Sahib" was a thrUhng presentation of the crim
inal career of that monarch, including hve elephants in the
procession, and the final capture of his stronghold by a
charge of cavalry after the manner of Lord Peterborough's
famous exploit in Spain, only more exact and realistic.
These dramatic works I -witnessed many times, but the
occasion I remember best was at a performance of the

98 EARLY MEMORIES
" Cataract of the Ganges," when Bigelow and I hid ourselves
behind the canvas statue of some Indian god and watched
the scene in the cave from that point of vantage, peeping
out around the edges of the flat and deceptive deity to look
at the audience.
We also took advantage of our opportunities not only
by wandering about behind the scenes, examining the stage
machinery and learning to make thunder and red fire, but
by seeing some exceUent plays and much good acting.
There was at that period (1861-63) a very strong company
organized by Henry Jarrett and also an independent com
bination formed by some of the best actors of the day who
di-vided the profits among themselves and were not engaged
or controlled by any manager. In these two companies
were John GUbert and Mark Smith, J, W, Wallack and E.
L. Davenport, L, R. Shewell, George Vandenhoff, W, R,
Blake, Thomas Placide, John E, Owens, WUliam Wheatleigh,
who played the young heroes, Mrs, Barrow, Mrs, Skerritt,
and others. They were all good actors and brought out
the old comedies and some more recent ones with an even
ness of exceUence which is very rare, I then saw not only
the "School for Scandal," "The Rivals," and "She Stoops
to Conquer," which may stUl be seen at intervals even now,
but many others hke "Speed the Plough," "The Heir at
Law," "London Assurance," "Jane Shore," "Money,"
"The Poor Gentleman," "The Toodles," "The Serious
FamUy," "The Hunchback," "The Road to Ruin," and
"WUd Oats," aU of which I am sorry to say seem to have
disappeared entirely. I also saw, but not at that time,
"A New Way to Pay Old Debts," with Davenport as Sir
GUes Overreach. He played the part better than any one
except Booth, and quite as well, I think, as Booth. It was a
good bit of education to have seen aU these old comedies
weU given before their final departure from the stage, for

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 99
they possessed, as a rule, literary as weU as dramatic merit,
and literature is more conspicuous by its absence than by
its presence on the popular stage of to-day. There are, of
course, good modern plays, quite equal to and often better
than many of these old comedies, but they do not command
the popular stage to the same degree as the old comedies
did in my boyhood. This I think is true in England as weU
as in the United States, although it must be confessed that
our theatres have sunk lower, certainly have declined, in
the character of their performances more universally than
the Enghsh.
At the same time Wheatleigh brought out the first part
of "Henry IV," taking the part of Prince Hal himself, and
with Hackett as Falstaff — the best Falstaff of the day, I
remember few plays which interested me more as a boy,
and I vidsh it were played oftener. It connects itself in
my mind also -with the excitement of the war-time. On
every bill and poster announcing the play were printed the
King's words after the fight at Shrewsbury:
" Rebellion in the land shall lose his sway,
Meeting the check of such another day.
And since this business so fair is done,
Let us not leave till all our own be won,"
When dehvered on the stage these lines were greeted vrith
rounds of applause, and in the same way the audiences
would receive -with cheers and shouts the King's fierce utter
ance in "Richard III":
"Cold friends to me!
What do they in the north.
When they should serve their sovereign in the west? "
Less thrUling but very amusing was John E, Owens as
"Solon Shingle," an excellent bit of character acting.

100 EARLY MEMORIES
It was at about this same time that I saw Forrest as
"Metamora," He impressed me deeply in the part of the
noble savage, and I did not mind his rant or his marked
mannerisms. He was a very striking-looking man, large,
powerful, -with a voice of great depth and compass. His
faults were ob-vious enough, in fact everything about him
was obvious, and he was generally condenmed by my elders,
to whose opinion I deferred and from whom I concealed
my admiration for the chief of the Wampanoags. But
when I saw him in later years, although he was then an old
man, I perceived that despite his ranting and his crudity,
due to lack of training, he was a really great actor of un
usual force and power. Altogether these remembrances of
the stage are among the pleasantest and most -vi-vid of my
boyhood, and I am glad that I had such large opportunities
in that direction.
There was also one incident, not theatrical, connected
with the Boston Theatre which interested me greatly at the
time. It was there that the ball was given to the Prince of
Wales when he came to Boston, and my father, being presi
dent of the board of directors and responsible for the buUd
ing, was, of course, most anxious that aU should go weU.
He went early to see that everything was right, and in this
way I was able to see the theatre and all the decorations
before any one arrived. It really looked very well, I think,
and it certainly seemed very splendid to my inexperienced
eyes. The whole pit was floored over, making, -with the
stage, an immense ballroom, and the galleries were profusely
decorated -with flags and flowers, I was aUowed to stay
and witness the entrance of the royal party and the opening
of the baU by the prince, a fair-haired boy, who seemed to
me altogether too simple in appearance, for I had expected
robes and crowns, the kings with whom I was acquainted
on the stage and in books usually appearing either with

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 101
those adornments or else in full armor. As I remember no
more of the festivity, I imagine that at this point I was sent
home to bed.
In addition to the drama, legitimate and otherwise, my
friends and I were unfaUing attendants at the performances
of aU the jugglers and conjurers who came to the city, I
remember particularly "Professor" Anderson, "The Wizard
of the North," who had a vast amount of machinery and
paraphernaha and very little sleight of hand, and the elder
Hermann, who was just the reverse. From watching Her
mann we learned, after long practice, to throw or scale cards.
He was able to throw a card from the stage into the top
gallery of the Boston Theatre, a really remarkable feat of
strength and dexterity. It was at this time, too, that Doctor
Bigelow took Sturgis Bigelow and me to see Artemus Ward
with his panorama, and hear him lecture. I remember
Artemus Ward -with great -vividness; his rather pale face,
his slightly dehcate look, the large mustache, the very
quiet manner, and the perfect solemnity with which he
said the most amusing and most ridiculous things. His
writings I had read, laughed at, and admired, and his per
sonal appearance and manner enhanced his humor and puns.
He was a true humorist, and unlike most of those who had
a brief notoriety and success at the time is still readable, for
there was in some things that he said a touch of the humor
which is eternal because it pertains to human nature and is
not concerned merely vnth the events of the passing day.
But theatres were not my only interest apart from sports
and outdoor amusements. Although in common with many
young gentlemen of my own age I exercised extraordinary
dUigence in getting through school with as little mental effort
and as large an evasion of rules and discipline as possible,
yet I did not leave my mind whoUy unemployed. If a good
fairy stood by my cradle she conferred upon me one gift

102 EARLY MEMORIES
which has been a great possession to me all my life and which
grows even more precious as age begins to settle down. That
gift was a love of books and of reading. It is a solitary habit,
but it was a very fixed one with me and always indulged in
without restriction when I was alone, I have already spoken
of the dehght I experienced in reading the Waverley Novels
when I was nine years old, and from that I proceeded to
many other works, great and small. I read, of course, the
current "boys' books" by Mayne Reid and BaUantyne, by
Kingston and "Ohver Optic," and others to whom I am
indebted for many happy hours, "Robinson Crusoe" and
the "Swiss Family Robinson" I read over and over again,
and prized them both equally, I think, my literary judgment
being still undeveloped. All fairy stories, from the " Arabian
Nights" down, were read many times, and likewise Haw
thorne's "Tanglewood Tales" and "Wonderbook," as well
as Bulfinch's "Age of Chivalry" and "Age of Fable," four
volumes from which I really gathered some knowledge of
Greek mythology and of the Arthurian legend. Cooper I
read thoroughly, and I did not then find him verbose and
diffuse. Leatherstocking was of course one of my heroes.
I read all of Dickens, and "Da-vid Copperfield" was one of
my favorite books, that is the first part; the last part rather
bored me except when it came to the death of Steeriorth,
the downfall of Uriah, and the triumph of Micawber. M
of Marryat's books and Irving's "Tales of the Alhambra"
and the "Chronicle of Wolfert's Roost" were very dear to
me, but anything in the form of a story had an irresistible
attraction. These books which I have mentioned were all
permitted works, but I also managed to read surreptitiously
"Jack Sheppard," by Ainsworth, who is described by the
worthy Mr, AUibone as the "Tyburn Plutarch," and "Pere
grine Pickle," old copies of which I found among some books
at Nahant,

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 103
There was also another kind of forbidden fruit in the
literary orchard which I gathered freely, and pretended
to enjoy, simply, I think, because it was forbidden. These
prohibited works were the dime novels published in vivid
orange colors by Mr, Beadle and another series known as
Novelettes, large although thin quarto pamphlets, dressed
out in -vivid colors very arresting to the gaze of the small
boy. The former dealt chiefiy with frontier life and deadly
combats -with "redskins"; the latter were a far-off echo of
the Valois novels of Dumas, and were peopled vnth gentle
men in the costume attributed to Charles II, and by ladies
dressed in the Victorian fashion, like the characters in " La
Traviata" as presented in those days. Both series were
quite harmless; they could not have brought a blush to any
cheek, least of all to that of a boy; and the objection to
them on the part of parents and guardians was merely be
cause they had never read them. As a rule they were sen
sational and extravagant, and being destitute of art or
imagination were really dull. Secretly I thought so at the
time, and much preferred the permitted stories of Scott
and Cooper, Defoe, Marryat, Dickens, and Poe. But I
would not have confessed my real opinion for worlds, because
it was felt to be fine and manly and a httle -wicked to read,
with dark precautions, these quite uninteresting but en
ticingly forbidden books.
; Stories and fiction were not, however, all my reading,
although they formed the staple of it. My grandfather had
a strong taste for travels and voyages, and among his books
I read Mungo Park and Captain ReUly's narrative. He
also bought aU the new books of travel and exploration.
Kane's expedition to the North Pole had excited great in
terest, and I well remember the talk about it and about the
book which followed. Livingstone's first volume also ap
peared about that time, as well as Gerard's "Lion Hunter"

104 EARLY MEMORIES
and Barth's "Travels in Africa." The last is a formidable
work — I stUl have it — but I read a good deal of it and much
enjoyed the pictures, as I did stUl more those in Perry's
"Expedition to Japan," which I looked over again and again.
These early studies in the literature of African discovery
caused me to take a keen interest in Du ChaUlu's goriUas
when his coUection was exhibited in Boston not long after
wards. There was at that time much doubt felt as to the
veracity of his narrative and the genuineness of his coUec
tion, but the explorations of later years have fully confirmed
and justified all that he wrote, and show that the doubts
expressed were as unjust as they were iU founded.
I loved ballads and Homeric poetry of any and every
kind. I cannot say how many times I read Scott's poems,
especially "Marmion" and "The Lady of the Lake." I
also read "Richard III" and parts of the other plays, as well
as "Don Quixote," because I saw my father reading them
so often; but "Richard" and "Don Quixote" I really liked
and they took a strong hold on my imagination. My father
and grandfather had a fairly large library, and I wandered
about in it on rainy days looking into books, examining pic
tures when there were any, and reading wherever a passage
caught my vagrant attention. I have always been grateful
to Doctor Johnson for his defence of "desultory reading,"
and I think that most of the education which I picked up in
those days was obtained from my own unaided efforts in that
direction. One piece of really important reading I also
accomplished at that time, and accomplished thoroughly,
owing to an accident. To mitigate the rigors of com
pulsory attendance at church I made a treaty with my
mother that if I sat quiet I might read the Bible instead
of hstening to the sermon. The treaty thus ratified was
easUy executed, for the high-backed pews of the old Brat
tle Street Church were well adapted both to concealment

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 105
and to study. It was a fine old eighteenth-century church
•with a square tower, in which was imbedded a cannon-ball
said to have been fired and lodged there by the American
batteries at the siege of Boston. The interior was in the
classical style of Wren, much in vogue in the province in
the days of Anne and the first Georges, A huge mahogany
pulpit, the gift of John Hancock, towered up darkly in the
centre of what would have been called the chancel in any
other than a Puritan church, I remember well the occasion
when the Reverend Cyrus Bartol, very small and thin, with
a shrUl voice, popped up one Sunday from the depths of the
great pulpit, and with hardly more than his head showing
over the edge piped out his text: "Lo, it is I! Be not
afraid," Very few preachers, however, gave rise to such
pleasant incidents, and most of the sermons (the church
was then Unitarian) were long and serious, and although no
doubt often able, were rather beyond the capacity and atten
tion of a boy. In this way, however, my biblical studies
began, for I regret to say that, speaking frankly, the Bible
was not a form of reading which I should have voluntarily
selected if it had not been so much better than sitting sUent
in uncomfortable restlessness whUe some one preached.
Thus it came to pass, at aU events, that I read the Bible
thoroughly from beginning to end, "bating the Apocrypha,"
as a countryman said in some now forgotten story of my
youth, which Apocrypha, lacking unfortunately in my edi
tion, was, if I had only known it, the repository of some of
the best and most charming of the biblical stories, I have
never quite understood why the books of the Apocrypha
were not intrinsically as much entitled to a place among
the canonical books as many now found there. Much of
the Bible naturally I did not then understand, much I
found wearisome; but the historical books, full of fighting
and of battle, murder and sudden death, aU the beautiful

106 EARLY MEMORIES
stories and the Four Gospels, the most beautiful of aU,
became to me a great delight, I do not know that my
morals or my religious views were improved, as they no
doubt should have been, by this course of reading, but I
am certain that I became famUiar -with persons and stories
which are part of the life and thought of our race, and that
reading over and over again all that splendid English could
not but have had some unconscious effect even upon a boy
and may have bred in bun a respect for the noble language
which was perhaps his best inheritance.
Such in outline, traced not for criticism or analysis, but
merely as a picture of life at the time, were the occupations
and amusements which made up existence for me in those
days. But my first years at Mr, DixweU's school were
darkened by two sorrows which fell upon my family and
brought sharply home to me the serious nature of life. In
September, 1862, my father, worn out and broken do-wn
nervously by too much work, too many cares, and too many
responsibUities, died suddenly. The blow feU hke a bolt of
lightning. He joked -with me as I ate my supper, and then
went up to his room, not feeling very well, and dropped
dead. I can hear the murmur of the frightened servants,
"Poor chUd!" as I made my way up-stairs. I can see him
in his coffin; I can recall my being sent to Mrs. Guild's
house to be out of the way of aU the dark necessities of such
a time. I can see the crowded church at his funeral and aU
the poor people whom he had helped standing in the aisles.
I was overwhelmed -with grief and did not comprehend what
had happened. Not untU long afterwards did I know what
a loss it had been to me at twelve years of age. Then I
recovered -with the elasticity of childhood, although I re
mained deeply conscious of a great blank in my life.
I will venture to give here two letters in regard to my
father from men who knew him intimately, and which may

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL : 1860-1867 107
serve to show what was thought of him by others who were
not bound to him by the close ties of famUy affection as I
was. Boston, 14th Sept., '62,
MY DEAR MRS. LODGE —
You cannot doubt how sincerely I have grieved with you and
your family, I have lost a friend, true and firm. There are few
losses greater,
I am so glad that I saw him on Wednesday last and had such
a pleasant conversation with him, so gentle, kind and hospitable,
which I can never forget,
I shall go to the Church tomorrow, and wish that I could do
anything to testify my sympathy with you and my respect for
his memory.
May God bless you and comfort you in this great affliction
and keep fresh the recollection of those manly virtues and affec
tions for which he was remarkable. Believe me
dear Mrs. Lodge
Ever sincerely yours Charles Sumner.
Vienna
Oct 28 1862
MY DEAR ANNA,
Mary wrote to you by the first post that left this place for
America after we had received the sad news which has plunged
your household in affliction. You can well believe that she most
deeply regrets her inability to be with you in this trying hour, as
it seems to her almost unnatural that she should be away from you
and from your father in a time of distress.
I think you will not object to a few words of sincere and heart
felt sympathy from me, although I am perfectly aware that all
words are idle, and there is no consoler but Time for such a grief
as yours. I claim however, a portion of your sorrow, for never
since I had first the pleasure of making your husband's acquaint
ance, has there been anything but kindness between us, and, I
trust, mutual regard and esteem.
I can at least answer for myself that I always entertained the

108 EARLY MEMORIES
most sincere respect for his many admirable qualities, that I
ever valued his friendship, and that it gives me now a true consola
tion for his loss to reflect that never from first to last, have I had
a moment's misunderstanding with him or a word of unkindness,
and that I and mine have treasured in our memories a long hst
of deeds of disinterested and most active friendship toward us,
I claim to have had as true an appreciation of him as any one
out of the immediate circle of his nearest relatives. I never saw-
more self devotion, more inexhaustible friendship than that of
which he was capable — as I am sure your father and your dear
mother always so thoroughly believed,
I can hardly now accept the fact that all that zeal, energy
and intelligent activity has been so suddenly suspended, nor do I
comprehend how you, or your children or your father can exist
without that constant and untiring care with which he seemed to
envelop you all.
Others can do better justice to his honour, intelligence and his
fortunate intrepidity in the commercial pursuits to which he de
voted his outside life, but I for one can bear witness to his virtues
in the interior life, which is so much more important to our hap
piness. I feel that I too have lost a friend, and a most valued one,
in this calamity which has stricken you and most deeply do I
regret that I cannot be at home at this moment, to do my best to
comfort your father, who has always been as kind as a father to
me, and whom I honestly love like a son,
I think it would be a relief to him to talk with one, who so
sincerely appreciated your departed husband, over his many
manly virtues — and I am sure that if Mary could be with you all,
you would find a sympathy which could never fail you, I will
say no more, perhaps it had been as well if I had said nothing,
for what are words, especially written ones to alleviate sorrow. I
don't dare to think of Lillie's grief, any more than of her mother's
or grandfather's. Poor child, I am aware that she idohzed her
father — and for the best of reasons.
Good bye and God bless you. I trust that God will enable you
to bear the blow with fortitude and that Time will mitigate your
grief. Give my best love and sincerest sympathy to your father.
Mary and Lily join me in words of affection to all and I remain
ever most sincerely your friend
J. L. Motley

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 109
Two years later, in 1864, my grandfather died. He was
nearly eighty-two, and his last years were years of suffering.
His mind remained perfectly clear; he was as kind and
gentle as ever, he never complained, but he grew more
sUent and the end came peacefuUy, He was too old to
have been as near to me as my father was, but I missed him
greatly, and although I could not then put the thought into
words, I knew that a very noble and gracious presence had
gone from my little world.
The year after my father's death was made memorable
to me by my first journey. In 1863 we went to New York, a
great event to me, and stayed there some time. We went to
a hotel, now vanished, the Saint Nicholas. Far do-wn-town
it would seem now, but then, although fashion was already
pushing up beyond Madison Square, it was not yet wholly
in the business quarter, as the block which it largely occupied
is to-day. Sturgis Bigelow happened to be there at the
same time, and the two idle schoolboys together enjoyed
themselves very weU after their own fashion. We took full
advantage of the opportunity for varied eating offered by a
hotel on the "American plan," then nearly universal, and
gorged ourselves on every possible occasion like young boa-
constrictors. We passed our days chiefly in wandering up
and do-wn Broadway, looking into the shops and also into
a disgusting exhibition called "Kahn's Medical Museum,"
which I wonder should have been permitted to open its doors
for the delectation of boys. We also went much to a more
innocent place, Barnum's Museum, then situated where the
Herald BuUding afterwards stood, on the corner of Broad
way facing north toward the City Hall Park, We found our
way to the Battery, at one end of the city, and to Central
Park, then quite new, at the other. But our chief pleasure
was the theatre, to which we were aUowed to go in the eve
ning, as there was no school necessitating early rising.

no EARLY MEMORIES
Almost opposite our hotel was "Bryant's Minstrels,"
brUliant at night with the name in colored lights made by a
series of small cups filled, I think, -with oU. Some of these
were always being blown out, but the general effect was
very satisfying to our simple tastes, and we frequented the
performances to which we were so radiantly in-vited. Just
above our hotel, on the other side of Broadway, was Niblo's
Garden, a famous theatre in those days, and very far up
town as it then seemed was " Wallack's," where was gathered
the best stock company in the country, headed by Lester
WaUack himself, an admirable actor, and where we saw
some really good plays.
The foUo-wing summer we took another journey, which
seemed to me a very extensive one indeed. We went to
Trenton FaUs, now ruined by conversion into power, and
thence to Niagara. At Trenton I had an adventure which
nearly terminated my promising career. In company -with
a Mr, Rand I walked far up the river gorge above the prin
cipal falls. It was a beautiful walk by the side of the dark-
brown, s-wift-rushing stream, but very hard going over the
rocks, and we decided to climb up the steep cliffs which
formed the side of the ravine, where we then were, and re
turn to the hotel by the road above. Each of us started at
a different point and proceeded to scramble up, I got
nearly to the top very successfully when the httle ledge of
rock or earth upon which I had put my foot suddenly gave
way. It was a bad quarter of a minute, because below me
was a sheer drop of considerable height down to the rocks of
the river, LuckUy for me a small tree grew outward from
the edge of the cliff just above me, I grasped it desperately
with a sickening doubt as to whether it would give way.
Fortunately it held as I hung to it with both hands, swing
ing over space, and then it was easy to draw my fight
weight up, get astride of it, and scramble in to the top of

BOYHOOD— MY LAST SCHOOL: 1860-1867 111
the cliff, I was a badly frightened boy when I roUed over
on the grass and looked down into the ravine below. My
companion had had no difficulty, Boyhke, I had selected
the shortest, most perpendicular, and most dangerous route
-with a cheerful confidence in my powers of climbing any
thing and -with no knowledge of the importance of footholds
on the face of cliffs where rock gradually merges in earth.
From Trenton we went to Niagara, which I explored
thoroughly and enjoyed immensely, but I have read too
many "first impressions" of the great falls to attempt to
add my own.

CHAPTER VI
THE WAR: 1860-1865
I COULD not in the last chapter say anything of the ter
rible ordeal through which the country was passing during
my first four years at Mr. DixweU's school. It was too great
and too solemn to be mixed up -with random memories of
boyish sports and school experiences. It was overshadowing
then, even to a boy. I do not mean to say that people did
not go about their business and that boys did not learn
their lessons and play their games through all those weary
years just as the people of Paris went about their own little
round of labor and filled the theatres nightly during the
Reign of Terror. The daily life of men, the common cares
and toUs of existence, are the hardest things in the world to
stop. Nothing less than absolute destruction by nature or by
man can arrest them for more than a few hours. But while
the CivU War was raging it was certain that no one forgot
it and that its shadow hung dark over the land. I was only
ten years old when the war began, only fourteen when it
ended, and yet in the history of that great period of conflict,
it has seemed to me that the impressions of a boy, li-ving
safe-sheltered in a city and a State where no enemy ever
set his foot, are not without importance, because everything
which may serve to explain or characterize or illustrate a
struggle so momentous ought to have some value to those
of the future who would seek the truth about the past.
My people had been from the foundation of the govern-
112

THE WAR: 1860-1865 113
ment Federalists and Whigs, My grandfather, Mr, Cabot,
and my father were both Whigs, but had left their party
after Mr, Webster's 7th of March speech, although in my
grandfather's case it was, as I have said before, the rupture
of a lifelong friendship. They became "Free-SoUers," for
they were both strongly opposed to slavery, my father ex
tremely so because he had hved many years in New Orleans,
engaged in business there, and had imbibed, from close
observation, an intense hatred of the system. The old
negro servant whom he had bought and set free was a
li-ving witness to this experience in his life and was also
one of the cheerful recoUections of my chUdhood, When
the Repubhcan party was formed my grandfather and
father both joined it and supported Fremont and Dayton
in 1856, My father had never taken part in politics, but
he was so profoundly stirred by the slavery question that
he went down to the wharves where his ships were lying
and made a speech to the saUors, longshoremen, and steve
dores in behalf of Fremont, My first political recoUection
is that I "hollered for Fremont," which is all I now remem
ber of that campaign. Four years later, in 1860, 1 remember
a great deal more. I had heard Mr. Sumner talk much at
our dinner-table; I had been with my father to see him at
his house in Hancock Street, I think soon after the John
Brown raid, about which I had been told a great deal and
which excited my imagination; and I knew well how deeply
my father was interested in the success of Lincoln. So I
wore a Lincoln badge and was told by some of my play
fellows, in accents of deep scorn, that my father was a
"black Repubhcan" and a friend of Charles Sumner, and
I suppose that I retorted in kind.
The struggle in Massachusetts, so far as I knew of it,
was between Lincoln and Hamlin, on the one side, and Bell
and Everett, who were the candidates of what remained of

114 EARLY MEMORIES
the Whig party,^ once all-powerful in the State, on the other.
There were also Douglas Democrats and pro-slavery Demo
crats, but of these I knew nothing beyond belie-ving that aU
pro-slavery Democrats were criminals of the darkest dye.
The fact is that the Democrats, never very strong in our
State, were divided, and although the Douglas Democrats
polled more votes than the conservative Whigs, who hated
the slavery agitation, the latter were stUl strong with peo
ple of property and the business interests. Mr. Everett, a
great orator and one of the most distinguished and respected
of our pubhc men, also brought local support to the ticket
which bore his name. I think a majority of the boys whom
I knew were for BeU and Everett, but Lincoln carried the
State overwhelmingly. Respectable Boston, for the most
part, was out of step at the moment of the crisis and before
the final division was declared, but Massachusetts, as usual,
was right at the crucial moment.
The event which I remember most vi-vidly in that cam
paign was the great Republican torchhght procession of
the "Wide-awake Clubs" just before the election. The
Common, where they assembled, was a sea of tossing lights,
very striking to look upon, and made an even sharper mark
in my memory than the long march past -with the banners
and transparencies, the fireworks and the cheers, aU of which
I thoroughly enjoyed and from which I sagely concluded
that we should win, because we had a longer procession and
made more noise than the Whigs, I have since come very
clearly to the conclusion that no more idiotic way of carry
ing on a political campaign was ever de-vised than that of
torchlight processions, marching clubs, red fire, and rockets,
with all their noise and waste of money, I am happy to
say that this sUly habit is apparently disappearing, and will,
1 It was called the "Constitutional Union Party," but it was chiefly com
posed of former Whigs.

THE WAR: 1860-1865 115
I trust, soon be entirely extinct. But in 1860 the idea was
comparatively new, and the whole thing was done with
real enthusiasm and gave a vent for the excitement of the
time which was anything but perfunctory. The torches of
the "Wide-awakes" flashed against a darkened sky, their
cheers rang out across a troubled air. Men knew that the
country was dri-ving forth upon a stormy sea, and the wisest
could not shape the course or guess the future. Every one
felt the pressure of coming events, and most of those who
carried torches soon exchanged them for muskets and rifles,
which proved more Uluminating in certain dark places of
the earth than the torches they replaced,
I do not intend to trace the history of the war as I know
that history now, I shall merely try to tell what I remem
ber, and my recoUections are of scattered events -with long
blanks between. My object is not to give my history of
the Ci-vU War and my -views upon it, but simply, so far as
I can, to show how it struck a contemporary of ten to four
teen years of age.
Of the terrible winter which foUowed the "Wide-awake"
procession, when the country was in imminent danger of
being wrecked through the treason and weakness of Bu
chanan and his cabinet before Lincoln could even have a
chance to save it, I recaU nothing except my father's anxiety
and the fact that pohtical talk was going on constantly
about me. The first actual event which I really remember
in 1861 was the firing upon Fort Sumter, I had heard of
Major Anderson and had begun to look upon him as the
hero of the time, so that the news that the fort had been
fired upon and had surrendered filled me with sorrow and
anger. That it was capable of affecting so strongly a boy
not yet eleven years old shows, I think, how deeply that
attack, by which the South deliberately plunged the coun
try into war, went home to the North, My simple hope

116 EARLY MEMORIES
and my one desire was that we should now go on fighting
until we got that fort back, which, as a matter of fact, was
exactly what we did.
Then came the departure of the first troops from Boston,
and I think that I heard Governor Andrew address them,
but of this I am not sure, for I heard him speak to other
regiments, and one memory is blurred by another. Gov
ernor Andrew I remember well at that time, although I
cannot recall a word which I heard him utter. But the
short, strong, sturdy figure vnth the square, massive head
covered with tight curling light hair is very plain to me, as
well as the feeling of awe and solemnity which came over
me when I saw him speaking to the soldiers. All that he
strove for and suffered and did, I know now, and now, too,
I can understand the force and nobility of the man, but then
it was only a deep impression of a leader, of a great and
important person, which touched my young imagination.
He had a powerful and emotional temperament, and as he
was moved himself so he moved others, even a boy, -without
the boy's knowing why. Years afterwards Mr. Justice Gray
told me a story of Andrew which always seemed to me to
define what manner of man he was better than anything
else I ever heard. It was just after the war and Andrew
was about to leave the governorship. He had lost his once
large practice at the bar and had no resources, owing to his
having sacrificed everything to his public service. This fact
was generally known, and there had been some talk of giving
him the coUectorship of the port of Boston, which was a
lucrative office. In summer, when the town was deserted.
Governor Andrew was in the habit of lunching -with Judge
Gray, who hved near the State House, and there he came
one day as usual. No one else was present. When they
were seated at the table Judge Gray referred to the current
rumor about the coUectorship, Without a word of warning

THE WAR: 1860-1865 117
(I use Judge Gray's o-wn expression) Andrew laid down his
knife and fork, looked at his host earnestly, and said: "I
have stood as high-priest between the horns of the altar,
I have poured out upon it the best blood of Massachusetts,
I cannot take money for that," They were entirely alone,
there was no audience, it was simply the expression of the
man's nature in words and imagery at once instinctive and
natural. Judge Gray added that no eloquence he had ever
heard had moved him so much, Andrew indeed was one
of the conspicuous figures of the war time, one of the great
war governors who, like Morton in Indiana, did so much to
sustain Lincoln and save the Union, I am glad to have
seen him and to realize that he impressed me deeply, heed
less boy as I was,
I knew nothing as to the first regiments when I saw them
go from Boston, But there was one with which I soon be
came famUiar, the famous Sixth Regiment, which was
mobbed in Baltimore, The first blood shed in battle in the
American Revolution was that of Massachusetts men at
Lexington and Concord, It was the fortune of the State to
shed the first blood in the Civil War, and on the same day
of the month, the 19th of AprU. When the regiment reached
Baltimore it was obliged to march through the city in order
to take the Washington train on the other side. On the
way they were hooted and pelted, and when they reached
the lower quarters of the city, which were intensely and
bitterly Democratic, as well as secessionist, they were sav
agely assaUed by a mob of roughs commonly known as the
" Baltimore Plug Ughes," who used pavmg-stones and pistols.
Four of the soldiers were kUled and thirty-six wounded.
The troops finaUy opened fire on the mob and forced their
way through to the station -with their bayonets, lea-ving
their dead and the seriously wounded behind them. All
this I remember, for I eagerly read the accounts and studied
the whoUy imaginary pictures of the fight in the street as

118 EARLY MEMORIES
portrayed in the rough wood-cuts of the Ulustrated papers.
Most clearly of aU do I recollect seeing photographs — very
poor things in those days — of two of the soldiers kUled by the
mob. The photographs were of the smaU size common at
that time and had been taken probably for some mother or
sister or sweetheart before the poor feUows started out to
save Washington. They came from LoweU, as I remember,
and were young fellows, one only eighteen, but to the eyes
of ten years old they looked like mature men, and I was not
then aware that wars were usually fought by what I should
now call boys. The pathos and tragedy of it all passed by
me, but wrath did not. There had been real fighting, some
Massachusetts men had been killed by a mob of pro-slavery
Democrats, and rage filled my heart. I at once determined
that I would enlist as a drummer, for I had gathered from
my reading that such was the proper and conventional
thing for a boy to do, and I pictured to myself the feats of
gallantry I would perform as we made a victorious charge,
for all the charges which I intended making with my regi
ment were to be -victorious, I suppose nearly all boys of
my age were fiUed with the same ambition at that time, for
the war fever was burning fiercely and reached even the
youngest. My plans for a mihtary life, however, were not
taken in either a favorable or even a serious spirit by my
family, and I had to content myself -with imagining desperate
assaults and gallant exploits, from which I always escaped
alive and glorious, a soothing exercise in which I frequently
indulged, generally just before I dropped to sleep for the
night. None the less, I am glad that I had those emotions
and was moved and stirred by the pictures of the lads who
fell at Baltimore, It is not much, but it is something to
have had that feeling at a time when dangers thickened
about the country and there was a great and noble passion
mo-ving among the people.
Thirty-seven years later, in the spring, too, for the war

THE WAR: 1860-1865 119
with Spain was virtuaUy declared by the resolution which
passed Congress early on the mormng of the fateful 19th of
AprU, I went with my friend Mr, Justice Moody, of the
Supreme Court, then a member of the House of Representa
tives, to Baltimore in order to meet the Sixth Massachusetts
Regiment and see them pass through the city. Under the
present arrangements they might have gone on vidthout
lea-ving the cars, but they abandoned the train outside the
city and then marched to the southern station, taking the
exact line which their predecessors had taken in 1861. We
foUowed them along the whole route. They were cheered
from beginning to end, in the poorer quarters as in the best,
and flowers were thro-wn to them as they passed. It was
"roses, roses aU the way," and the scene was one I shall
never forget. We managed to reach the station ahead of
the troops, and saw them come in, cheered to the last, and
just at the very spot where their predecessors had fought
their way to safety with a fierce and baffled mob raging at
their heels. It was a sight worth seeing, very moving, very
impressive, but it seemed to me to show that the poor boys
whose pictures I had gazed upon so many years before had
not died in vain, and that the war -with Spain, if it did nothing
else, demonstrated once for all this great fact, and was in its
turn not -without value and meaning to the American people.
The next event of 1861 which stands out sharply in my
memory was the shooting of Colonel EUsworth at Alex
andria, He had entered a hotel to pull down a rebel fiag,
and the tavern-keeper, a man named Jackson, as I remem
ber, shot him -without warning. It was murder, not war,
and I recollect well the profound impression which was
produced by this incident. EUsworth was colonel of the
New York Zouaves, a crack regiment; he was young, pop
ular, handsome, I remember his picture perfectly. Unim
portant as one death was in the great war then break-

120 EARLY MEMORIES
ing upon us, that particular murder and the manner of
it, coming as it did at the very start, roused bitter feelings
and stimulated greatly the fighting spirit of the North. I
wished then that I had been there to take immediate and
bloody revenge upon the innkeeper, who was shot do-wn by
one of the Zouaves, and who is so wholly obscure now that
I cannot even be sure of his name, which then went far and
-wide throughout the country.
I think this -vividness of the first incidents of the war,
and the blanks and the confusion which I find in my recol
lections of the following years, are o-wing simply to the fact
that they were the first. The killing of two or three men
in Baltimore in 1861 shook the country. Three or four
years later engagements in which two or three hundred
men were kUled and wounded on each side were dismissed
in a paragraph and described as skirmishes, as indeed they
seemed to a people who had beheld the awful losses at
Gettysburg and ChanceUorsvUle, at ShUoh, Fredericksburg,
or Cold Harbor.
The first Bull Run I well remember, and I shall never
forget the intense surprise and the real misery which it
brought to me, but my only desire was to fight on and -wipe
out the disgrace. My boyish heart hardened under that
blow, and, as I now see, the heart of the country hardened
too, and men set themselves in dead earnest to carry on the
grim work. After this the memories begin to blur and run
together, I recall Island Number 10 and Donelson and
Port Royal, victories which cheered the entire North. I
remember the dreadful Sunday when the news came of
some great defeat, and the way the churches were kept open
and people assembled in them to collect and prepare lint
and bandages and supplies to be sent at once to the army.
Antietam I well recall, for many Massachusetts regiments
suffered there severely, but I did not realize untU I went

THE WAR: 1860-1865 121
over the battle-field years afterwards in company with Pres
ident McKinley what a bad position Lee had deliberately
walked into and how completely McClellan had thrown away
his opportunity.
Of the Western battles I remember less, but I rejoiced
in foUowing the fighting which cleared the great rivers, and
the names of Farragut and Porter, of Foote and Davis, and
of their river victories were all famUiar to me. Even more
famUiar and exciting was the fight between the Monitor
and the Merrimac. The -victory of the Monitor, for such it
was in effect, was not only momentous, but, owing to the
comparative size of the two vessels, had the attraction
which dwells in the stories of the boys who fare forth into
the world in search of adventure and slay huge giants and
monstrous dragons. The performance of the Merrimac
had most properly frightened the country thoroughly, and
her repulse by the Monitor brought a corresponding sense
of joy and relief. Some time afterwards, in connection -with
one of the fairs for the benefit of the Sanitary Commission,
an arrangement was made for a presentation of the fight
by miniature vessels, A portion of the Frog Pond was shut
in and covered by a tent -with a platform running round it
for the spectators. Upon the sheet of water thus enclosed
there came out a httle Merrimac, propelled by steam, which,
as I remember, ranuned and sank two representatives of
the Cumberland and the Congress. Then out darted the
Monitor, and there was much firing of little guns untU the
Merrimac was withdrawn, sinking and crippled, I went to
the first performance, and in addition to the sham fight,
which I keenly enjoyed, the evening is memorable to me
because it was the only occasion upon which I ever heard
Edward Everett speak. He was then an old man, and it
was not long before his death, but he made a little address
explaining what we were about to see, and of course spoke

122 EARLY MEMORIES
of the war and the country. He was a fine-looking man -with
white hair, extremely dignified, yet entirely simple in his
manner, and his account that evening of the famous fight
made it all very clear and very exciting to at least one of
his listeners. What I remember most clearly about him,
however, was his beautiful voice and that, although he did
not seem strong and spoke low and gently, every word fell
distinctly upon our ears. The tent was rather dimly lighted,
the water looked very black and cold, and the whole scene,
vidth Mr, Everett standing bareheaded by the raU, comes
back to me now with a certain dramatic intensity born of
the time, which brought emotions possible only in days like
those. I remember well the terrible news of Fredericksburg
and the rejoicings over Vicksburg and Gettysburg. The
draft riots in Boston seemed to bring the war very near
home, and I felt great pride in the fact that the officer at
the Cooper Street Armory who fired the "whiff of grape
shot" just at the right moment and blew the Boston riot
out of existence was a kinsman of mine, Stephen Cabot,
The naval battles at MobUe and New Orleans appealed
strongly to a boy brought up among ships, as did "Sheri
dan's ride" to a lover of horses, but the movement which I
followed most closely and -with the deepest interest was Sher
man's march to the sea, StUl keen is the remembrance of
the blind rage -with which I assailed our Democratic Irish
groom, otherwise an intimate friend of mine, when he told
me that Sherman would never get through. Then came the
fall of Richmond, news announced by Mr, DixweU when
school was dismissed. The boys raced out up Boylston
Street and on to the Common shouting at the top of their
lungs, and found themselves quite in harmony -with the rest
of the population, which was by no means always the case,
I have merely enumerated the great events as they stand

THE WAR : 1860-1865 123
recorded in my memory, with wide gaps between them,
-with no connection, and even in uncertain order. Were I
to attempt to arrange them or describe them I should at
once begin to mingle knowledge with remembrance, for my
actual recollection of those days, although vivid, is neither
well defined nor coherent. But such events as I have briefly
catalogued sank deep into the mind even of a boy. To have
been alive and in a sense a -witness to such a mighty conflict
as our CivU War left an ineffaceable impression, none the
less lasting because it was unconscious.
Yet the effect of the war. on my mind and its influence
upon me as a great educational force were not, I think,
chiefly due to the accounts I read and the pictures I pored
over of distant battles by sea and land. That which had
most effect, as it seems to me now, was the atmosphere in
which I lived. The war pervaded everything. You saw
it in the streets, in the disappearance of sUver and gold,
in the early makeshifts for money, in the paper currency,
in the passing soldiers, in the neighboring camps. You
heard it in Andrew's voice addressing the regiments as they
started for the South, No boy could forget Robert Shaw
going out at the head of his black troops or General Bartlett
riding by on his way to the front, one leg gone, and strapped
to his saddle, MUitary companies were organized in all
the schools and every boy was compelled to drill. Ours
was the first, and we were organized and thoroughly drilled,
as if it had now become a part of every American's regular
education, so that when the time came he might be able
to do his duty in a perpetual war. The war appeared in
the theatres, where every sentence which could be t-wisted
into a patriotic allusion was loudly cheered. The fairs to
raise money for the Sanitary Commission became an insti
tution, and even the caps we wore were those made fashion
able by the Emperor of the French and used by our own

124 EARLY MEMORIES
officers until superseded by the much more sensible and
practical Kossuth hats. But that which pressed most
hardly was the anxiety for the li-ving and the grief for those
dead in battle. My father, as I have said in an earlier
chapter, was eager to go to the war, and thought that he
coiUd serve efficiently in a cavalry regiment which he -wished
to raise himself. He was not only well past the military
age, but, as I have already said, a big thoroughbred mare
had recently fallen with him and injured his knee so that
he could not be long in the saddle or walk much without
great pain. The doctors pronounced his scheme to be
utterly impossible, and he gave it up. After his death, in
1862, there remained in the famUy only my grandfather,
my mother, my sister, and myself, so that no one was able
to go to the war from my own household, but every regi
ment took vidth it cousins, kinsmen, friends, young men,
many of whom I had seen at my sister's parties. After
every battle I used to hear in mournful tones : " So and So
is kUled" or "So and So is wounded," This reading the
death-roll and scanning bulletins to see how many men
whom you have known and cared for, whose people are
your people and whose fate is dear to you, have been
killed is not an experience that one ever forgets. At last
it came very near to me, very near indeed by age and asso
ciation and habit of life. One of the older boys at our school
was Huntington Wolcott, elder brother of Roger Wolcott,
a lifelong friend of mine and later a distinguished governor
of Massachusetts, In the last year of the war Huntington
Wolcott could no longer be restrained; he was only seven
teen, but he secured a commission, went to the front, con
tracted a deadly camp-fever, was brought home, and died.
The school went to the funeral and I saw him in his coffin,
worn, haggard, aged, and yet still a boy, dressed in the
uniform of the United States, This brought the war home

THE WAR : 1860-1865 125
to me as never before, I remember thinking as I went
down the steps of the house that if the war lasted that was
what would happen to me, a prospect which did not cheer
me, for it never occurred to my mind — and I think I was
hke aU other boys in this respect — that I should do any
thing but join the army as soon as I was old enough, be
cause four years is a long time at that age, and it seemed
as if the country had always been and always would be at
war. It was said in those days, and said truly, that boys fresh
from coUege went into the army and came out grave and
serious men. The mere passage of time was nothing.
They had lived more and longer in those four years than
most men in a whole lifetime. In a lesser degree much
younger boys, more or less unconsciously no doubt, received
an impression from those years of civil war and were then
subjected to influences from which they never recovered
and which affected unalterably their feeling about their
country. I am sure that the men born since the CivU War
are just as patriotic, just as ready to sacrifice themselves
for their country, as those born before it. I should despair
of the future if I did not think so. But the feeling about
the country of those to whom the Civil War is not mere
history, but a living memory, is, I am certain, a little differ
ent from that of any others. They actually saw the coun
try, however dimly, at death grips with a destroying antag
onist, reeling on the edge of an abyss. They knew that the
country's life was at stake and they saw it emerge victorious.
The sacrifice of life and treasure by which the victory was
won was all about them and the news of battle was always
ringing in their ears. In after-years they might forget
much, but these things they could not forget, for a man
fortunately does not often see his country's very existence
at stake in war. And so, never forgetting the past, those

126 EARLY MEMORIES
who hved through the war times have a more tender senti
ment about their country, they are more easily moved by
all that appeals to their sense of patriotism, and they are
less dispassionate no doubt in judging America and the
American people than others, just as they are more intolerant
of those Americans who hve abroad, ape foreign ways, and
sneer at their own land and its people, for they know, they
who remember, what it aU cost and what a price the people
once paid to save the country from those who sought to
tear it asunder.
The war left me, as I think it left those of my time gen
erally, with certain profound con-victions which nothing can
ever shake. It made me an optimist so far as the United
States is concerned. I am weU aware how much condi
tions have changed since 1861 ; the vast increase of wealth,
the problems raised by the modern economic developments,
the alteration in the character of the population owing to
the flood of immigration, all these things are present to my
mind, and I do not underestimate their gra-vity or the sin
ister possibUities which they suggest. Nor am I oblivious
of the darkest sign of aU, the way in which money and the
acquisition of money by taking it from some one else through
the process of law seems in the last analysis rampant in
nearly every portion of the community, and at the bottom
if not at the top of almost every proposed reform, every
political issue, and every personal ambition. But none the
less, and reahzing all the grim suggestions of the present day,
I have seen, without fully comprehending, I admit, but still
I have seen, the nation come through the most terrible
ordeal which any nation can undergo. I know what sac
rifices were then made in obedience to a great sentiment,
and I have faith that the people who were capable of the
CivU War wUl be able to meet any problems the future may
have in store whenever they reahze that the hfe of the

THE WAR: 1860-1865 127
nation and every tradition, every belief which has made it
what it is, are at stake.
Then, too, there were certain beliefs which were im
planted in me by the war, by what I saw and heard and by
what I vaguely, but none the less deeply, felt, and these be-
hefs I have never been able to change. The bitter hostUity
to the South and to Southerners which the mass of the North
ern people felt during the war, and which was as violent as it
was crude in the breast of the average boy, has, of course,
long since passed away, I am not only as eager for the
welfare and prosperity of the South as I am for that of my
o-wn New England, but I have no word of reproach to utter;
I have nothing but the most affectionate feeling toward
them, as toward aU my feUow- Americans. I recognize and
admire the great mUitary talents which they displayed,
and the bravery and tenacity which they showed through
four long years of desperate fighting. I feel as Mr. Charles
Francis Adams felt when he replied to the Englishman who
was thoughtfuUy pointing out to him just after a Union
defeat how weU the Southerners fought: "Yes, they too
are Americans." The war was waged to make the country
one, and it has always been my dearest wish to see it united
in fact as weU as in name, just as it has come to pass in my
lifetime. I also quite understand the feeling of the Southerners
in regard to the Ci-vU War, and their desire to glorify all
they did and to exalt their own heroes. It would be un
natural as well as disloyal to their past if they did not do
those very things. But when we turn from the present to
the past and from the South to the North the case is differ
ent. There has been in many quarters of late years in the
North a great deal of sentiment in regard to the war and the
South, much of which is generous and right, and some of
which is maudlin and also most unjust to the Northern side.

128 EARLY MEMORIES
It is well for victors to be magnanimous, and much easier
than for the vanquished; but it is somewhat worse than
silly, in the search for magnanimity, to abandon your own
cause, which you beheve was righteous, and practicaUy
admit that you ought to seek forgiveness for winning.
There is not a man in the South to-day who would dis
solve the Union or estabhsh slavery if he could, but neverthe
less every man there glorifies continually the men who tried,
at an appalling expense of life and treasure, to effect both
these results and who faUed in their attempt. This con
tradiction is complete but wholly natural, and we should
think Ul of the Southern people if they did not behave
in exactly that way. Yet that which is most praiseworthy
in Southerners is discreditable in a Northerner, and in the
war time was defined by a harsher and more truthful
epithet, I make every aUowance for the fear of not appear
ing magnanimous and for the cheap temptation of being
considered an independent and original thinker which ta
king the side of one's opponents at a safe distance in history
always holds out to certain minds hungry for notice, I
know that "lost causes" invariably gather about them
romance and sentiment as the years go by simply because
they were lost, and therefore no one has had the chance of
bringing them to the hard test of experience, as is the fate
of the cause which succeeds. From the time of Mary
Stuart untU the "45" the Stuart famUy were an unmiti
gated curse to England and Scotland, and if either in power
or in exUe they did anything which was of any value to the
people of Great Britain and Ireland history does not dis
close it. They were picturesque, sometimes tragic, occa-
sionaUy gaUant figures, but at the same time as worthless
a race as the Ul fortune of a nation ever put upon a throne.
None the less, aU the romance and glamour, aU the sympathy
and sentiment of posterity, are lavished upon them, while

THE WAR: 1860-1865 129
the great Puritans who saved England from despotism and
the great Whigs who brought in the house of Hanover and
rescued England a second time find justice only at the hands
of serious historians, who not only teU the truth, but who
think straight.
The "lost cause" of the South wUl probably never
gather such a mass of sentiment about it as that of the
Jacobites, because it was infinitely more respectable as well
as more honorable, and was defended -with a force, intelh-
gence, and courage which justly obtained the adnoiration of
the world. But it -wUl stUl have the advantage in sympathy
and sentiment which inheres in all lost causes, simply, as I
have said, because they have been "lost." With that sen
timent in the South it would be worse than churlish to
quarrel. One can only sympathize with and respect it.
On the other hand, much can be forgiven to the desire of the
¦victor to be generous, but when the men of the North begin
to argue in behalf of the Southern cause in serious fashion
our sense of justice revolts.
One of the events of my early life which I best remem
ber was when I was roused very early on an AprU morning
and was told that Lincoln had been assassinated. The
horror, the dazed surprise, the shock of the announcement,
I shall never forget. During the four years just passed
Lincoln had become heroic to my young unagination, loom
ing up as a dim and distant figure which seemed to me to
personify the country. The crime which ended his life
raised him in my eyes to the proportions of a demigod.
More than forty years have gone by since then, and I think
that I have become famUiar both with the man and with
the times in which he hved. The mjrthical figure of boy
hood has given place to that of the statesman and the chief
of history. With some habit of weighing and judging men
historically, I have come to the conclusion that Lincoln was

130 EARLY MEMORIES
the greatest man of his time, and the opinion expressed by
Sir Spencer Walpole in his "History of Twenty-five Years"
assures me that this is not merely the unmeasured feefing
of patriotism. No one in the North certainly would think
to-day of belittling Lincoln. AU confess that greatness
which has grown steadUy since his death. Yet there are
writers who go so far as to put inferior men in contrast and
comparison with him as if they stood on the same level.
In that time of stress, in that great ordeal of the Ci-vU War,
no one stands on the same plane with Lincoln No one else
moves in his orbit. He stands out a lonely figure on the
heights to which only the very few and the very greatest
in human history ever attain,
I never remember hearing, as a boy, bitter words about
the soldiers of the Confederacy except when some of them
were guilty of barbarities, like Forrest or the keepers of
the Southern prisons, but I well recall the extreme bitter
ness which was expressed in regard to Northern men with
Southern sympathies. The bitterness here, as elsewhere, has
long since gone, but I see no reason to change the opinion
upon which it was founded. This is an old-fashioned -view,
no doubt, but I believe it to be eminently sound, I can
understand the man who during the Ci-vU War was loyal
both to his State and to the nation, I can understand and
I profoundly admire the man who was loyal to the nation
against his State, I can understand the man who was
loyal to his State against the nation. But I cannot under
stand the men who were loyal neither to their State nor to
their nation. Such men in the loyal but divided border
States who joined the Confederate army were overcome by
the infiuence of neighborhood, and at least command the re
spect which must always be given to a man who risks his life
for his belief, no matter how erroneous that behef may be.
But those men who did not leave their o-wn loyal States to

THE WAR: 1860-1865 131
enter the Southern army, those men who stayed at home,
sheltered and protected by the arms and the laws of their
State and their nation alike, and who yet were Secessionists
and Southern sympathizers, were loyal to nothing and risked
nothing. Whether they darkly conspired, as in Indiana, or
fostered riots, as in New York, or contented themselves, as
was most common, -with assaUing the government, seeking
to cripple it and proclaiming their sympathy with its en
emies, they were utterly disloyal, and deserve to be spoken
of in history in proper terms as among the worst foes of the
country. When the history of the time is written by men
who not only seek the truth, but have not the fear of being
thought ungenerous or a dread of criticism in certain nar
row circles before their eyes, they vsdll get their deserts.
Another of the intense f eehngs of the war time was the
hostUity which I imbibed against England. I can recall
well the impotent rage I used to feel when I read sentences
from English newspapers or magazines like Blackwood's. 1
knew nothing of the detaUs then. I know them all now,
and my anger has long since been swallowed up in sheer
marvel at the stupidity of the English Government and of
the English governing classes, as well as at the utter lack of
abUity and capacity displayed by so many of those leaders
whom the English always talk and write about as if they
were very great men. That England's treatment of the
United States was inexcusable and that she was forced to
make an apology for her conduct is the least part of it. It
is the exquisite stupidity of it all which is so amazing. And
in proportion as I felt a boyish wrath against England, so
was I grateful to the workmen of Lancashire, to Bright and
Cobden, and to the few who stood by us, and, when I knew
more, to the Queen and Prince Albert, for their attitude,
which helped us so much at a very dark hour. As a public
man I have been caUed upon to deal much with our foreign

132 EARLY MEMORIES
relations, and I know not only that a war between this
country and Great Britain would be a crime against civili
zation and something not to be thought of, but I also know
that the closest and most friendly relations between the
two powers are for the interest of peace and freedom, as
well as of both countries and of the world. I have done
what little I could to promote such relations, and to carry
out this policy honestly and thoroughly, but I have never
thought it necessary to make needless concessions in order
to obtain this result, or to show any more courtesy to them
than they have been ready to extend to us. StUl less have
I ever felt the slightest deference to English opinion except
for that of certain people, few in number, as in the war
time, who are genuine friends to the United States. I lived
through that war time, and I have never suffered the feel
ings then engendered to affect my action toward England or
Englishmen in the slightest degree. I have always striven
to treat both on their existing merits. StUl, I cannot and
do not forget, for I was taught a lesson in those early days
by the attitude of England, and also by that of France,
laboring then under the burden of the empire, which I
could not unlearn if I would,
Mr, Herbert Paul says in one of his essays that the two
greatest economic and political events of the nineteenth
century were the consolidation of the United States and
the unification of Germany, I entirely agree vrith him, I
think also that the dissolution of the American Union and
the rise of two or more warring, mUitary republics on this
continent would have been a hideous misfortune to the
American people and, in a measure, to mankind. The South
was behind the North in economic strength, in learning, and
in capacity for development, all owing to the curse of slavery,
and the victory of the South would have been a blow to
civUization and progress. I say this, recognizing to the full

THE WAR: 1860-1865 133
the high courage, great ability, and unselfish devotion of
the Southern people. But they were trying to turn back
the hands of the clock, to establish an anachronism, to re
tard human progress, and it would have been an awful mis
fortune if they had succeeded. The war was fought to
save the Union, but it was slavery which had put the Union
in peril. Slavery was a crime against humanity, and it was
also a huge economic blunder and a social curse. It is well
that it was abolished by the hand of war.
These are the faiths of my boyhood born in the war
time, I could only feel them then; I can express them now.
They were truisms then. They seem to be pushed aside by
some people now as if they were something to be ashamed of,
as if they might be true but were certainly disagreeable and
might possibly hurt somebody's feelings, I have wearied of
the tone, so familiar of late, that now, fifty years after it all,
everybody was right and nobody wrong, that there was no
right and no wrong about it, and that the thing to do is to
pass it over gently and pohtely with abundant sentiment
and meaningless praise for everybody. No good is ever
done by falsifying the past. There was a right and a wrong
in the Ci-vil War, I would not re-vive a single bitter memory,
I would not do otherwise than acknowledge all the great
quahties sho-wn by the South, I would not attack them for
what they then did. But it is a deep injury to shirk the
truth or try to hide it by silence or seek to blot it out. The
propositions I have stated about the Union and slavery are
admitted openly or secretly by aU men. If they are true
then the North was right and the right won. If we start
with that no more need be said, but I do not want this
great truth of history to be lost in a sentimental mist or con
fused by a false behef that if we daub the truth -with rhetoric
so that it can no longer be recognized we shall in that way
promote good feehng. The union of the States and good

134 EARLY MEMORIES
feeling as well can rest securely and permanently on truth
alone. They will never prosper on debUitating falsehoods.
Let the central truth stand confessed and admitted, and then
let all the rest be buried in sUence, As Lincoln said, accord
ing to tradition: "I can conceive that both sides may be
wrong, I can conceive that one side shoiUd be right and
the other wrong. But it is impossible that both sides
should be right." ^ The tendency in the North just now in
certain quarters is to try to pretend that both sides were
right. That is not only impossible but false. Events have
shown inexorably that it was the right which triumphed at
Appomattox, Forgiveness is admirable and cannot be too
complete, but in the affairs and the history of nations it is
not -wise wholly to forget. It is stUl more unwise, it is worse
than unwise, to seek to obscure the truth.
" 'Tis man's perdition to be safe
When for the truth he ought to die."
' In a meditation written in a dark hour — September, 1862 — and never
published until long after his death, Lincoln said:
"In great contests each party claims to act in accordance with the will of
God. Both may be and one rwust be wrong." "Life of Lincoln," Hay and
Nicolay, vol. VI, p. 342.
This is the same thought as that expressed in the words quoted in the text.

CHAPTER VII
EUROPE: 1866-1867
After I had been five years at Mr. DixweU's school it
was decided by the family authorities that we should all
go to Europe, aU including my mother, my sister and her
husband, Mr. George Abbot James, to whom she had been
married three years before, and myself. As I was to enter
Harvard the foUowing year, it was necessary that my studies
should not be interrupted, and my mother, therefore, secured
as my tutor to go with us Constant Da-vis, who was the
eldest son of Rear-Admiral Da-vis, and whose mother was
her second cousin as weU as a lifelong and most intimate
friend. Of Admiral Davis I shaU have much to say later
and -wiU say no more here. But of my tutor Constant Davis
I must speak now, for he was, although unhappUy only for
a short time, one of the best, one of the most fortunate and
most salutary influences which ever came into my life. He
had graduated from Harvard in the class of 1864, taking
high rank. He had been very popular in his class and had
indeed inspired an affection and admiration among some of
its members, whom he knew best, quite unusual for so young
a man. He was a gentleman in the highest and best sense
of the word, as intrepid morally as he was physically, a
scholar, a lover of literature, with an exhaustless fund of
humor, and a charming companion. It was his intention to
become a la-wyer, and he had begun to study for the bar
when his health became impaired and the first signs of con-
135

136 EARLY MEMORIES
sumption, to which he was soon to fall a victim, had already
appeared. It was largely the hope that a change of chmate
might be of benefit which had led my mother to ask him,
and which had induced him to consent, to go -with us as my
tutor. For the first time, under his guidance, I began to
get a little real education and to regard lessons as something
other than an infliction de-vised for the torment of boys.
Wherever we stayed for any length of time my studies were
regularly carried on. No one, however gifted, could make
me accept mathematics as other than a sore affliction, al
though I learned what was necessary readUy enough and
forgot it all -with equal promptitude. But with Constant
Da-vis I discovered for the first time that VirgU and Homer
were not created solely for the misery of schoolboys, but
were great poets teUing noble stories, the one -with unequalled
distinction of manner, the other -with a splendor of narra
tion never surpassed, and with the freshness and simphcity
of a world still young. Then, too, I also discovered that the
orations of Cicero were models of eloquence, ranging over
the whole gamut of emotion and argument, and I became
deeply interested in them and in the Rome which they por
trayed. It was the same with the extracts from the Greek
poets in "Felton's Reader," and -with classical history, of
which I was expected to know a certain amount. But my
tutor's influence did not stop there, I know that he was
fond of me, but he did not hesitate to point out plainly, al
though kindly, my faults of character. I remember resent
ing frequently what he said, and yet was much affected by it
even if I did not admit it at the moment, and the truth of his
strictures I have fuUy recognized ever since. He did more,
however, than teach me my lessons or try to improve my
ways and manners, A great lover of literature himself, he
led me on to read Shakespeare, of whom I was already fond,
and when I had made a beginning not only stimulated my

EUROPE: 1866-1867 137
love for the plays but caused me to understand them and to
perceive beauties and appreciate humor which I had before
passed over undetected. It was his first journey to Europe;
he had a most alert, inquiring mind, sensitive to all forms
of beauty and to every kind of historic association. It was
his intense interest in everything we saw which led me,
although I was at an age which is usually bored by sights,
to find interest and pleasure in buildings and pictures and
historic places which were to me an occupation and amuse
ment then, and which became the source of much of the
best enjoyment of my life in later years, when I was able to
look at what I saw with more considerate eyes. Immediately
after our return from Europe Constant Davis, whose health
had not improved, went as secretary -with his father, who
had been ordered to the command of the South Atlantic
Squadron, to join the fleet then at Rio de Janeiro, There,
before the year was out, he died. He was one of the best
friends, in the best sense, I ever had, as well as one of the
finest characters, and, if it was possible for a boy to judge,
he was also one of the clearest intellects I have ever known,
I have dwelt upon my close association with Constant
Da-vis because as an influence upon my life it was the most
important contribution of that year of travel. But those
months in Europe were also fuU of interest to me in other
ways. Even in 1866 going to Europe was not the every
day matter it has since become, and improved means of
communication have done much, whUe the rapid growth of
the United States in wealth and luxury has done stUl more,
to obhterate the superficial differences in modes of life, in
manners, and in the apphances of daily existence, and espe
cially of travel, which then existed in a very marked degree
between the New and the Old World, That which is caUed
progress in modern civUization seems to be confined to
scientific knowledge, to increased altruism and a larger tol-

138 EARLY MEMORIES
erance, degenerating sometimes into mere feebleness and
indifference, and finally to mechanical improvements, where
it is most salient. It is not apparent that in art or litera
ture or intellect the race has advanced at all beyond, or even
equalled, the achievements of the Greeks. But when we
come to scientific knowledge, and to the development and
concentration of power and energy, particularly in the ap
plication of steam and electricity, the two mighty forces
which are really new to the world, the visible change and
progress, even in a comparatively short time, are very
marked. When we left Boston in June, 1866, we saUed in the
Africa, not one of the best steamships, but considered a
very good boat. She was a paddle-wheel steamer, with
auxiliary saU-power, of about two thousand tons; the last
steamship in which I crossed the ocean was of twenty-five
thousand tons, and there are several larger than this.
The Africa depended very much upon her saUs, stopped at
Halifax, and consumed in good weather a round fortnight
in getting to Liverpool, She had a poop-deck over the
dining-saloon, whence one descended to what would be
called the spar-deck, and there was little or no place for
walking or moving about. The staterooms were aft under
the spar-deck, small, dark, -with one miserable oil light,
which was extinguished at ten o'clock, for each pair of
cabins, with port-holes always awash, and therefore closed,
while the entire place was completely unventUated and
reeked with the smell of bilge-water. There was nothing
resembling a bathroom, and no means of taking a bath
except by going on deck very early and persuading a sea
man to dash salt water over one with a bucket. Even on
the poorest ships to-day passengers, I think, would complain
of such conditions, but then they were universal and ac
cepted as inseparable from an Atlantic voyage. The treat-

EUROPE: 186&-1867 139
ment of passengers was characteristic of the Cunard Com
pany at that day, although it was no doubt worse on some
ships than on others. The food was limited in quantity
and poor in quahty. The ship was dirty, the ser-vice was
bad, and the maimers of the ship's company rough and un-
ci-vil. If any one complained, and this was true for many
years subsequently, the invariable reply was: "The Cunard
Company has never lost a passenger." This was no doubt
highly creditable, but as a reply it was hardly relevant.
There seemed no logical reason why, because one escaped
drowning, one should be subjected to every sort of discom
fort and neglect. The Cunard Company has lost a good
many ships since 1866, and hi late years, on one occasion,
some passengers unfortunately, who were swept overboard.
Their former stereotyped reply, therefore, can no longer be
made, and I am informed that they now treat their passen
gers very well, and not as if it was a favor to get them across
the North Atlantic hke cattle, alive and with unbroken
limbs. The theory was at that time entertained by members
of my famUy, among others, that a paddle-wheel was stead
ier than the screw steamers, then just coming into fashion.
The side-wheelers may roll less — after my first journey out
and home I never crossed the ocean in another — but they
certainly pitch more, and not even a channel steamer in the
hea-viest sea could have performed worse gyrations than that
-wretched Africa. 1 had been knocking about in small boats
aU my hfe, but I succumbed promptly and utterly to the
Africa, and did not rally or get up on deck for several days,
I was acutely miserable, and longed for home. It was then
that I first learned aU the profound wisdom and humor of
Touchstone's saying which Constant Da-vis repeated to me
many times: " So this is the forest of Arden, When I was
at home I was in a better place. But travellers must be

140 EARLY MEMORIES
content." Gradually, however, I escaped from this utter
misery, and toward the end of the voyage began to enjoy
myself. There were many pleasant people on board, friends
of ours in Boston, who all knew each other very well, and
who made life as pleasant as it could be under existing
conditions. Among the passengers was La-wrence Barrett,
who struck up a friendship with Constant Davis, and upon
whom I gazed -with the eager curiosity which a distinguished
actor always excited in my mind at that period. It seemed
strange to me to see him going about just hke any one else,
for I felt that he ought to wear a toga and a green mantle,
and deliver the great oration over the body of Csesar as I
had seen him do it years before. The daily existence on
shipboard seemed to me dull and slow, as I have always
thought it since after the sensation of rest and change, so
agreeable in the first days of a voyage, has worn off, but it
was all so new to me then that I found it more exciting
than I have in later years, and there were many little events
which impressed themselves upon me at that time. That
which I best remember, however, was the last night of the
voyage, when we were off the coast of Ireland, I had never
been so far north, and the long twUight, which lasted almost
untU the dawn began to show in the east, made upon me an
ineffaceable impression.
Feeling deeply the importance of my journey, I resolved
to keep a journal, I have made many such resolutions in
the course of my hfe but have never succeeded in keeping
either journal or resolution for any length of time, and my
first effort was no exception to those which came after it in
later years, I began with great zeal, fulness, and elabora
tion. Gradually the entries dwindled, then became ir
regular, and at the end of six months ceased altogether, I
find, on looking over the old pages which have been hidden
away for forty years, that I wrote down methodicaUy what

EUROPE: 1866-1867 141
I did, and described what I saw with painstaking accuracy.
My diary exhibits a most precocious interest in sightseeing,
but it is all so diy, so devoid of imagination or humor, that
it is of interest to no human being, not even to myself.
Yet I wUl nevertheless quote the opening lines of the earli
est entry, for they give a clear first impression, and one
which, curiously enough, I have never seen reason to alter,
"July 1st, Sunday, Liverpool.
"When I awoke this morning I found the ship was quiet and
that we had really arrived at Liverpool, My first impi'ession on
coming on deck at half past six was of a very uninteresting and
dirty looking city with immense docks. The River Mersey looks
very much like the East River at New York, At seven we had a
most unsatisfactory breakfast and at ten the custom house ofiicers
came on board and overhauled our trunks. A small tender came
along side and we were carried to the city. The first things that
I noticed were the carriages especially the 'hansom cabs' with a
man behind driving over the top; the four wheelers in one of which
we came up are the meanest little conveyances I ever saw,"
The days of landing in a tender are over and would
greatly surprise the modern passengers who walk from their
steamship into a London train, but the character of the
vanishing four-wheelers has not changed, and it is interest
ing to note that at that time a hansom cab had not been
seen in the United States, and was regarded by me as a
strange vehicle, famUiar only in the pages of Punch and weU
worthy of note in my journal,
I am not going to describe our travels after we landed,
for I have never had any ambition to write a guide-book,
especially one designed to Uluminate beaten paths, I shaU
merely try to give some of the impressions which I then re
ceived, and which I have kept ever since as pleasant memo
ries. To a boy who had never been farther afield from his na
tive town than New York it was aU very new and strange.

142 EARLY MEMORIES
Moreover, Europe, as I have already said, was by no means
as famUiar to Americans forty years ago as it is now. Com
paratively few Americans went to Europe then; I mean as
compared -with the thousands who now cross the Atlantic
every summer. It was before the days of Cook's excursions,
of round trips and low fares. There were very few steam
ship lines; indeed, the Cimard boats were practically the
only ones which people generaUy thought of using. Then
again, as I have also said before, there was a much greater
difference in modes and habits of life between America and
Europe at that time than there is now, o-wing to the vast
change which has taken place in frequency and closeness of
communication, and the result was that the commonplaces
of to-day seemed then, in many instances, strange and in
teresting to a wanderer from the United States,
We stayed a day or two in Liverpool and saw such sights
as the city possessed, including a wax-work exhibition where
a figure of WUkes Booth, conspicuous among the murderers,
who were all dressed alike in black frock coats, made me
feel somewhat at home. But it was the gloomy, dingy
hotel, the dark, smoky streets, the cloudy sky, which dweU
in my mind stUl as the sensations that most keenly empha
sized my being for the first time in a foreign country.
From Liverpool we went to Leamington, and there a httle
incident occurred which Ulustrates the remoteness of America
from England in 1866, My brother-in-law went into the inn
yard to order carriages for the next day. The man in charge,
a stout and cheerful person of the Tony WeUer type, asked,
after the order had been given, what part of England we
came from. My brother-in-law said that we were Americans,
to which the rubicund coachman made answer, with genu
ine surprise: "Why, you do speak English uncommon weU,
to be sure." I do not beheve that any Englishman of any
class would to-day express surprise at hearing an American

EUROPE: 1866-1867 143
speak English, no matter how much our dialect might differ
from his own particular variety. Yet I must admit that
many years afterward a little incident befeU me which some
what impairs this generalization. It occurred when I was a
member of the House of Representatives. I was walking
through the Capitol -with two young Englishmen who had
brought me letters, when we happened to pass some negroes
— no very uncommon sight in that neighborhood. One of
my companions turned to me and said: "Why, those fellows
were speaking English." I did not quite take in what he
meant, and said: "What do you mean?" "Why," he re
plied, "it is quite remarkable that they should have learned
English so weU." "They have been here for two or three
hundred years," I said, "and they have no other language.
What did you expect them to speak — some Congo dialect?"
From Leamington we made excursions to Warwick,
Stratford, and KenUworth, Nothing in all my travels since
has quite equaUed the -vi-vidness of those first impressions
which came sharply home to me in the pleasant June days
passed hi Shakespeare's country. War-wick satisfied all
that my imagination had conceived a feudal castle to be,
and it seemed to me then as if earth could offer nothing
equal to the pleasure of o-wning and living in such a place.
When I revisited it years afterward I was glad to find that
its imposing beauty was aU that I had felt it to be when I
was a boy. The great towers and waUs, the moat, the bat
tlements, were the realization of the scenes of which I had
dreamed in reading Scott. It was much more satisfying
than KenUworth, which was too much of a ruin to content
me, although the scene of the novel was full of meaning.
Brought up to a bhnd devotion to Shakespeare, Stratford
and its neighborhood were an unending dehght, and I ac
cepted every tradition and every tale of the guide with
uncritical satisfaction. I seemed to come near to Shake-

144 EARLY MEMORIES
speare and to understand his actual existence as never be
fore, I have always been glad that my first impression of
a foreign country, which is sure to be keener than any later
one, should have been received from the town where Shake
speare was born and died, and where he hes buried.
From Leamington we went on to London, The great
city had a strangely familiar look to a youthful student of
Leech and Dickens, and the crooked streets did not seem
odd to a native of Boston, I shaU not describe what we
saw, because they were merely the usual sights, nor are my
somewhat dim memories of the impressions which then
crowded fast, one upon another, worth recording. It is
the fashion now, as I observe in books and letters, to speak
-with contempt of sight-seeing as something worthy only of
the PhUistine, which, Leslie Stephen says, is the name a
prig gives to the rest of mankind. At all events, I must
make the humUiating confession that, as my youthful diary
shows, I have always been fond of seeing sights,
" For to admire and for to see,
For to be'old this world so wide,
It never did no good to me.
But I can't help it if I tried,"
I have never tried to help it and I hked sights at sixteen,
an age of easy boredom, almost as much as I did later.
But at least I have never desired to give an account of my
sight-seeing or to write books of travel, and I shall not begin
now. On the contrary, I shall leave London at once and
recall my pleasantest experience during my first visit to
England, which had nothing at all to do -with towers, abbeys,
or museums. Mrs. Russell Sturgis was a very old and intimate friend
of my mother, and as soon as we reached London she
came to see us and insisted that we should all come to them

EUROPE: 1866-1867 145
at once to stay for a fortnight at their house. Mount Felix
at Walton-on-Thames, Thither we accordingly went after
a brief delay, and a very happy fortnight for me ensued.
It was aU very new to me, the mode of life, the people, and
the place, and to all alike I look back with real affection.
For my own satisfaction I -wish to say a few words here
about some of the kindest and best people I have ever
known, whose goodness and hospitahty I can never forget.
In what I write here and hereafter I do not intend to con
fine myself to an attempt to describe merely persons of
pubhc eminence or those who have made a noise in the
world, and -with whom the fortune of life has brought me
into contact. I have known many people who have en
gaged my affection and commanded my respect, who were
as interesting, as exceUent in character, and as useful in
their respective spheres as those who wUl find a place in the
histories of the time. Of such people I would fain make
some "tri-vial, fond record," Thackeray says on the title-
page of one of his novels that it is the "History of PhUip
on his way through the world, showing who robbed him,
who helped him and who passed him by," Of the first and
last classes I shaU have little or nothing to say here. Of
those who helped this particular "PhUip" I hope to say a
great deal,
Mr, Russell Sturgis was a member of a well-known Boston
family. He had been for many years in China in the great
house of RusseU and Company, and then, on the in-vitation
of Mr, Bates, had gone to London, and at the time I knew
him first was one of the principal partners in Baring Brothers,
He was then past sixty and one of the handsomest men I
have ever seen. It is rare to find an elderly man who is
not only distinguished-looking, but so clearly handsome in
face and figure, as to impress a boy, who naturally turns
away from age -without either understanding or appreciation.

146 EARLY MEMORIES
Mr. Sturgis was as genial, cordial, warm-hearted, and fuU
of fun and humor as he was good-looking, and, although I
justly felt that a partner in the Barings was a highly impor
tant personage, I never was conscious of any shyness or stiff
ness when I was -with him, Mrs, Sturgis, like her husband,
was very handsome and was also a very clever and most
charming woman, whose untiring kindness to me and mine
I shall ever remember.
There were four chUdren, Harry, the eldest, was at
Oxford, although just then at home for his vacation, I
looked up to him as a person of immense age and distinction,
much more remote from me than his father and mother,
because I was weU able to measure the awful distance which
separated a schoolboy from a "man" in college. Never
theless he was kindness itself, and took me out to row on
the river and to swim with him in its placid waters. The
second son, Julian, somewhat older than myself, and after
ward weU kno-wn as a refined and graceful writer, was a
clever, handsome boy, stUl at Eton, whither I went one day
to see him, and where I was duly fascinated by the old
school and by the famous plajdng-fields immortahzed in
the phrase which, I believe it is now said, was never uttered
by Wellington. The only daughter of the house. May, was
just my age; but, although she was most kind to me and I
liked her very much, my view of girls and girls' society at
that time of life was not at all what it should have been.
The youngest of the famUy, Howard, was very much
younger than I and consequently I looked down upon him,
kindly of course, but stUl as one far below me in the scale
of being. He too has become an author, and has written
some remarkable stories, each stronger than the preceding
one. His last novel, "Belchamber," is one of the most
powerful novels of the time, very painful but con-vincing and
realistic in a high degree.

EUROPE: 1866-1867 147
There were no others in the household near my age, but
there was always a houseful of people. Miss Mary Adams,
the daughter of our minister, was there, and, although she
seemed very remote from a schoolboy's level, her presence
gave me the refreshing sense that we were not whoUy cut off
from Boston or from people who knew about us and who we
were. I wUl not, however, enumerate all the many -visitors
who came and went during that pleasant fortnight. I re
caU only one who stands out -with especial distinctness, and
that was General HanUey, a friend of Mr, and Mrs, Sturgis,
He was an officer of distinction, chiefly, I think, on account
of a book which he had written on "Tactics," or some
simUar mUitary topic in regard to which he was then an
authority. He had also written a novel, "Lady Leigh's
Widowhood," which had a good deal of temporary vogue.
If I had then known of Jerrold's famous question: "Pray,
sir, are you anybody in particular?" I should have felt sure
that it must have been addressed to General Hamley, As
it was, I only gazed at him in unregarded sUence and won
dered why he hated my country so much. He was really
a h-ving explanation of the intense American hostUity to
England, for he was fuU of that unreasoning dislike of
Americans which was such an amiable trait in some Eng
lishmen of that day, I suppose that it was hard enough
to pardon us for existing, and just at that moment it was
probably impossible to forgive us for ha-ving won in the
CivU War, which General Hamley at least had no wish to
do. Not long before our arrival WendeU Holmes, the son
of Doctor Holmes, and now a justice of the Supreme Court,
had been in England, He had served through the war -with
distinguished gaUantry, had risen to the rank of colonel,
had been three times badly wounded, and had come to
England for a weU-eamed rest and vacation. He was
young, briUiant in intellect, full of hfe and energy, and
fresh from a great experience. He had seen larger armies,

148 EARLY MEMORIES
greater and more desperate battles, and had witnessed
heavier losses in action than General Hamley had ever
known outside of books. He dined at the Sturgises' one
evening, and General Hamley took occasion to put the of
fender in his proper place by asking : " Colonel Holmes, could
you train your men to fight in line?" "Train our men to
fight in hne! Why, General Hamley, you can train monkeys
to fight in line," At this point the conversation seems to
have broken off, the distinguished general being rather hap
pier in gi-ving offence than in meeting a retort. To the suc
cessors and imitators of General Hamley I always feel
tempted to repeat Robert Louis Stevenson's wise words:
"Let him hold on and he -wUl find one country as good
as another; and in the meanwhUe let him resist the fatal
British tendency to communicate his dissatisfaction with a
country to its inhabitants, 'Tis a good idea, but somehow
it faUs to please."
I do not for a moment mean to suggest that aU Enghsh-
men felt as General Hamley did toward Americans, There
were many English people in the Sturgis house when we
were there who were kind, friendly, and weU-bred. Indeed,
I objected far more to an old American copperhead who was
among the guests, and who was infinitely more offensive to
me than General Hamley or any one else. Fresh from war
scenes, I would have greatly liked to have thrown this par
ticular countryman of mine into the river. The objection
lay not against Englishmen, but only against those of the
Hamley type who seem, unfortunately, to have been for a
century past, and untU quite recently, a controUing influ
ence in England so far as public opinion and public action
were concerned. They apparently were able to inspire
Canning with his unwise malevolence toward the United
States in 1810, and Gladstone and Lord John RusseU -with
their blundering hostility fifty years later.
After the Revolution England's obvious policy was to re-

EUROPE: 1866-1867 149

establish good relations -with the United States, and detach
them from France and Napoleon. It could have been easUyt

done, but English ministers preffirrpd tn beap upon us every

form of MTong, insult, and contempt which could be devised,

and they secured as a reward the War of 1812, In that
war they lost forever all their pretensions to interfere -with-
American commerce and American seamen. They also lost
eleven frigate actions out of thirteen, and were beaten in
two fleet actions on the Lakes, which did not add to their
naval prestige, I have never been able to see in what way
Canning's policy paid. It seems to me to have been unin-
telhgent to the last degree, and the wounds left by the War
of 1812 were kept open and smarting by the judicious efforts
of English -writers and travellers. Then came the CivU
War, and again England had an opportunity to bind the
United States to her by bonds of gratitude which could not
have been broken. The policy she adopted was such that
the North was left with a sense of bitter wrong and outrage,
and the South -with a con-viction that they had been uselessly
deceived and betrayed. The treaty of Washington and
years of bitter feeling, only dispersed at last by England's
-wise attitude nearly forty years later, at the time of the
Spanish war, were the result of her policy during the war
between the States. Again I ask. Did the attitude taken by
England from 1861 to 1865 profit her? If the purpose was
to gratify jealousy, mahce, and contempt it seems to me
that a hea-vy price was paid and nothing gained. But I do
not believe that there was anything so inteUigent as the
gratification of malice or jealousy to be found in England's
policy at that time. X^fchink it was mere stupidit;^ and of
such magnitude as to be tragic if we consider the conditions.
Stupidity, allied with the in-vincible desire to cant and
preach, is at the bottom of the British contempt for the out
sider, whether in riding or fighting or the management of

150 EARLY MEMORIES
governments. The doctrine seems to be that because we
English think that we do well, and think so no doubt very
justly, we must therefore refuse to admit that any one else
""can do weU too,_^ Jt seems to jme that the^ngland of tbjp
day — the England of B^^ahour and Lansdowne, of Rosghfiry
jand Brvce and Harcourt and Grey — has made a great and^
y^ise advance in the interest of their o-wn country by theJL
changed attitude toward the United States, and by
abandoning the old habit of contemptuous inciyUity , No
doubt the^cOTQpTeEeTnHifference of the United States to
""English opinion which has replaced our former sensitive
ness has had much to do -with this alteration, but I wish
to give aU due credit to vsdser counsels and larger knowledge
among the English leaders of aU kinds to-day. Some of
the old sort who stUl lag superfluous upon the stage, and
who are as impervious to facts as they are destitute of
manners, appear occasionally, like Swettenham recently ui
Jamaica, But they are looked upon as odd survivals, who
are regarded -with amusement in America, and are con
demned in England by aU whose opinions are important
to the good relations between the two countries which are
so much to be sought and cherished by aU sensible men.
The American copperhead and the English foe weighed
but little, however, forty years ago upon the mind or spirits
of sixteen, I was altogether too contented with my sur
roundings, too fuUy occupied, and was enjoying myself too
much to worry about either. Mount Felix was a delightful
place. It was not large, but a fine lawn stretched away at
the back, running along the river and edged with noble trees.
The quiet beauty, the repose, the air of completion, although
I could not analyze my sensations then, were aU eminently
satisfying. The feeling that the land had been so long
subdued, that so many generations had succeeded each
other in those pleasant fields, that there had been time to

EUROPE: 1866-1867 151
finish and refine, has a pecuhar attraction to an American,
This is the compelling charm of the English landscape, I
have felt it always, and many times since those early days,
for it never departs, although in after-years I have often
wondered where those bold and striking scenes were to be
found which are so frequently described in English novels.
To American eyes it all seems mUd and gentle. The moun
tains are what we caU hUls, and I remember my disappoint
ment when I saw the cliffs at Dover and thought what a
"vision I had cherished "of him who gathers samphire; dread
ful trade ! " Of course there are parts of the coast where the
headlands are as bold as they are beautiful, and the sea
naturaUy has the same splendor as on the other side of the
Atlantic. But much as I grew to love the English landscape,
there always came a time when the feehng that it is too con
scious, that it suggests a quality which in "Tartarin" Daudet
has called " decor," comes over me. Then I begin to long for
the large unconscious scenery of my native land, because I
have not been sufficiently educated to feel, like Mr. Norton,
that the outline of American mountains is "-vulgar," or to do
otherwise than rejoice in our vast spaces, in the brUliant sun
light, the radiant blue of the heavens, and the transparent
atmosphere of America. Mist, veUed hghts, wet soft clouds,
and darkness -visible always make me homesick after a time,
however much I feel their artistic value and the delicate
effects of light and shade which soften and blur all outlines
and leave nothing sharply defined.
From Mount Felix we returned to London, and there I
met my father's Enghsh cousins, two brothers, Mr. John
Lodge EUerton and Mr. Adam Lodge. Mr, Ellerton in after-
years came to my mind when I made the acquaintance of
Major Pendennis, His good manners, his agreeableness,
his somewhat made-up appearance, his knowledge of people
and of the world, were all suggestive of Arthur's old uncle

152 EARLY MEMORIES
and of the friend of Lord Steyne, but Mr, Ellerton really
belonged to the period of Pelham, and his dress and out
ward man were stUl in a modified conformity -with the stand
ard of that hero and his creator. He had been a young
man about town in the days of WUliam IV, and being both
good-looking and intelligent, had had his little success in
the London world. He was devoted to music and was a
voluminous composer, as the dictionaries show. But al
though possessed of great technical knowledge, facUity, and
capacity, he had, unfortunately, nothing to say, and his ora
torios and songs are as dead now as the days in which they
were written. He had married the widow of a Mr, Manners-
Sutton, who was, I believe. Lady Theresa SavUle, a daughter
of Lord Scarborough. She had died some years before our
arrival, and Mr. EUerton lived alone in their house in Con-
naught Place, whither we duly went to dine.
No greater contrast could have been imagined than that
which was presented by Mr, EUerton's brother, Mr. Adam
Lodge, when they both came to dine -with us at our hotel.
He was an old bachelor, a barrister hving in chambers
in the Temple, and passing his life there and at his club,
the "Oxford and Cambridge," He was a man of bookish
habits and solitary life. He came into our room that
evening blinking as if he had just escaped into the hght
from some dark prison, and he was shy to such a painful
degree that it made every one else uneasy. He greeted us
all, including Mr, Ellerton, solemnly and stiffly, and hardly
said a word during the rest of the evening. After he had
gone Mr, Ellerton said to my mother: "My brother has
not spoken to me for twenty years, owing to some miser
able difference about a suit in chancery. You see, you have
done one good deed in asking us both to dinner." They re
mained friends from that time forward, Mr, EUerton died
soon after we returned to America, but Mr. Lodge I saw

EUROPE: 1866-1867 153
agam when I was in England m 1871 and 1872, and I kept
up a fitful correspondence -with him untU his death. They
were two interesting men, who seemed strange to me and
unlike any one I had ever seen. Both were university men,
both men of cultivated tastes, but there the resemblance
between them ceased. One had hved out his life a solitary
old bachelor in musty chambers in the Temple, the other
had been a man of the world and successful according to
the success he desired. They came into my life only for a
moment, but they interested me and seemed to me then
and afterwards to explain and make clear characters and
phases of hfe in English novels with which I was famUiar,
but which I had faUed to understand intimately and in
stinctively. WhUe I was in London I went much to the theatre, and
remember particularly seeing Sothern in Lord Dundreary.
I also went to the opera, and the one which I now recall with
clearness was "Lucrezia Borgia," -with Titiens as Lucrezia
and Mario as Gennaro. Mario was a fine-looking man and
an imposing figure on the stage. He had his "bel momento "
and sang one song beautifully, but that was all. His voice
was gone, and I do not recollect any account of him as ap
pearing again in opera, I am very glad, however, that I
heard him once, as he was one of the surviving heroes of an
earher generation of opera-goers, I was fortunate, too, in
hearing another and much greater celebrity of the days
before my o-wn. In my diary I find this entry on July 11:
"In the evening we went to a concert to hear Jenny Lind.
She has the most beautiful voice I ever heard. The rest of
the concert was tolerable," She was a plain woman, very
simply dressed, and looked elderly to my youthful eyes.
She sang, among other things, one or two old English songs,
which I particularly remember, and her voice seemed to me
the most wonderful I had ever listened to. It had a quahty

154 EARLY MEMORIES
of beauty which dwells with me stUl and which I have never
heard surpassed.
From London we went to the Continent, My mother
desired very naturaUy to foUow, so far as might be the hne of
her travels in 1837, when people stiU made a "grand tour."
So we went first to Brussels, thence up the Rhine, then
through S-witzerland, where I trudged up and down a good
many mountains, which involved simply long walks, and
so on to Geneva, and from there to Paris,
The second empire was then in all its glory so far as
outward show was concerned, and few people suspected
that it was rotten to the core. Fewer stUl realized what a
deadly blow had been dealt to it by the faUure of the Mex
ican expedition. Nothing, indeed, could have been worse
than the conduct of France to the United States during the
Civil War. It had been far more hostile than that of Eng
land, but nobody cared, because we had expected nothing
from France, whUe we had counted upon support and sym-
pathy from England, belie-ving that England at least would
understand the situation. But the men charged vnth the
government at Washington knew well what a deadly blow
France had aimed at us in Mexico when our hands were
tied, and so when our hands were loose our administration
forced the French troops out of Mexico and stood by un
moved while the unhappy victim of the Emperor's cheap,
sho-wy, dishonest policy, a beggarly imitation of his uncle's
vast schemes, crossed with a speculation in bonds, went
bravely to his death. If any people on earth had good
reason to despise and to understand the second empire and
all that it meant, it was the people of the United States.
But I do not think that we were any wiser than our neigh
bors, and certainly all that a boy of sixteen saw or cared
to see was the fair outside of the imperial government,
which was dazzling enough to blind even better eyes than

EUROPE: 1866-1867 155
those of the Parisians for whom it was all particularly de
signed. In any event my memories of that autumn in Paris are
aU of the most cheerful and agreeable kind, suffused with
the warm light of pleasure, novelty, and enjoyment. I
saw aU the sights I ought to have seen, and by my own
efforts and -with the help of our friendly courier a good many
that the better opinion of my famUy, if consulted, would
have decided that I should do well to avoid. At the risk
of appearing hardened I may say that I have never regretted
the sights of either kind and that neither did me any seri
ous harm, although those which were suitable bored me a
little, because I liked their rivals of dubious character much
better. But the whole pageant of life in Paris just then was very
brUliant and very imposing too. Not only were there
plenty of troops in uniform to be seen about the streets, but
there was great activity in business and an abundance of
amusements also. The Champs-Elysees in the afternoon,
especiaUy on a race-day, were very gay, and the horses and
carriages which fUled the broad avenue in a continuous
stream were good and on the whole well turned out. They
were not turned out with the same perfection as in Hyde
Park, but they were sho-wy and effective, I take from my
diary the account of the day when I not only saw the crowds
in the Champs-Elysees to the best advantage, but also a
fine review, Paris, Monday, Nov. 5th, 1866.
At half past one we went to see a grand review by the Emperor
in person which took place on the race course of the Bois de Bou
logne. There were about twenty thousand troops there including
infantry, cavalry and artillery. The infantry were not as good
as I expected. They did not wheel well, any of them, not even
the celebrated Turcos. But the cavalry were very fine and very

156 EARLY MEMORIES
showy in uniform; the finest body of men, as I thought, on the
field were the Cent Garde, a picked squadron of cavalry belonging
to the Emperor. They were all men over six feet, dressed in a
uniform of blue and red, -with a shining steel breastplate and hel
met of the same material with long white horse tails hanging be
hind. They were all good looking men and mounted on splendid
black horses. The Emperor first rode over the field in front of
the regiments drawn up in line and then stopping in front of the
grand stand had all the troops pass in review before him. This
was much the best part of the whole review and gave you the best
view of all the troops. The concluding thing of the whole was
splendid. All the cavalry drew up on one side of the field in a
long line and then charged across the field and pulled up suddenly
in front of the Emperor, We had no good view of the Emperor
as we had to look at him through opera glasses, but as I had had a
very good view of him a few days before when he was driving in
the street, both of him and the Empress, I did not mind much.
The Emperor was accompanied throughout the review by the
Empress and the Prince Imperial, both on horseback, I enjoyed
the whole review more than anything I had seen in Paris, We
also saw the celebrated General Canrobert a very fine looking old
man covered with the greatest profusion of medals and decora
tions of all sorts.

I remember very well the afternoon when I saw the
Emperor and Empress returning from a review at Long-
champs, She was then very pretty and graceful and looked
like her pictures, which I had stared at in the shop windows.
She smUed and bowed, and I thought that she seemed very
pleasant and friendly. The Emperor, too, looked just as I
had expected. He raised his hat at short intervals, but his
face was expressionless and unsympathetic. I gazed at
him -with intense interest, for I supposed him to be a very
great man, very mysterious, one whose word would affect
the destinies of Europe, and I imagined that he was always
revoMng dark and intricate schemes, concealed by what
even I could see was an ordinary, uninsphing face, as rigid,

EUROPE: 1866-1867 157
in public at least, as a mask. In this feeling I merely re
flected the popular idea, which a boy absorbs without effort
from the current talk and from the atmosphere about him.
Nevertheless when I saw the Emperor, as I did several times,
although this particular occasion left the most -vi-vid impress
upon my memory, I was conscious of a strong sensation of
disappointment. The actual man fell far short of what I had
imagined. Yet the opinion I had formed was wrong, and
the instinctive feeling of disappointment was right. The
Emperor had the talents of a conspirator in a high degree.
He also had the gift, which is serviceable to so many lesser
men, of holding his tongue and looking -wise, the surest way
in which a commonplace man can gain a great reputation,
not only for sagacity but for abUity and force, because
nothing is more imposing than the unknown. As a matter
of fact the third Napoleon was a man of ordinary capacity,
weak, hesitating, easily influenced, and, if not corrupt him
self, at least indifferent to corruption in others. When the
mask was torn off, in 1870, aU the world saw the man as he
really was, but very few understood him in 1866, and even
his enemies, who thought him wicked and cruel, believed him
to be able, when, as a matter of fact, he was neither the one
nor the other.
On that same day when I watched the Emperor return
ing from Longchamps I saw -with him what interested me
quite as much as the great man himself, and that was the
Cent-Garde, who accompanied the carriages and to whom I
aUuded in my diary, I thought then, and I think stUl, that
in equipment and appearance they were the finest-looking
troops imaginable. All picked men on superb horses, -with
ghttering corselets and helmets, nothing could have been
more brUliant, more exhUarating than the -vision of shining
sUver and glistening steel which they presented as they
flashed by at a gallop to keep up with the quick-moving car-

158 EARLY MEMORIES
riage. There were many soldiers to be seen in and about
Paris in those days, including the Spahis, who greatly excited
my curiosity. Very weU they looked, too, in my opinion, and
I was fresh from seeing the veterans of a great war. As a
matter of fact, the troops were good. There is nothing more
tragic in modern history than the gaUant fighting of the
French armies when the war with Prussia came. Badly led,
badly officered in the highest grades, with no plans, -with an
Emperor hesitating and incapable, ruining all by his feeble
indecision, the French soldiers flung themselves into the
hopeless struggle with all the courage of their race. If not
betrayed in the narrow meaning of the word, they were in
the larger sense, for the government of the second empire,
¦with its glittering exterior, beneath which all was unsound
and rotten, was one vast betrayal of France.
This shining surface spread over everything in 1866, and
the dark cracks in the varnish had hardly begun to show.
Most characteristic of the time were the Offenbach operas,
which just then were all the rage. They are conspicuous
in my memories of that first experience in Paris, Where so
much has gro-wn vague and misty, that music stiU sounds
sharply in my ears, I saw Schneider, who "created" the
roles, m "Orph^e," in the "Belle Helene," and in "Barbe-
Bleue," She was then a person of somewhat opulent charms,
good-looking, clever, notorious on the stage which she dom
inated, -vulgar, audacious, effective, I have often thought
since how she and those operas embodied the time. They
were together but a passing show, and yet they seem to me
now to have meant much, for the music fiUed the air and
pervaded the streets as the woman who interpreted them
filled and pervaded the stage, Offenbach's music is perfect
of its kind. For light, comic operas nothing has ever sur
passed it, and the composer was a thorough musician. The
taking airs frothed up like a glass of champagne and van-

EUROPE: 1866-1867 159
ished hke the gleaming bubbles of the wine. And yet, per
fect as it was of its kind, it left a bad taste behind it. Two
of the most successful of the operas drew their fun from the
degradation of two of the most beautiful of the Greek myths.
The "Grande Duchesse" had, I am sure, a deep effect in
breeding in the French mind a contempt for the Germans
and the German army, a grotesque and absurd mistake, for
which France paid heavily when the day of reckoning came.
It was aU gay and fascinating and delightful to the onlooker
in 1866, but at bottom it was meretricious and insincere,
dangerous when taken seriously for a worthy art, as was
the case at that time. And then I remember seeing Cora
Pearl, who was pointed out to me in the Bois one day. She
was one of the figures, one of the sights of Paris — handsome,
especially on a horse, hard, flagrant, notorious. It seems to
me now not without significance that what a boy remem
bered most -vi-vidly as the salient sights of Paris in 1866
should be the troops, Offenbach's operas, and a fashionable
courtesan, A boy does not consider or look deeply, but
takes in what is on the surface, emphatic and obvious to the
eyes of aU men, and these were the sights of Paris then from
which there was no escape. It is not without meaning and
seems to me now to suggest the story of the second empire.
I had a glimpse of another kind of Parisian life which
also left an enduring impression. Ben. Peirce, the son of
Professor Peirce, the eminent mathematician, who had
graduated from Harvard the year before, was completing
his education at the Ecole Polytechnique and lived in two
smaU rooms in the Latin Quarter. An intimate friend as
weU as a first cousin of Constant Davis, the latter naturaUy
saw as much of him as he could, and the arrival of Constant
Davis's younger brother, Charles Henry Davis, then a mid
shipman in our na-vy, on leave from his ship lying at
Cherbourg, gave an added charm to their meeting in Paris.

160 EARLY MEMORIES
Constant Davis took me -with him on his first expedition to
the Rive Gauche; then an arrangement was made for me
to take French lessons there regularly, and so I used to sit
happUy in the shabby little room in the Rue Cujas and hsten
to the talk, interspersed -with much smoking, and ranging
far and -wide, but chiefly concerned with student hfe in
Paris, a very fascinating existence, as I gathered, and one
which it seemed to me must be very exciting. These boys,
as I should caU them now, were aU under twenty-flve, but
they appeared to me then to be of vast age and unlimited
experience, and I felt much pride at being admitted to their
society. As a matter of fact, they were exceptionally clever
young men, and the two Da-vises, despite their youth, had
marked force of character and much seriousness of purpose.
Ben. Peirce was a man of reaUy brUliant talent, but was wear
ing himself out by a reckless disregard of health and of all
the necessary limitations of human existence. He under
stood almost everjrfching except self-control. He worked
very hard and distingmshed himself in his studies; he also
played very hard, and in short burned the candle not only
at both ends, but at every other point on its surface. Not
content "with all the amusements affected by the students of
Paris, he flung himself violently into French politics. He
was one of the droUest human beings I ever knew, as weU as
one of the most hard-working, and he had a wUd humor
which would carry him into all sorts of excesses, and very
dangerous when applied to French politics, which at that
particular time were none of the safest. Haunting the
cafes frequented by students, and speaking French with the
utmost fluency, although -with a strange accent, he became
a violent repubhcan and an ardent foe of the empire.
He was wont to discourse about the infamy of the estab
lished government, half seriously and half humorously, but
with a violence and an eloquence which used to startle my

EUROPE: 1866-1867 161
youthful mind. Unfortunately he would not always stop
there. One night, returning from dinner -with his cousins,
he insisted upon climbing up onto the high fence of the
TuUeries, and from that point of vantage shouting: "Vive
la Repubhque!" "A bas I'Empereur!" "A bas Badin-
guet!" The natural result was the appearance of the
sergents de "viUe and his immediate arrest. He was rescued
-with difficulty by his cousins, who explained that he was an
American, and that he was only joking. They also, I fear,
called the attention of the police officers to the effigy of the
Emperor as displayed upon certain weU-kno-wn coins. To
me Ben, Peirce seemed then, as he does now in memory,
one of the most fascinating beings I had ever seen. His
fun and humor were unbounded, but he was equally inter
ested in serious matters, and if he did not always think
soundly, he rarely faUed in originality. He graduated at
the Polytechnique with distinction, came home and en
tered at once upon a career which was full of promise.
But the candle had been burned too freely and in too
many places. He died young, lea-ving a sense of loss which
stUl endures among aU those who knew him.
From Paris we went south to Nice, and I well remember
the sensation of well-being which seemed to permeate me
on again getting into the sunshine. The cold, chilly weather,
the short days, the dim hght and prevailing darkness of
Paris, so characteristic of northern Europe in early -winter,
had weighed on my spirits, as they always have since, and
had made me long for the brilliant sun and clear air of my
native land. So the memory of my first sight of the Riviera
dweUs brightly in my mind, and was much enhanced sub
sequently by our four days' drive along the Cornice road to
Genoa, instead of being flashed in and out of tunnels, as is
now one's fate in the raUroad train. From Genoa we jour
neyed in leisurely fashion to Rome, where we passed most of

162 EARLY MEMORIES
the -winter, and a very delightful -winter it was. I saw all
the sights and enjoyed them; for the first time I seemed
to understand Cicero and Horace and VirgU, and I grew
actually to like them because I was in the very place where
they had lived, and because Constant Davis was able to
make me appreciate what I studied. This had never hap
pened before in regard to lessons, and for this reason I
reaUy obtained a little education. The presence of the
Forum made me comprehend in a curious way MUo and
Clodius and Catiline and the rest, so that I acquired an ad
miration for some of the great orations of which they were
the theme, which I have never lost. My early impressions of
the ruins and churches, of gaUeries and pictures and statues,
are, however, of no interest or value to any one but myself.
The memories which I would record here relate to very dif
ferent things, and have no connection with sights or sight
seeing, or with lessons in the classics or in ancient history.
The most interesting person whom I saw and knew in
Rome, for at my age I was naturally not much in the way
of seeing distinguished men, whether Itahans or others, was
WiUiam Story, the sculptor. He was a very intimate, and
indeed a lifelong, friend of my mother. In fact, they had
been boy and girl together, and this meeting after a separar
tion of many years was a very great pleasure and happiness
to both. The Storys had an apartment in the Palazzo Bar-
berini, where their eldest son has hved imtU very recently,
and we went there many times, for both Mr, and Mrs, Story
were hospitality itself, and did everything in their power to
make our -winter a pleasant one. To Mr, Story, boy as I was,
I became much attached, and I think one could hardly fail
to have been attracted by him. He was a man of excep
tional charm, certainly to those who knew him weU. The
son of Joseph Story, the eminent lawyer, jurist, and justice
of the Supreme Court of the United States, he had been, as

EUROPE: 1866-1867 163
was to have been expected, bred to the bar, and had won
early distinction as the author of more than one successful
law-book. But literature and art were the things he really
loved, and after his father's death he abandoned his profes
sion, migrated to Rome, and became a sculptor. He had a
touch of the poet and wrote much verse, always refined
and cultivated, and some of it very good, although in his
more ambitious attempts he exhibited too strongly the
masterful influence of Browning, -with whom he was inti
mate. He was also a graceful writer of prose, with abun
dance of -wit and of a pleasant sentiment characteristic of his
time. His "Roba di Roma" is one of the best books ever
written about the Rome of that period. In sculpture, which
was his life-work, he had a large success, and his statues
were much admired on the Continent as well as in England
and America, Like Gibson and Powers and Crawford, like
Danneker and Marochetti, he belonged to the school of
Canova, His work and theirs was smooth, rounded, aca
demic, conventional in conception, given to the heroic and
the sentimental. It suited the taste of the day, and was
much applauded. It is utterly out of fashion now, and is
regarded by the modem successors of those men -with pro
found contempt. The defects of the Canova school are
obvious enough; its lack of force, its artificiality, its essen
tial weakness, and its sacrifice of other qualities to grace
are readily detected, and yet I think it is a mistake, in the
violence of reaction, to deny to this work all merit. My
mother bought one of Mr, Story's statues, "The Libyan
Sibyl," the best one, I think, that he ever made, I have it
now. It is quite out of fashion; but after making all allow
ance for the influence of habit and association, I stUl find it
possessed of dignity and repose, and very pleasant to look
upon. It has a certain quiet beauty and grace, which are
sympathetic, as well as a sentiment and a feeling which are

164 EARLY MEMORIES
too obvious, perhaps, but which, none the less, fall gently on
one's mind and are very agreeable to hve with,
Mr, Story, as this mere enumeration of his pursuits
shows, was a man of extraordinary versatUity of talent, even
if he fell short of supreme excellence in any of the great
paths of effort upon which he entered. But if he never
touched the heights as poet or artist, he was one of the most
delightful and most attractive men that it has ever been
my good fortune to know. Nothing human was alien from
him. Literature, art, law, society, all interested him, and
on all he had strong opinions, and would talk -with fervor or
-with laughter, lightly, seriously, or eloquently, as the case
might be. One of his most intense enthusiasms was for
Italy and the Italians, to whom he thought we foreigners of
northern race were habitually unjust. I remember weU his
telling me a story which used to rouse his indignation even
more than his amusement, and which is as characteristic of
the occasional English grace of thought and manner as any I
ever heard. He said that he was one day coming down the
steps to the Piazza di Spagna with an English friend. Around
the fountain at the foot were gathered, as usual, a number of
peasants in the costume of the country, waiting to be hired
as models by artists. The Englishman stopped and point
ing at them said: "I say. Story, just look at those damn
foreigners." The fact that these innocent peasants, for
such they were in those days, were in their ovm country had
no effect upon the solid English mind. They did not dress
as people did in London, they were not English, and there
fore, wherever found, they were "damn foreigners."
In conversation Story was one of the most brilhant men
I have ever known, and although I think the tears lay very
near the laughter I have never seen any one -with a greater
fund of humor, or who bubbled over so constantly with fun
and nonsense, to which he was, happily, much addicted. I

EUROPE: 1866-1867 165
was, fortunately, destined to see more of him in the coming
years, both in Rome and at my o-wn house at Nahant, but
the earliest impressions of that vi-vid, sympathetic nature,
of that quick and versatile mind which so dazzled me during
my first Roman winter, have never been effaced.
Perhaps I may be permitted to follow the suggestion of
the last sentence and diverge at this point in order to give
some further recollections of WUliam Story in later years.
Hearing that he was coming to America in the summer of
1877, I wrote at once asking him to stay with me. I give
his reply because it shows his warm feeling for his old
friends, and so pleasantly pictures Nahant as it was in the
days of his youth.

MY DEAR LODGE —
I have just received your very kind letter inviting me to stay
with you at Nahant and I let not an hour pass before thanking
you. Yes, I shall be delighted to come to you if you can take
Waldo and me into your charming house. In fact nothing would
give me greater pleasure and I don't know that I should not have
insisted on coming if you had not asked me. If, oh, if I could
only bring back those old romantic days and evenings on the
verandah (I beg pardon piazza) ! But I shall meet the ghosts of
the past there and I shall pretend your wife is her own mother
and flirt frightfully with her if she will let me. How many times
my thoughts go back to Nahant with a yearning to see it again,
I shall see your mother too again, who is to me in my memory a
part of Nahant, and who I hope keeps me still in her heart as I
do her in mine,
I heard with deep regret of the death of Admiral Davis, He
was a very old friend of mine, always cordial and kind and sym
pathetic and I always hoped to see him again with all his honors
about him. I see him still and hear his voice as in the old days in
Cambridge, Motley too is gone and that was a pang to me. He and his
wife were also a part of Nahant and I well remember when I
was a boy, seeing them and Stackpole and his wife walking up

166 EARLY MEMORIES
and down the old saloon and asking myself if there were ever seen
two handsomer couples. I shall miss him very much -with his
eager spirit, his warm sympathies, his strenuous friendships. The
links of the golden chain break off one after another and this is
the curse of growing old, or one of the curses, for there are many. . . .
With our love to your mother and wife, believe me
Yours most faithfully
W. W. Story
Rome, June 16, 1877
Two years later I became one of the editors of the Inter
national Review, and I wrote Mr. Story asking him to send
me something for publication. Here are two of his letters
on this subject. Rome, June 5, 1879
MY DEAR CABOT 
I am delighted to hear that you have again taken to editing
and that the Review will be in such good hands. For my own part
I should be most happy to do anything I can for you and when I
can get a week, if I can succeed in this, I -will try to write you
something. About what? That is the question. Meanwhile
there is a long paper which would make I am afraid at least two
articles, which I wrote in Dieppe last summer on a subject which
is very interesting in itself and which perhaps might meet your
wishes. It is an account of the early history of Dieppe and the
voyages of discovery made by her early navigators in the East
and the West, in search of the Indies by sea; the first doubUng of
the Cape of Good Hope and the probable first discovery before
Columbus of Brazil by Jean Cousin and of the subsequent voyages
numerically following to North America. It opens a very curious
question as to the priority of discovery in both worlds and as to
the claims of the Portuguese, etc. The subject interested me
greatly and would I think be especially interesting to Americans.
It is a picturesque bit of history and if it proves uninteresting in
my hands it is my fault, not the fault of the subject. The only
other thing I have ready is a poem which I gave to Mr. Thorndike
Rice of the North American Review. It is a supposed letter from
a Jew who comes to Rome in the reign of Sixtus IV and gives his

EUROPE: 1866-1867 167
ideas as to the Church and habits and morals of the clergy and the
world in Rome, It forms a pendant to that other poem "The
Roman Lawyer in Jerusalem" in which the case of Judas is treated,
I do not know whether you intend to introduce poems (it is in
blank verse) or whether the subject would please you but if Mr,
Rice has decided not to print it I put it at your disposal. His
only difficulty was its being in verse but I see in his last number
that he has printed a poem by Voltaire and perhaps he will insert
mine. If these do not meet your views I can without much trouble
give you a paper on the knowledge of casting and plaster among
the ancients, a subject which I have carefully studied and which
opens a good many questions relating to ancient art. What do
you say to this?
I am now busy on my report on the French Exposition and I
am afraid I am making a book of it. I have got already to my
140th quarto page of close writing and the Lord knows when and
where I shall finish it. It is a disagreeable task, for on the one hand
my sense of duty urges me to sharp criticisms, and my unwilling
ness to say unpleasant things on the other hand draws me in an
opposite direction. Whether I praise or blame however I shall
satisfy no one of the artists and I am convinced that they will be
equally offended whichever course I pursue.
I have just finished a large statue of Sardanapalus of which
perhaps you may see some accounts in the papers. On the whole
I think it is considered generally to be at least one of my best
works. At all events it is original and like nothing else, , , ,
Yours most faithfuUy
W W Story

ViCHY, 22 July, 1879
MY DEAR CABOT —
I have amused myself in looking over my study of the art of
casting among the ancients, for it was a study for myself origi
nally and written with no view of publication, but merely to clear
up my own notions; and I now send it to you with some correc
tions and alterations. The question is a curious one and I have
gone into it very elaborately. I think I have not left a leg for
C. C, P. to stand upon. He wilfully misunderstood the whole

168 EARLY MEMORIES
matter. I think I first set him going on it and endeavored to my
utmost to clear up his mind but he could not be made to see it.
He wrote to me his authorities and I explained them to him, but
a wilf u man maun hae his way — and he had his — and years after
he published his pamphlet which is in my view wholly wrong and
begs the whole question at every page. The question is archse-
ologically an interesting one and has never properly been consid
ered before. Indeed the fact of the knowledge of casting by the
ancients has been always taken as a fact and never carefully ex
amined. Just as the Elgin marbles were always attributed by
modern writers to Phidias, until I exploded that belief in an article
in Blackwood. Since then I believe it has never been repeated.
, , , I think of you all at Nahant breathing the cool sea air and
overlooking scenes that to me are full of romance and embued
with the warm colors of youth and feeling, while I am here in
France at Vichy drinking the waters and reading and writing;
and hoping that my wife at least will get a real benefit from the
place; but getting little enjoyment from it myself. The people
are so ugly that they oppress me, and all sorts of maladies walk
about personified. I wonder if there are any pretty girls anywhere.
I am sure there are none here. So I read bad and clever French
novels about creatures so exquisite, both male and female, that
one is ready to commit any baseness for them and then I ask my
self where these creatures are. I see none at Vichy.
Ever yours most faithfully
W W Story
These letters show better than any words of description
his versatUity, the wide range of his interests, and also his
industry and enormous power of work.
Some eight years afterward I was at work on my "Life
of Washington," I had talked much with Mr. Story about
it because he took a keen interest in the subject, and had
heard from his father, who was not only for more than twenty
years the associate but the close friend of Chief Justice
Marshall, many anecdotes of Washington not then gen
eraUy known. His reply to my letter seems to me to have
much historical interest.

EUROPE: 1866-1867 169
Rome, Palazzo Barberini
March 15, 1887
my DEAR LODGE —
I am delighted to hear that you are going to give us the por
trait of Washington after life, and not a wooden figure after the
dignity of history as it is called; Marshall's and Sparks's heroes
are about as much like the real man as the figure in front of the
tobacco shops is like a North American Indian. If Marshall had
had a drop of Zola's blood in him and had dared to be true to life
what a story he might have told that now is lost forever.
The story that you refer to was told me at Washington in the
year 1844 I think, I was then recovering from a severe typhoid
fever and went to Washington with my father, I stayed for about
six weeks. In the house where we boarded there were several
members of the Supreme Court and two or three Senators — all
distinguished men, some of whom had personal reminiscences of
Washington, There was a common sitting room in which all
used to meet every evening and talk about every sort of thing and
eminently interesting those evenings were, I only wish I had re
corded at the time on paper the stories that were then told of the
Revolution and the persons who figured in it, instead of trusting
it to my sin of a memory. Still many of those stories remain
vividly in my mind, for they made a deep impression on me, and
among the most vivid were several relating to Washington and
his person and bearing and character. Among them was the one
to which you refer, I do not remember by whom it was told, but
my impression is that it was related by Richard Peters, then the
reporter of the Supreme Court, though it may have been by my
father, for various stories were told on that same evening and my
memory is not quite distinct on this point. At all events it was
told as coming directly from Marshall and was to this effect.
It was at one of the most anxious periods of the War and if
my memory serves me right immediately after the Battle of the
Brandy Wine when there was great doubt as to the exact position
and movement of the British. Washington called a meeting of all
the officers to discuss the situation and determine the best course
to pursue. The consultation took place in Washington's tent.
The night was very stormy and wild. Different views were taken
by the officers and it became exceedingly important to know the
exact position of the British across the river. Washington accord-

170 EARLY MEMORIES
ingly sent for an officer and directed him at once to cross the river
and endeavor to discover where the British forces were and
whether they were in movement and in what direction. The
officer received his orders and departed and Washington and his
officers remained together in the tent awaiting his report. Hours
passed by of impatience and anxiety. At last he returned. Wash
ington was sitting at a little table on which were writing materials
and a large heavy leaden inkstand. "Well," he said, as the officer
returned, "what is your report?" The officer in answer and with
some hesitation replied that he regretted to say that he had found
it impossible to cross the river on account of the severeness of the
storm, the violence of the -wind and rain, and the swollen condi
tion of the river; that he had done his best but had found it
impossible. Washington at this report glared at him an instant
and then seizing the great leaden inkstand launched it at his head
exclaiming " God damn your soul to Hell, be off with you and send
me a man." The officer vanished. He had had enough. In an
hour or two he returned and gave his report. Washington had
made it possible for him to cross the river and he was able to state
the position of the enemy.
Those, I think, were the exact words Washington used. They
remain fixed and clear in my memory. They made Washing
ton to me a more real and distinct person, and accounted for
his personal power and absoluteness of character more than all
the dignified narratives of the buckram historians. I remember
too that it was agreed by all who were present, when this story
was told, that Washington could and did swear roundly and
strongly on occasions, and that when he met Lee in his retreat
from Monmouth he swore at him with a vengeance and applied
to him the most opprobrious epithets of unmeasured character
and vehemence.
I remember too that it was then said that not only he gave
way at time to furious bursts of violence, though he was ordinarily
stiff and stern and undemonstrative, but that he equally on occa
sions gave way to uncontrollable fits of laughter and a story told
by Marshall in illustration of this was then related which hap
pened in the presence of Marshall, when Washington was so over
come by his laughter that he actually fell to the floor. The story
is too long to tell here but it is a very ludicrous one. The out
lines of the story are simply these. (I had better perhaps shortly

EUROPE : 1866-1867 171
relate them as they may interest you). Washington and Marshall
had gone down into the country to visit a family of friends. They
were alone and on horseback. The ride was a long one and night
had come on. As they were approaching the house, Marshall by
a sudden movement on his horse, perhaps to avoid a tree or other
obstacle, split his breeches. What was to be done? It was too
late and the distance was too long for him to return and he was in
an unpresentable condition. How to make his appearance before
the ladies of the family was a question. Washington insisted on
his going on, insisted so strongly that he was forced to comply
and on they went. The only device to conceal his disastrous con
dition that occurred to Marshall was to open his handkerchief
and hold it by the two ends before him like an apron and this he
did. On entering the room Washington turned and looked at
him and then suddenly broke into an uncontrollable fit of laughter
which was so violent and exhausting that it was said he actually
rolled on the floor and could not for a time recover himself.
I have filled up my two sheets and I must break off and go to
my work. Give my love and my wife's to your wife and mother.
I send you all a warm embrace and am
Ever yours faithfully
W W Story

At the Story house in 1866-7 we met many interest
ing people, at least my elders and betters did, for I merely
looked on unobtrusively from a comer, and felt much out
of place at a dinner or evening reception designed for the
entertainment of "gro-wn-up" persons, I recall Miss Har
riet Hosmer, the sculptress, who was constantly at the Pa
lazzo Barberini, I think she impressed me chiefiy because
she wore her hair short, but she was a bright, lively woman
whose statues had just at that time a fleeting popularity,
I also remember seeing Mr, Frederick Locker, as he was
then, -with his first -wife. Lady Charlotte Bruce, and I was
much puzzled to know why she was never referred to as
Mrs. Locker, The Duke of Argyll I remember very well,
chiefly, I suppose, because I had never seen a duke before.

172 EARLY MEMORIES
and had a vague idea that persons with that lofty title ought
to look very differently from the rest of the world. The
Duke of Argyll certainly did not look like everybody else, and
he comes back to me as the centre of a group to whom he was
talking -with great animation. He had very light-red hair,
which seemed to be flaring up from his head, and I remem
ber Mr. Story sayhig very disrespectfully that he looked
like a lucifer match just ignited.
Very far removed from the art and literature to which
WUham Story gave his life, from the people or from the an
tiquities and galleries of Rome, was the occupation which
constituted my chief pleasure in that winter of 1866-7.
Always fond of riding, my sister and I promptly pro-vided
ourselves with horses, so that we might enjoy the Campagna
in that way. One of our first rides was on a beautiful morn
ing to see the meet of the foxhounds which was to take place
at the Tomb of CecUia Metella. Every one knows that
wonderful spot — the great tomb, the Appian Way at its foot,
the Aqueduct striding across the plain, and in the distance
the lovely outline of the Alban hiUs. Young, careless, and
absorbed in sport as I was, that beautiful scene made a
profound impression upon me, one that has deepened since
with every return to Rome. I could not then put my feel
ings into words, but some years afterwards I found them
expressed when I read "Two in the Campagna.":
"The Champaign with its endless fleece
Of feathery grasses everywhere!
Silence and passion, joy and peace,
An everlasting wash of air —
Rome's ghost since her decease."
But on that particular morning there were no ghosts -visible,
for I had no eyes for anything but the hounds, the horses,
and the scarlet coats of which I had often dreamed, and

EUROPE : 1866-1867 173
which I now regarded with feverish intensity. Suddenly a
hound gave tongue, then another joined in, and another,
and then the whole pack. They were off, and -without stop
ping to think I began to ride after them, following the evi
dent impulse of my horse. I happened to be riding near
General Philip Schuyler, of New York, who was not only
one of the pleasantest and most kindly of men, as well as
a distinguished officer of our Civil War, but who was also,
through his mother, a granddaughter of Alexander HamU-
ton, the representative of a famUy friendship with my own
people which has lasted for four generations. " Come along,"
he said. "I don't know whether my horse wUl jump," I
replied, "I think I know that horse," said General Schuy
ler, " and have seen him out before. He -wUl go, I am sure."
His memory was correct. I had obtained, as it appeared,
from the English dealer, who owned him, a well-bred, fast
little horse named Fidget, which had been regularly hunted
during the preAdous year. He was a capital horse, as I after
wards discovered, well up to my weight, and ready to go
anywhere or jump anything; rather uneasy if checked, but
perfect to go. My companion's suggestion, however, was
quite sufficient for me, I asked nothing better than to
foUow the hounds, and was entirely ready to take my
chances. So off we went. My horse, I soon found, knew
his business, and after we had crossed the first stone wall
no doubt as to his jumping power again entered my mind,
for at sixteen I had no nerves, a possession of which I
became painfuUy conscious forty years later, after ha-ving
ridden many horses and jumped countless fences — one of the
penalties of age. Nothing, I think, ever quite equals a
first day -with the hounds if one is born with a love of horses
and riding. There have been many, many such days since
in my hfe, glorious at the moment, delightful in retrospect,
but none ever quite gave me the sensation of that first ex-

174 EARLY MEMORIES
perience on the Roman Campagna, I finished with the
first fiight and went home with my head in the clouds. To
ride a good horse across country after hounds seemed to me
the finest thing that a man could do. One does not think of
falls at that age, and I had been lucky, so that accidents did
not enter into my vision at aU, As long as we remained in
Rome I hunted regularly, and went out whenever the hounds
met. Apart from the joys and excitement of riding across
country I found other interests in hunting. I came to know
the country -with a thoroughness obtainable in no other way,
and I made some pleasant acquaintances. The master was
a nobleman of one of the great Roman houses. I do not
recall his name, but I remember him well : a tall, handsome
man, superbly mounted on a big black horse, I looked at
him -with admiring eyes from a distance, but I made per
sonal acquaintance -with the huntsmen and the whips, who
were all Englishmen, My chief friend, however, was the
man from whom I hired my horse, who was also an English
man, He kept a stable of hunters which he rented and sold.
He also went out vrith some of his patrons and had an eye
upon them in the field, and he helped the whips -with the
hounds. He was a middle-aged man, taU, slender, always
dressed in black, and one of the best riders I ever met. I
saw him one day perform a really remarkable feat of riding,
one which required an unusual amount of nerve and judg
ment. There was a young Austrian countess accompanied
by her husband, who rode regularly with us. She was very
handsome, and a good but a wild and reckless rider. One
day when we were going very fast we came suddenly upon
a lonely farmhouse with a very small paddock or yard ad
joining it. The hounds broke at the farmyard, and for a
moment the line was not clear. We all checked except the
countess, who for some unexplained reason, perhaps from

EUROPE : 1866-1867 175
a faUure to control her horse, rode straight at the paddock
fence, which was at least five feet high, and of stiff raUs,
Her horse struck and came down, and she was caught under
him by her long skirt, such as was worn in those days. The
danger that the horse would roU over her was imminent and
pressing. There was no time to lose, but to jump into the
paddock and at the same time in that contracted space to
avoid the faUen horse was a desperate chance. My friend
in black, however, in much less time than it takes me to
teU it, jumped his horse over the five feet of raUs, landed
him at a standstUl just clear of the countess, was off, and had
her dragged clear of her struggling horse and on her feet
before the rest of us reahzed what had happened. The
countess escaped with a broken arm, I believe, but I have
rarely seen more nerve and skill shown in taking a big
jump than was displayed by the o-wner of my little horse
on that occasion.
The most interesting person, however, whom I met in the
himting-field that -winter was Miss Charlotte Cushman, the
actress. She was out every day -with her nephew and his
wife, aU mounted on some very fine hunters which Miss
Cushman had imported from Ireland, She was a very
large, heavy woman, over fifty years of age then, and she
rode carefuUy, but she also rode well and intelligently, and
as she was perfectly mounted, kept up and saw aU that was
going on. One day when chance brought us side by side
she spoke to me, and finding out who I was she at once
showed kind and sympathetic interest, and we became great
friends. We used to talk about things American and about
horses and hunting, in regard to which she gave me many
shrewd hints. She was a very intelhgent and very agreeable
woman as weU as a fine actress. The fact that she had been
on the stage made her especially interesting to me, with my
love of the theatre, and I regarded her -with admiration and

176 EARLY MEMORIES
extreme curiosity. But I never could muster up the courage
to speak to her of her profession or of the stage or of acting.
I had seen her act more than once, and had been greatly
impressed by her power, all the more remarkable because it
was by her art and her fine voice alone that she overcame
her lack of beauty, which was very marked. Her greatest
part was Meg MerrUies, where looks did not matter, but
that which I remember best was her acting in Lady Macbeth,
which is, I think, the greatest and most difficult woman's
part in the whole range of tragedy. I have seen many
actresses fail in it; I have never seen any one approach suc
cess except Miss Cushman. She was an elderly woman
when I saw her, large, stout, gray-haired, and plain, whUe
Lady Macbeth is obviously stiU young and beautiful. Yet
Miss Cushman made one forget everything except the great
ness of the part. She moved and stirred her audience, and
I never shall forget the power of the sleep-walking scene, the
reserve with which she played it, and the shuddering horror
she conveyed. It stands out in my recollection as one of
the few really great bits of acting which are met with in a
lifetime. The last time I recall her in Rome was one day when we
had a fine run in the neighborhood of Monte Mario. It was
a damp day, the ground very wet and slippery, and we had to
go down into and up again out of a number of deep ra-vines,
or gulches, as they would be caUed in the West. The scent
lay strong, we were having a good day, and these descents
and ascents were trying and risky. Miss Cushman kept
warning me to be careful, and finally, when we came to an
unusuaUy steep slope, she called out that if I kept on as I
was going I should either break my neck or lame my horse.
But I was sixteen; I saw the hounds scrambling up the other
side and then running straight with their heads up, and so
down I went as fast as I could, my horse sliding almost on

EUROPE : 1866-1867 177
his haunches. But he did not fall, and when I reached the
top of the guUy opposite we were in a level country, the pack'
going as fast as they could, and one of the finest runs I ever
had was the result. The fox finally got away and went to
earth, but there were few left to see even that ending, and
I was ffiled -with glory and satisfaction. Here is the dry
contemporary account from my diary:
"Hunt today. Meet at Monte Mario. Beautiful day.
View very fine. First rate run, fox went to earth and did
not kUl. Best run I have had; the country was very slip
pery and there were lots of falls. Some of the views I had
of the city were splendid. I rode home with a young Eng
lish man who was very pleasant and told me about English
hunting." I recaU the young Englishman weU. He was very pleas
ant, but he brought my pride in my performances down
-with a hard thud by asking me if I had ever hunted in the
Lincolnshire wolds. I knew where Lincolnshire was, but
had very vague ideas as to the nature of a wold. I replied
in the negative, without adding that I had never hunted
anywhere except in Rome, and he then said kindly, but with
the condescension described by LoweU, "Ah, you should
see the hunting there if you want to know what really good
hunting is," and I felt properly humbled.
Much harder to bear was the way in which Miss Cush-
man's prophecy came true. I find in the diary: "horse
dead lame. Could not hunt." "Horse stiU lame — could
not hunt." My rashness abbreviated my hunting sadly,
but it was none the less a glorious day, that day at Monte
Mario, and I think it was worth aU it cost.
From Rome we went to Naples, then back to Rome, and
so north to Venice. Venice had just been liberated from
Austria and become part of Italy, and her people were cele
brating the carnival, as may be supposed, with extraordinary
gusto and brilliancy. Prince Amadeo, afterwards King of

178 EARLY MEMORIES
Spain, was there to give emphasis to the occasion, and I
saw him several times. He was very popular, and at such
a moment was received -with intense enthusiasm. We saw,
of course, all the usual sights, but that which was unusual
and which interested me most was the Piazza, especiaUy at
night, fflled, as it was, -with maskers, -with people in aU sorts
of fancy dresses, brUhantly Uluminated and loud -with music,
noise, and fun of aU kinds.
From Venice we went to Vienna, and passed at once into
a -winter hke that at home. At Vienna we found the Mot
leys, for Mr. Motley was our minister there, and they were,
as ever, aU that was most kind, hospitable, and dehghtful.
We dined vnth them several times during our short stay,
heard a great deal that was interesting about Vienna and
about the Austrian aristocracy, -with their absurd sixteen
quarterings and their profound behef that they were stiU
real and important.
After Vienna came Prague and Dresden, then back to
Paris and London, and thence home. I was so glad to be
once more at home that even the East Boston wharf in the
gray of the morning looked charming, and my return to Mr.
DixweU's ministrations for three weeks seemed actually de
lightful. But the few weeks were soon over, and in July I
went out to Cambridge and was duly examined for admission
to Harvard. At that time the examinations were largely
oral, lasting three days, and one's fate was announced on
Saturday afternoon almost immediately after the ordeal had
ended. I got in without conditions, as did most of my
friends at Mr. DixweU's, and to have no conditions was the
best that could be done then, when entrance honors were not
conferred. FUled -with triumph, I rushed into to^wn, took
the train, and drove rapidly home from Lynn to Nahant.
The long summer t-wUight was just dying as I reached the
house, and I saw the famUy gathered on the steps when I
jumped out of the carriage. From the shadow came my

EUROPE : 1866-1867 179
mother's voice, anxiously askmg, "What news?" to which,
fflled with mischief, I rephed: "Four conditions." I can
hear stUl my good mother's cry of disappointment, and the
sUence that fell upon the group could be felt. Then came
the voice of WendeU Holmes, as he caught sight of my face:
"The httle vfflain! He is in -without conditions." Much
rejoicing foUowed. It was neither a very magnificent nor
a very unusual achievement, but it was a large victory for
me, and the night upon which I announced it is one which
I remember as a very happy and satisfying occasion.
In any event, I was thought by my partial family to
have rewarded their pains in a measure at least, and I was
aUowed to do what I pleased -with my summer. So I elected
to go -with my cousin Frank Hubbard to Canada, salmon-
fishing. We went to Montreal, and thence to Quebec, one
of the to-wns best worth seeing hi the world, for there are
very few so nobly placed and at once so picturesque and so
fuU of a sense of strength. From Quebec we went down the
St, La-wrence to the Saguenay, and thence to the Bersimis,
where we camped out and enjoyed ourselves for that reason
alone, although we had no luck at fishing. It was, I think,
rather late in the season, and so we went back to Quebec
and thence to Lake Champlain, and on into the Adirondacks,
which were then a real -wUderness. We camped out and did
some shooting and fishing, I was guUty of shooting a buck
in the water, a first and solitary offence of the kind, which
I hope may be forgiven; we also did some fishing with better
success than in Canada, and enjoyed greatly going down the
rivers and shooting the rapids in our big canoe.
But everything comes to an end, nothing so certainly or
so rapidly as a boy's holidays, and September found me in
Cambridge, a wretched freshman, facing "Bloody Monday"
as cheerfuUy as I could, and so beginning my college hfe.

CHAPTER VIII
HARVARD: 1867-1871
If my career at Harvard was singularly devoid of either
distinction or interest, it at least came at a very memorable
period in the life of the college, I went in under the old
system and came out under the new, I entered the coUege,
which had remained in essence unchanged from the days of
its Puritan founders, the college of the eighteenth century
-with its "Gratulatios" and odes and elegies in proper Latin
verse when a sovereign died or came to the throne, the col
lege -with the narrow classical curriculum of its English exem
plars, and I came out a graduate of the modern university.
Doctor Thomas HUl was president when I entered, then
came a year of interregnum, and then President Ehot. I
think that I cannot add anything to this bare statement by
way of describing the revolution which took place at that
time in Harvard, and my class happened to come just at the
parting of the ways. We reahzed that a great change had
occurred, but naturally did not grasp its meaning or even
dream how fast and far the change thus begun would go.
No one, I think, could have imagined the vast growth of the
university in every direction under the administration of
President Ehot. My class, to take a smgle Ulustration,
numbered one hundred and fifty-eight at graduation. It
was much the largest class which had ever entered the col
lege or graduated from it, and was not surpassed in numbers
for some years afterwards. Now a class at Harvard is three
180

HARVARD : 1867-1871 181
or four times as large as mine, and a single class has not in
frequently more members than all the undergraduates to
gether in 1867-1871,
The enormous increase in the number of students, how
ever, is, after all, only one manifestation of the changes
wrought at Cambridge during the last forty years. As I am
not writing a history of modern Harvard, I shall not attempt
to describe, stUl less to analyze or criticise, this great revolu
tion in the oldest university in' America, which in its course
has had a profound effect upon all education in the United
States, I shaU aUude to only two things : one, the passing
of an old custom in which I was concerned and which marked
by its departure the rapid obliteration of the eighteenth-
century coUege then in progress, while the other was the
effect which one of the most important of the modern re
forms had upon me personaUy.
In the old days there was a solemn and public perform
ance which took place in the autumn, consisting of exercises
hke those of commencement, -with orations, dissertations,
and addresses, and preceded by a procession, as on the great
occasion of graduation. This ceremony was called the
"Junior Exhibition," and had given rise to a burlesque ver
sion which was known as "mock parts," and which took
place at the same time. The real "Exhibition" had been
abandoned before I entered coUege, but the parody survived,
A committee of the junior class was appointed and wrote
an account of an imaginary procession in which members
of the class figured in various ridiculous capacities. Then
followed the announcement of the parts, much more numer
ous than in the real performance, and covering practically
aU members of the junior class. These parts were sent in
to or devised by the committee, and consisted chiefly of
quotations which were supposed to jeer at or hit off the
foibles and pecuharities of the unfortunate boy to whom

182 EARLY MEMORIES
the part was assigned. To give an example drawn from an
other class than my own: "A Dissertation
The Great Erymanthian Boar,
John Harvard Stoughton,"
A few, a very few, of the parts were complimentary. The
mock part of our first scholar was, for instance: "And lo!
Ben Adhem's name led all the rest," Most of the gibes,
however, were chaff and jokes, doing no harm and, perhaps,
some good; but there was always a certain proportion di
rected against unpopular men which were often harsh and
sometimes cruel.
The ceremony took place on a Saturday morning after
recitations. The classes were drawn up in a hoUow square
in front of Hollis, the juniors facing the building, the seniors
on the right, the sophomores on the left, and the freshmen,
-with no assigned place, hovering on the outside. Then the
chairman of the committee, a post which I filled in 1869,
seated himseh on the sUl of a first-floor vrnidow in HoUis
-with his legs s-winging in vacancy and proceeded to read
the account of the procession and then the parts amid the
plaudits and laughter of the crowd, which, like most crowds,
not only had a love of fun, but enjoyed the infflction of a
little suffering. I read the parts effectively and successfully,
so that everybody heard them, and took considerable pride
in my fleeting notoriety. But I soon had reason to regret
my brief hour of triumph. Some of the men who were
wounded never forgave me, and I found to my surprise that
I was held responsible for aU the parts, which were the work
of many hands and which had been approved and selected
by the entire committee. I felt much hurt as well as aston
ished by this popular injustice, but I subsequently discov
ered that it was common in larger matters and to more

HARVARD : 1867-1871 183
numerous, older, and larger populations than coUege boys
can furnish. No successor, however, was destined to suffer
in the same way. The custom of "mock parts" was then
considered to be as permanent as the college itself, but the old
habits were changing, and reform was in the air. The next
class, which was more -virtuous than ours, not only voted to
give up hazing, in which we had indulged and from which
we had suffered, but they also determined to abolish "mock
parts," That was the end of it; it was never re-vived, and
the coUege in a few years had forgotten and outgro-wn the
parody of an extinct ceremony. Thus it came to pass that
I had the distinction of being the last student to read " mock
parts" at Harvard. Now, aU these years afterwards, when
the httle stings which I infflcted and which were inflicted
upon me have long since ceased to smart, I am glad to think
that I was connected -with the old college times of which
"mock parts" were emblematical and which I saw depart.
If I could not save them — and they probably were not worth
saving, these old customs — I did my duty by them at least
once and stood on the shore and waved one of them a cheer
ful fareweU as it drifted off do-wn the stream of time. I felt
a good deal of excitement and elation at the moment, be
cause, except for my involuntary presence in the -witness-box
at Lawrence, it was my first appearance in public, and I
succeeded before my first audience. It left, moreover, an
indelible impression on my mind. I do not know how it
may be -with others, but -with me it often happens that a
familiar scene remains inextricably associated with a par
ticular day and a particular event. There are few places
in the world more famUiar to me than the coUege yard at
Cambridge, but when I see it in the mirror of memory the
image before me is what I saw as I sat in the -window of
"HoUis" on that day of "mock parts." Perhaps it was the
position, probably even more the event, but I always think

184 EARLY MEMORIES
of the yard as it looked that morning. It was early autumn,
and the elms, not yet shorn of leaves, still drew their arches
across the sky. The warm red of the old buildings, -with
"University" gray and cold in the distance, gave color to
the scene. And over all was that pleasant atmosphere of
the past so rare in America, that sense of qmet and repose
which tradition and habit give, and the feeling that behind
the laughing crowd gathered there before me could be heard
the footfaU of the successive generations who had trodden
that pleasant spot and thence passed out into the world
beyond. The other incident connected -with the revolution in the
college system which began in the middle of my course was
-widely different from the last observance of an old coUege
custom. There was nothing about it -with a tinge of senti
ment. It was merely a result of the reform which found
one of its chief expressions in the extension of the elective
system. Timidly and tentatively there had come a move
ment in this direction before the arrival of President Ehot,
as light and separated gusts of wind precede the rush of the
thunder-storm. We therefore found ourselves at the end
of our sophomore year with a considerable latitude of choice.
I did not question the virtues of the new system then, be
cause, dexterously managed, it opened a generous oppor
tunity for lightening the burden of studies. I have had a
good many doubts about its perfections since. Under the
old compulsory plan a certain amount of knowledge, no more
useless than any other, and a stUl larger amount of disciphne
in learning were forced upon aU alike. Under the new sys
tem it was possible to escape vrithout learning anything at
all by a judicious selection of unrelated studies in subjects
taken up only because they were easy or the burden imposed
by those who taught them was light, I do not intend to
argue the merits of the case, but desire merely to explain

HARVARD : 1867-1871 185
the effect upon myself, I wished to take my degree with
as little effort as possible, and so arranged my recitations
as to give myself the largest possible spaces of uninter
rupted time for my own amusements. This was not the
ambition of serious and right-minded students; but the
majority of undergraduates are not very serious, and my
practical view of the advantages of the elective system is
still, I think, popular. In any event, the results to me were
unfortunate, I had been thoroughly drilled under the old
system in Latin and Greek, and having some aptitude in
languages I had learned to read both -with facUity, I could
read any Latin at sight, and easy Greek; that is, in my
sophomore year, when we were reading the Crito and the
Gorgias, I never had to prepare for a recitation, as I could
construe at sight whenever caUed upon. If I had gone on
-with my Greek and Latin I should have become so thor
oughly grounded in both that they would have remained
-with me through life. But the enlarged elective system was
a fatal temptation. I threw over mathematics, of course,
and that was no loss, for I never should have retained any
learning of that kind. But I also discarded my classics,
because the hours were not convenient or for some equally
trivial reason. The result was that, although I have man
aged to retain my Latin and have read it aU my hfe suffi
ciently weU for pleasure, my Greek, which I kept up for a few
years after leaving college, was lost in the pressure of other
employments, and now I can only read it vrith difficulty and
have not leisure to recover it. So it comes to pass that I
think with sorrow of my own folly and entertain serious
doubts as to the perfection of that unrestricted freedom of
election which gave my foUy scope and opportunity. Of the
so-called studies with which I replaced the classics, I have
for the most part forgotten even the names. Two courses,
German and Italian, which I selected were not wholly use-

186 EARLY MEMORIES
less, and gave me a smattering of two modern languages
which was not without value, and in the case of Italian de
veloped into a source of knowledge and pleasure, I also
had sufficient sense to take a course in English literature
with Lowell, although I stupidly missed the opportunity to
study Dante with him. But the English literature was
something. It encouraged a strong natural taste and gave
it direction. It also brought me into contact vsdth one of
the most brUliant men of his day and one of the best worth
knowing. I came to know him better in the after-years;
but I like to think that I was one of his students, and hs-
tened to that beautiful voice and delightful English and
heard his witty and pregnant criticisms which were the best
part of his teaching.
But in all my four years I never really studied anything,
never had my mind roused to any exertion or to anything
resembling active thought until in my senior year I stum
bled into the course in mediaeval history given by Henry
Adams, who had then just come to Harvard. How I came
to choose that course I do not exactly know. I was fond of
history, liked to read it, and had a vague curiosity as to the
Middle Ages, of which I knew nothing. I think there was
no more intelligent reason than this for my selection. But
I buUded better than I knew. I found my^self caught by
strong interest, I began to think about the subject, Mr.
' Adams roused the spirit of inquiry and controversy in me,
and I was fascinated by the stormy careers of the great
German emperors, by the virtues, the abUities, the dark
crimes of the popes, and by the tremendous confiicts be
tween church and empire in which emperors and popes were
antagonists. In just what way Mr, Adams aroused my
slumbering faculties I am at a loss to say, but there can be
no doubt of the fact. Mr. Adams has told me many times
that he began his course in total ignorance of his own sub-

HARVARD : 1867-1871 187
ject, and I have no doubt that the fact that he, too, was
learning helped his students. But there was more than this.
He had the power not only of exciting interest, but he
awakened opposition to his own -views, and that is one great
secret of success in teaching. In any event, I worked hard in
that course because it gave me pleasure; I took the highest
marks, for which I cared, as I found, singularly little, be
cause marks were not my object, and for the first time I got
a glimpse of what education might be and really learned
something. I have never lost my interest in the Othos,
the Henrys, and the Fredericks, or in the towering figure
of HUdebrand, They have always remained -vital and full
of meaning to me, and a few years ago I made a pilgrimage
to Salerno vsdth Adams himself to see the burial-place of
the greatest of the popes, who had brought an emperor to
his feet and had died a beaten exUe, Yet it was not what I
learned, but the fact that I learned something, that I dis
covered that it was the keenest of pleasures to use one's
mind, a new sensation, and one which made Mr, Adams's
course in the history of the Middle Ages so memorable to
me, I have often wondered since, in view of this experi
ence, why there is so httle real education to be had, and
why, as a rule, what passes under that name is so dry and
meaningless and sometimes so repulsive.
From this outline of my intellectual experiences at Har
vard, a dispassionate and serious-minded observer would
say that my four years at Harvard were wasted, and so, in
one way, I suppose they were. In the largest sense they
were, I think, anything but wasted, and I look back upon
them without remorse and with great pleasure, which is,
perhaps, a humUiating confession, as coUege is supposed to
be a place primarUy if not wholly for education and the
improvement of one's mind, and I got very little of either,
I detested school, and I think the "happy school-days"

188 EARLY MEMORIES
theory is a popular fallacy of an entirely conventional
kind. On the other hand, I enjoyed college thoroughly
and had four very happy years at Harvard. I was very
idle and devoted my energies to amusing myself, with
great success and in the manner and with the intelligence
common to that stage of hfe. I meant to go through col
lege, and I did so without ever being conditioned, graduating
near the end of the first half of my class. But I intended
also to effect this purpose with the least possible trouble and
effort to myself and -with the minimum of mental labor,
and in this, too, I succeeded, I desired also to enjoy myself
as much as possible, and I did this, too, I took a sufficiency
of exercise, both at the gymnasium and on the river, because
I was fond of it, but -without any ambition for distinction
in those directions, and yet from the boat and from spar
ring and single-stick I derived not only wholesome habits
of exercise, but an amount of real good which it would be
hard to estimate. They were certainly far more profita
ble than bUliards and cards, to which I also gave a great
deal of attention, so much, indeed, that I have never cared
for them since. But my greatest and most profitable en
joyments were derived from the many friendships I then
made or continued. Most of them have lasted through
life, a few have been among my best possessions, and aU,
I find, no matter how far time and chcumstances may
have brought separations in place or occupations or inter
ests, have kept the flavor of those early days, something
which no other days can give. I was fortunate enough to
be elected a member of aU the societies I desired to join.
Two of them were theatrical, and this opened a field which
had always held for me a strong fascination. In our sopho
more society I made a hit as a Yorkshireman in one of
Kenny's comedies at the first performance given by our
class, I imagine that the dialect which I saw fit to adopt

HARVARD : 1867-1871 189
was as remote from the speech of Yorkshire as it was from
any other spoken by men. But my audience was 'as ignorant
as I, and since it succeeded with them there was nothing
more to be desired. At aU events, it fixed my fate, I was
thought to have histrionic capacity, and from that time for
ward I had a leading part at every performance and was
usually either the acting or the stage manager. This con
tinued in the Hasty Pudding during my junior and senior
years, and I finally extended my theatrical activities to
authorship, writing, in coUaboration -with our class poet,
Henry Swift, a rhymed burlesque of "Don Giovanni," adapt
ing our songs to those of the opera and to popular airs by
other composers less eminent than Mozart, Not being a
singer, I had no part in the burlesque, but only in the farce
of "Two in the Tower," which preceded it. The burlesque,
however, had an enormous success, and I regret the loss of
its precious text more than that of the missing books of
Livy, for I should like now to read over those jingles and
see just how bad they were, and try to determine whether
there was anything but the spirit of youth which caused
them to give so much hilarious pleasure both to the listen
ers and to their proud authors.
My taste for the theatre, however, led me in those col
lege years to many performances by persons more expe
rienced than I or my friends, and among these performances
were some worth remembering. It was the college fashion
in my day for freshmen to go on as "supes" when soldiers,
peasants, courtiers, and the like were required in the Italian
operas which we chiefiy affected. There was much com
petition for the limited number of places, and I suppose
that the man charged -with securing supernumeraries took
us because we not only served for nothing, but were ready
to pay for the privilege, which meant money in his pocket
instead of the usual outlay. Indeed, there could have been

190 EARLY MEMORIES
no other reason for our employment, as we must have been
most undesirable assistants. We went for our own amuse
ment, not to promote the success of the opera or the play.
We were undisciplined and recalcitrant; if there was any
thing to be done in the way of marching or moving about
or shouting or dancing, we did it -with great violence; and we
were especially disturbing with the supernumerary ladies,
who were not volunteers, and -with whom we were more popu
lar than we were -with the singers, actors, and managers. I
remember well one occasion when, in the first act of " Don
Giovanni," we were deputed in our capacity as soldiers to
bear from the stage the body of the murdered Commendador.
Four stalwart youths, members of the crew, were told off
for this duty. They grasped the arms and legs of the un
fortunate father of Donna Anna and whipped him up so
vigorously and easUy that they wrenched his arms and tore
his clothes, bearing him lightly from the stage amid a cloud
of Italian curses. But it was all very good fun for fresh
men and gave one a knowledge of stage management and
stage effects and theatrical people which, if not profitable,
was certainly entertaining.
I shaU say nothing of the endless plays of all kinds which
I attended at that time, for it was in those days the fashion
-with students to haunt the theatres; but there were a few
actors whom I then saw who are worthy of recollection. It
was then that I again saw Ed-win Forrest, of whom I have
already spoken, and whom I had seen in "Metamora,"
which was -violent, absurd, and popular, I now witnessed,
and vrith better understanding I hope, his performance of
"Richelieu" and of "Hamlet," in which he was very fine.
He was then, of course, an elderly man, and perhaps for that
reason subdued; but his Hamlet was singularly strong and
impressive, the performance of a really great actor in accord
ance with the traditions of the English stage. He did not

HARVARD : 1867-1871 191
equal Ed-win Booth, whom I saw constantly then and after
wards, for Booth was not only unsurpassed as Hamlet, but
unrivaUed in the great Shakespearean r61es by any one I
have ever seen in America, in England, or in Europe. At
about that same time I saw Charles Kean and his wife
(Ellen Tree). Kean was the very reverse of Forrest, He
was an exceUent actor, educated, cultivated, trained, but
without a spark of genius so far as I could perceive. He
was admirable as Louis XI, although not so perfect as Irving,
who seemed to have been born for that particular part.
Mrs, Kean was very fine as Queen Katherine, and I have
never seen any one who approached her beautiful perform
ance of the fool in "Lear."
At that period also, when I had just entered college, I
heard Mrs, Kemble and Dickens read: the one from Shake
speare, the other from his own books. Mrs, Kemble was
then a stout, elderly woman, and her beauty, so famous in
her youth, had faded. She came upon the stage of the Music
HaU in Boston plainly dressed in black. There were no
theatrical adjuncts, no artificial aids of any kind. She read
the "Merchant of Venice," and in five minutes one was con
scious only of her digmty, the beauty of her voice, the marvel
of her dramatic presentation. I sat entranced as the play
graduaUy unroUed itself before my mental vision, as the
characters, carefully differentiated by the voice alone, passed
over the stage, and as the exquisite poetry chimed and mur
mured in my ears.
Dickens was a sharp contrast. I had a boyish adoration
of his books, and I looked forward -with intense excitement
to seeing and hearing him. I heard him several times, and
I shaU never forget the joy of listening to the trial scene from
"Pick-wick," Yet after it was all over the general effect left
on my mind was a feehng of vague disappointment. I could
not have explained that feeling then, but I think that I can

192 EARLY MEMORIES
now, Dickens as an actor, and he acted in his readings,
was vivid, effective, full of force, energy, and dramatic power;
but he lacked exactly what Mrs, Kemble possessed — dignity,
reserve, refinement, scholarship, and high training. You
never forgot for a moment that Mrs, Kemble was a lady.
You were haunted by a suspicion that Dickens was not
quite a gentleman; that somewhere there lurked the traces
of the London cockney. I say this as a devoted lover and
admirer of Dickens. His books and his characters have
been my lifelong friends and companions. He had a great
and noble genius, an imagination which was as -vi-vid as it
was fertUe and original. I admire him more now, I place
him higher than I ever did before, but I see the deductions
which a sane criticism must make and I realize the defects
which escaped the indiscriminate admiration of boyhood.
The creative imagination, the unending humor, the hatred
of wrong, the fierce satire which has never been enough
appreciated, the eternal quality so admirably pointed out
by Mr. Chesterton, are all there from beginning to end.
Moreover, Dickens never ceased to improve as an artist.
He was always advancing in construction, in style, and in
force, even when his marvellous creative power seemed to
slacken. But his tendency toward melodrama, although it
diminished, never wholly left him. I have always loved
"Nicholas Nickleby "; so much, indeed, that I do not resent
Ralph Nickleby saying, " My curse, my bitter, deadly curse,
upon you, boy!" after the manner of the Surrey theatres.
But the atrocious -vulgarity of his associate and titled vil
lains, and the unbearable goodness and clamorous benevo
lence of the Cheeryble brothers in that same great story,
were too much for me even in my youthful days. Yet whUe
one can forgive the cheap melodrama, one cannot forgive
the cheap pathos, the "wallowing naked in the pathetic,"
the resort to the death and suffering of chUdren to extort a

HARVARD : 1867-1871 193
tragic effect, the false sentunent of "Little Nell" and the
rest, which are as unreal and hollow and as bad art as the
metred prose in which that heroine's death is told. It was
an undefined sense of these very things which came to me
when I saw Dickens, The humor, the effectiveness, the
way in which he embodied his characters, were aU very
wonderful; but his somewhat overdressed appearance and
conscious air, and, above all, the fact that he was stagey
when he should have been dramatic, left a light but unmis
takable flavor of rather second-rate pathos and melodrama
/rom which there was no escape. Much as I admired the
performance, and eager as I was to hear him, when it was
aU over there hngered at the back of my mind a slight sense
of disappointment; a feehng that the great imaginative
writer who was and had always been so much to me lacked
something which he ought to have possessed,
AU these things, aU these little amusements, these long-
faded successes and mishaps, as well as the thought of the
friends and the friendships of those days which memory
brings in her train, do not make up a very inspiring record
of a time which should have been devoted to the advance
ment of learning. It sounds, now that it is written do-wn
here, hke the story of an idle and unprofitable boy. Yet
there is no phase of it to which I do not look back with
pleasure; there is none of it from which I would part withal.
I am not sure that it did not have a real value of its own, I
think that it fitted me much better for the world than if I had
never gone to Harvard, It undoubtedly gave me affections
and friendships which could have been acquired in no other
way. It is certain, above all, that I achieved one main pur
pose of a hberal education — a respect for the work of other
men in other fields of which I knew nothing. With this
came a tolerance for the pursuits and passions of others,
and, thanks to Henry Adams, I was imbued with a realizing

194 EARLY MEMORIES
sense of my o-wn abounding ignorance, which is the first
rung on the ladder of learning and the best education that
any college or university can give.
The greatest event to me, however, during my four
years at Harvard had no connection whatever with the
university. In my junior year I became engaged to the
eldest daughter of Rear-Admiral Davis, and to him and to
the famUy into which I was then brought, I owe in large
measure the affection and the happiness which life has ac
corded to me. Bred in the Boston schools. Admiral Da-vis
entered Harvard in the class of 1825, but left the coUege
at the end of his sophomore year to go into the navy. His
career in the na-vy was a long and distinguished one. He
was a man of high attainments in the exact sciences, and
his early work in the service after his first years at sea was
largely scientific. In this field he gained much distinction.
He was engaged in the first work of the Coast Survey, He
was one of the founders of the Nautical Almanac, and he
found time to translate Gauss's "Theoria Motus," a trans
lation which, I believe, has never been superseded. But he
was, above all, a saUor and a naval officer. He made many
long cruises, and it was he who rescued and brought off
Walker and his companions after their fihbustering expedi
tion in Nicaragua, When the war broke upon the country,
he was eminent in the group of younger officers who came at
once to the front and upon whom the burden of our decisive
naval operations fell. He was fleet captain -with Dupont,
thejr were very intimate friends, and together they planned
and carried out the expedition under the latter's command
which resulted in the capture of Port Royal, one of the most
important, as it was the first, of our great naval successes.
Admiral Da-vis received rapid promotion, and not long after
succeeded Foote in command on the Western rivers. He
fought and won the battle of Memphis, where he destroyed

HARVARD : 1867-1871 195
the rebel flotUla, and soon after was again successful in
the fight at Fort PUlow, For these victories he received
the thanks of Congress,
Broken do-wn by the river fever, he was obliged to give
up his command and return to Washington, where he was
put at the head of the Bureau of Navigation, which he or
ganized, and where he acted as chief of staff. Toward the
close of the war he was appointed superintendent of the
Naval Observatory, the highest scientific post in the na-vy.
When I first knew him he had just returned from a three
years' cruise in command of our South American squadron.
Handsome and distinguished-looking, of pronounced mili
tary bearing, I have never kno-wn any man more charming
or more lovable. In his perfect simplicity, in his absolute
courage, in his purity of mind and generosity of spirit, he
always made me think of Colonel Newcome, But, unlike
Thackeray's hero, he was a man of the world in the best
sense, of high professional abUity and unusual intellectual
force, A more delightful friend and companion it would be
difficult to imagine. He had seen cities and men, he had
been in aU parts of the world, and had looked upon it -with
a broad sympathy and a complete understanding. His
manners were not only delightful, but I thought then, and
think stUl, were quite perfect. It has long been a habit
both in speech and writing to describe manners one wishes
to commend as those of "a gentleman of the old school."
This has always seemed to me a misleading phrase, involv
ing the error of confusing the incidental with the permanent.
Differences in manners — and by manners I do not, of course,
mean customs, but only those purely personal attributes
which are the results of training and tradition, such as are
implied in the words "old school" — are the superficial, acci
dental differences of time and place. Really fine manners,
I think, must have been, and must always be, in essence the

196 EARLY MEMORIES
same, I never, for instance, saw finer manners than those
of the famous Chief Joseph, a blanket Indian, in his full
panoply of war-bonnet and paint, one night at a White
House reception. Good manners, whatever the outward
changes and differences at different periods in history, must
be sympathetic, considerate, and, above aU, distinguished;
and if they have these qualities in high degree, then they are
good without regard to details of dress or morals or form of
expression. Tried by this standard, no one could have had
finer manners than Admiral Davis, and if we add that they
might be described as of the "old school," it merely means
that we have faUen on a time which, unfortunately, thinks
less of good manners than our ancestors did a hundred years
ago. Admiral Davis had travelled also in "the realms of
gold" as -widely as among the kingdoms of earth, and he
loved literature and learning in every form. He was a
scholar in the old-fashioned sense, and the Latin classics
were more with him almost than those of his own speech,
or of any of the modern tongues in which he was versed,
for he was an accomphshed hnguist. This love of letters
never waned. He told me that he meant to take up his
Greek again when he had retired from active service— a time,
alas, which never came — and devote himseh to that great
literature which he felt that he had too much neglected.
His favorite book was Shakespeare, whom he seemed to
know almost by heart, the fruit of long voyages, when he
read and read again the few books which he could take -with
him on his ship. His second love was VirgU, and the Vir-
gUian lines were constantly on his lips. The grace and dis
tinction of the gentlest and most refined of Roman poets
peculiarly appealed to him.
But more than all his accomplishments was the nature
of the man himself. No mean or low thought ever crossed

HARVARD : 1867-1871 197
his mind. High-minded himself to the last degree, it was
a positive pain to him to hear, stUl more to believe, anything
ill of anyone. His gentleness and kindness were not those
of the weakly good-natured, but of the man of strength and
courage, who would do his duty -without fear or favor, and
who hated evU and evU-doers, He had an infinite humor
and a love of nonsense and fun, ever among the most en
dearing of qualities. One could say of him, with the slight
change which sex commands, as Steele said of Lady Eliza
beth Hastings, that to know him was a hberal education.
He had the secret of eternal youth, that gift so rarely be
stowed and which has such perpetual charm. With all his
experience of life, with aU his labors and activities, he never
grew old in heart or mind. Age and years appeared to have
no relation to him. The freshness of the dawn was ever
upon him, and when, paying at last the long-delayed penalty
of his hard service in the war, he suddenly broke down at
the age of seventy, it seemed to aU that he had died prema
turely and in the flush of youth.
That others felt about him as I did, and saw in him the
qualities I have tried to describe, is sho-wn by the foUo-wing
letter from Mr. Motley, the historian, who was one of the
admiral's hfelong friends. London, 22nd March, 1877.
MY dear CABOT : —
Your last letter was more than six months ago (11th of July,
'76) and I did not think that one so interesting and instructive
would have remained so long without a reply.
But before I say another word on any other topic let me tell
you that my object today is to beg you to express to your wife
and her mother my deep, true and tender sympathy with them in
the great affliction which has befallen them in the death of Admiral
Davis. It is only within two or three days that I learned the sad event

198 EARLY MEMORIES
in the newspapers, for I have had no letters from home for some
time. I grieve most truly for you all, for I know full well what he was,
and although he has been permitted to attain to a ripe age and
to round into fullness a bright, noble and consistent career, yet
these reflections cannot mitigate the pangs of such a loss. The
longer such a man lives, the more he must become endeared to
those nearest and dearest to him.
All that friends can do is to utter words of sympathy and of
full appreciation of his virtues and high qualities.
His public career is part of our history. To be highly dis
tinguished both in the practical and the scientific part of the noble
profession to which his life was devoted and which he adorned, is
much. But it was permitted him to write his name in bright
letters on the most trying, eventful and heroic page of our history
and there it must remain so long as we have a history.
Death comes to all, but when it comes to end a life which has
been filled full of honorable actions, of devotion to duty, of chival
rous inspiration, our deepest regrets are rather for the survivors
than for the dead.
For myself I shall always be glad that I had the great pleasure
of seeing him in the midst of his family at Nahant during the
summer of '75, which I passed among you all.
He was, I am proud to say, my friend from early years and he
is associated with many of the brightest and tenderest remem
brances of my life. He was the valued friend of one dearer to
me than life and it is impossible for me to think of him or of your
mother-in-law without thinking of Her,
And he always seemed to me the same man — in youth and in
advanced years — of the same simple, truthful, genial, sympathetic,
unaffected presence, thoughtful and appreciative of others, un
demonstrative in himself — unchanged after he had achieved so
much from what he was when his career was but just beginning.
I shall always cherish his memory and once more I beg you to
say all that can be said on my part of true feeling to Mrs. Davis
and her daughter,
I will say no more,
I reserve for another day a letter which I need to write in answer
to yours very soon, I hope you will write to me again whenever
you can. Your letters are always very interesting to me.

HARVARD : 1867-1871 199
Give my best love to your Mother, in which, as well as to your
Wife, Susie begs to join, and befieve me
Sincerely your friend, J. L. Motley
On May 12, 1871, 1 came of age. On June 24 I received
my degree, graduating entirely without distinction, near the
end of the first half of the class. The foUowing day I was
married in the eighteenth-century Episcopal church, which
faces the coUege yard and the Common, and looks across
the old graveyard to the Unitarian church, "with its high,
sharp spire, on the other side.
"Like sentinel and nun they keep
Their -vigil on the green;
One seems to guard and one to weep,
The dead that lie between."
In August we set forth on a German liner for Europe,
taking -with us my wife's sister, Evelyn. The days of chUd
hood and youth, of school and college, of much enjoyment,
of cheerful irresponsibUity, were over. A new time had be
gun, and whatever else might happen the future was certain
to bring gro-wing responsibUities, for I had provided myself
with that assurance as a prehminary. As I look back now
to that parting of the ways I pause a moment before I leave
the old days to say a word of the changes which have
taken place in society between that time and this, in man
ners, in customs, and in the less serious things of life.

CHAPTER IX
RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST
It is no more possible to draw definite lines dividing one
part of life from another than it is to separate historical
periods with exactness by the rigid number of a given cen
tury. Yet when a man passes from the irresponsibility of the
years of school and college, when the artificial period fixed by
law for coming of age is attained and coincides, as it did in
my case, with marriage, with the assumption of responsi
bUities, and with the first vague questionings as to what
one is to do with life, there seems at that moment as one
contemplates the past a natural separation between that
which has befallen us since the annus mirabilis and that
which has gone before. The early days appear to be shut
off from those which foUow, although in reality they ghded
quite imperceptibly into each other. Looking back one
instinctively pauses at this point, for just here the tempta
tion to compare the world and society as one knew them at
the outset of life and as one knows them to-day, after forty
years have wrought their changes, becomes irresistible.
That human environment has altered more in the last
seventy years, since the first application of steam and elec
tricity to transportation and communication, than it had
in two thousand or, indeed, in six thousand years pre-viously,
is a truism to those who have taken the trouble to consider
this subject. Moreover, since the first application of steam
and electricity the revolution in the conditions of human ex
istence has gone forward with constantly accelerating force
and rapidity. When I was born the fundamental change
200

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 201
had already taken place. For more than forty years the
world had possessed the steamboat, for twenty years the
raUroad, and messages had been carried for six years at
least by the electric wire, I have never known, therefore,
the world and society as they were before these great instru
ments of communication and transportation existed. But
these far-reaching inventions were nevertheless still in their
infancy when I was advancing from the cradle to boyhood
and from boyhood to manhood. The steamboat, although
-widely used, was still, comparatively speaking, undeveloped,
especiaUy on the ocean, RaUroads were limited in extent
and were even less developed than steamboats. The enor
mous spread of both in aU quarters of the globe and the cor
responding increase in rapidity of movement have been the
work of the last sixty years. The sleeping-car, the parlor-
car, the fast through trains, the huge steamships, ten or
twelve times as large as any existing in my boyhood, which
now cross the Atlantic in less than a week, have all made
their gradual appearance during my lifetime. In the world
upon which I opened my eyes, and in which I hved and
played contentedly for many years, there were no ocean
cables and only a very hmited system of telegraphs. I re
member the beginning of street railways, which in their
growth and by the application of electricity as a motive
power have revolutionized (there is no other word) local
communications, upon which the daily life of the people so
largely depends, I have seen the telephone appear and
spread untU it has grown insensibly to be an integral part of
our existence, I have seen wireless telegraphy begin, electric
lighting introduced, the motor-car come into general use,
and if I should hve a few years longer I shaU, I suppose, be
hold, with the indifference born of famUiarity, the outlines
of flying-machines dark against the sky. There have been
many other inventions, many marvellous scientific discov-

202 EARLY MEMORIES
eries, of course, in my time, but I mention only those which
have changed radically human environment and the con
ditions of life, thereby affecting the evolution of the human
race as only a changed environment can affect it. If new
conditions powerful enough to produce evolutionary move
ments have been created, then society, customs, and man
ners, which are the mere refiections of the desires and tend
encies of mankind at any given moment, must be profoundly
affected also by such extraordinary changes in en-vironment.
To any man who has hved beyond middle age, the altera
tions which he has witnessed and the contrasts between the
world he knows and that in which he began life must be, and
at almost any period of human history must have always
been, very apparent. How much more startling are such
changes and how much more profound and far-reaching when
the years cover the birth and growth of new conditions more
extreme in their meaning and effects than any which have
occurred in man's en-vironment within historic times! The
men and women born between 1830 and 1870 who stiU hve
have passed through this period and, unconsciously for the
most part, have watched these be-wUdering metamorphoses
come and have beheld the new order establish itseh. Reali
zing, as I think I do, these contrasts and changes, it is per
haps, not amiss to note them down, I am not concerned to
decide whether the alterations in customs, society, and
manners, born of the new environment and the new condi
tions of life, are in my opinion for better or worse. That is
a matter of personal taste. One can take the Homeric posi
tion that the men of old time were worth more than those
of the present, or, if one prefers, that of early Christian pes
simism, and hold, with Bernard of Clairvaux, that
"The world is very evil.
The times are growing late,"

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 203
On the other hand, we can, if we are of a cheerful tempera
ment, cling to the creed of the nineteenth century, that man
kind is steadily advancing and that we are moving slowly
upward to perfection; or we can fall back on the opinion
-with which Machiavelh shocked the world, that, although
customs alter, humanity is ever the same, never really pro
gressing, but always possessed of the same -virtues and, still
more distinctly, of the same vices. These are all arguable
propositions, but I have no thought of arguing anything,
I -wish merely to point out certain facts without any attempt
to pass judgment upon their merits or to praise or blame
existing conditions.
The society into which I was born and of which I became
a part was, aside from politics, in its standards and fashions
essentiaUy Enghsh, The colonial habits of thought, very
natural in their proper time, stUl held sway. In reading the
reminiscences of Mr. George RusseU and of Sir Algernon
West, in which they contrast the society of their youth with
London society as it is to-day, I was struck by the absolute
identity of many of the vanished manners and customs
which they recall -with those which I remember. It seemed
to me as if in many respects they were -writing of the Boston
which I knew as a boy. The dominance of English habits,
fashions, and behefs may have been more pronounced in
Boston and New England than elsewhere in the United
States, but I doubt if there was any serious difference. I am
satisfied that American society, in its opinions and habits,
was much the same in all the Atlantic States, that is, in
the former colonies, and that they impressed their views
upon the new Western States as the latter gradually emerged
from the backwoods, pioneer stage of development. The
books we read from those of chUdhood onward were English,
our fashions of dress were English, our long, generous, heavy
dinners were English; the ladies left the men in the dining-

204 EARLY MEMORIES
room, as in England, and as they still do in Boston, and the
Continental habit of escorting the women from the dining-
room to the drawing-room was unkno-wn. Our literary-
standards, our standards of statesmanship, our modes of
/ thought, apart from politics and diplomacy, where we were
really independent, were as English as the trivial customs
of the dinner-table and the ballroom.
I turn to the "Autocrat," a really great book, which has
not even yet come to its proper place, and there, at the very
beginning, I find the delightful passage about mutual ad
miration societies. Doctor Holmes had read more widely,
more curiously, more thoroughly, perhaps, than almost any
man of his time, and analogies, Ulustrations, and quotations
teemed in his memory and sprang into life as he wrote. Yet
what are the examples he gives to sustain his theme of the
mutual admiration societies of men of genius or talent? Two
very local from New York and two examples from England,
the Shakespearian and the Johnsonian groups. The poets
of the "Pleiade," the men who gathered about Lorenzo de
Medici or Petrarch or Boccaccio, the Venetian group of
Aretino and Titian and Sansovino, the French Romanticists
of 1830, and many others were as famUiar to him as to the
rest of the world, but instinctively, in order to Ulustrate his
text, he takes two English groups and no others. Turn to
Mark Twain's "Life on the Mississippi" and read there his
satire about the influence of Scott as displayed in the South
ern fancy for the words "knightly" and "chivalrous," and
for talking about "Norman blood" and "cavahers" and aU
the rest of the stage machinery of the famous novels — a
queer trick which has endured to much later times than those
of which I am writing at this moment. It all teUs the same
story of the manners, customs, and social ideals of the
United States in the early Victorian period,
, The only foreign opinion which we heeded was that of

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 205
England, and we showed how much we cared about it by our
childish sensitiveness to the arrogant and ignorant brutality
which disfigured most English criticism. The colonial atti
tude of mind was displayed as clearly by the deep hatred of
England which most Americans felt as it could have been
by the most servUe admiration.
The English observers of changes in their own society
note many alterations which are common to American society
as well, but in the United States forces which had no exist
ence in England have been at work and have resulted in
social changes far more sweeping and more profound than
anywhere else. The colonial spirit and the English influ
ence have alike disappeared. The Civil War disposed of the
one finally, and destroyed with it not only slavery but our
crude and youthful sensitiveness to criticism, which was en
hanced, if not largely created, by the terrorized sUence which
slavery imposed. The huge increase of immigration, draw
ing its armies no longer from the British Isles alone, but
from aU Europe, has so dUuted the English element that
it is no longer all-important. Owing to our immigrants
and to the vast development of communication and trans
portation, the United States, so far as its relations to other
countries are concerned, has become cosmopolitan. I do
not mean by this that we have ceased to have character
istics of our own. Far from it. The American character
istics have changed, and are still changing from those which
were famUiar and well-nigh universal when I was a boy, but
'they are none the less definite and are gro-wing constantly
more marked. The American of to-day is cosmopolitan in
his attitude toward other countries, but he is more than ever
strongly American. He is not open to Wentworth Higgin-
son's criticism of a distinguished citizen of the United
States that "to be really cosmopolitan a man must feel
at home even in his o-wn country." His patriotism cannot

206 EARLY MEMORIES
be more intense than that of his predecessor in the days
before the CivU War, but it is more uniform and more con
tented. It remains to be seen whether it is capable of
reaching the lofty heights attained in the war for the Union,
but I am only comparing it with that which existed before
the great uprising of the people to save their country.
Seventy-five years ago our patriotism was restless, uneasy,
self-assertive toward the rest of the world, while at home
it was shadowed by the dark clouds of the slavery question
and was suspicious and highly locahzed. The United States
was divided by slavery, and when a man's patriotism was
aroused it followed sectional lines and did not, as now,
cover with impartial affection the entire country. Improve
ment in communications, the spread of raUroads and tele
graphs, have had their part in this change as weU as the
sacrifices of the CivU War which wrought it.
It is to steam and electricity, also, that we owe the
material development of the country, which, under old con
ditions, it would have taken as many centuries almost as it
has years to bring to its present point of wealth and pros
perity. This rapid development of practicaUy unlimited
natural resources has, of course, brought -with it not only
general prosperity, but huge and quickly acquired riches.
Vast fortunes, of course, are no new thing. Poverty and
wealth are as old as civUization. The money-maker, the
speculator, and the financier were a class as famihar to
ancient Rome as they are at this moment to London or
New York or Paris. The tax-gatherers, the courtiers, the
officials of Egypt, the Phoenicians circling the Mediterranean
and stealing down the African and up the European coast,
the Greek colonists and traders, the Athenian merchants,
the mediaeval bankers of Italy and Germany, the Venetian
ship-o-wners, the manufacturers of the Low Countries, the
English nabobs of the East and West Indies, the London

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 207
bankers, were not essentially unlike the mUlionaires of to-day.
That which differentiates our own time is the rapidity with
which wealth has been amassed and the size of the fortunes
which have been gathered. In these respects mankind has
never seen their like, any more than it has seen raUroads and
steamboats and electricity or the thousand inventions by
which we have been able to make the earth in a few months
or years yield up its riches to our relentless grasp and to
seize remorselessly and with reckless wastefulness every re
source which is offered by the bounty of nature. If we may
believe Macaulay, Lars Porsena numbered among his fol
lowers a rich mine-o-wner:

" Seius, whose eight hundred slaves
Sicken in Ilva's mines."

But the modern mine-owner, with highly paid free labor,
is able to extract a colossal fortune from ore which Seius
would have rejected as utterly worthless. Indeed, untU
¦within the last thirty years we had not gone far beyond the
methods of mining which contributed to the wealth of the
Etruscan king.
In the United States, moreover, the change has not only
been quicker, but the contrast -with what had gone before
is much more -violent than in the Old World, The condi
tions of the Revolutionary days, when foreign observers ad
mired us because they found here neither great poverty nor
great wealth, neither very rich nor very poor, but a general
equahty of well-being, had passed away long before my
memories begin. Yet the difference, nevertheless, between
1850 and 1913 is sufficiently striking. Some years ago, in
1880, a Boston newspaper published a list of the principal
taxpayers of Boston in the year 1830, giving the amount of
the personal property upon which they were severally as-

208 EARLY MEMORIES
sessed. By far the richest man was taxed upon three hun
dred and fifty thousand dollars. There was no one else who
came anywhere near this amount. When I was a boy a hun
dred thousand dollars was considered a comfortable property,
and the very rich man, with wealth beyond the dreams of
avarice, was spoken of as a mUlionaire, Now three hundred
and fifty thousand doUars would be regarded, in fashionable
society at least, as a very modest provision; a hundred
thousand would be looked upon as genteel poverty; and to
describe adequately a really rich man, we are forced to
"multimiUionaire," for a mUlion is no longer great wealth.
These simple figures imply, of course, a complete and uni
versal change in the scale of hving and a corresponding al
teration in the social structure. Society, as I first remember
it, was based on the old famUies; Doctor Holmes defines
them in the "Autocrat" as the families which had held high
position in the colony, the province, and during the Revolu
tion and the early decades of the United States, They repre
sented several generations of education and standing in the
community. They had traditions running back not infre
quently to the first white settlement and the days of Ehza-
beth and James. They had ancestors who had filled the
pulpits, sat upon the bench, and taken part in the govern
ment under the crown; who had fought in the Revolution,
helped to make the State and national constitutions and
served in the army or na-vy; who had been members of the
House or Senate in the early days of the Republic, and who
had won success as merchants, manufacturers, la-wyers, or
men of letters. In many places people of this sort have been
pushed out of sight, if not actuaUy driven against the con
ventional wall. Unless they were able to hold on to a cer
tain amount of money or to add to their inherited fortune,
they have been swept away. The persons who now fiU
society, as depicted in the depressing phrases and strange

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 209
language considered suitable to the subject by the daUy
press, are for the most part the modern, very modern, plu
tocrats who are widely different from their modest prede
cessors of the middle of the nineteenth century. In my
early memory, the man who, rising from the ranks, had
made a fortune and wished to establish himself, sought en
trance to the society of the old famUies and hoped, and
sometimes endeavored, to marry his chUdren among them.
To the modern and recent plutocrat the old American family
means nothing. He knows naught of the history or tradi
tions of his State and country, and cares less. He has but
one standard, money or money's worth. He wants his chil
dren to marry money, and for that reason he prefers the
chUdren of other plutocrats, no matter how new, or he wUl
buy a European title, because he comprehends that the title
has value as a trade-mark and a trade-mark he understands.
Old family, whether at home or abroad, no matter how dis
tinguished, if it is without a title, is meaningless to him.
His theory, which he has every reason to believe to be sound,
is that if he has enough money he can have everything he
desires, and that his money will open to him all the social
doors, not only in America, but in Europe, and that there
is no court of the Old World which vsdll not welcome him, no
royal personage who wUl hot receive him, if he only has
money enough. Did not Mr, George Bernard Shaw, for
once abandoning the tiresome paradox, say that when Mr,
Carnegie landed in the British Isles all England was one
universal cringe, and has any one had the hardihood to
contradict him?
"Novi homines," as the name imports, are no new thing
under the sun. We should indeed fare Ul if it were not for the
men who, starting with nothing, make their own way to the
top. They have always been a powerful class in every civUi
zation of which we have knowledge; and in this class, as in

210 EARLY MEMORIES
every other, the members vary among themselves, from
those who wear, as if born to it, the purple they have at
tained, to those who can only realize and understand mere
money and who are the exponents of that -vulgarity which
is typical of their class, and which, indeed, they come very-
near monopohzing. So I am far from suggesting that the
newly rich man is a modern phenomenon. He is as old as
commercial civUization, What I would point out is merely
that he is more portentous than fflty years ago or, indeed,
than at any period of which we have record. The great in
ventions of the nineteenth century have so quickened every
thing that the plutocrat is richer than ever before and of
larger and much more rapid growth. The pace has been so
accelerated that famUies which were just struggling into
position when I was young are now regarded as ancient and
long established, so fast and in such numbers have the
creations of the last twenty years crowded upon their heels.
These newcomers have absorbed, in fact they are in large
measure the fans et origo of the society columns of the news
papers, which they ffll with their performances, with their
entertainments, their expenditures, their marriages, their
divorces, and their scandals. The world at large which
reads those delectable columns believes that this is what
constitutes fashionable society, and is probably quite right
in so thinking. Whether it is what used to be technicaUy
called in an elder day "good" society is another question.
These same people have also taken complete possession of
the fashionable world itself in some places, and they are
flagrant and not to be overlooked anywhere, either here or
in Europe, In force, in insistence, in self-assertion and pretence, they
do not, I imagine, differ widely from their prototypes dimly
seen in the receding vistas. But they are much more numer
ous and much richer than their earher predecessors. There

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 211
are two facts about them which seem to me to be new,
although I venture the assertion of novelty with much
diffidence. It seems to me that the chUdren, the second
generation, who come suddenly to the enjoyment of wealth
which they have not earned, and who have no restraining
habits or traditions, are in a surprisingly large proportion
faUures; sometimes degenerates who end in an early -wreck.
The girls do better, perhaps, than the boys, although the
story of their marriages and divorces, both foreign and
domestic, does not furnish an exhUarating subject either for
contemplation or study.
The other fact in regard to them which seems to me ob-
-vious is their lawlessness, their disregard of the rights of
others, especiaUy of others about whom they are not in
formed, and as they know only money, their information is
limited. I do not mean by this to say merely that they
are arrogant; that is an old characteristic of the type. I
use the word "lawless" in its exact sense. They pay no
regard to the laws of the land or the laws and customs of
society if the laws are in their way. They seem to think
that money warrants everything and can pay for everything,
and that nothing must be aUowed to stand in the way of
what money wants. The maker of the sudden fortune may
have disregarded written statutes and the unwritten laws
of honor, but he did it consciously, certainly with full knowl
edge in the case of the statutes. His chUdren, however, do
it aU unconsciously, so far as my observation goes, which
means that they think themselves born to a position above
the laws. There have been classes of people before who
have taken this same -view of their position, although on
different and less ignoble grounds. But the result in modern
times has been the same. When the people at large who
had to obey the laws finaUy rose, the end was ruin to the
lawless, and sometimes the guUlotine. This process of

212 EARLY MEMORIES
reformation is expensive, and even the most confirmed opti
mist may therefore regard the gigantic modern plutocracy
and its lawless ways with some uneasiness. I am not a
"laudator temporis acti." I shun the role. I do not say
that the modern plutocrat is worse than the plutocrat of
other times and other lands, but I say decidedly that he is
different and that he merits observation.
On the other hand, this expansion of fortunes and this
rise in the power of money are not confined in their effects to
those who seem to have profited most largely by them. We
can see the same tendency in almost every political issue that
is raised, for they nearly all turn on giving some class of peo
ple more money. The underl3dng proposition of most of the
agitation now going forward is to take money by means of
legislation, through government action, from those who have
it, either by earning it or by inheritance, and give it to
those who have not earned it, and especiaUy to those who
are unable or unwUling to earn it. The old spirit of indi-
"vidualism, which has carried the United States forward to
its extraordinary material success, is decried as almost purely
evil, to be curbed if not whoUy extinguished. Success of
any sort, no matter how honest and honorable, especially if
it brings a pecuniary reward, is not only no longer admired,
as it used to be, but has become a danger rather than a prize
for which men should strive. To labor in any way appears
to be considered as a misfortune in itself, which, if inevitable,
must be mitigated so far as possible, the principal mitigation
proposed being an effort to prevent those who work hardest
and best from gaining any greater reward than those who
work least and most ineffectively. Special privUeges which
are said to have existed for the benefit of the rich and suc
cessful seem to be on the way not to extinction, but to trans
ference, which looks like a doubtful solution if we admit,
what has always been assumed, that special privileges, no

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 213
matter who enjoys them, are in themselves a bad thing.
The "carriere ouverte aux talens," which was a watchword
of the French Revolution, the equality of opportunity so
unlimited in the United States, which Lincoln lauded as one
of the glories of his country, were the unquestioned truisms
of my youth. Now the talents which profit by the open
career seem to be regarded with suspicion, and as prima-
facie evidence of -wrong-doing. Instead of seeking to as
sure equahty of opportunity, the theory, whether openly
expressed or not, appears now to be that without regard to
merit there must be equahty of result, a widely different
proposition, far more difficult of attainment, and certain to
end in a kind of injustice that would act as a powerful dis
solvent upon the social structure, and even upon civilizar
tion itself.
Mr. Debs, when he accepted his nomination for the
Presidency, said:
"Capitahsm is rushing blindly to its impending doom.
AU the signs portend the inevitable breakdown of the exist
ing order. Deep-seated discontent has seized upon the
masses. Poverty, high prices, unemployment, chUd slavery,
-wide-spread misery and haggard want in a land bursting
-with abundance; prostitution and insanity, suicide and
crime; these in solemn numbers tell the tragic story of cap-
itsihsm's saturnalia of blood and tears and shame as its
end draws near."
Mr, Debs's violence of language is only equalled by his
looseness of thought and expression. Yet there are large
masses of people who would not think of supporting Mr.
Debs but who, none the less, hold more or less vaguely the
same view that there are many evUs in the world, that the
existing order is to blame for them, and that if we get rid
of the existing order we shall get rid of the evUs too, and enter
upon a mUlennium, presided over and guided by Mr. Debs

214 EARLY MEMORIES
or some equaUy judicious, gifted, and disinterested person,
Mr, Debs calls the "existing order" capitalism, which is a
name of no exact significance but weU calculated to ex
cite prejudice. Persons less righteous and more lukewarm
might describe the "existing order" as a commercial and
industrial civUization in coutradisthiction to those in which
the dominant impulse was rehgious or mUitary, But the
name is of no consequence. The "existing order" is the
only one we have, and when it is swept away the civUiza
tion dependent upon it goes with it. Even at the risk of
denunciation as a reactionary it may fairly be said that this
is a serious step. The last great civUization which has been
overthrown went down -with the Roman Empire, The evUs
of the empire were obvious enough, but its faU does not
seem to have been followed by any very immediate improve
ment in human conditions, so grave an undertaking was it
to wreck and replace a great civUization, If it were per
fectly clear that poverty, prostitution, suicide, crime, and
the rest of the dreadful evUs which Mr, Debs enumerates
were due to the "existing order," there could be no doubt
as to our duty. But it was said nearly two thousand years
ago by the Saviour of mankind: "The poor always ye have
with you," and there is reason to beheve that "blood and
tears" and suicide and insanity and crime and prostitution
have existed under every government and every civihzation
of which there is record. It would be a waste of time to
suggest to those who think the present order has failed that
the only way to judge it justly is to determine whether these
evUs and -wrongs are greater or less, increasing or diminish
ing, under the present system as compared with its prede
cessors. In my youth it was beheved that these evUs were
constantly being lessened, that the whole movement of
society was directed toward their extinction so far as ex
tinction was possible, and that this was the pecuhar mark

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 215
and glory of our civilization. It is now -widely held, and not
by Mr, Debs and his foUowers alone, that the fault is in
herent in our civUization itself, which is making human
conditions worse instead of better than they have ever been,
and that therefore the only way to improvement is by pull
ing to pieces and destroying the existing order. This is
not the place to argue the question if it be arguable from
the lukewarm point of -view. I merely would point out the
enormous contrast between the sanguine mental attitude
prevalent in my youth and that, perhaps wiser, but certainly
darker -view, so general to-day. Let me put the thoughts
and behefs in which I was brought up, and which per
vaded the world in which I grew to manhood, in the
words of another — better words than I or any one else
could find:
"The most notable feature of a disturbance in your city
last summer was the hanging of some working people by
other working people. It should never be so . The strongest
bond of human sjmipathy, outside of the fanuly relation,
should be one uniting all working people, of all nations and
tongues and kindreds. Nor should this lead to a war upon
property or the owners of property. Property is the fruit
of labor, property is desirable, is a positive good to the
world. That some should be rich shows that others may
become rich, and hence, is just encouragement to industry
and enterprise. Let not him who is houseless puU down the
house of another, but let him labor dUigently and buUd one
for himself, thus by example assuring that his o-wn shall be
safe from violence when buUt,"
Any one who spoke in this vAse to-day would be de
scribed in many quarters as a "reactionary," probably as a
"fossUized reactionary," and, in the current, cant language,
as a friend of "the special interests " and of the "money-
power," Yet those are the words of Abraham Lincoln in

216 EARLY MEMORIES
1864,1 speaking to a deputation of a working-man's associa
tion — of Abraham Lincoln, a man of the people, a servant of
the people, to whom he gave himself both in his life and in
his death. We have been moving away rapidly of late from
such doctrines as these, and if it be assumed that all move
ment is good, merely as movement, without regard to its
direction, we must have made great advances, if advances
are measured merely by distance. Whether the progress
is toward ultimate perfection is another, larger, and some
what disputed question. In any event, there can be no
doubt of the -wide departure from the principles set forth
by Lincoln which we are now urged to make.
I have no criticisms to offer, stUl less do I desire to say
whether the new beliefs are better or worse than the old.
But there can be no doubt that the difference and the con
trast between them exist, and that the faiths of my youth,
then universally held, are now in many quarters not only
denounced, but cast aside as only fit for the dust heaps of
history. Social pohtical changes, then, in the United States during
the past fifty years have been obviously much more marked,
much more rapid, than in the Old World. They are as ob
vious also in the superficial habits of life as in the funda
mental principles upon which American democracy and free
government have hitherto securely rested. The fact that we
were a young and swiftly gro-wing people made this greater
rapidity, one might almost say this violence of change, in
evitable. Yet it is curious, as I have already remarked,
how simUar the alterations have been along many lines in
England and in America, if we may trust to such good ob
servers as Mr. George Russell and Sir Algernon West.
They both, for example, comment upon the adoption of
money and disease as subjects for general, and especially for
'Nicolay and Hay's "Abraham Lincola: A History," vol. IX, p. 61.

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 217
dinner-table, conversation. I was taught in my youth, and
very -vigorously taught, that it was not good manners to
discuss physical aUments in general society, and that it was
the height of vulgarity to refer to money or to what any
thing cost, whether in your o-wn case or in that of other peo
ple. I now hear surgical operations, physical functions,
disease and its remedies, freely and fully discussed at dinner
and on all other occasions by the ingenuous youth of both
sexes. Money is no longer under a taboo. One's o-wn
money and that of one's neighbors is largely talked about,
and the cost of everything or anything recurs as often in
polite conversation as in a tariff debate. Again I am not
concerned to decide which is the better fashion, the old or
the new. I merely note the difference.
The world of Boston, when I opened my eyes upon it,
was a very smaU and simple world as I look back at it now
in the glare and noise of the twentieth century. There was
an abundance of gayety, but expenditures were small.
Everybody knew everybody else and all about everybody
else's famUy, Most people were related, for in the small
colonial communities of the eighteenth century the estab
lished famUies had intermarried in a manner most bewUder-
ing even to the trained genealogist. Yet the extreme famUi
arity and ease of intercourse which I now observe among
young men and young women entirely unrelated did not then
exist. However intimate people might be, a certain formal
ity of address was thought to be demanded by good manners.
It was firmly believed that the observance of these conven
tions was necessary to maintain the dignity of polite society
as well as self-respect and respect for others. In that old
time, which is really not so very old or so very distant, but
which seems to grow more and more unreal as I try to re
produce it before the surprised stare of the exemplars of
modern habits and standards, it was an accepted tenet that

218 EARLY MEMORIES
chUdren not only ought to honor their father and mother,
but that they owed them a great debt and were bound to
respect them, to help them, to sympathize with them, and,
if need were, to care for them. This theory has now been
almost reversed. The present view seems to be that par
ents owe an unlimited debt to chUdren because they brought
them into the world, and are bound to defer to them in aU
possible ways, one reason, perhaps, among many more
potent, for the decline in the size of famUies. Again I do
not offer any opinion as to the respective merits of the two
systems. I -wUl only go so far as to say that my own gen
eration, owing to this change, has found itself in the subor
dinate and reverential attitude both at the beginning and
at the end of life, both as chUd and as parent.
The rapidity of fortune-making is but one form of the
increased and increasing swiftness which marks to-day every
kind of occupation, whether useful or otherwise, as weU as
every function of daUy hfe. To all societies it has brought
haste in h-ving, and incessant movement seems to be the key
note of existence. The leisure class rush uneasUy from one
amusement to another, the busy transact business and push
forward their affairs with feverish and often breakneck
speed. That repose which our ancestors so prized and which
they thought comported best with dignity of life and man
ners has departed. Quiet and repose would now be consid
ered stupid and dreary, while contentment is looked upon as
the sign of a poor, unaspiring soul. It might be urged that
repose of maimer and contentment of spirit have not been
found incompatible -with high achievements, with daring
deeds, or with noble aspirations. But it is to be feared that
this suggestion would fall now upon deaf ears. The point
seems, perhaps, not worth pressing, yet the restlessness and
hurry so prevalent and so beloved to-day have produced
certain far-reaching results which affect profoundly every

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 219
activity of hfe and thought, and thereby the very nature
of our civUization. I can best express what I mean by
saying that we are now in such a hurry that form is being
abandoned, that it has, indeed, been very largely given up.
This may seem at the first glance an unimportant matter,
but it is reaUy most serious when it is carefuUy considered,
for form has always been one of the essential qualities of all
the best work which, in the last analysis, has been the justi
fication and the fine flower of a high civUization. It is form
which has preserved for humanity, and given life and savor
to, all that mankind has cherished most as it has passed
along its toUsome road, choked with the dust of material
strife, deafened by the din, and broken and wounded by the
blows of the struggle for existence and by the shocks of wars
and revolutions.
Let me take a famihar instance. It is a commonplace
to say that the old and graceful art of letter-writing has
weU-nigh vanished. The letters of the seventeenth, eight
eenth, and early nineteenth centuries, which it is such a
dehght to read and which revive for us the life, the loves,
the hopes, the ambitions, the manners, the scandals, the
gossip, the thoughts of a bygone day, are no longer written.
It is not merely that the telegraph, the telephone, and the
type-writer are the enemies of letter-writing. These might,
no doubt these inventions must, reduce the number of let
ters, but that is no reason why those letters which are
written should for the most part be dry, condensed, and un
graceful, and fall as dead as a -withered leaf as soon as they
have been read. The fact is that it requires time to write
a good letter, one worthy of preservation for some reason
other than business or historical purposes. A really good
letter should have style; thought should be expended upon
it, and it should be carefully framed and composed. It
ought to possess both form and substance; and if it is easUy

220 EARLY MEMORIES
written, that is the result of training, practice, and care.
Robert Louis Stevenson, the best letter-writer of our time,
took infinite pains even with a note. But all these qualities
consume time, and we have in these days, apparently, no
time to give to a particular letter or to the training which is
needful if we would have every letter a good one. We are
restless and in a hurry, and therefore we abandon any at
tempt at form and content ourselves -with what -wffl do weU
enough for the moment. Thus it comes to pass that the
charming art of the letter-writer, with a few lonely excep
tions, dies out from among us.
In sculpture and painting we see the same tendency.
Because Rodin, a great genius, sees fit in his later work to
leave parts uncut or merely roughly indicated, a herd of
imitators who are not geniuses at all rush forward to repro
duce the master's trick or oddity or mannerism, which he
perhaps makes effective, and announce in shrUl tones that
the very art which above all others depends on form is best
expressed by formlessness. We call the same thing in a
Greek statue an injury from time or bad treatment. In
the case of Michael Angelo we say with regret that the
statue is unfinished, and no one quarrels -with the correctness
of the definition. But the imitators of Rodin, who have
never proved their mastery of form by noble works like the
"Age of Bronze" or the "St. John" or "Le Penseur," insist
that crude marble, amorphous and rough-hewn, is true
sculpture. The fact is that in the hands of the imitators
formlessness is only a convenient way of saving time and
avoiding labor; a method of escaping from the work they
cannot do and which demands a skUl and a talent they
do not possess.
There have been "impressionists" here and there who
have produced beautiful pictures. But the crowd who have
practised impressionism, stiU more those who revert to the

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 221
drawing of chUdhood or of prehistoric man and caU them
selves "futurists" or "cubists" or some other meaningless
name, and sing the praises of their various eccentricities as
the only true form of art in painting, are, as a rule, the in-
capables, dominated by the restlessness and hurry of the
present day. They proclaim the doctrine that the vague,
the unfinished, the undrawn, the flat surface, and the child
ish hues are the real quahties of true art. This theory,
loudly asserted, is merely the dust that is raised to cover
the real cause of aU these movements, which is to give to
those of inferior talent an opportunity and a reason for bad
work, for work done quickly in order to meet the clamorous
haste which caUs aloud to them on every corner and from
every housetop. It is not the "caU of the -wUd" which
invites them, but the caU of the newspaper head-line. The
head-hne is what they want, and so form is rejected. Form
requires time and study and brings no head-line, no inter-
¦viewer, no sensation in its train.
In writing, style, which is the essence of form, is now
quite generaUy neglected. The reason is obvious. Style
requires infinite pains, and taking pains means time. Why
waste it when the main object is to pour out books or maga
zine articles, and sweU the vast flood which sweeps under
the bridge to the delectation of the idle crowd looking over
the raUings, and in a day has rushed on to the ocean of
obli-vion? As one watches the turbid torrent pouring by
one feels less disposed to jeer at the old Yankee farmer who,
when asked to subscribe to the vUlage hbrary, replied: "I
don't care for libraries. Reading rots the mind,"
The -writers who with infinite care perfect their style as
Stevenson did, and who maintain the standards of the great
models which have come down to us from a long past, de
light the judicious and have a crescent and enduring fame.
But it is to be feared that they are looked upon just now by

222 EARLY MEMORIES
the great mass of readers as dull eccentricities, and the
crowd goes on contentedly absorbing day by day the printed
word from the most ob-vious sources which range from the
vulgarisms and slovenhness of most newspapers to the loose,
careless, colorless, formless stories and articles which pad
out, together with advertisements -written in the same cheer
ful dialect, the pages of many magazines. The world is in
a hurry, the -writer is in a hurry — why waste time over style
which has no obvious money value? Form and style, be it
said again, require time, and what we desire are new articles
and new stories and new sensations so that we may rush
from one to another. We do not seek for or demand work
weU done, work which rests securely on the slow accretions
of ci-vihzation, and which is inspired by the labors of the
men of genius who have added to the intellectual posses
sions of mankind and then gone their way into the covering
darkness. To those who hsten -with attentive ears or read -with
careful eyes it is apparent that the decline in outward form,
in that which strikes the senses, is accompanied by a similar
and growing indifference to that inner form which is wholly
inteUectual in its appeal. From writing, painting, or carv
ing in a formless way to thinking in slovenly fashion is but
a step. Incoherence of expression is nearly aUied to in
coherence of thought. Deep thought may lurk under an
obscure style and has often been hidden in that way, but
an obscure style does not of itself mean depth of thought,
although some people appear to think so. An involved,
diffuse styl^ frequently conceals nothing but emptiness and
confusion, i Clearness and simplicity are entirely compatible
with profound and original thought, but to those who are
neither profound nor original, simplicity and clearness are
impossible, because they relentlessly expose the void within.
Under cover of rambling and chaotic sentences, vague brush

RETROSPECT AND CONTRAST 223
strokes, or shapeless marble, poverty of ideas may claim, if
it does not really produce, an effect. It may lead people to
mistake eccentricity for originality. It may startle for the
moment, and that seems the key-note of much modern work,
which imperatively recaUs the fat boy in "Pickwick" when
he frightens old Mrs. Wardle by saying to her: "I want
to make your flesh creep." But when we tear aside the
veU the reahty is disclosed, and we find only too often that
the argument is as formless as the sentences in which it is
dressed, the inner thought as meaningless and amorphous
as its shapeless wrappings. How seldom, comparatively
speaking, do we find in speech or book the argument or
thesis in proper form, rising from premise to conclusion in
ordered sequence. Disjecta membra are flung together, but
the thought as a whole is broken and disconnected. To
think clearly and connectedly, to know how to begin at the
beginning and thence carry the mind of the reader or hearer
smoothly on to the inevitable conclusion, is a great art, rare
in its perfection, but in a reasonable degree not uncommon
in the past. Now, however, it is becoming more and more
infrequent, for such thinking demands painful effort, much
training, and much time. Is the modern rapidity destined
to prove altogether fatal to connected thinking and to well-
ordered argument? We are in a great hurry, we are ter
ribly afraid of being bored, the phUosophy of life seems to
be to do what we wish to do at the moment, provided that
we know what our -wishes and desires are. We seem to be
far removed from the days when a great poet could put the
aspiration of a generation into the lines:
"When duty whispers low, You must!
The youth replies, I can."
I do not say that the old attitude was the best. Perhaps
the modern theory is the better of the two. It is not for

224 EARLY MEMORIES
me to decide. I merely note the striking change. Hitherto
in the history of mankind the decline of a civUization, the
break-up of a great social and political system, the sinking
into ruin of a nation or an empire, were revealed in litera
ture and art by the devotion to mere outward form, to
over refinement, to tricks of expression, with nothing behind
them. At such periods form became everything, and under
the elaborate forms no substance was to be found. When
the final catastrophe came and dexterity of manufacture
vanished there was nothing left. Formlessness once more,
as at the beginning, reigned in expression, and there was
no thought to express. We can see this process in the lat
ter days of Rome's empire, in the condition of Italy after
the Reformation there had faUed and the glories of the Re
naissance had faded. It was from these conditions that men
worked upward, rough in form at first but -with vigor of
thought struggling for expression. They gradually recov
ered the standard of a great past and once more brought
literature and the arts to the highest levels of both form and
substance. We do not show the symptom of decay almost
infalhble in its prophecy and which is unnustakable, when
form is everything and substance nothing. Our situation
is quite different. The tendency now is to abandon outer
form and then to be content with formlessness in thought, .
because we are too hurried to spend time in securing the
one or avoiding the other. Are we going to bring out of a
chaos created by ourselves new forms and a new order, or
are we dehberately returning to the t-wUight which precedes
the da-wn, determined to live in that dim zone because we
have not time to spare for the patient labors, for the care
ful establishment of standards by which, and by which alone,
civUization, carrying arts and letters and thought in its
train, has hitherto emerged after many conflicts from the
bondage of barbarism?

CHAPTER X
EUROPE AGAIN: 1871-1872
I SHALL not give any account of our journey in Europe,
for this is not a book of travels, and our wanderings were
along much-trodden paths and among famUiar places.
When my mother went abroad with her father and mother
in 1837 they, of course, posted through Europe in their o-wn
carriage and foUowed the well-known lines: France, the
Rhine, Switzerland, Italy, and a brief visit to the German
capitals, winding up before their return with a journey
through England and Scotland. When my mother went
again to Europe in 1866, taking my sister and me with her,
although raUroads in the interval had changed the entire
character of traveUing, she very naturally wished to revisit
the places which had charmed her in girlhood and to renew
the memories of that happy time. When, again, four years
later, I went independently, I wished that my wife and her
sister should see what I had seen before. So we made our
way to London after landing at Southampton, saw the
usual sights and renewed our friendship with the Russell
Sturgises, who, as always, were unwearied in their kindness
and hospitality. Mount Felix, alas, was a thing of the past,
and they were h-ving in Carlton House Terrace, but they
themselves were unchanged, and we had many pleasant
hours with them. We saw sights in abundance, but few
people, for we were not of an age to crave society where
everything about us was so new and strange and interesting
225

226 EARLY MEMORIES
to the eager eyes of youth. Nevertheless, under maternal
directions, we went one afternoon to call upon Mrs. Story,
who was staying -with Mrs. Benson, then living in a very
charming house in the Kensington region. The visit is
made memorable to me by the fact that we found other
callers already there, Mrs. Leslie Stephen and her sister
Miss Thackeray. We were quite unknown, very shy I think,
and we certainly felt most keenly our youthful insigniflcance
in a strange house, in a foreign land, but it interested me
profoundly to know that I was actuaUy face to face with
Thackeray's daughters. I recall nothing that they said,
but' I remember weU just how they looked; and their pres
ence seemed to bring me very near to their father, whose
books I had read whUe I was in coUege and for whom, both
as writer and man, I had acquired an intense admiration.
From London we crossed to the Continent, went up the
Rhine, and so on to Munich, whence we made our way to
the hUls in order to see the Passion play at Oberammergau.
We stayed with an old white-bearded peasant who took the
part of one of the high priests, and the whole experience was
most interesting. The play was then given only once in
ten years — fashion had but just begun to gather round it
and it had not yet become sophisticated and conscious.
The old simplicity of feeling and intention was stUl present,
and one felt strongly the atmosphere of faith and the devo
tion of the viUagers. It was an extraordinary performance:
most solemn, most impressive, -with a great deal of fine acting
and a remarkable sense of scenic and artistic effect. In
that quiet country the old faith stUl lingered unimpaired,
and one felt distinctly the "tender grace of a day that was
dead," stripped of all the e-vils which had surrounded it
when the system of which it was a part was stUl powerful
and flourishing. From the hills of Bavaria we journeyed
into Switzerland, and as the summer waned, at the begin-

EUROPE AGAIN: 1871-1872 227
ning of September, we betook ourselves to Paris. Although
I have no intention, as I have said, of rehearsing our sight
seeing and our httle adventures, yet I must pause for a
moment as the evening of our arrival at Paris comes back
to me. When I had last seen the most beautiful of mod
ern cities, the empire was in its glory. Now the empire
had vanished and war and rebelhon had swept across the
scene, lea-ving ruin and desolation in their track. Scarcely
three months had elapsed since the VersaUles troops had
made themselves masters of the city after a week of savage
street fighting. Every effort had been put forth to repair
the weU-nigh incalculable damage infflcted by the siege and
by the Commune, but it was impossible to progress far in
two months. The TuUeries was a wreck and the H6tel de
VUle a heap of untouched ruins. The column of the Place
Vendome was down; many streets were stUl torn up; even
the repa-ving of the Rue de Rivoh was not completed. In
other streets the remnants of barricades stUl hngered, and
at aU the principal corners and along the lines of the fight
ing were remnants of half-burned houses, whUe on every
side one saw the mark of the rifle-ball, the shell, and the
obus. The Bois de Boulogne was a treeless plain and the
palace of Saint-Cloud had perished. The signs of mourn
ing, both national and personal, were painfuUy -visible.
One morning I saw a communard arrested hi the Champs
Elysees and carried off, screaming, cursmg, and flghting,
by four sergents de vUle, who handled their prisoner with
httle mercy, for they gave but short shrift in those days to
any one who was even suspected of connection with the
Commune. Doctor Campbell, a leading physician of Paris,
whom I came to know weU in the foUo-wing spring, told me
of two httle incidents which Ulustrate the condition of
public opinion in regard to the members of the Commune
better than volumes of description. Just after the entry of

228 EARLY MEMORIES
the troops he was passing up the Rue Royale, when he saw
an officer and two or three soldiers dragging along a prisoner
whom they had apparently taken red-handed at one of the
barricades. A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk, and as
the prisoner came by a woman cried out: "Achevez le!"
The officer looked around, drew his sword, gave the prisoner
a sweeping blow across the back of his neck, severing the
spine, and the soldiers pushed the body into the gutter and
marched on. A little later, the upper part of the city hav
ing been cleared. Doctor CampbeU went out to the ceme
tery of Montmartre to see if his mother's tomb had been
injured by the firing. He found the tomb untouched, but
as he passed around behind it he came upon over three
hundred bodies stretched out on the slope side by side,
lying in -windrows "as the mower rakes the hay." The
soldiers had taken these communists out there, stood them
up in a row, and shot them down. It was a savage time;
much worse, I imagine, than any one not actually present
ever realized.
When I returned to Paris the following spring an auction
sale of some of the effects of the imperial household took
place in an upper room of the Louvre. It seemed a suitably
mean ending for a government which, under all its ghtter,
was not only sordid but a sham. My one regret is that I
was not -wise enough to buy more than I did, for the things
sold, chiefly fine china, went absurdly cheap, and such oppor
tunities arising from the faU of empires do not occur often
in a lifetime.
But in that September of 1871 the contrast between what
I remembered and what I saw was tragic in its intensity,
and made a deep impression upon me, young and careless as
I then was. It was not merely the heaps of ruins and the
destruction of monuments and noble buildings which weighed
one down, but the atmosphere seemed stUl heavy with the

EUROPE AGAIN: 1871-1872 229
terrible storm which had torn its way over Paris, Even
the sufferings of the siege and the humUiations of the con
queror's presence seemed effaced for the moment by the
horrors of the Commune, Paris in the hands of the mob
had tried once again to control France as she had done so
often before. This time France dechned to be controlled,
France had marched on Paris, taken it, put down the revo
lution, and restored order. It was said that thirty thousand
people had been kUled in the fighting which resulted in the
capture of the capital. It was a fearful slaughter, but it
had its effect and was not -without its compensation, Paris
has not attempted since then to take possession of the gov
ernment and the country. As Cotton Mather observed
after the extermination of the Pequots: "And the land
rested for forty years."
After I had vratten do-wn from memory the impressions
made upon me by Paris in 1871, I came across those re
corded at the moment. Contemporary description gives
some detaUs which memory had let shp, but the general
impression has remained curiously unchanged after forty
years, and shows how sharp and vi-vid that impression was.
The letter was written on September 23, 1871, and runs
as foUows: There is one subject, however, which interests me very much
and which would interest you, too, in a like manner; I mean the
country and the city where we now are, the recent theatre of such
vast events in the history of the world. When we first entered
France everything seemed unchanged. There was no general
gloom that we could perceive, and the damages to bridges and
houses were being quickly effaced. The country, as you know, is
very fertile and looked rich and smiling with its load of grapes.
In fact, we were beginning to feel that they had not had such a
very hard time after all. But our feelings soon changed. As
the train stopped at Dijon, a large town half-way between the
frontier and Paris, as you are aware, the first sight that met our

230 EARLY MEMORIES
eyes was a company of Prussian soldiers, bronzed men who had
been fighting hard, and their dusty, dark uniforms and glittering
helmets presented a strange appearance although a most noble
one. All at once the terrible fact seemed to burst fuU on me,
and most impressively. Here was a troop of foreigners from the
cold North, speaking another language, standing on French soil,
and detailed to the station in order to search every train for con
cealed arms or men. And most thoroughly was it done by two
stout fellows. It was war, terrible war in very fact, with the con
querors showing their power by searching a French train on French
soil, and you can believe that there was no lack of sullen, gloomy
Frenchmen there. But impressive as all this was to us, it is noth
ing to Paris. The first experience was the harsh evidence of hard,
destructive war, but of a manly, stand-up fight between two
brave nations. But Paris looks as if it had been the scene of a
savage, barbarian massacre. The whole mournful tale is easily
read in a few glances at the things around us. In the fist of sights
is now "Les Ruines de Paris"; Paris, the handsomest city of the
civilized world, now makes money by showing her ruins. On
every side are awful ruins — from my -window, as I write (we were
in the Hotel Meurice), I can see the total wreck of the Tuileries
and farther on is the like utter ruin of the Hotel de Ville. But
besides the ruins of her beautiful public buildings, whole blocks
are gone, and at every turn in the street the remnants of stately
houses meet your eyes. Whole corners are shot away, and almost
every house bears the rents of bullets or the jagged seams of fresh
cement, showing where the scars are but just healed. It is folly
to say Paris is but little changed, as many of our people have said;
it is terribly changed; not only the buildings are in ruins, but the
people seem to be. The shops are filled with inflammatory books
and pictures crammed with lies about the Prussians, and every
body seems ill at ease and restless. As far as papers and appear
ances tell — and straws show the wind, especially large straws like
popular books, papers, and pictures — it seems to me that the
French are worse than ever, and that all they cherish is not the
prosperity of their country but a wild desire for revenge and mili
tary glory, the bane and poison of the life of France, My friend
Munroe told me to-day, what I had inferred, that the whole fabric
of society seemed to him to be perfectly dissolved and demorali
zation to be very general. Time may cure it all, but the signs

EUROPE AGAIN: 1871-1872 231
of the time are not favorable, to say the least. Another change,
and one I do not like to see, is the fancy for words, mere words.
For instance, all public buildings have printed on them, in large,
staring letters: "Reptjblique Feancaise.
LiBERTE, EgALITE, FeATERNITE."
At every turn this meets one, and it must afford them the greatest
satisfaction from the number of times in all places it is written
up, with much stuff like it. This is a decidedly pessimistic view,
I know, and very extreme, as is natural to a young man, of course,
but I cannot help feeling that the French nation, great as it has
been and can be, is wanting in the steadiness and strength which
make a nation, and no amount of terrible teaching seems to supply
those quahties.
The reflections in this letter are superficial enough; the
prejudice against France o-wing to her attitude during our
Ci-vU War, then stffl so near, is obvious; and, after the
fashion of the young, no aUowances are made. Yet the
keenness of the impression of a great country and a noble
city in the hour of their desolation remains, and I know now
what I did not imderstand then, that it was all due to the
miserable imperial government and not to the French peo
ple, and that the overwhelming victory of Germany was
anything but an unmixed curse.
From Paris we went to Germany, stopping at Cassel
and visiting WUhelmshohe, where Napoleon III had been
held a prisoner, and also the Rembrandts in the galleries,
much better worth seeing than the retreat of the fallen Em
peror, for they are a very fine and comparatively little-
kno-wn collection. Thence we went to Dresden, Berlin, and
Vienna, on to Venice and the cities of northern Italy, and
so southward to Rome, where we passed most of the winter.
Here we renewed our inherited friendship with the Storys,
who were, as always, most kind, and Mr, Story as clever,

232 EARLY MEMORIES
amusing, and charming as ever. But that vrinter in Rome
is now chiefly memorable to me on account of an influence
which then came into my life, affected me much, and passed
away from me after a few brief months. That influence
emanated from a character and an intelligence which, most
untimely lost, have always seemed to me so unusual as to
deserve at least the shght commemoration of a friend's
recollection. Among my classmates at Harvard was a man named
Michael Henry Simpson. He was a Bostonian born and
bred, but it so happened that I had never seen him untU
we met at Cambridge. His father was a rich manufacturer
and well kno-wn in the business world. Simpson stood high
in scholarship from the beginning, but two years passed
before the other boys began to find out that he was also a
"good feUow"; two things which in youthful phUosophy
are apt to be regarded as well-nigh incompatible. It may
be said in behalf of the boyish phUosophy that it has in it
an element of truth. The hard students and first scholars,
the "digs," as we used to caU them, do not as a rule shine
in the lighter side of life. The combination of the success
ful student, the pleasant companion, and the good feUow is
not very common, but Simpson was one of these exceptional
men and united all these qualities. In time he was discov
ered, became one of the most popular men in the class, was
elected to the societies, and caused us aU to wonder at the
fact that we had not found him out before, I came to know
him well in the theatricals of the Hasty Pudding Society,
where we acted and managed together, and in Henry Adams's
course in mediaeval history, which appealed strongly to
Simpson as it did to me. He also crossed the ocean to Eu
rope soon after my departure from the United States, and
we corresponded and discussed our experiences in foreign
lands with youthful energy, I was very fond of pictures

EUROPE AGAIN: 1871-1872 233
and statues, and kno-wing little about them I set myself to
learn, if it were possible, something in regard to them and
of the history of art as weU, by studying the galleries and
reading aU the books I could procure which related to art
or to architecture, for which I also entertained a keen, if
ignorant, admiration. In these eccentricities I had few
sympathizing friends of my o-wn age, and I was charmed to
discover that Simpson had precisely the same weaknesses.
I also hked to see sights, if only to make sure on Doctor
Johnson's principle that I did not care to see them again, and
here, too, I found that Simpson, differing from our other
young friends, who frankly found sight-seeing a bore, was
at one -with me. So when we met in Rome no more con
genial pair of companions could have been imagined. We
saw everything in Rome and its neighborhood, and all with
a dUigent minuteness which left traces never to be effaced.
We read Suetonius together and then pored over the busts
of the Caesars in the Capitohne Museum. We wandered
over the Campagna and among the ruins of Ostia and of
Hadrian's VUla; then we went together to Naples and to
PsBstum. It was a dehghtful winter, a happy time, a charm
ing companionship; but in such close association we talked
of many things besides pictures and statues, ruins, archi
tecture, and history. We became very intimate, and, in
the blessed fashion of youth, opened our hearts to each
other and talked of ourselves without the dreadful and well-
founded suspicion, which is brought by advancing years,
that such conversation with another man is not, as a rule,
conversation at aU, but something to be shunned as the
mark of the egotist, most unbearable of bores to his fellow
beings. In this way I came in contact for the first time
with a young man of my o-wn age who had done some think-
mg for himself upon various matters of importance. This
was an exercise in which up to that time I had never in-

234 EARLY MEMORIES
dulged, I was a GaUio and had been very happy and con
tented in that careless condition, I had taken the world
as it came and had found it on the whole a very pleasant
world. I had been brought up in a famUy holding the lib
eral tenets of Unitarianism, and about those tenets I had
never troubled myself. But although the old doctrines of
the church of my ancestors had been abandoned, the hand
of the Puritan was stUl felt even among the Unitarians of
Boston in such matters as churchgoing and Sunday observ
ance, I regarded both these fixed habits as necessary in
terferences with the pleasures of life, but accepted them as
part of the established order to be shirked when possible
and dropped when I should become my o-wn master. As to
what I should do -with my hfe or in my life, I had given to
that somewhat important subject — ^important, I mean, so
far as I was concerned — no attention at aU, I was not
pressed by need of money, I had everything I desired, and
there was nothing to goad me on to think about the future.
When I was in college I read Macaulay and conceived for
him an intense admiration; his force, his rhetoric, his sure
confidence in his own judgment, his simplicity of thought,
all strike a boy very vividly. He did not seem to me a
great or in the true sense a real poet, even then, and so,
quite unconsciously, I passed successfully Matthew Arnold's
primary test of poetical judgment; but I profoundly admhed
Macaulay's prose writings and felt that his career, which com
bined that of the public man and of the man of letters, was
the most enviable which could be imagined. Later, when
1 came to Europe, when I read more and began to reahze
' history and art, I also began to cherish some vague deshes
for a literary life. But beyond these nebulous fancies I had
¦^not progressed. Then I became intimate with Simpson.
In him I found a man brought up in the same to-wn as my
self, who had thought much upon all these things and had

EUROPE AGAIN: 1871-1872 235
reached some very definite conclusions, starting from prem
ises to which I was whoUy a stranger. His famUy were
strict Congregationalists of the old New England type, de
voted not only to the austere forms but to the rigid doc
trines of the Puritans, They were of the people who locally
were called " Orthodox," a term weU understood in the days
of the Unitarian schism. In such an atmosphere the con
ception of a man's duties in life had sunk deep into the
boy's mind. He had joined the church, taught in the Sun
day-school, and accepted the stern creed of Calvin. Then
he began to think about religion and man's place in the
universe. The old creed dropped away, and so he went on
untU he found that he could no longer accept the dogmas in
which he had been bred, and was content to caU himself an
agnostic. AU this he had kept to himself, for he was loath
to hurt or wound those whom he loved unless it became
absolutely necessary, and he told me that he had never
before confided to any one the bitterness of the struggle
through which he had passed or the conclusions he had
reached. He was as far removed as possible from a prig;
he seemed to the world simply an exceptionally clever, lively
young man of unusual intelligence, fuU of fun and humor
and of the joy of hfe. His serious side he kept to himself.
But although the dogmas had vanished and the unques
tioning belief in the Bible legends had crumbled away before
a clear, uncompromising reason and a finely honest mind,
the inborn and strongly inculcated sense of duty remained.
He saw neither inteUigence nor pleasure in an idle, self-
indulgent life. He felt very deeply that there were certain
duties which must be fulfflled, and that the more fortunate
a man was in his circumstances and conditions the heavier
the responsibUity which rested upon him. He had no de
sire for more money and no love for business. He wished
to give his life to literature and pubhc service. But he

236 EARLY MEMORIES
felt also that he owed a great deal to his father, and to
gratify him he intended to enter at once into business and
to aid in carrying on the important industry which was part
of his inheritance. He meant to keep on with his reading
and studies, in the hope that some day he might be able to
turn to literature, as even then he longed to do. But he
also felt that whether his work was in literature or in busi
ness he owed a duty to his country, and that every Ameri
can, especially every educated American, ought to take part
in politics and make himself effectively useful. No thought
of public office was in his mind, for the business claimed him,
but he proposed to make himself felt in the work of politics
and to exercise influence and power for what he believed to
be right and in behalf of the Republican party, in which he
had been bred and in the principles of which he had entire
faith, I have been thus minute in describing the thoughts and
opinions of Simpson, not merely because he was a lovable
man and a dear friend, but because his experience, his mental
conflicts, and his conclusions, which are all rare at that age,
made a profound impression upon me and greatly affected
my life at a moment when I was drifting vaguely and was
very susceptible to outside influences. All this considera
tion given to serious things, all this thought about man's
place in the universe, about the undiscovered future and
the meaning and uses of life, coming from a man, a boy
really, of my own age, were to me at once very strange and
very impressive. Hitherto, like Mrs. Quickly in her con
solation to Falstaff, "I had hoped there was no need to
trouble myself -with any such thoughts yet." And now
here by my side was a man of my o-wn age who had troubled
himself much -with these thoughts and who had faced them
and come to certain conclusions thereon. It made a deep
and lasting impression upon me; I, too, began to think and

EUROPE AGAIN: 1871-1872 237
try to reach conclusions, and to long to do something with
my opportunities, A life of unoccupied leisure no longer
attracted me.
So the pleasant winter wore away and we left Simpson
in Rome and took our way to Paris. Soon after our arrival
I had a long letter from him, written in Florence, We were
planning a little journey to Spain later in the spring. Then
I heard that he was Ul, It was mahgnant typhoid, and in a
few days news came of his death. The blow feU heavUy,
He had become so much to me that I could hardly realize
that I should see him no more. His death left a gap in my
hfe which after aU these years has stUl remained unfilled.
From Paris we went to Belgium and then to HoUand.
We found the Motleys established at The Hague and we
saw much of them, I remember particularly one evening
when we dined -with them, only the famUy and ourselves.
We were just in the longest days of the year, and although
we dined late it was stUl daylight, I can see the room now
as we sat there after dinner in the gathering twUight and
listened to Mr, Motley as he talked, with the eloquent en
ergy of which he was so capable, about the treatment he
had received at the hands of the Grant administration. He
had turned for relief to his own work and had come to Hol
land to complete his life of John of Barneveld, It was
pecuharly interesting to hear him describe the great Dutch
statesman there in The Hague among the very scenes in
which he had won his triumphs and gone to his death.
After our httle journey through the Low Countries we
crossed over to England, and I, -with some friends, made a
tour through England to see the cathedral to-wns, and then
through Scotland, which, o-wing to my love for Scott and
the Waverley novels, was to me most interesting and at the
same time seemed strangely famUiar, so deeply were aU the
scenes imprinted on my mind by what I had read. In

238 EARLY MEMORIES
August we sailed for home, and reached Boston safely to
ward the end of the month.
After Simpson's death I turned for advice and help as
to my future to Henry Adams, to whom I already owed so
much for the first glimmering of real education that I had
ever received. He replied at once with a kindness and an
interest which I shaU never forget, and I give his letter here
because it not only encouraged me, but had upon me at
that turning-point of my hfe a profound effect.
Cambridge, 2 June, 1872.
MY DEAR LODGE —
Your letter of May 6 arrived safely a few days since and gave
me the pleasant sensation of thinking that I may after all have
done some good at college; if you ever try it, you will know how
very doubtful a teacher feels of his own success and how much a
bit of encouragement does for him. Poor Simpson's death, too,
seemed utterly disheartening. What is the use of training up
the best human material only to die at the start!
There is only one way to look at life and that is the practical
way. Keep clear of mere sentiment whenever you have to de
cide a practical question. Sentiment is very attractive and I
like it as well as most people, but nothing in the way of action is
worth much which is not practically sound.
The question is whether the historico-literary line is practically
worth following; not whether it -will amuse or improve you.
Can you make it pay, either in money, reputation, or any other
solid value?
Now if you will think for a moment of the most respectable
and respected products of our town of Boston, I think you will
see at once that this profession does pay. No one has done better
and won more in any business or pursuit than has been acquired
by men like Prescott, Motley, Frank Parkman, Bancroft, and so
on in historical writing; none of them men of extraordinary gifts,
or who would have been likely to do very much in the world if
they had chosen differently. What they did can be done by others.
Further there is a great opening here at this time, Boston is
running dry of literary authorities. Any one who has the ability

EUROPE AGAIN: 1871-1872 239
can enthrone himself here as a species of literary lion with ease,
for there is no rival to contest the throne. With it comes social
dignity, European reputation and a foreign mission to close. ^
To do it requires patient study, long labor and perseverance
that knows no limit. The Germans have these qualities beyond
all other races. Learn to appreciate and to use the German his
torical method and your style can be elaborated at leisure, I
should think you could do this here,
I shall be in London, I hope, on the 1st of August, to be heard
of at Barings, If we are there together we will have a dinner
and talk it over. Remember me to your wife,
Yrs truly,
Henry Adams,
Encouraged by this letter, I set to work when I reached
home and was fairly established in Boston, I had no definite
plan; no taste, no aptitude, no mastering passion beckoned
me into any particular path, I merely desired to read his
tory and to write, if I could. So I turned to the early law
of the Germanic tribes, toward which my studies in medi
aeval history had led me, as the foundation of the legal and
political history of the English-speaking people, I doubt if
I could have selected a drier subject. I certainly could not
have found drier reading than the latest and most authori
tative German writers of that day upon this subject, Sohm,
Von Maurer, and the rest, at whose books I toiled faith
fully for some weary months. The work was not inspirit
ing, it was in fact inexpressibly dreary, and I passed a de
pressing winter so far as my own labors were concerned.
I seemed to be going nowhere and to be achieving nothing,
I led a sohtary life, except for my immediate family, and
I found it a doleful business struggling with the laws and
customs of the Germanic tribes, without any prospect, so
far as I could see, of either reward or result, I am inclined
to think now that the discipline of forcing myself to work,
when I did not need to work at aU, was of real value in

240 EARLY MEMORIES
giving me control of such faculties as I possessed, and in
enabling me to apply my mind to any subject which it was
necessary for me to understand, no matter how little I cared
for the subject itself.
As -winter was fading a -visit to Norfolk, Virginia, where
Admiral Davis was living as Commandant of the Navy Yard,
made a most helpful break. The climate was a pleasant
change from Boston, and there was opportunity for exer
cise by ro-wing on the river and taking long walks, I threw
aside German authors and Germanic law, and read aU the
principal Elizabethan dramatists, which was a pure delight.
I returned to Boston sufficiently refreshed to go on with
my apparently pointless studies, and so the spring wore
away and summer came, and Nahant,
Then one day Henry Adams, who had recently returned
from Europe, appeared at luncheon; and afterwards, as I
was walking do-wn -with him to take the wagon for Lynn, he
told me that he had accepted the editorship of the North
American Review and wished me to be his assistant editor.
I have had since that summer morning in 1873 my share of
rewards and honors, more, very likely, than I have deserved;
but nothing has ever come to me which gave me such joy
as that offer from Henry Adams, I know the exact spot on
the road where he made the announcement to me, and I can
see the whole familiar scene as it looked upon that eventful
day, I came home, my heart swelling with pride and -with
a feeling of intense relief, for it seemed to me that the dark
ness in which I had been groping had suddenly lifted and
that at last I could see my way to doing something. The
North American Review, then a quarterly, old, famous, and
respected, appeared to me, who had always looked at its
pages -with distant awe, one of the most important pubhca-
tions in the world. To be connected with it, to have a
chance to write for it, was a dazzling prospect which I had

EUROPE AGAIN: 1871-1872 241
never dreamed would open to me except possibly after long
years. Now I was to be one of its editors, I trod on air
as I walked, and the whole world was changed.
In tracing my o-wn very unimportant and very quiet
hfe during the first year after my return from Europe, I
have not paused to mention one really terrible event of
which I was a most unwiUing spectator, and which naturally
made upon me a very profound impression. Early in No
vember, 1872, soon after our return from Nahant, the great
Boston fire occurred. I heard the first alarm as I was read
ing in the library and thought nothing of it. Then came the
general alarm and I went out, I had always felt the genial
interest and more or less active pleasure in fires which is
common to healthy boys, and with this habitual and slightly
excited feeling I went forth that evening, I have never
regarded any fire in a city since then with anything but in
tense anxiety and real alarm. It was an experience which
no one could ever forget, and the frightful devastation of
that night was something which could never be obliterated
from the memories of those who saw it. After leaving my
house I crossed the Common and walked down Summer
Street, The fire had then made but little progress, compara
tively speaking, and was raging in the lower part of the
street just in the neighborhood where I was born, I went
from point to point and watched the fire spread, which it did
with terrifying rapidity, I saw taU buUdings catch in their
roofs like huge matches and blaze up, I saw walls falhng
and stone crumbling in the heat, and in a short time I real
ized that the fire was far beyond control, I was ready and
eager to do anything I could, and there were plenty of -wUl-
ing volunteers, but unluckily there was nothing that vol
unteers could do except to help here and there in saving the
contents of threatened buUdings. Long after midnight I
went home and reported what was happening, I could not

242 EARLY MEMORIES
sleep and sat at an upper -window for a httle whUe watching
the sea of flames rolling by in great bUlows to the eastward,
I found it impossible to stay where I was even though I was
useless elsewhere. So again I went out and again made my
way do-wn Summer Street, When the tardy dawn came at
last it showed the ruin that had been wrought, I worked
my way round to State Street and to the office of Lee,
Higginson & Co., where the safety vaiUts were situated.
Those in charge -wisely refused, as I remember, to aUow
any one to enter the vaults or to remove anything. From
that point I watched the final struggle with the fire. We
could see the flames, only one block away, through the old
Chamber of Commerce buUding opposite, and it looked then
as if State Street must go. But the area of the flre had been
gradually narrowed and it had reached its limit. There,
just before it touched State Street, it was stayed. The blow
to the city was a heavy one, but it was met with a fine cour
age and had no lasting effect. Fortunately the pathway of
the fire had not lain through a residence quarter. At the
point of origin some tenements and houses of the poorer
class had been destroyed, and a few more went in the Fort
HiU region, but aU the rest of the space swept by the flames
was covered -with business blocks, warehouses, office buUd
ings, and the like. Nevertheless many poor people were
rendered homeless and had lost their aU on the edge of
¦winter. An ample fund for food, clothing, and rent was
raised, and in the distribution I took part, finding at last
for the time being something useful to do. The supply of
all these necessaries was so ample that I think a good many
persons found themselves much better off and more warmly
clothed than before the fire. But none the less I then gained
a knowledge of how a part of the world lives which I had
never possessed before, and which it did me much good to
learn. The distribution of aid to sufferers by the fire led

EUROPE AGAIN: 1871-1872 243
me to undertake district visiting for the Provident Associa
tion, which I carried on for two years, and there, in the
houses and rooms of the very poorest people, I was taught
many lessons which I hope have not been wholly unfruitful.

CHAPTER XI
STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880
After the great good fortune which came to me by my
selection for the assistant editorship of the North American
Review, I had no further reason to complain of lack of em
ployment. My depression departed. I no longer felt that
I was laboring in an objectless, purposeless fashion. In
fact, I am rather surprised as I look back at the many inter
ests which sprang up about me and at the amount of work
which, for better or worse, I managed to do. But work,
after all, is the best of friends. I believe that it is one secret
of health. Without it one can never enjoy either leisure or
a vacation, and work, free from anxiety, is always a tonic,
and in some of the darkest hours an anodyne. I do not be
lieve that it ever did any one anything but good, pro-vided
that a man takes plenty of exercise, which I have always
done, riding at all seasons, hunting in the autumn, and in
summer living in or on the water, and always varying my
amusements out-of-doors by much walking and by the sim
ple labor of chopping and sawing wood.
My duties on the North American Review began at once.
I read manuscripts and proof and aided Mr, Adams in every
way in preparing each number for the press. I learned much
in this manner from my chief's instruction as to methods
of criticism and also as to style. Very early in my appren
ticeship I remember his handing to me an article by an
eminent local historian and antiquary, and saying: "We
244

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 245
shall print this article, of course, but I -wish you to go over
it and strike out all superfluous words, and especiaUy aU
needless adjectives." I faithfully performed my task, and
found to my surprise when I had finished that, -without chang
ing or cutting do-wn the article, I had shortened it by several
pages. It was a valuable lesson. At the same time I re
ceived much more important and much more direct instruc
tion than this. Like most beginners I was prone to write
long and involved sentences, Mr, Adams insisted that the
very first step was to learn to -write clearly, in short and
simple sentences, and that when that difficulty had been
mastered the greater and finer art of ornament and of choos
ing words wherein one's ideal is never attained, would fol
low. He sent me to S-wift to study simphcity of style as
weU as force and energy of expression, because these quali
ties are exhibited in the highest degree by that great master
of English prose. He encouraged me to write critical no
tices for the Review, but was very severe when it came to
the question of acceptance. My first article, about a page
in length, which attained the honor of publication was a
critical notice of Baxmann's "History of the Popes," I re
wrote it eight times before it passed muster. It looks very
dry and abrupt to me now, but I can see that it was at least
clear, and that no one could faU to understand the sentences
or what I was trying to say, I went on writing critical
notices, some quite elaborate and involving much work, but
three years elapsed before I rose to the dignity of a leading
article. The appearance of my essay upon Alexander Ham
ilton in 1876 was another epoch in my life, and I wish I
could again feel about anything the glow of pride which
fiUed my being when the number containing it appeared.
But the North American Review was not my only occu
pation, I entered the Harvard Law School in 1872, not
¦with any intention of becoming a practising lavpyer, but

246 EARLY MEMORIES
partly because I was at a loss what to do, and partly because
I felt it would be of value to me as a form of education. In
this I was not disappointed, I became convinced then, and
have ever since held the opinion, that for mental training,
no matter what a man's work in life might afterwards be,
nothing was equal to the study of the law. There is no
better discipline for the faculties of the mind, and it not only
teaches men to reason closely and exactly, but it also drives
home the great lesson, so often left unlearned, that to most
questions there are two sides at least, and that it is neces
sary, if you would master a subject, to know every side and
phase and be prepared to meet all kinds of objections, if you
wish to be successful in presenting your case. I was for
tunate also in entering the law school just at the time when
Professor Langdell revolutionized the old methods of in
struction. For lectures at which students took notes in the
conventional manner, he substituted teaching by cases,
which forced the student to discuss the principles of law de
veloped in the decisions and thus to use his ovm mind, in
stead of learning on authority and accepting the conclusions
of the writer or lecturer. This system, thus begun and
since extended and fuUy carried out, has put the Harvard
school at the head of all law schools, and has even drawn to
it students from England. IncidentaUy the study of cases
taught us also the history of the common law and of equity,
and made the judges and chancellors of England and America
not mere names in a foot-note to support an assertion, but
li-ving men whose influence upon the law, whose -views and
whose lives, were all of interest and moment, I learned a
great deal of Enghsh history in this unlikely way, and turned
from the law books to read the biographies of the men whose
decisions I studied. In 1874 I took my degree at the law
school, and the next year I went into the office of Ropes &
Gray and there had a brief experience of practice. At the

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 247
end of my year in the office I came up to be examined for
admittance to the bar. My examiner was Judge Devens,
an old friend of my famUy, a distinguished soldier as well
as an eminent lawyer, and a most delightful man. He knew
that I did not intend to practise, and he asked me some ques
tions about constitutional law, among others about the right
of secession, I replied that I did not regard secession as a
constitutional question at all. The question whether the
Constitution had made a nation was a question of fact.
Secession was revolution, and revolution could not be pro-
¦vided for or prevented by a paper Constitution, I went
into the point quite fully, and when I had flnished. Judge
Devens, who had listened to me with apparent interest,
smUingly said: "That was hardly Mr, Webster's view,"
But he admitted me to the bar, of which I have been a
member in good and regular standing ever since, although
I have never practised.
Years afterwards I was reminded of my own examination
for the bar, and of my cheerful readiness to answer decisively
a difficult and much mooted question, by the account which
Mr, Reed (the Speaker) gave me of his own experience.
He was in Cahfornia after the war and there applied for
admission to the bar. There was another applicant with
him, a young Southerner, who had also come to the Pacific
coast to seek his fortune. The judge said to Mr. Reed:
"Are the legal tenders constitutional?" Mr. Reed at once
replied: "They are." The judge then asked the same ques
tion of the young Southerner, who replied with equal prompt
ness that the "legal tenders" were not constitutional,
"Very well," said the judge, "you are both admitted. Two
men who can answer that question -without hesitation ought
to be admitted to any bar."
The mention of Judge Devens brings to my mind Judge
E, R, Hoar because he, like Devens, had been not only a

248 EARLY MEMORIES
Judge of our State Supreme Court but also Attorney-general
of the United States in Grant's administration. His family
had been conspicuous in the history of Massachusetts from
the days of Leonard Hoar, President of Harvard in the sev
enteenth century, do-wn to our o-wn time. His father was
Samuel Hoar, champion and defender of the slaves, a leader
at the bar, a man of the highest and finest type of char
acter, Emerson said of him, that when he took his place
on one of the benches in the town-hall, "there honor came
and sat beside him," Judge Hoar was in aU ways worthy
of his inheritance. He possessed abUities of the first order,
both as a lawyer and as a public man, A leader in the anti-
slavery movement, he had been one of the founders of the
Republican party in Massachusetts, He was by nature a
partisan, for his con-victions were strong, and he expressed
them with uncompromising force. Many persons had a
vague notion that he was also unduly austere, an idea which
found expression in the story that he resigned from the
Supreme Bench because he was unable to decide against
both parties to a suit as he often longed to do. This con
ception, as so frequently happens, came I think whoUy from
those who saw only the external and unessential attributes
and did not know the real man. Judge Hoar was in truth
as tender-hearted and affectionate as he was fearless and
high-minded in all the affairs both of public and private
life. It has always been a great regret to me that I did
not have the opportunity to know him better, for he awa
kened not only my interest but my admiration and respect
both for his abUity and his character. I met him occasion
ally at the Historical Society, and later when, in 1884, I
was chosen a member of the board of overseers of Harvard,
of which he was the presiding officer, I saw him constantly.
He was very kind to me, very sympathetic in regard to the
political opposition against which I was then contending.

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 249
and I shall always remember with gratitude that kindness
and sympathy from a man so distinguished at a moment
when both meant a great deal to me, I liked to watch him
presiding at the board with his rather saturnine smUe and
with an occasional shaft of wit which much enlivened the
proceedings. As a presiding officer he could take no part
in the discussions and had but slight opportunity for the
display of those powers of debate, and especially for the
teUing retort and quick repartee, which had made him
famous both in Congress and in political discussion before
popular audiences. He was one of the wittiest men of his
time, and had also a keen sense of humor not always allied
¦with ¦wit. His sayings were widely repeated and quoted, for,
if not always gentle, they never lacked the power of stri
king deep into the public mind. I -will repeat only one here
because it is characteristic not only of his quickness but of
the ingenuity with which he could give an entirely unex
pected turn to an apparently obvious and commonplace
incident. It was just on the eve of the CivU War, during the
months of devouring anxiety which preceded the inaugura
tion of Lincoln. AU was confusion and every sort of scheme
was put forward to save the country from disunion. Worthy
men, especiaUy old conservative Whigs, were holding meet
ings in behah of peace and union, which they usually wished
to secure by surrendering to the South all that had been
won in Lincoln's election. Among other bodies a society
known as "The Sur-vivors of the War of 1812" met and
passed resolutions. I dimly remember a handsome, white-
haired old gentleman -with an empty sleeve pinned across
his coat, who they told me was Colonel AspinwaU, who had
lost his arm in the last war with Great Britain. The mem
bers of this society were men of that kind, patriotic, weU-
intentioned, but out of touch with the time and with no real-

250 EARLY MEMORIES
ization of the inexorable forces which had the country in
their grip. So they came together and passed some futUe
peace resolutions. A friend asked Judge Hoar what he
thought of the resolutions of the "Society of the Sur^vivors
of the War of 1812." "It seems to me," said the judge,
"that men who would pass resolutions like those would
probably survive any war." Anecdotes might be multi
plied by anyone who knew Judge Hoar in those days, but
my thought here is not so much of the humorist and wit
as of the eminent lawyer and distinguished public man who
was good enough to step out of his way to be a kind and
sympathetic friend to me.
These slight reminiscences of Judge Hoar and of my
admittance to the bar by Judge Devens bring to my mind
another distinguished lawyer and eminent judge, of whom
I saw much in those days. This was Horace Gray, judge
and then Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of Massa
chusetts, and later for many years a Justice of the Supreme
Court of the United States. He was the older, much older
half-brother of my early companion and contemporary,
Russell Gray, and in a remote fashion I had always seen and
known him. He was also the half-brother of John C. Gray,
in whose office I studied law, and who is not only an eminent
lawyer of great abUity and learning, but a most accomplished
and cultivated man, for many years a distinguished professor
at the Harvard Law School. In this way I came very natu
rally to know Judge Gray, and to see him more and more
frequently after I returned to Boston from Europe, He
lived not far from us, on Beacon HUl, and as he asked me to
come to see him I feU into the habit of going there in the
evening and sitting with him, sometimes, I fear, to uncon
scionable hours, while we smoked and talked. He was kind
enough to take a genuine interest in what I was doing, or
trying to do, which is a sure way to the heart of a young

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 251
man. He knew a great deal about American history, as he
did about most subjects, and was especiaUy versed in aU
that portion of it which concerned Boston and Massachusetts,
to which my attention was just then particularly directed.
As a matter of course his knowledge of lawyers and judges,
both at home and in England, was unlimited, and although
he rarely talked about the law he had a great deal to say
about those who practised it, and about the traditions of
the English and American bar, which was far more amusing.
But our chief subject of discourse was politics. The judge,
from his position, was obliged to be sUent as to things po
litical, but by nature he was admirably fitted to be a dis
tinguished public man, and he loved politics dearly. He
held strong opinions and was a very pronounced Republi
can, Feehng that he could rely on my discretion, he talked
to me with entire freedom, and liked to hear from me all
the detaUs of local as weU as general politics. He had but
httle hking for the various independent movements, in
which as a young man I was interested, nor did he put
much faith in Mr, Schurz and the other leaders of those
movements; but after I became one of the active men in
the Repubhcan party in which we had both been brought
up, he was the most sympathetic and helpful of friends, I
was often asked to dinner at his house, where it was always
most agreeable to be, for he had the faculty of gathering
about him the best and most interesting men of all pro
fessions and calhngs. Of one such occasion I find a note
in my most fragmentary diary. We were asked to meet
Mr. Edward Freeman, the English historian, and the "we"
included Judge John LoweU, of the United States Court;
Judge Endicott, Secretary of War in Mr. Cleveland's first
cabinet; Francis Parkman, the historian; Mr. John C.
Gray; Mr. Melville Bigelow, the well-known writer upon
early law, and myself. I looked forward ¦with much in-

252 EARLY MEMORIES
terest to meeting Mr. Freeman, for my studies had led me
to read his books with care, and whUe I had not always
agreed with him I had much admired his force, learning,
and vigor of statement. Memory recaUs him clearly, and
a feeling of disappointment as well. The contemporary-
record in this case does not contradict memory and brings
back the scene very distinctly. It runs as follows, in the
unchartered freedom of brief notes:
"Mr. Freeman, a short, stout Englishman — fuU, rather
good reddish brown beard — ^tallowy, yeUow hah, of a dark
shade — smaU mouth apparently defective in teeth. Spoke
but little. When he did, -with point and often humor.
Seemed to understand what was being said when he spoke
and yet appeared utterly hea^vy and indifferent most of the
time, not infrequently yawning. Seemed almost impossible
that he should be a man of great historical reputation who
had written some really good books. No snap, no quick
ness, no -vivacity, no sympathy. Judge Lowell's dry and
pleasant humor seemed to escape Mr. Freeman unless it
was repeated."
Ob-viously we did not interest our distinguished guest,
although, as I was the youngest and most sUent of the party,
I think I may say that those present were intelhgent, well-
bred, and weU-educated men, not without achieved dis
tinction, and quite fit for any conversation possible even to
the historian of the Norman Conquest. I remember that
at the time the verses which had recently been printed in
England came into my head:
"Ladling butter from their mutual tubs,
Stubbs butters Freeman,
Freeman butters Stubbs,"
Possibly we were deficient in the agreeable art here attrib
uted to the excellent and learned bishop.

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 253
Not long after this dinner, which occurred in October,
1881, Judge Gray was appointed a Justice of the Supreme
Court of the United States, and consequently lived in Wash
ington from that time until his death. Whenever, after his
appointment, I went to Washington I dined at his house,
where, as in Boston, he brought together the most interest
ing men then at the bar or in public hfe, A few years
later I also went to Washington as a member of the House,
and later as senator, so that once more I saw him constantly
and our old talks were renewed.
The high judicial reputation which Judge Gray had ac
quired in Massachusetts was greatly increased and extended
during his ser^vice in the Supreme Court, He was a learned
judge in the fuUest sense, and his learning was as wide as it
was profound. To a rapidity of acquisition such as is
seldom seen was joined a memory of extraordinary strength
and exactness. On any question which arose precedents
and authorities seemed, ¦without effort, to assemble and
marshal themselves in order before him. Some of his opin
ions, hke the case of the "Paquette Habana," were complete
presentations not only of the law, but of the entire history
of the subject. It was sometimes said, in criticism, that
Judge Gray indulged too freely in authorities, tempted
thereto by his immense and always ready knowledge. The
criticism never seemed to me to have much weight, but it
is certain that he was quite capable of plucking out the heart
of a case and setting forth sharply and very briefly the cen
tral principle, stripped of aU citations or comments, as he
did in his opinion in one of the "Island cases."
Judge Gray was a very imposing and impressive figure,
especially in his judicial robes, and on the bench physical
appearance has its especial value, for it is well that the
court should not look insignificant or unimportant. Gray
certainly fulffiled every requirement. He was very tall.

254 EARLY MEMORIES
four or five inches over six feet, and large in proportion.
His head was massive and fine, and his fuU, rosy face was
at once strong and of high intelhgence. I never saw a man
who looked the part of a judge in a high court of law so weU
as Horace Gray,
Writing as I am at this point of lawyers, what I have
just said of Judge Gray's stature and imposing appearance
brings to my mind, by the law of contrast, I suppose, an
other great lawyer whom I came to know in those early days
of the seventies and eighties. He was born in Boston,
educated at the Boston Latin School, at Yale, and at the
Harvard Law School, but he had left his native city and had
been admitted to the New York bar some years before I
was born, I therefore never saw him in my boyhood, and
I think he was first impressed upon my mind by my reading
about his noted argument in the impeachment of Andrew
Johnson, the first President I ever looked upon, when he
came to Boston on his famous "s^wing around the circle,"
Gray's whole hfe was judicial, Mr, Evarts, on the other
hand, was never on the bench and always at the bar, except
when he was attorney-general in one cabinet, secretary of
state in another, and senator from New York toward the
close of his active life. He was the very reverse of Gray in
appearance: rather short, very slight, ¦with a keen, intellec
tual face, so thin that he appeared almost hoUow-cheeked;
and yet he never faded to impress any one who looked at
him with an immediate sense of penetrating power and mental
force. In the spare, wiry figure there was no sign of feeble
ness, and over the thin, well-cut face, ¦with its long jaw, was
a broad forehead and a ¦wide space for brains. Of Dutch
descent on the father's side, and on the other a grandson of
Roger Sherman, Mr. Evarts always seemed to me, both in
looks and mental quality, a characteristic type of the best
New England stock. He presented a striking appearance

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 255
as he walked along ¦with a large, imperfectly brushed hat,
always a tall hat, pushed far do^wn on the back of his head,
and with his coat collar, in cold weather, rising up above
his ears. Once seen he was not a figure to be forgotten,
and the last man, one would think, to be impersonated by
anybody. Yet on a certain occasion, when election frauds
under the auspices of Tammany were rampant in New York,
on going to the poUing-place and gi'ving his name to the
election clerk he was told that Mr. Evarts had already voted.
"Has he, indeed?" said Mr. Evarts. "I hope he voted
right," I had the happiness to make his personal acquaintance
on one of my early political excursions to New York, He
identified me immediately as the nephew of my uncle,
George Cabot, who had been his classmate at the Boston
Latin School, and he was most kind and friendly to me then
and ever afterwards, I find in my fragments of a diary that
I was in New York on AprU 5, 1885, and made the foUowing
note:

In the evening we went to the Irving dinner for which I came
on. Sat near the front between John McCuUough, the actor, and
Roosevelt. McCuUough was never a great actor, although a
popular, successful and painstaking one, but he was also, as I
was told, one of the most pleasant and good natured of men. He
is now quite broken by a brain disease — very pathetic to look at
— ^fine face — -no speculation in his eyes. The dinner was very
pleasant, Evarts, Ir-\ang and Beecher spoke admirably, the rest
poorly. Just before dinner I had a few words with Evarts, Mc
CuUough and Florence (the actor) came up to Evarts and recalled
to him a voyage they had made together, " In what ship was it? "
asked some one. " I don't know," said Evarts. " I only know that
we were all in transports," The other night at the Yale dinner
just as Evarts rose to speak the large sugar ornament in front of
him fell over, Evarts without a moment's hesitation said: "Ah,
gentlemen, this is a candied tribute I did not expect."

256 EARLY MEMORIES
A little later in the same month Mr, Evarts came to
Boston to make a political speech before the Middlesex
Club, and on the following day, April 19, he dined at my
house, I give the account of the dinner which I find in my
roughly written notes, just as it is, with abrupt and de
tached sentences:
April 19th, Sunday, — Evarts dined here today, I had to meet
him Dr, Holmes, Mr, HoweUs, Judge Devens, Governor Long,
Francis A, Walker, WiUiam G. Russell, F, E. Parker — these with
Mrs. Lodge and myself made up the ten. It was very pleasant,
Evarts is by all odds the most brilliant after dinner talker I ever
heard. His talk is phosphorescent, flashing all the time and with
no more apparent effort than the waves. He told a good story of
the Great Eastern case and George Ticknor Curtis' rhetoric;
"Six men, six, save that Leviathian etc! I Six men would be
worth no more than six — six — six babies," Evarts interrupting
him: "Six babies are something in a squaU," Disgust of Curtis
and breakup of rhetoric.
Evarts said that Sir Roundell Palmer acknowledged to him
after full consideration that Judah P. Benjamin was the leader of
the English bar, — a very extraordinary case, Evarts told many
good stories, as of the convict, who thanked the clergyman who
had obtained his pardon and returning with gratitude the bible
lent him, said he hoped he should never have occasion to use it
again. But it is not so much as a story teller as in the flow of
conversation that Evarts excells. We sat at table until nearly
midnight and then Evarts rose with great reluctance, ensconced
himself in his rough, old beaver hat, extending from his coat coUar
to his eye brows, and slowly -withdrew.
On that same occasion, although it is not in the diary,
he said something to me alone which I have always remem
bered. I was just then beginning to make studies for my
"Life of Washington," and I told Mr. Evarts in that con
nection how much I had been amused by his reply to Lord
Coleridge. A little more than a year before when Lord

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 257
Coleridge was in America some one pointed out the place
near Fredericksburg where Washington had thro-wn a sUver
dollar across the Rappahannock. Upon the lord chief
justice expressing surprise, Evarts said: "You know, of
course, that a doUar went much farther in those days than
it does now." The story ran through the newspapers, be
came a t-wice-told tale, and had a deserved success. On my
recalling it Mr, Evarts smUed in his dry way and said:
"Yes, it was very well for the moment, but I was humbled
soon after by finding how much more witty other people
were. Some perfectly unkno-wn newspaper writer put in a
paragraph to this effect: 'What Mr, Evarts ought to have
said; That to throw a doUar across the Rappahannock was
nothing to a man who had thro^wn a sovereign across the
Atlantic' " Neither I nor any one else had seen that para
graph in the newspapers, but it amused me to learn how
Mr, Evarts had revised his first version.
The fact was that wherever he went he left behind him
some saying or ¦witticism which clings to the place hke an
inscription on the waUs, Every one, for example, who goes
to the State Department is aware that Mr, Evarts, looking
at an elevator car as it slowly ascended, filled to overflovnng,
observed that " he had never before seen so large a collection
taken up for foreign missions," Every "visitor to the same
department knows that Mr, Evarts proposed to have carved
on one side of his door: "Come ye disconsulate," and on
the other: "Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch'entrate." Mr,
Evarts was noted for procrastination, for not doing to-day
what might be done to-morrow, Mr, Schurz told me that
when they were in the Hayes cabinet together it was very
difficult to extract from Evarts a report on any matter
referred to the State Department. One day the President
was extremely urgent, and Mr. Evarts said: "You don't
sufficiently reahze, Mr. President, the great truth that al-

258 EARLY MEMORIES
most any question wUl settle itself if you wiU only let it
alone long enough."
When he was in the Senate, my colleague in after years.
Senator Hoar, had a bUl about which he was very anxious,
and which had been referred to Evarts for report. Months
passed and no bUl appeared. Meeting Mr, Evarts one day
in the corridor, Mr, Hoar, who was his first cousin, said:
"By the way, Evarts, when you report that bUl of mine,
just notify my executors," "They -will be gentlemen whom
I shaU be delighted to meet," was the reply. Mr, Evarts
might delay action on a report, but he never procrastinated
in repartee. The little stories, all well known, which I have
just repeated, Ulustrate his extraordinary quickness, his
possession of that rare faculty of saying a good thing, of
uttering a "witticism on the instant when by no possibihty
could there have been any chance for preparation of any
kind. But the ready wit, the humor, and the jest, were
reaUy the least part of his remarkable qualities. Mr, Evarts
was a man of the first order of abUity. He was a great
la^wyer, for many years the acknowledged head of the
American bar. He was an eminent public man, distin
guished in every office he held, and a high-minded pubhc
servant. He was a powerful and eloquent as well as a
humorous and witty speaker. It used to be said that he
spoke sometimes at too great length, and I remember hear
ing him say in a speech that he "had been criticised as many
of our raUroads were criticised for a lack of terminal facili
ties." But whether he spoke briefly or at length I never
heard of his wearying any one. Personally he was the most
agreeable and delightful of men, and I have always been
very grateful for the unvarying kindness which he showed
to me when I was a young, unknown, and wholly unim
portant person.
The diary entry of the guests at my little dinner for Mr.

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 259
Evarts brings to my mind anpther friend of whom, as I
have been speaking of la-wyers, I must say a word here, al
though I have no intention of launching out into recoUec
tions or stories of either bar or bench at the time when I
completed my legal studies, Mr, Francis E, Parker was a
distinguished member of the Suffolk bar, one of the leading
la-wyers of Boston, Yet it is not in his professional capacity
that I think of him, but as a friend to whom I was much
attached and as a very unusual and quite remarkable man.
That he was not known beyond his State and city was
whoUy his own choice, for he had talents which would have
carried him to the front rank in public life had he so desired,
and he might easUy have figured as one of the best-known
la^wyers of his time if he had ever been ¦wUling to push him
self forward in the practice which not only brings professional
renown but which also rivets the attention of the public.
He had, however, a contempt for notoriety and a dishke of
pubhcity, and he turned deliberately away from oppor
tunities which seemed to involve either. A graduate of
Harvard, and devoted aU his life to the interests and the
affairs of the university, he was a scholar in the broad sense,
a lover of books, ¦widely read and a most accomplished lin
guist. He had traveUed much and seen a great deal, look
ing with an observant eye on men and cities, and upon the
works of ancient and modem art, of which he was very fond.
In his day he was one of the best-kno^wn figures in Boston,
and his wit and his pecuharities were quoted and laughed at
by every one. Never married, he hved in chambers sur
rounded by his books, his prints and pictures, and by the
many things he had coUected in his wanderings. He was
most hospitable and kind, especially to young men to whom
he could give a helping hand. Beneath the calm exterior
and cool manner, behind the sarcasm and wit, was a most
generous and sympathetic nature, concealed by preference
from the world at largCj which knew him chiefly by clever

260 EARLY MEMORIES
epigrams, sometimes more witty than good-natured. He
was impatient of dulness, especially if accompanied by pre
tence or pomposity. I remember his saying of a person
for whom he had, I thought, an unreasonable and too seri
ous dislike: "I knew his father weU, a very honest and
excellent man. He kept an intelligence office — not at the
time of X's birth, however," X at one period undertook
to be a real estate broker, and Parker, who administered
large trusts, being asked by a client to recommend a good,
permanent investment, replied: "I should define a perma
nent investment as purchasing some real estate and gi-ving
it to X to seU."
Like Lamb's Hester, he had:
"A waking eye, a prying mind,
A hawk's keen sight ye cannot blind."
Perhaps these are not gifts to be desired, for they make one
perceive foibles when affection would fain have blindness.
Such was the case, at all events, with Mr, Parker, I re
member his saying of an intimate friend — very probably he
said it to him, for he was wholly honest — a friend whom he
loved, and in common with every one else admired: "That
if he had lived in the Middle Ages he would have gone to
the stake for a principle under a misapprehension as to the
facts," This epigrammatic force was very characteristic and very
telling in his conversation. I have heard him debate in
the board of overseers of the college, and he was one of the
best and keenest debaters I have ever seen in action, and I
have seen and heard many. He was elected once to the
State Senate from a Boston district. Everybody thought
that there, in a political body, among all sorts and conditions
of men, he would be particularly out of place. On the con
trary, he proved a great success. The members from the

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 261
country districts, and indeed all the members, not only liked
him, but came to admire him and feel proud of the distinction
he brought to the body. He declined a re-election, and never
held office again. It seemed as if he merely -wished to dem
onstrate that he could succeed in politics if he chose, and
having done so, he went out and closed the door behind him.
His friends thought he would faU in a popular representative
assembly, because they believed that the members of such a
body could not penetrate what was external and superficial
and find the real man of strong ability and character and
of genuine sympathy behind the personal peculiarities. In
so thinking they gravely underestimated the shrewd intelli
gence of the men who in those days sat in the Massachu
setts Legislature.
Mr. Parker was a man who valued detaUs. He dressed
most quietly but very well and carefully, and in a studiously
finished way. He always looked his part — the barrister of
high standing. With a weU-knit, rather slender figure and
a clear-cut, strong, and intellectual face, he was not a man
to be passed by unnoticed. He spoke his native language
extremely well and very scrupulously, with a slight English
infiection; his voice was clear and even and his enunciation
quite perfect. People thought these qualities and a sharp
ness of repartee from which he could not refrain would
excite prejudice in the Legislature. As there was a genu
ine man behind them, they aroused admiration.
This mention of his care and respect for the language
which he spoke brings to my mind an occasion interesting
on other accounts, but which is indelibly associated in my
mind with Mr. Parker, I find in my diary, under date of
AprU 12, 1883, the foUowing:
Dined at General Whittier's to meet Ex-President Diaz of
Mexico, Very handsome dinner — music, etc. There were twenty

262 EARLY MEMORIES
at the dinner — all men, I sat between Frank Parker and Endi
cott Peabody. Diaz himself has a strong, Indian half-breed face;
ruthless, calm, vigorous, soldierlike; an ideal leader of South
American revolution. He speaks no English and French badly.
Senator Rubio (with Diaz) sat opposite to me; pure Spanish type;
spoke no English but some little French. Very pleasant dinner.
In view of all that has happened since, my impression of
Diaz in 1883 seems now to have been fairly accurate. I
remember Senator Rubio asked me what I thought of his
chief. I made suitable reply, and added vsdth a smUe that
he looked rather stern, and as if he would not hesitate to
shoot an enemy before breakfast, "Shoot an enemy!"
said Senator Rubio; "I have kno-wn him shoot three
hundred enemies before breakfast."
But what amused me most at the dinner was Parker,
On his other side was some distinguished Mexican who
asked him if he spoke Spanish. "No," said Parker in
Spanish, "English is the only language I know other than
my own," This answer naturally left the Mexican rather
dazed. Then I heard Parker, in seeking a common medium
of conversation, address his neighbor in Italian, which faUed,
then in Latin, which also failed, and finally in French, -with
which they managed to get along sufficiently well,
Parker was very fond of Italians and of Italy, Almost
every summer he went abroad and took a walking tour in
the Alps or the Tyrol. One year he chanced to go by Turin,
and the next year, as it happened, he went the same way and
stopped at the same hotel where he had passed a night a
twelvemonth before. The waiter made the customary as
sumption of recognizing him, as Parker thought, but when
he offered the wine-card he said: "II solito, signor f" This
so delighted Parker that ever after he made a practice of
going to Turin just for the pleasure of hearing that waiter
ask him once a year if he would take his usual wine.

STARTING IN LIFE : 1873-1880 263
I might run on with many memories of one of the most
dehghtful of men whose humor and wit and wisdom I am
happy to say I prized at the time. But I -will stop here -with
this very inadequate attempt to recaU and picture a man
who gave me his friendship, and whose death, all too soon,
has deprived me of one whom I have never ceased to miss.
I did not confine my studies at this time, however, to
law and equity and the statutes and practice of Massa
chusetts. WhUe I was stUl in the law school I entered upon
a post-graduate course in Anglo-Saxon law with Henry
Adams, There were two other students: Ernest Young, a
very clever man, who died prematurely, and J, Laurence
Laughlin, who has since reached distinction as a political
economist. In this field the forlorn studies of the year
after my return from Europe proved of use, but the work
imposed upon me demanded a -wide investigation of early
charters, laws, and chronicles, and I was obliged to learn
Anglo-Saxon sufficiently weU to read the original documents.
My subject was "The Anglo-Saxon Land Law," The
essay which I -wrote thereon was neither easy nor cheer
ful reading, but it represented a great deal of honest work
and of thorough and original investigation, I offered it as
the thesis for which I received the degree of Ph.D. from
Harvard in 1876, and it was also included in a volume which
Mr. Adams published on Anglo-Saxon law, containing essays
by himself and by Young and Laughlin. Years afterwards
Sir Frederick Pollock sent me his book on "Land Laws,"
and I found in it a note discussing some opinion which I
had expressed in my essay on "The Anglo-Saxon Land
Law." So completely had I been drawn to other subjects
and other interests that every vestige of knowledge of what
I had myself written had been swept away, and I stared in
blank ignorance at my own statement. I could not say, as
Swift did, when in his old age he looked at the "Tale of a

264 EARLY MEMORIES
Tub," "Good God! what a genius I had when I wrote that
book!" but I thought: "How much I knew when I wrote
that essay which I have now ceased to know!" It seems
as if the mind could hold a certain amount upon a given
number of subjects, and when it is fuU a new subject dis
places an old one. I suppose I could, with much effort,
recover my knowledge of "the Anglo-Saxon land law,"
but I was impressed by the completeness of its erasure as I
read Sir Frederick PoUock's note.
In studying law and in the work of editing the North
American I had been gradually drawn toward the history of
my own country. My inclination in that direction had
been strengthened by my carrying out a long-cherished plan
of bringing together the letters of my great-grandfather,
George Cabot, senator from Massachusetts from 1791 to
1796, and one of the leading Federalists of his time, and of
printing them -with an accompanying memoir. Mr. Cabot,
who seemed throughout his life to aim at self-effacement,
had destroyed aU his letters just before his death. This
was a great misfortune, for he had been an inthnate of
HamUton, as weU as in close relations of friendship with
Washington, Ohver Wolcott, Timothy Pickering, and aU
the leading statesmen of the days when the government of
the United States under the Constitution was being estab
lished. But Mr. Cabot's correspondents had preserved his
letters, even if he had destroyed theirs, and I was able to get
them from the various collections and sometimes copies of
their letters to him when such had been kept. In this way
I gathered an abundance of material. The book developed
into quite an ample volume, and also into a study of New
England federalism, and of the conditions which led to the
famous Hartford Convention, of which Mr. Cabot was
president. This biography of my great-grandfather, my first ven-

STARTING IN LIFE : 1873-1880 265
ture in the literary field, is inseparably connected in my
mind with Colonel Henry Lee, to whose assistance, and still
more to whose unflagging sympathy, I was deeply indebted
in the preparation of my book. I had always kno-wn him,
for his eldest son had been at school with me, and he was
an old friend as weU as the kinsman of my mother and the
companion and contemporary of her only brother. But
our intercourse had necessarily been merely that of a ma
ture man -with a boy young enough to be his son. Now he
became my friend, adviser, and helper in the work I had
undertaken. As I have just said, we were related. His
grandmother was the only sister of my great-grandfather,
who had left coUege to go to sea -with his brother-in-law,
Joseph Lee, -with whom he was later associated in business.
The actual relationship was not very near, but with Colonel
Lee famUy feeling was very strong, and blood was a good
deal thicker than water. Moreover, he felt intensely about
our early pohtics, and was as violent a Federalist as if he
had hved through the administrations of Washington and
Adams and Jefferson. So when I undertook to write the
biography of his great-uncle, whose memory he had always
cherished and revered, he took as much interest in the book
as I did. To him I not only owed all my information about
the famUy, but the fruit of his own researches, and all his
knowledge of that period in our history, were put freely at
my ser-vice. My gratitude at the time I tried to express to
him; it was certainly both deep and sincere. But I like
to make this little record of it here. Apart from the book
I was grateful also for his friendship, for he was a man
whose friendship was an honor. For many years he was
one of the most respected as he was one of the best-known
men in Boston. Although he was always actively engaged
in large and very successful business affairs, he was one of
the most public-spirited men I have ever known. He never

266 EARLY MEMORIES
sought or desired public office of any kind, but he was
always ready to serve State or nation or city without any
thought of personal recognition or reward. During the war
he was a member of Governor Andrew's staff, and labored
unceasingly in the hea-vy and anxious work of organizing
and sending out the regiments of Massachusetts, He was
a thorough American of the best type, intensely patriotic
and a hater of political misdeeds, as in his youth he had
hated and fought against slavery. No public movement
for good in Boston was complete without him, and he was
as fearless as he was active and energetic. He entered
into every field: the coUege, the city, the State, all com
manded his time and his labors. He was generous in aU
ways, gi^ving not only to every good object, but indulging
largely in that hidden kindness to men and women which
carries happiness and release from care to those upon
whom the bounty, delicately given, falls. His interests were
many. He knew a great deal of our o^wn history, both
local and national. He was a lover of books and literature,
of art in all forms, and had a strong taste for the theatre,
being himself the best amateur actor I have ever seen. The
chief characteristic about Mr, Lee, as I look back on him,
was strength — mental, physical, and moral. He had a
great deal of humor and said many good things which were
¦widely quoted, sometimes, I think, because he had a way
of freeing his mind and uttering rather searching criticisms
in the presence of the person criticised. It always seemed to
me that the old Puritan qualities were very -vital in him.
The soul of honor himself, he was not disposed to make
allowances for any one who seemed to him to de^viate
from the strait and narrow path. He had strong opinions,
vigorous likes and dislikes, and some equally strong prej
udices, all very simUar to the attributes of his ancestors
v/ho had waged the great rebellion and established the colony

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 267
of Massachusetts Bay, It is easy in these laxer days to
point out the defects of the Puritan qualities, but in the
last analysis it is upon those fundamental qualities that
enduring states are buUt, In later years Mr, Lee sometimes
did not approve my course in pohtics and never hesitated
to express to me his disapproval, but he always made me
feel that his personal affection had not changed, and I trust
that it remained, as mine did for him, undiminished to the
end, hke the gratitude I owed him and the genuine admira
tion which I felt for a strong and fine character, of which
we have none too many at any time.
In this fashion I was dra-wn insensibly toward American
history, and in 1875 I was appointed a lecturer at Harvard
and gave a course upon the history of the American colonies
and subsequently upon the early history of the United States.
I lectured for three years, resigning my post in 1879 at the
end of the college year. President Ehot wrote me a letter
on my retirement, which was a great gratification to me at
the time. I give it here to show that I at least worked
faithfully: Harvard University 12 Feb. 1879.
MY DEAR MR. LODGE —
I take note of your intention to resign your instructorship at
the close of the current year. Your withdrawal is not unexpected,
but still leaves the Corporation greatly perplexed about the future
support of the electives in American History, I should be very
sorry to have this teaching cease, yet I confess that I do not see
who is to carry it on. That you have found your work at the
University not without profit and interest is a great satisfaction
to me, I assure you that the Corporation feel under obligations
to you for your almost gratuitous services and will sincerely regret
your withdrawal.
Do you know anybody whom you would think qualified to
carry on your work? Very truly yours,
Charles W. Eliot,

268 EARLY MEMORIES
My lectures at Harvard led me to make an elaborate
study of manners, customs, and social conditions in the
colonies as they appeared here and there in the original
sources. This involved a great deal of labor and research,
and the result was embodied in a course of lectures delivered
before the Lowell Institute, The lectures were so far suc
cessful that Mr. George WiUiam Curtis wrote to me, asking
me to make a book of them and let the Harpers pubhsh it.
I need hardly say that I was much elated by this proposi
tion and promptly closed with it. But I spoUed my book
by adding summaries of the political history of each colony
to the studies of manners and customs, which were then
fresh and original, and which were afterwards found use
ful by other writers who in some cases omitted to mention
their indebtedness. The pohtical summaries, on the other
hand, were necessarUy condensed, and were hopelessly dry.
They made the book long and cumbrous and defeated the
purpose I had in -view, which was to give a popular •view of
the colonies as they actuaUy existed, and of the daUy life
and habits of the people who separated themselves from
England and founded the government of the United States.
StUl I had some reason to be pleased at my second at
tempt at authorship. The "Short History of the Colonies"
sold fairly weU at the moment, and although it was a keen
disappointment to me, and feU far below what I had hoped
to accomplish, it continued to seU as a text-book for col
leges and schools, simply because it had the merit of com
pleteness, and was as accurate as I could make it. My life
of Mr. Cabot, which appeared first, had an unexpected suc
cess. It was merely a contribution to the materials of our
history, and could only hope to interest students of the
period and historians. But it had the good fortune to faU
into the hands of GaU Hamilton (Miss AbigaU Dodge), who
had conceived a hvely dishke for me because in 1876, the

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 269
year prior to the publication of the book, I had been active
in opposing Mr. Blaine's nomination as President. She
devoted no less than four articles, fiUing eight columns of
the New York Tribune, to an elaborate re-view of the biog
raphy, attacking and making fun of me and my respected
ancestor in every possible way. I was much surprised, but
rather pleased, for I had not expected so much attention
from any one. I met my kinsman Colonel Thomas Went
worth Higginson one day just after the appearance of Miss
Dodge's article, and he said to me: "I hope you do not
mind GaU HamUton's attack. You ought to be very
grateful. I wish that she would assaU one of my books in
that way, for I have observed, and you wUl by experience
learn to agree ¦with me, that the practical value of a critical
notice is in proportion to its length, and not in what is said."
GaU HamUton, in any event, sold my first edition for me,
and greatly to my surprise, made another necessary.
Apart from books I graduaUy made my way as a writer
in other directions, and became a contributor to the Nation
and to the Atlantic Monthly, as weU as to other periodicals.
I remember weU the profound satisfaction I felt when I
found that from my lectures and my writings I had made
three thousand dollars in a year, and had thus demonstrated
my abUity to earn my own hving and to take care of my
f amUy by my own exertions if I should have the misfortune
to lose all my property.
The preceding pages, I fear, give the impression that my
life during these years was all work and no play, and that
it had no lighter or more lively side. This would be a very
erroneous idea to deduce from the fact that I have given a
condensed account of my occupations, which were of great
interest to me and of very slight consequence to anybody
else. I have done this merely to get myself out of the way,
so that I might turn to an account of some of the people I

270 EARLY MEMORIES
knew at that period — people who, I think, are of real and
general interest.
My pursuits in Boston and Cambridge led to many
things: to various associations and to acquaintances and
friendships in which I found much pleasure. In 1876 I was
elected a member of the Massachusetts Historical Society
— one of the youngest members ever chosen, I beheve — and
I not only took a keen interest in its meetings, but met
there many men of distinction in letters and in other fields
whom I had as a boy looked up to from a respectful dis
tance. When I became a member Mr. Robert C. Winthrop,
of whom I shall have something to say later, was president.
Dr. Samuel Greene, who happUy stUl hves, and Dr. George
Ellis, Mr, Winthrop's successor, were, apart from the pres
ident, the two great pUlars of the society, for which their
names seemed to be interchangeable terms. Dr. EUis was a
retired Unitarian clergyman. He had a comfortable fortune
and had for many years devoted himself to historical studies,
possessing strong antiquarian tastes. He was an authority
on the history of our Indians and ¦widely read in aU American
history, especiaUy that portion of it which related to Boston
and Massachusetts. Blest ¦with a very retentive memory,
he knew aU the traditions of the to^wn and endless detaUs re
lating to persons and famUies, The axiom that one fact is
gossip and two connected facts are history had for him no
terrors, and in no ¦wise diminished his hking for a fact or an
incident, even if it stood solitary and detached,
I remember weU, when I had brought do^wn on myself
the wrath of certain sur^vi-ving Webster Whigs because I
had stated in my biography of the great senator that, like
the younger Pitt, he drank more at times than was good for
him, Dr, EUis told me the following anecdote. On the
occasion of the completion of the Bunker HUl Monument
Mr, Webster was to deliver the address, and Dr. EUis, then

STARTING IN LIFE: 1873-1880 271
pastor of the Unitarian Church in Charlestown, was the
chaplain of the day. Preparatory to going to the platform
Mr. Webster came to the house of Dr. EUis, and on arriving
said he would hke something to drink before speaking. Dr.
EUis took him into the dining-room, where he had made
some Httle preparation for his guest. Mr. Webster asked
for brandy, and taking the decanter, fiUed an old-fashioned
tumbler fuU to the brim and drank it off. Then he went
out and made his speech, one of his famous addresses.
After the ceremonies he returned to Dr. EUis's home and
drank another tumbler fuU of raw brandy, and after a little
chat departed. Dr. EUis said that so far as he could see
Mr. Webster was not affected in the shghtest degree by
what seem to the average man very potent and generous
draughts of brandy taken in the morning -without eating
anything. It reminds one of Pitt and Dundas and their
four — or was it six? — ^bottles of port at a sitting.
In May, 1882, 1 met Dr. EUis at the house of his brother.
Dr. Rufus EUis, and he gave me an account of a visit he
made to New York with John Quincy Adams, His story
interested me so much that I -wrote it down when I went
home. My note runs as foUows: "It was in 1844, The
occasion was the fiftieth anniversary of the New York His
torical Society, The Massachusetts Historical Society sent
a committee, Mr, Adams being the oldest and Dr, Ellis the
youngest member. At the cars Mr, Charles Francis Adams
appeared and told Dr, EUis that he had tried to persuade
his father to take a servant but the old gentleman, then
nearly eighty,^ rephed: 'I can take care of myself as well as
you can of yourseh, I won't have a servant.' Mr. Charles
Francis Adams therefore asked Dr. Ellis to look after his
father. They went to 'Bunker's' on the Battery and had
a large airy room together, Mr, Adams would have no
' He was seventy-seven years old.

272 EARLY MEMORIES
fire (it was November) but insisted on having the -window
-wide open. After they were both in bed Mr, Adams would
begin stories and narrate all sorts of experiences fuU of fire
and vigor, and. Dr. EUis said, most amusing; that he had
to stuff the sheet in his mouth to prevent himself from
roaring with laughter. After talking some time Mr. Adams
would say: 'Now it is time to go to sleep and I am going
to say my prayers. I shaU say also the verse my mother
taught me when a chUd. I have never faUed to repeat it
every night of my life. I have said it in HoUand, Prussia,
Russia, England, Washington and Quincy. I say it out
loud always and I don't mumble it either.' Then he would
repeat in a loud, clear voice:
" 'Now I lay me down to sleep.'
At about 5 A. M. Mr. Adams would arise, and, a wood fire
being laid, would get from his trunk an old-fashioned tinder-
box — he despised the recently invented lucifer matches—
and would strike a hght, kindle the fire and hght his candle.
Then he would strip, place a basin of water on the floor and
sponge himself -vigorously from head to foot. Then par
tially dressed, sit do^wn by the fire, place the Bible on his
knees, and holding the candle in one hand, expound a Psalm
in the most -vigorous manner to Dr, EUis, At the banquet
of the Historical Society Mr, Adams made a speech. Jack
son had recently accused him of lying on some matter, and
had said that at the period in question, he, Jackson, had had
no intercourse with Mr. Adams. Mr. Adams had searched
his files and found a misspelt acceptance of a dinner in^vita-
tion from Jackson at the time referred to, ¦with a list of the
guests on the back. He began his speech by ad^vising young
men to preserve their papers, 'for some day they might be
assaUed by the tongue of slander,' and then he told the story

STARTING IN LIFE : 1873-1880 273
and produced Jackson's note. Dr. EUis said that word
'slander' rang in his ears to this day. It sounded like the
crack of a whip, it was so sharp, clear, and stinging, the old
man pointing his forefinger in a way greatly to emphasize
his words."
It is interesting to read in this connection Mr. Adams's
own account of this speech, recorded in his diary for Novem
ber 20, 1844: "Mr. Luther Bradish, late Lieutenant Gov
ernor of New York, toasted me — or roasted me — with a
speech so fulsome that it overset all my phUosophy, and I
stammered a reply; the only palliation was its brevity." I
¦wish that I had noted down more of the interesting anec
dotes I heard from Dr. Ellis, for he told them well and had
an inexhaustible memory, but this is the only one of which
I find any record.
I was also elected at this time a member of the Wednesday
Evening Club, an institution more than a century old, to
which many of our Boston worthies in successive generations
have belonged. During the whole of its long existence it
had met every Wednesday evening in the -winter at the
house of each member in turn. The club had one singular
merit — ^it had no serious purpose. Talk and a supper con
stituted the entire proceedings. Then a very young man,
I found myseh the companion of Mr, Charles Francis Adams,
the elder, Mr, Robert C. Winthrop, Dr. S. K, Lothrop, pas
tor emeritus of my old church in Brattle Street, Mr. Jef
ferson Coohdge, Mr. Augustus LoweU, Mr. Charles Dalton,
and others whom it was a great pleasure to be associated
¦with in that way. I recaU one evening at my own house
when I had at supper various old Madeiras which had come
to me from my great-grandfather and grandfather, who had
possessed a very fine assortment of vintages of that ¦wine,
so much prized at the beginning of the nineteenth century.
Among others was one celebrated in its day caUed "Essex

274 EARLY MEMORIES
Junior," from the famous ship, and of the vintage of 1812,
Very little of it I think was left. My mind being fuU just
then of the Federalists and their history, mcluding especiaUy
the "Essex Junto" and their quarrels with John and John
Quincy Adams, I poured out a glass and said to Mr. Adams:
"Here is some 'Essex Junior,' a good old Federahst wine,
and you know their ¦wine was as sound as their principles."
Mr. Adams smUed, and taking the glass said: "Their wine
was always fine and sound. I wUl say nothing of their
principles." Two years after my election to the Historical Society I
was chosen a member of the American Academy of Arts and
Sciences. I appreciated the honor, but never went to the
meetings, which were whoUy occupied with scientific ques
tions of which I was and have remained painfuUy ignorant.
The club which I most enjoyed, however, was a smaU
dining club formed by some of my friends and myseh, and
which long since disappeared as the members grew older
and became scattered or were carried off by death. It was
caUed the Porcupine Club, and chose as its motto the Ho-
ratian hne : " Populus me sibUat, at mihi plaudo." We were
not lacking in youthful conceit, as the choice of a motto
indicates, but it was a very dehghtful club none the less.
We were aU about the same age, young, active, ambitious,
interested in law and pohtics and literature, and ready to
argue about any conceivable subject. Among the members
were Lucius Sargent, RusseU Gray and Sturgis Bigelow, who
had been my schoolmates and companions from chUdhood;
Brooks Adams, youngest of the sons of Charles Francis
Adams, whom I knew in college and with whom I became
very intimate; and Howard Stockton, of the old New Jer
sey family, who had been in the regular army but who had
resigned, married, and settled down in Boston as a lawyer.
These were the members with whom I was most intimate, and

STARTING IN LIFE : 1873-1880 275
I was greatly attached to them aU. They were aU clever
and interesting men. Lucius Sargent, handsome, fascina
ting, my inseparable companion in riding and hunting, most
loyal of friends, died in the prime of his manhood from
injuries incurred by a faU in the hunting field. The others
have been my close friends through life. With Brooks
Adams and RusseU Gray I read and studied Shakespeare;
with the latter I kept up my Latin and Greek, losing the
last, alas, as I was dra^wn into the active work of politics.
But then we aU had much the same pursuits, I was chosen
one of the trustees of the Boston Athengeum, the great pro
prietary hbrary of Boston; Stockton and Gray soon joined
me, and as members of the library committee we had much
enjoyment in the management of an institution which ap
pealed strongly to our tastes for books.

CHAPTER XII
PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS
I HAVE tried thus far, as I have already said, to give a
mere outline of the occupations of these formative years,
and of the associations and clubs to which I belonged, in
order to open the way for some account of the men I came
to know who were distinguished in pubhc life or in literature,
and who are of infinitely more interest than anything which
concerned me, I came upon the stage of life just as the
remarkable group of men who had made New England and
Boston famous in the middle of the nineteenth century were
passing off. They included both those who had led Massa
chusetts in the great struggle which had preceded the CivU
War, and those who had made her fame in literature.
Let me begin ¦with Charles Sumner, of whom I have
already spoken, and who is inseparably connected with aU
the memories of my chUdhood and youth. Long before he
entered public hfe he was a friend of my grandfather and
grandmother Cabot, and was constantly at their house.
This friendship was extended to my father and mother, and
after Mr. Sumner became senator my father was one of his
most ardent supporters. When Sunmer by his speeches
agamst slavery had ahenated respectable and conservative
Boston, when aU the Webster Whigs, the "SUver Greys,"
and the cotton manufacturers, when business and society
alike turned against him, he was practicaUy ostracized, and
the people among whom he had always hved closed their
276

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 277
doors to him. Henry Adams told me long afterwards that
his father's house and my father's house were the only ones
in Boston at that time, so far as he knew, which remained
open to Sumner. The mtimacy therefore was pecuharly
close. Whenever Sumner was m Boston he dined constantly
¦with us, and every summer he passed six weeks or more at
Nahant, dividing his vacation between us and Mr. Long-
feUow, who was one of his best and most faithful friends.
He is therefore to me almost one of the famUy, as I look
back on my early years, and he continued to me the in
herited friendship. After my father's death he came to
the house and stayed with us just as before, and when my
sister and I had separate houses he di-vided his time between
us, I wrote to ask him to come to me as usual the summer
after I returned from Europe, and I give his reply because
it shows the affectionate side of Sumner's character, of
which I think the world knew httle. WASmNGTON —
12th April '73
MY DEAR CABOT
I recognize in your note the friendship of yr father and grand
father, renewed in another generation. It makes me feel that I
am not entirely alone in the world.
Thanks! dear Cabot, you touch my heart, I am very feeble;
but I hope to reach Nahant & to enjoy the hospitality you so kindly
offer. Thanks also to yr charming ¦wife and to yr mother too.
Ever sincerely Yrs
Charles Sumnek
As a chUd I looked at him with awe and wonder, with a
vague idea that he was a great man, although I did not veiy
well know the reason. But I was never afraid of him, for he
was always kindness itseh to me, and was wont to ask me

278 EARLY MEMORIES
in his solemn way about my school and the books I studied,
of which he knew a great deal, and he would also make
serious inquiries, as I think he felt bound in duty to do,
about my sports and amusements, of which he knew very
little. It was not, however, the misty idea that he was a
great man which alone made Sumner impressive to my boy
ish imagination. He was a most imposing figure. TaU,
large, not regularly handsome in features, but with a noble
head and a fine, intellectual face, no one could look upon
him and faU to be struck and attracted by his looks and
presence. To all this was added that rarest of gifts, a very
fine voice, deep and rich, with varied tones, and always a
delight to the ear. If ever a man was physically formed — ¦
"The applause of listening Senates to command,"
it was Charles Sumner.
He was a man of ¦wide learning. He had read every
thing, was famihar ¦with all the great languages, ancient
and modern, had the power of devouring books with ex
traordinary rapidity, and the much more precious gift of
remembering everything he read, whether important or un
important. He always reminded me of Macaulay in the
extent of his acquirements and in the way in which upon
any subject which was started he could give all the facts and
dates, deluge the conversation with precedents and paraUel
cases, and recite long lists of names if opportunity offered.
He was nearly contemporary -with Macaulay, and I have
sometimes wondered whether these attributes of indis
criminate learning, relentless memory, and readiness in
pouring out vast stores of knowledge were not, in a greater
or lesser degree, characteristic of the period. Sumner did
not monopolize the conversation, as Macaulay is said to
have done, nor reduce it to a monologue, nor would any one

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 279
have said of him, as Sydney Smith said of Macaulay, that
he had "flashes of sUence," Sumner was often sUent, en
tirely ready to listen to others, and never burdensome in
conversation. He talked weU, and if he sometimes talked
at length, I always found him interesting, which is, I think,
a good test, for a young man is easUy bored. In another way
Sumner's learning and memory were less fortunate so far as
he was personaUy concerned. They led him very naturally
to elaborate and lengthen his speeches, not at all for display,
but merely because it was easy and agreeable to expand,
and he could not resist the temptation. The result was that
he has never, as it seems to me, obtained the recognition
as a speaker and debater to which his presence, his deliv
ery, his beautiful voice, his accomphshments, and his good
English entitled him. Those who heard him were too often
weighed down by the mass and quantity of his utterances;
while his pubhshed speeches not only remain, like most
other speeches, unread, but they have not, I think, received
in history the attention which their importance and their
quahty ahke warrant and justify. He would have been
saved from aU this if he had possessed a sense of humor,
and yet had he been gifted with much humor it is possible
that he would not have accomplished the noble work or
played the great part which fell to him in those momentous
years of the antislavery struggle and the Civil War, The
absence of a keen sense of humor was probably the defect
of his quahties and his virtues, but there can be no doubt
of the fact of its absence. I do not mean to suggest that
he was morose or solemn, or that he frowned on mirth.
Quite the contrary was the case. He was always genial
and kindly, and hked to see others, especially young people,
enjoy themselves; but his sense of humor in the broad and
true sense of the word was defective. It was this deflciency
which made him unable sometimes to realize the effect of

280 EARLY MEMORIES
his own words, Mr, Schurz told me, I remember, of an
incident which perfectly Ulustrates this point. It was at
the time of their quarrel -with Grant. Sumner was prepar
ing to make a speech in the Senate upon some phase of the
administration pohcy. Mr. Schurz talked the speech over
with Sumner and begged him not to indulge in any bitter
attacks upon the President, and urged him to be temperate
in his language, as violence would do more harm than good.
Sumner agreed ¦with him, and promised to be very careful.
When he spoke, Schurz was horrified to find as the speech
proceeded that Sumner had apparently utterly forgotten
his promise. He launched out into the invective of which
he was a master, and denounced Grant bitterly and savagely.
When he had concluded, he turned to Schurz and said:
"You saw I was very moderate and temperate, and I hope
you think that I was ¦wise not to be more severe." Schurz
said that after this remark he saw how useless it was to
expostulate, because Sumner e-vidently could not perceive
the force of his own words. His observation about his own
moderation was made in perfectly good faith, and disclosed,
of course, a rather alarming lack of humor. This came out
amusingly in much less important ways. Mr. LongfeUow,
who was always devoted to Sumner, but at the same time
entirely conscious of his deficiency in humor, told me that
when the "Biglow Papers" were pubhshed Sumner was
staying at his house. It was a rainy afternoon, and Mr.
LongfeUow was obliged to go out, lea"ving Sumner stretched
on the sofa reading LoweU's volume. When he returned, he
asked Sumner how he liked the poems, and Sumner replied:
"They are admirable, very good indeed; but why does he
speU his words so badly?" Mr, LongfeUow attempted to
explain that the poems were purposely ¦written in the New
England dialect, but Sunmer could not understand.
One summer at Nahant I dined at Mr, LongfeUow's

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 281
with Sumner and some others. Sumner was a coUector of
china, about which he knew a great deal, as he did about
many other thmgs. He told us a story of his going to see
Lord Exmouth's collection and how fine it was. When he
was taking his leave Lord Exmouth gave him two rare plates
and offered to send them to his lodgings, but Sumner would
not be parted from his prize and insisted on taking them
home -with him in his cab. When he had concluded his
story, which was interesting but long in narration, "Tom"
Appleton, Mr. LongfeUow's brother-in-law, who was present,
said: "A pleasing tale Ulustrated ¦with two plates." Every
body laughed, and Sunmer, looking about most good-na
turedly, said: "What are you aU laughing at? I suppose
Appleton is up to some mischief, but my story is quite true."
Yet, although Sumner lacked humor, he could say good
things himself, which, if not humorous, had both keenness
and ¦wit. He was staying at our house shortly after the fall
of the second empire and the establishment of the French
republic. He had just returned from Parisj where Gam-
betta had caUed upon him, and he gave us a most interesting
account of their conversation, in which Gambetta had dis
cussed the whole situation and had asked Sumner's counsel
and ad^vice. He said: "Gambetta rose to go and as he
took my hand he said: 'Ah, M. Sumner il nous faut un
Jefferson!' I rephed: 'Trouvez un Washington, M. Gam
betta, et un Jefferson arrivera.' " Nothing could have been
better. In the same way, although he was capable of being so
bitter in denunciation and would use language of the most
savage kind about opponents or about those who had
¦wronged him ¦without in the least realizing the wounding
force of his words, no man had better manners in daUy life,
manners at once kindly, stately, and dignified, and he could
do a courteous action in the most graceful way. A little

282 EARLY MEMORIES
incident connected with Mr. Motley's appointment as min
ister to England Ulustrates this quality in Sumner very weU,
It was known that Mr. Motley's name was being consid
ered by the President, but there were other aspirants and
the usual speculation and uncertainty were rife. At last
the President told Sumner that he would appoint Motley.
That same evening Motley dined with Sumner. There was
a large party, and although there was conversation about the
English mission no one had any idea that the question had
been settled. When the dinner had ended and the cloth
was removed Sumner raised his glass and, looking at Mr,
Motley, said in the quietest, most matter-of-fact way:
"When does your ExceUency intend to sail for Eng
land?" Coupled ¦with his deficiency in a sense of humor and
akin to it was a curious simplicity of nature. He was not
in the least arrogant, to my thinking, although I have heard
arrogance charged against him. He was anything but con
ceited, but he had vanity — "the most phUosophical of those
feelings we are taught to despise," as Mr. Justice Holmes
has said — in a marked degree. So complete were his credu
lity and simphcity in this respect that designing men could
easily take advantage of him. It was not the vanity which
offends, for it was too frank, too obvious, too innocent to
give offence, but it made him an easy prey to those who
wished to profit by it. When in Washington I always dined
with Sumner, and on one occasion Caleb Gushing and John
W, Forney were both there; I think he always had some one
at his hospitable table, as he disliked being alone, I remem
ber my surprise at seeing Caleb Cushing. In our Free SoU,
Republican household his name was anathema as a pro-
slavery Massachusetts Democrat who had sold himself to
the South for a cabinet office, I knew nothing of his career,
I only had the vague notion, acquired in chUdhood, that he

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 283
was one of the wicked, and it never occurred to me that it
was possible for me to meet him in any house to which I
should be in-vited, least of aU in Sumner's. I was therefore
surprised to find a weU-bred man, ¦with a keen, intellectual
face, who made himself most agreeable. It was really quite
natural that he should have been at Sumner's, for his last
gyration had brought him to a strong support of the Union
cause, of which I, as a boy, had been profoundly ignorant.
I recaU nothing of his conversation except that it was inter
esting and tinged with a certain cool cynicism which I now
know was characteristic of the man. One thing, and only
one, that he said has clung to my memory. The talk turned
upon Grant, who had just been elected, and was a warm
friend of the former attorney-general. Cushing said:
"When the War broke out I remarked to a friend that I
¦wished I could pick out the subaltern in the Army who
would be the next President of the United States and now
here he is."
The other guest, Forney, was very different. He de
voted himself to deluging his host with gross flattery, which
the subject of the eulogy received smUingly and ¦without
deprecation. I had been brought up in an atmosphere
charged with affection and admiration for Sumner, but this
sort of adulation I had never heard, and I sat by in sUent
amazement, wondering greatly, feeling uncomfortable, and
sympathizing with Sumner, who, I thought, must feel un
comfortable too, a behef in which I was quite mistaken.
Forney knew quite weU what he was about, and had defi
nite, practical purposes to serve. Whether the stories then
current were true or not, there is no doubt that intimacy
with Sumner was valuable to Forney, and he held his friend
ship with him by a flattery which only a nature of the
utmost simplicity and vanity could have accepted without
suspicion or revolt, I saw another instance of the same

284 EARLY MEMORIES
weakness with a man who had no private end to serve.
On several occasions when Sumner dined at our house in
Boston my mother asked WendeU PhUlips and no one else
to meet him, WendeU PhUlips was a most delightful man
in private life and at a famUy dinner of the kind to which
I refer. But I was amazed at the way in which he seemed
to flatter Sumner, and stiU more, as in the case of Forney,
at the manner in which Sumner accepted it with a pleased
smUe and ¦without a murmur of dissent. PhUlips, as I
thought at the time, did this either because he liked to
please Sumner, or possibly with an underlying love of mis
chief, of which he was entirely capable, and which afforded
him a certain cynical enjoyment by the exhibition of a
human and harnUess weakness. I have since come to the
conclusion that what Phillips said was not only genuine,
but that he did it because he knew how much it would
gratify the recipient of his praise. For Sumner PhiUips had
a very real affection and one which I think never wavered.
Among many notes from PhUhps to my mother I select two
which show his love for Sumner in a way which puts any sus
picion of mere flattery or of a mischievous wish to show
Sumner's simplicity of nature out of the range of possibUi
ties.
DEAR MRS lodge
Having told you one incident of Arch & the workingmen's
visit to Sumner, it is but fair to them to add another, which he
will never tell you, but I think it gave him a moment's pleasure.
Arch had been insisting on the evils England suffered from the
long tenure of office, hereditary &a Sumner was answering,
"Well, Sir, we cure that here. If a Governor misbehaves we
leave him out next year; if a Representative votes wrong, we let
him stay at home next winter. We only trust men a year at a
time," Of course the whole crowd were listening in silence. — And as
he paused one of the workingmen broke in — "Yes, Mr Arch, we

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 285
only elect one Senator for life." All applauded and Charles ac
knowledged it with a smile. A graceful compliment was not it?
— and deserved. Yrs
7 Nov — '73 Wendell Phillips
MY DEAR MRS LODGE —
You are very kind to remember me and offer me a share in so
pleasant a meeting. I shall certainly be with you and we can
exchange congratulations that our old commonwealth honors her
self so much by this flood-tide of admiring pride in her oldest
public servant and honestest.
He must surely be touched by this evidence of public confi
dence and lo^ving interest. It will strengthen him for a brave
winter in Washington.
No matter that you forgot the place where I live, since you've
never forgot the place where any hard duty caUed you,
Very sincerely Yrs
50 Essex St. Wendell Phillips
20 Nov.—
I have thus far spoken chiefly of Sumner's foibles be
cause it would be impossible to understand him or know
him -without realizing them. But these pecuharities which
I have described, although used against him by his enemies,
were only foibles and nothing more. They did not really
affect the essential greatness of the man. Sumner was a
great man and did a great work throughout the stormy
times in which he lived. Justice in many instances has not
been done to him, and even among those who have praised
him he has not always been rightly praised, because both
the praise and the blame have been awarded on what seems
to me a mistaken view of his life and work, A man should
be judged and criticised for what he was, not because he was
not something else or because he faded to be what he was
not and never tried to be.

286 EARLY MEMORIES
Sumner by nature was a dreamer, a man of meditation,
a man of books, and a lover of learning. By the circum
stances of his time and by the hand of fate he was projected
into a career of intense action and fierce struggle. There
he played a great part, but his nature was not changed.
He stUl remained at bottom a dreamer and a man of books.
Everything which interested him, whether great or small, he
approached from the precincts and with the habits of the
library and in the manner of a deep, delving student. I have
spoken of his love for china and porcelains. He was fond
of them, and had made quite a collection not only of exam
ples of European manufacture, but of Chinese and Japanese
work, at that period little understood or appreciated. Yet
this interest which to most persons is merely a taste or an
amusement was to Sumner a subject of research and study.
How good his judgment was I cannot undertake to say, but
he had mastered all the learning and read all the books on
the subject, and could talk about the history and processes
of manufacture and the famous makers of pottery or por
celain by the hour together. As a matter of course, Sumner
had a good library and knew about books, but he also be
came interested in bindings, and I remember hearing him
on more than one occasion discourse about bindings and
celebrated binders in a manner which would lead a casual
listener to think that bookbinding had been the study and
occupation of his life. It was the same in regard to pictures,
architecture, and sculpture, aU subjects in which he was in
terested. It was inevitable that he should carry the same
habits and propensities into the serious work of his life, and
that whenever he made a speech on any subject his learning
should flow out copiously upon every topic. This led, as
I have already said, to his overloading his speeches when
he should have used the stores of his reading and memory
with extreme reserve, and solely for illustration or decora-

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 287
tion. His ¦wide and accurate historical knowledge as well
as his legal training fitted him peculiarly for the treatment
of international questions, and the important position of
chairman of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations,
which he held so long, attained to greater authority in his
hands than in those of any other of the many able men
who have occupied the same place. The work of that
committee was not only agreeable to Sumner, but was pe
cuharly suited to him, and he was one of the guiding forces
in our foreign pohcy during the trying and difficult years of
the Ci'vU War, He was intense in his Americanism, and all
the quite unequalled attention which he had received abroad,
especially in England, never affected him in the slightest
degree where the interests of his own countrj'- were con
cerned. He was severely criticised for his extravagant ad
vocacy of the untenable Indirect Claims, which came so
near to ¦wrecking the Geneva Arbitration. But I have al
ways thought that Sumner's deliberate purpose was to
break up the arbitration, because he did not believe that it
was the ¦wise course for the United States to take. Sumner
felt deeply the conduct of England during our Civil War.
The very fact of his many friendships in England made his
resentment aU the keener. When the war closed it seemed
to him that the time had come for a final settlement, and
that settlement to him meant the acquisition of Canada.
Mr. Charles Francis Adams has sho^wn recently how near
we were to this solution, for at that period England had
none of the feeling about her colonies which she has to-day.
The statesmen of the extreme Free Trade school were in the
ascendant, and the general feehng was one of indifference
to the colonies, coupled with a readiness to let them go if
they so desired. Sumner's policy was to refuse all arbitra
tion with England as to the "Alabama" depredations and
the injuries she had inflicted upon us and to take Canada

288 EARLY MEMORIES
as an indemnity, thereby closing the door to all future diffi
culties with Great Britain. He believed the transfer would
be peaceable, but with the greatest army of tried and vet
eran soldiers then existent, and an equally powerful navy,
he was quite prepared for a war which could have had but
one issue. The policy was feasible, and if we had taken
Canada at that time, many questions would have been
laid to rest forever. We accepted arbitration, an apology,
and fifteen mUlions of money. Perhaps it was the wisest
as it was certainly the safest course, but Sumner's policy
was none the less strong, intelligent, far-seeing, and final.
In regard to Cuba, when the insurrection broke out which
culminated in the affair of the "Vhginius," Sumner declared
the presence of Spain in the Western Hemisphere to be an
anachronism. He did not press for active measures against
Spain, because there were still slaves in Cuba, and that
chiUed his sympathy. But he saw the true situation before
others had grasped it, and declared that what was done
thirty years later was ine-vitable and ought to come to pass.
He was a generation ahead of his time in his views of our
relations to Spain, and of the necessary result which was
bound to come because Spanish rule was an anachronism
in America. It was the same in regard to the treatment of the South
when the war closed. Sumner believed that the true course
was to di-vide the States lately in rebelhon into mUitary dis
tricts, without regard to State lines, and give them for a
time a purely mUitary government. This opinion came from
no fanatical hatred of the South, for Sumner was the most
generous of -victors, and was censured by the Massachusetts
Legislature for proposing to erase from the battle-fiags of
the United States the names of Union -victories, because he
believed in removing all outward signs of the triumph of
one American over another. Again he was ahead of his

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 289
time, and his plan for temporary military government arose
from his behef that it would be best in the end for all con
cerned. The only real alternative to Sumner's policy was
to let the Southern States come back as if nothing had hap
pened. For this high trust the South at the moment showed
itself unfit, because the Legislatures seemed to have learned
nothing, and began at once by the device of peonage laws
to thrust the negro back into practical slavery. On the
other hand, the North thought mUitary government too
extreme and too much at variance -with American principles.
The result was that neither the one plan nor the other was
adopted, and so we had reconstruction based on negro rule
-with all its faUures and miseries. Sumner's policy would
have spared the country aU this, and it would have been bet
ter for the South, which would have infinitely preferred the
government of the army to that which we forced upon them.
Sumner was a statesman in the largest sense, although
not a legislator who drafted laws and attended to legislative
detaUs. StUl less was he a politician, for he cared nothing
for politics, in the ordinary acceptation of the word. Yet
it is not upon his statesmanship or upon his power as an
orator that his fame depends, Sumner's greatness rests
securely on the fact that he was the representative of an
idea. He stood for human freedom. He was among the
first of those who have been well called the human rights
statesmen of that period. He was one of the great leaders
among the men of 1848 when the movement for political
liberty swept over the world of Western civUization, and
when it was believed that in political liberty, manhood suf
frage, and republican government, whether in Italy or
Austria, in France or Germany, or among the negroes of the
South, would be found a cure for all the iUs and miseries of
mankind. It was a noble faith, its champions did a great
work for humanity. Theh success did not bring a panacea

290 EARLY MEMORIES
for all the iUs that flesh is heir to, for, alas, there is none,
but they made the lot of mankind better, and rendered an
inestimable service to their fellow men. Sumner was one
of the greatest among them in his devotion to the cause.
Not only by what he said, but by what he suffered, and,
above all, by what he was in character and attainments,
was he enabled to strike the most deadly blows at slavery
ever dealt up to that time in Congress. He had the spirit
of the martyr and the crusader. He was entirely fearless.
He never would compromise, retreat, or flinch. He was
just the man needed in the conflict which culminated in
the ten years preceding the Civil War, and during that
period he ffils a large place.
As I saw him he was a lovable man. He was kindness
itself, gentle and affectionate in our household, of which he
was so often a part. But as I look back on that vanished
time I see now, that which I vaguely felt then, what a pa
thetic, almost tragic, figure he was. He was singularly
lonely. He had no near relations after the death of his
brother George. His marriage proved most unhappy, and
led to separation and renewed isolation. He never fuUy
recovered from the Brooks assault, and the disease of the
heart, which finally caused his death, produced acute suf
fering. Yet he never murmured. He bore his loneliness
and physical pain alike in sUence and with a smUing face.
He had high moral courage, and never cried out under the
blows of fate. His career is part, and a large part, of the
history of his time. I have no thought of rewriting it
here in these rambling recollections, but I wish to give
the impression which was left to me by close association
with a remarkable man in the days of chUdhood and youth,
and of whom I had that nearer -view which sometimes
brings a better understanding than official records or the
researches of the historians.

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 291
There were no others of the antislavery leaders, the
"human rights" statesmen who came into control of Massa
chusetts politics during the fifties, and who played a large
part in the history of the United States, whom I knew and
saw closely, as was the case -with Sumner, Henry WUson,
Sumner's coUeague, was httle more than a name to me untU
I met him in Washington when he was -vice-president, and
shortly before his death, I there had a long talk -with him.
He knew about me and about the friendship of my famUy
with Sumner, and he was most kind and pleasant. I noted
in a diary the fact of my talk vsdth him, but made no record
of the conversation, which has now entirely escaped my
memory. I remember very well, however, just how he
looked: large, fair, with a florid complexion, a pleasant voice,
and agreeable manner. He was a man of remarkable quali
ties, for he had worked his way up from as low a starting-
point as it is possible to conceive. It was said that he was
the son of English gypsies, and that his name was really
Coldbath, but he had no trace of the gypsy look, and prob
ably came from one of those families of English stock who
are confused ¦with the true Romany merely because they
lead a wandering gypsy life. However this may be, he was
born in the utmost obscurity and poverty. He had no
chance for any schooling, and no friends to help him. He
learned the trade of shoemaker, made his own living, edu
cated himself, entered politics, rose to be one of the leaders
of the Repubhcan party in Massachusetts, then became
senator, and died vice-president of the United States, He
was not only able to hold his own in the great positions he
fiUed, but, so far as I could see, there was no trace of rough
ness about him or of that almost ferocious self-assertion
which is so apt to appear in men who have fought their
way from humble beginnings and through great difficulties
up to success. He was dignified and simple in manner, and

292 EARLY MEMORIES
there was nothing to suggest to any one who saw him as I
did that he was not to the manner born.
Governor Andrew I never really knew, although as a
chUd I saw him at his home, I knew his famUy well, and his
son, who died comparatively young, was a close friend of
mine for many years. We served together in the Legislature
and in Congress, and although we parted politically in 1884,
our friendship was never in the slightest degree interrupted.
He was very quick and clever, a delightful companion, a
loyal friend, but he did not possess his father's unusual force,
his depth of feeling, or his remarkable ability, I never, as
I have just said, really knew the governor, for he died
whUe I was stUl a boy, soon after the war, worn out by his
labors during those terrible years. Yet Governor Andrew
remains in my memory as one of the most vi^vid figures of my
early days, just as he was one of the commanding figures of
the time, a great war governor, a piUar of support to Lin
coln and the Union cause, I see him now far more clearly
than many persons whom I knew much better. My vision
of him is always as he stood reviewing the troops when
they marched past the State House, and I used to look after
him, when I passed him in the street, Muth wondering eyes.
To me, who had never been beyond the bounds of Boston
and its neighborhood, he seemed the incarnation of the gov
ernment, of freedom, and of the Union. A short, heavily
buUt, squarely solid figure, as I described him in an earlier
chapter, with a large head covered with tight-curling hght
hair, a smooth round face, and inseparable spectacles, he
was not physically the type of man who would by his looks
appeal to a boy's imagination as a hero. Yet to me he
was unquestionably heroic. I cannot recall a word that he
uttered when, a small unit in the crowd, I heard him speak.
I was moved because everybody about him was moved by
what he said, and the contagion of a crowd is very powerful.

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 293
StUl, the fact of the impression remained, and I now explain
it by the man's real greatness, by his sincerity of soul, and,
above aU, by his emotional force, which carried his audi
ences away and which struck so deep into my boyish im
agination that his image has never been effaced, or even
dimmed. Dr. S. G. Howe was another of the antislavery lead
ers whom I cannot be said to have known, but who stands
out sharply in my memory. Both he and Mrs. Howe were
friends of my mother, to whom as a young girl Dr. Howe's
expedition to Greece and his part in the war of liberation
made him appear, as indeed he was, a romantic hero, ¦with
the temper and courage of a crusading knight. I think I
saw him first when I was fourteen years old and went to a
picnic at the Howes' place near Ne^wport. I looked at him
with eager curiosity, for I had not only heard of his exploits
and wUd adventures in behalf of Greek liberty, but the
story of Laura Bridgman was famUiar to me, and I had
always wanted to see the man who had worked such wonders.
Dr. Howe, as so seldom happens, fully satisfied my imagina
tion. He was a most striking-looking man, hawk-eyed,
hawk-nosed, with the expression of wUd daring which I ex
pected. The Laura Bridgman side was not apparent to a
smaU boy staring at the hero of many adventures. Yet
that was reaUy the dominant side, for if ever a man hved
who, ¦without a thought of self, devoted his life to helping
his feUow men — the poor, the deformed, the crippled in
mind and body, all the heavy-laden of our struggling human
ity — it was Dr. Howe. That such a man should cast him
self into the movement to free the slaves was inevitable.
He had no love for politics, but he fought the battle of the
slaves politically and in every other way, on the plains of
Kansas and in the streets of Boston, He was one of Sum
ner's closest and most devoted friends, a friend who never

294 EARLY MEMORIES
flattered and was all the more valuable to Sumner on that
account. Anson Burlingame I never knew, and I do not think that
I ever saw him in those early days. Yet my impression of
him as I recaU those times is very ¦vi'vid, merely because I
heard him talked about so constantly. He was one of the
heroes of the household in the days of the antislavery strug
gle, and my father, who was one of his constituents, had a
very great admiration for him, not only on account of his
brilliancy in speech and debate, but for his fearlessness and
readiness to fight if need be. He dwells in the memory of
my first ten years as one of the champions of the good cause
to whom we all owed a most especial aUegiance.
Of Wendell Phillips I saw much more, as it happened,
after I grew up. He cannot be said to have belonged to the
group of human-rights statesmen who took possession of the
stage when I was a chUd, and held it for many years after
wards, for he was not a statesman and never acted long in
harmony ¦with anybody. Brought up in a free-soU Repub
lican household, I had imbibed the notion that PhUhps was
an agitator who injured the good cause by his extrava
gances. His assaults on the Union of States, his denuncia
tion of the Constitution, and his attacks upon Lincoln aU
combined to foster this idea. Later, as I began to think for
myseh, these early impressions were strengthened by Phil
lips's support of Butler and Butler's appointments in Massa
chusetts, by his zeal for the negro governments of the South,
by his praise of assassination in the case of the Czar in his
Phi Beta Kappa speech, and by his reckless diatribes against
everybody who crossed his path. He was in truth an Ish-
mael, and his hand was against every man's. When Judge
Hoar, on being asked if he was going to Phillips's funeral,
replied, "No, I cannot go, but I approve of the proceedings
entirely," he expressed by his jest the general feeling in

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 295
Boston about PhUhps. Yet when I came to know him,
although I did not alter my opinion of him as a public
man, I could not help being attracted by him personally.
He was taU, singularly high-bred, and distinguished-looking,
handsome, and ¦with the most beautiful voice I ever heard.
The weU-known anecdote of Lord Morpet^h and Mr. Ticknor
gives the best idea of the way PhUlips appeared so far as
mere exterior went. Lord Morpeth was in this country in
1842. In Boston he stayed ¦with Mr. Ticknor, the historian
of Spanish hterature, who had travelled much, making it
his business to see every one of note, and who naturally
took charge of most of the distinguished foreigners who
visited his native city. Lord Morpeth, standing one day
at the ¦window of Mr. Ticknor's house in Park Street, said:
"Who are those two men walking together? They are the
most aristocratic, the most distinguished-looking men I have
seen in America." Mr. Ticknor looked out and replied:
"Those men are Edmund Quincy and WendeU PhUlips,
two abolitionists and agitators, "violent, dangerous persons,"
Mr, Ticknor was a conservative, a friend of Webster, a
"cotton" or "Hunker" Whig, as they were afterwards
caUed, and Lord Morpeth's comment on Quincy and Phil
lips was not to him a sympathetic observation. Yet the
two agitators were entitled to their looks if birth, good
family, and generations of education and refinement meant
an3dihing. By Mr, Ticknor they were regarded much as an
anarchist of the extreme type is regarded now, and he could
not see them in any other light, I was too young to have
kno-wn Mr, Ticknor, but I remember as a boy seeing him
constantly, walking slowly in the sunshine on -winter days
along Beacon Street, where we then lived, not far from his
house. He was short, looked like the typical elderly Eng
lishman of the Palmerstonian period, had a rather stern
expression, and an air of conscious importance. He was a

296 EARLY MEMORIES
man of learning and of real scholarship, especially in his
own domain of Spanish literature, and did most admirable
work in that field. But he was, I imagine, a somewhat
conceited man, and these qualities, together with his poht
ical attitude in the years of the war and those preceding
it, had made him unpopular.
But I have drifted away from Phillips, Through our
common descent from John Walley, the pro-vincial lieutenant-
general of the time of William of Orange, my father, to
whom Phillips's fearlessness strongly appealed, had always
kept up relations -with him. My mother had, of course,
known him from her girlhood, and despite his many -violences
and bitter attacks had, I think, retained not only a lasting
admiration for his early ser-vices to the antislavery cause
in the dark days when few people dared to say a word on
that subject, but a real affection for the man himseh. In
any event, he used to dine with us now and then, especially
when Sumner was at the house, and it is on those occasions
that I remember him, I can see him now sitting at the
dinner-table vsdth his attractive smile and turning dovm all
his wine-glasses to show his support of total abstinence and
State prohibition of liquor-seUing, He had a most charm
ing manner and was always agreeable and interesting, for
he was a man of wide reading and talked well on many
subjects. He cared nothing for accuracy — ^his many ene
mies said he cared nothing for truth — ^but this fading does
not make conversation less amusing, however much it im
pairs its moral or statistical value. He would also say bit
ter and witty things about people whom he disliked, and
they were many, but aU in his quietest manner and in the
most silvery tones of his beautiful voice, I remember very
well how interesting he was once in discussing public speak
ing, of which it is needless to say he was a master, and of
the rules to be observed in the practice of that difficult

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 297
art. "Use the conversational tone as much as you can,"
he said; "in fact, no other if possible, for in that way the
infiections are preserved which are aU lost when a man shouts.
Moreover, shouting and roaring often defeat themselves by
mere noise and monotony. Making an audience hear de
pends on the pitch, not on the loudness of the voice. An
other great point overlooked by most speakers is the posi
tion of the head and the direction in which you send your
voice. Most speakers drop the head a little and talk to
the people seated in the middle of the haU, on the floor-
level. Nobody hears them, or hears only very imperfectly,
back of the middle of the audience. Always talk to the
most remote man in the gallery. If you can make him
hear, as you can -with a proper pitch and clear enunciation,
everybody between you and him wUl hear too." I had no
thought at that time that I should ever make a public
speech, but what PhiUips said struck me very much. I
always remembered the simple rules he laid down, and they
have been of the utmost use to me in speaking at all times,
and under all conditions.
Another of the leaders of the Free-SoU movement whom
I came to know in those years, and one of a very differ
ent type from the men I have already mentioned, was Mr.
Charles Francis Adams. Through my intimacy -with two
of his sons, Henry, and Brooks, the youngest of the family
who had been in coUege -with me, and also as a member of
the Historical Society and of the Wednesday Evening Club,
I saw a good deal of him. He was not an easy man to know
and was the reverse of expansive, but I watched him -with
interest and talked with him whenever I had a chance.
He was a short, strongly built man with a very marked re
semblance to his father, John Quincy Adams, as weU as the
characteristic look of the famUy. His forehead was broad
with abundant room behind it. His features were sharply

298 EARLY MEMORIES
cut, the eye keen, and the jaw — his most notable feature —
large, square, and strong, giving an impression of a grip like
a bulldog. His mouth corresponded to the jaw, not hand
some but of straight clear line, and, as Carlyle said of Web
ster's, "accurately closed." Altogether his head and face
gave an unmistakable expression of inteUectual power, iron
will, and calm determination. The outward appearance
told the truth. Mr, Adams had aU these qualities in a high
degree. He was popularly supposed to be hard and cold
blooded, and his political enemies made this charge in season
and out of season. Superficially there was reason for the
popular idea, but I am certain that he was neither cold
blooded nor hard, I know that he was a man of warm
affections, and I think that he had a high temper, but he
concealed the one and controlled the other. He was very
reserved, and reserve and self-control, as is so often the
case, were mistaken for hardness and coldness of disposi
tion, I met him abroad when he was in Europe on the
Geneva Arbitration, and I saw him often in Boston after
wards. He was, as a rule, very taciturn, and joined but
little in general conversation, but when I was fortunate
enough to obtain an opportunity to talk with him I found
him always as kind and pleasant as possible. He never, so
far as I could see, talked about himself or his experiences
or what he had done. His talk, always good, marked by
entire independence of opinion and great lucidity both of
thought and expression, was always impersonal, but none
the less interesting, although it was somewhat remote and
detached. I recall one little anecdote which he told me
that interested me very much, for it was one of those stories
which bring men of the past close and make them live again
for a moment, Stuart painted a portrait of John Adams in
extreme old age, when he was nearing his ninetieth year.
It is a very fine portrait of the old man seated and leaning

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 299
on his cane. Mr. Adams, a boy of nineteen, used to keep
his grandfather company during the sittings and watch the
painter at work. He said that Stuart, who was old, too, and
near the end of his career, was physicaUy feeble. Both his
hands shook -violently. From a quivering palette he would
take his color, and with his brush shaking and trembling he
would approach the picture. Mr. Adams said it looked as if
he might dash the paint on anywhere, but the brush always
touched the portrait, extraordinary as it seemed, in exactly
the right spot and in precisely the right way. Despite his
shaking hands and trembling fingers, the old artist never
made a mistake.
Mr. Adams left with me not only a feeling of affection
and a memory of kindness, but the assurance that he was
a very strong, very able, and very remarkable man. He
was stanch, true, entirely fearless, and an American in every
'fibre, a patriot of the highest type of patriotism. He was
as pro-vidential in his place as minister to England during
our Ci-vil War as Lincoln was in the White House. The
heir and representative of a line of statesmen, thoroughly
versed in history, diplomacy, and politics as very few men
ever are, he met the public men of England on something
more than an equality. He could not be awed or overrid
den; he was as highly trained as the best of them, and much
better informed. He was cahn and quite incapable of blus
ter or violence, but when the right moment came he could
strike harder than any one else and with all the pent-up
force of the strong man who knows how to wait. I have
always thought that he went through those four terrible
years of unparalleled difficulty, trial, and danger without
making a single mistake, and with the utmost degree of
effectiveness. There could be no higher praise,
I -wiU venture to give two of his letters to me, because
they not only are evidence of his kind-hearted readiness to

300 EARLY MEMORIES
encourage a very young man, but they are also characteristic
and show some of the qualities I have tried to describe.
The first relates to an article upon Alexander HamUton,
the second to my memoir of my great-grandfather, George
Cabot. Quincy 25 July 1876
DEAR MR. lodge.
In looking over the July number of the North American Re
view, I was very naturally attracted to your article as one in which
I might take an interest; and on reading it I was not disappointed.
You have taken up a difficult subject and have managed it
with skill and good temper. You have also labored to be impartial
in questions where your very natural bias might most reasonably
lead you to take a side. In my opinion you have acquitted your
self with great credit. I shall be glad to see the Review often sup
plying equally instructive matter, in an equally dignified way.
You will not understand by this that I always agree with you
in your judgments. On the contrary, I should perhaps differ in
your analysis of all three of the great men of whom you treat, but
that would not in the least impair my appreciation of the value
of your work. I am very glad to find the young men endeavoring
to understand them historically and not in the spirit of old preju
dices handed down from generation to generation. In my youth
ful days the fashion was intense panegyric or else ferocious malev
olence. I think we have improved on them in this respect if not
in many others. I trust the Review may continue to be favored
as well as to be benefitted by such contributors.
Very truly yours
Charles Francis Adams
Quincy 4 July, 1877.
MY DEAR SIR
Engrossed as I have been for some time in the final corrections
of the press of my own work, I have not yet had the leisure neces
sary to peruse your's which you have been so kind as to send me.
I thank you for remembering me, and I shall read it with the at
tention which I see it deserves. If not convinced by the argu
ment, or the conclusions, it is at any rate a consoling reflection

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OP LETTERS 301
that all the acerbity that infected the subject has passed away, and
we may commit it to the same umpire which has passed upon
human action from the days of Romulus and Pericles and Moses
down to the last Napoleon and Sir Robert Peel. When I was
entering into life I was disposed to mount a high horse and chal
lenge the world to disputation for prizes which now I would not
cross this room to secure.
Such are my reflections whilst listening to the cannon in Boston
which remind me that we have a country about which with all
it's short comings we can all agree stiU to esteem quite as well
worth li^ving in as in any other on the face of the globe.
Very truly
Charles Francis Adams,
Another man, distinguished in public life during the
trying years which preceded the Ci^vil War, whom I came to
know weU at the time was Robert C. Winthrop, In politics
he was the antipodes of the men I have thus far mentioned,
and in the atmosphere of Free SoU and Republicanism
which I had breathed I had gathered the vague idea that
he was little better than a pro-slavery Democrat; that, like
Webster, he had made the great refusal and had abandoned
the cause of freedom and of the country. When I came to
know him I changed my conception of him very materially,
although I never thought he was right in the political course
which he adopted. He was president of the Historical
Society when I became a member, and I think that my elec
tion was largely due to him. He was nearly seventy when I
flrst knew him, and seemed to me much older, for he ap
peared to cultivate an appearance of age, although he was
reaUy strong and active and lived to be over eighty. To me
he was very kind in the way which is never forgotten. His
first wife, the mother of his chUdren, was a cousin of my
grandfather, and he took a genuine interest in the work I
was doing in collecting my great-grandfather's letters and
preparing a memoir of him. To me he was sympathetic and

302 EARLY MEMORIES
gentle always, and I became very fond of him, A descend
ant of John Winthrop, the founder of Massachusetts, he
was a gentleman in every sense, and in the best sense. His
manner was formal and very courteous, ¦with the savor of an
elder day. He was an accomplished man, a scholar in the
old and generous acceptation of the word, -widely read,
¦widely traveUed, and a most delightful companion. Early
in life he had entered politics and had been highly successful.
From the Legislature he had gone to Congress and had been
elected Speaker when the Whigs secured control. He was
a Whig candidate for the Senate and had ffiled an unfinished
term, but had lost his election owing to the rising anti-
slavery tide and the coalition between the Democrats and
Free-SoUers which swept Massachusetts from her Whig
moorings. This was the end of his political career. He
could not bring himself to accept the Republican party;
he fell out of the race, and ended by voting the Democratic
ticket and losing all hold upon the people of Massachusetts.
Although embittered by his experience, he did not com
plain, but behaved always with dignity and turned to histor
ical studies for occupation. Only once in all my talks with
him did the old feeling fiash up. One day we were discussing
Webster, with whom I had unquestioningly placed him as
an ally and follower, when to my great surprise he spoke of
Webster with an acerbity and energy which revealed to me
a vigor and intensity of feeling of which I had not thought
him capable. I do not remember what the precise grievance
was, but he felt that Webster had betrayed him and he
had not forgiven him. The real man came to the surface
through the gracious, formal manner, and I was interested
to see what very strong, human feelings the real man pos
sessed. Mr. Winthrop was an orator of much power and
grace. His style was of his day, stately, careful, dignified,
and his addresses and orations on many occasions gave him a

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 303
large reputation throughout the country. But what I ttiink
of chiefiy, as I recaU him, is the kindly, high-bred gentle
man, thoughtful and well-mannered, who was always so
helpful and encouraging to a young man who had no claim
upon him except that we both loved books and history.
Let me turn now from the men of public affairs to the
men of letters whom I remember in my boyhood, and whom
I knew or came to know in the years which followed my re
turn from Europe, I was bom just at the time when the
remarkable group of writers who made New England and
Massachusetts famous were at their zenith, or rising to
their highest achievement. In the fifties the Atlantic
Monthly was started, and the essays of the "Autocrat"
begun. The first series of the "Biglow Papers" had been
¦written, Emerson, Hawthorne, and Longfellow had already
won their fame, and Prescott, Motley, and Bancroft had
estabhshed their reputations as historians, Hawthorne I
never saw, a misfortune I deeply regret, for I should have
hked to cherish at least a memory of his looks. All the
others I not only saw, but, with the exception of Mr, Pres
cott, met frequently, and in the process of the years came to
know them personally and weU, Let me begin, then, vdth
the one whom I knew first, and who is associated with my
very earliest memories, John Lothrop Motley, Mr, and
Mrs. Motley, although much younger, were, I may repeat,
intimate friends of my grandfather and grandmother Cabot,
and this friendship was extended to my father and mother.
Lady Harcourt, Mr, Motley's oldest daughter, was named
Elizabeth Cabot for my aunt, a very beautiful girl who died
when she was only nineteen years old. Whenever the
Motleys were in the country they stayed with us at Nahant,
I was taught to call them uncle and aunt, and the friendship
thus begun with their three daughters has lasted through
hfe, undiminished and unchanged either by time or separa-

304 EARLY MEMORIES
tion, Mrs. Motley, whom I loved much better than most
of my blood relations, was, as I have said in an earher
chapter, and hke to say again, a very handsome woman of
unusual charm and warm affections, coupled with a warmth
of feeling and an energy of opinion when she was moved
which made her only the more attractive.
It is not easy to me to describe Mr, Motley, because he
was so entirely a part of my childish world that I accepted
him as a matter of course, just as I did my father and
mother, and never thought of looking at him from the out
side point of view. He was a remarkably handsome man.
That fact impressed me at a very early day. He had, as I
realized later, a singularly high-spirited look — eager, sen
sitive, proud; he always made me think of a thoroughbred
horse with its brUliant eyes just touched with wUdness, its
quick response to every movement, and the undaunted cour
age which holds untU nature gives way and then drops never
to rise again. Mr. Motley's nature corresponded to his
looks. He had the keenest intensity of feehng, together
with an unusual power of expressing it. His opinions were
strong, and a calculating discretion never caused their con
cealment. As is common in such sensitive and emotional
natures, he was full of fun and humor, which are apt to
lie near the sources of anger or of tears. He was deeply
loyal to his friends and very bitter toward his enemies. He
acutely felt and fiercely resented wrong, whether to him
self, to his friends, or to the weak and oppressed; above aU
he resented any wrong to his country, for despite his living
so much in Europe he was an ardent American, intense in his
patriotism as in all else. The romantic movement in hter
ature and art was in full strength as Mr. Motley came to
manhood, and, like other men of imagination, he was in
entire sympathy with it and a part of it. He began his lit
erary life ¦with two novels, "Merry-Mount" and "Mor-

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS o05
ton's Hope," The stories dealt ¦with one of the episodes of
the early settlement of New England which was enveloped
in an atmosphere of mystery and romance not too common
in the history of the grim struggle to found a state on that
bleak and rugged coast. These novels were by no means
devoid of merit, but they had no great success, and were
overshadowed by the genius which, going to the same field,
produced "The Scariet Letter," the "Twice-told Tales,"
and "The House of the Seven Gables," Mr, Motley was
dissatisfied ¦with them and never alluded to them. They
were not republished and, ha-ving been long out of print,
are now a prize for the coUector of first editions. Leav
ing fiction to others, Mr, Motley turned to history and
selected as his subject the struggle of the Dutch for hb
erty and independence. No part of modern history could
have been better adapted to his talents and his tempera
ment. His love of hberty, his gallant spirit, his hatred
of oppression, all were appealed to by the heroic battle of
the Dutch against the power of Spain, and the romantic
episodes of that long fight against overwhelming odds
touched the chords which -vibrated so readily in those days
of successful revolt against the dry, cold conventions of the
eighteenth century. With a care and industry remark
able in one of his quick mind and impatient temper, he
explored the archives and toiled through untouched and
original authorities like the veriest antiquary. The re
sult was "The Rise of the Dutch Repubhc," which had an
immediate and brUhant success, both at home and abroad,
and which made his fame secure. He carried into his books
the same energy and enthusiasm which made him so inspir
ing and so fascinating in private life. Long before I had
read his history or knew anything of the period I had be
come deeply interested in aU his heroes, especiaUy in WiUiam
the Silent, merely from hearing him talk about them. He

306 EARLY MEMORIES
made me feel as if they were all alive and fighting their great
fight at that moment, and, boy-like, I longed to be a "Beg
gar of the Sea," and hated PhUip II with a ¦vigor which,
I confess, a larger knowledge has not materially dimin
ished. Mr, Motley comes back to me now as I recall those
early days ¦with his fiashing eyes, his high-spirited looks, his
head flung back, talking with eager eloquence about Egmont
and Horn and William of Orange, or about American slavery
and North and South, always vsdth the same intensity when
he was moved, and with the same hatred of wrong and op
pression, whether among the dikes of Holland or on the
plantations of the South. I wish that I could manage to
give in words some idea of the effect of his presence and
manner, which in many ways were the most striking I have
ever seen in any man. But my attempt at description
seems to me painfully inadequate. He had something in
his look, something in his manner, which arrested attention
as soon as he entered a room, and was in some indefinable
way at once exciting and inspiring. In reading the attract
ive reminiscences of Lady Saint Helier, I was much pleased
to notice that Mr, Motley, in her opinion, produced the very
effect which I have tried to describe. She says: "There
are some figures and faces one can never forget, and Mr,
Motley was one of the most striking people I have ever
seen. At this moment the impression he made upon me is
as vivid as on that evening when I first looked upon the
author of one of the most entertaining books of history that
it is possible to read." When I read this testimony of a
disinterested and keen observer, I felt that my own impres
sions of Mr. Motley's striking look and inspiriting manner
were not led astray by propinquity and affection. He was,
as Lady Saint Helier says, one of the rare people who are not
only vivid, but can never fall a prey to forgetfulness among
those who have seen and known them. He had, and I am

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 307
inclined to think that his historical work had, something
of that "wrath and partiality" which Byron admired in a
historian. But these qualities make his books more and
not less attractive, especiaUy in these days of "scientific
history," when it is the fashion of a certain school to hold
that history is not hterature, unmindful of the fact that it
is only the history which is also hterature which survives and
is read, and so serves to enlighten and con-vince the world.
The success of the Republican party found Mr, Motley
in Europe, where he plunged into the fray in defence of the
Union cause, outraged by the attitude of England and Eng
lish opinion. He was soon appointed minister to Vienna,
and there we found him, late in the ¦winter of 1867, and re
newed the old friendship and intimacy. When he returned
to the Umted States after Grant's election, he was constantly
at our house in Boston. That was, I think, the happiest
time of his hfe. His place as a historian had been won, the
Union cause in which his heart was bound up had triumphed,
his party was successful, and he was on the eve of the recog
nition to which both his success in literature and his public
services entitled him. I wish that I had known enough to
make notes of his talks in those days, as they ranged from
affairs at home, over European politics, to the history of
the sixteenth century. I can only recall his description of
Bismarck, then just assuming his commanding place in
Europe, and ¦with whom Motley had been intimate as a
feUow student at Gottingen, Bismarck's greatest achieve
ments were stiU in the future, but Mr, Motley had the ut
most confidence in his powers, and told us much of those
qualities of force and intellect about which the world was
then wondering and speculating,
Mr, Motley was appointed minister to England, and his
ambition was gratified. Into the unhappy incidents which
led to his quarrel with the administration and his removal

308 EARLY MEMORIES
from office this is not the place to enter. The blow was a
cruel one. To a man of his sensitive nature and quick feel
ings it was wounding to the last degree. When we were
abroad in 1871-2 we went to The Hague, whither he had
gone to complete his life of John of Bameveldt, and there we
saw him and all the family, as full of kindness and affection
for us as ever. A proud man, Mr, Motley kept a brave
face to the world, but in his own house he could not and did
not conceal his bitter resentment at the treatment which he
had received. I could see how much he had changed under
the wrongs which he felt had been infiicted upon him. The
old enmities and the old friendships, the intense feeling, the
deep interest in past and present, were unaltered; but the
high spirits, the fun and the laughter, always so engaging,
were largely gone, and his talk was tinged -with bitterness,
whUe there was an air of depression about him when he was
silent which had never been there before, and which it was
sad to see.
When I saw him next, three years later, it was stUl
sadder, Mrs. Motley had died, and the light of his life
had gone out. He had been crushed under the blow, and
had suffered a touch of paralysis, from which he was rallying,
but which affected his walk, although not seriously. He
came home in 1875, and passed the summer with my mother
at her house in Nahant, two of his daughters, the eldest, now
Lady Harcourt, and the youngest, now Mrs. MUdmay,
being -with him. I saw him constantly during all that
summer, was with him almost every day, and I think that
I was of some comfort to him. His mind was as keen, as
brilliant, as ever; and although he was broken in spirit, he
liked to talk of history, of the events of the world past and
present, and of the men he had known. He also took the
most affectionate interest in all that I was doing, in my
hopes and ambitions, in my speculations about life and its

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 309
meaning. How much I -wish now that I had made some
note or record of those long talks, but I enjoyed them and let
them pass, as is the fashion of youth. Now I have only
memory to turn to as I recaU those summer days, I remem
ber one occasion, when we happened to be speaking of style
in prose and verse, his caUing my attention to the beautiful
effects which Shakespeare produced by his arrangement of
words of Saxon origin in contrast to, and in juxtaposition
with, those of Latin derivation. He quoted, as perhaps the
best example, the hues from "Macbeth":
"No, this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine;
Making the green one red,"
As soon as he repeated the famUiar lines I saw at once that
the effect which they make, and which at once arrests the
attention and delights the ear, arose from the long, rich, full-
sounding Latin words being sharply followed by the short
Saxon words coming hke the sharp beats of a drum after the
organ notes of the preceding line, I never forgot either the
hues or what Mr. Motley said, and it helped me to appreciate
beauties in verse and high artistic skill in placing words when
I had felt, but had never understood before, the reason for
either. Apart from this I can only recall one other little remark;
and why that should have struck me and remained in my
memory I cannot teU, except that it seemed to body forth
the sensitiveness of Mr, Motley's nature and the sadness
which then pervaded him. We were on the Point one eve
ning toward autumn and watched the moon rise out of the
sea and slowly climb upward from the horizon. It was a fine,
cool night, and the moonlight was very clear and briUiant,
He remarked upon it, and I said : " Nothing could be more
brUliant except our moonhght in -winter glittering on the

310 EARLY MEMORIES
snow," He turned on me almost fiercely and said: "I can
not bear moonlight on the snow, I hate it. It is so cold,
so cruel, so unfeeling," He had suffered so much in his
pride and his affections that he quivered under the slightest
touch, and even the thought of the cold radiance of a moon
lit -winter night pained him.
He returned to England that autumn. He wrote to me
occasionally, dehghtful and affectionate letters, and I shaU
yield to the temptation of gi-ving one or two of them here,
for he died two years later, and I never saw him again.
5 Seamore Place,
Maypair
London, 11 March, '76.
my dear CABOT :
I ought to have sooner acknowledged and thanked you for
your kind and interesting letter of 25 Jan., together with the excel
lent centennial number of the N. A. R.
Unluckily writing is more difficult to me than ever as in addi
tion to unsteadiness of right hand has come dimness of right eye
— so that I am inclined to howl "solve senescentem" to all to
whom I owe letters. At the same time with national recklessness
I am all for contracting fresh obligations whUe in a state of no
torious bankruptcy.
So I beg you to write to me frequently, constantly, unremit-
tedly, I should so much like to hear from you as often as you can
find a spare quarter of an hour to enlighten me a little as to our
political conditions.
You say in your letter "in politics, as you have probably seen,
there is the most absolute calm. But it is only the treacherous
stillness which precedes the storm,"
Truly you are a prophet and the grandson of a prophet — for
is not the gale blowing freshly enough now?
I only hope it may blow away some of the vile effluvia by which
the political atmosphere has become almost too poisonous for
human existence.
Certainly the daily telegrams from Washington to the London
press make every patriotic and honest American hang his head.

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 311
But I believe in the American people nevertheless as I always
have done and I trust that this very putrid administration will
soon be buried out of sight ¦with aU its belongings,
I have had read to me two of the articles in the N. A. R. and
shall have the others read also, I liked those on politics and on
economic science very much.
Is your thesis on Anglo Saxon Law printed? If so would you
send me a copy?
I should like to have the N. A. R. regularly sent to the above
address, I hope future numbers will have many articles from
your (and my) favorite author.
Give all our love to your wife and mother and believe me
always Affectionately yours,
J, L, Motley,
P, S, — When you see Professor Peirce I wish you would give
my love to him and tell him how much I wish to thank him for his
most kind and genial reference to myself at the Harvard Club
dinner. It gratified and touched me very deeply, I need not say
how interesting the whole speech was,
Kingston-Russell House,
Dorchester, Dorset, 2 June, 76,
MY DEAR CABOT:
I received the letter you were kind enough just two months
ago to write to me and had very great pleasure and I may add
instruction in reading it — which I did several times — besides show
ing it to one or two persons able to comprehend and kindly enough
to sympathize with the mental condition of honest men in the
present shameful condition of our politics.
As I never despaired for one moment throughout our war with
slavery from. the beginning of it to the end, so I am able to hope
now. I believe that the American people have not yet sold them
selves to the devil. It looks very like it just now. It looked very
like it during the long period of compromise and prevarication
which preceded the war. But the people are better and braver
than the pofiticians. They found out the issue then, I hope
they will again, I trust they will smash paper money as they
smashed slavery and at much less expense, I even hope to live

312 EARLY MEMORIES
long enough to see a beginning of purification in the Civil Service.
As soon as the vile phrases "to the victors the spoils" and "rota
tion in office" can be expunged from the politicians' creed there
may be a chance for decent government. Not till then.
I also received the invitation ^ which you sent to me thinking
I might like to see it. Of course I understood that it was not ad
dressed to me personally and so did not answer it, I trust it is
hardly necessary for me to say how fully I am in sympathy with
the object and the men. Only in this way can that most vulgar
and dangerous tyrant King Caucus and his elaborate and skillful
system be deposed and destroyed. Since your letter came I see by
the papers that the movement in which you did such good serv
ice has proved a success even if you don't force either Bristow
or Tilden this time. But I think you will. Probably the latter,
I hope you may find time to write me again. The sooner the
better. I take great interest in you and I am likewise much in
terested in what you write. I ¦wish I could send you something
in return. But I am in the deepest retirement and I am also
rather shaky, so that writing is a great effort. Nothing, how
ever, could be more insipid than English politics or more intensely
respectable, I shall look for your impending publication with greatest
interest. Meantime with much love to your Mother and your
Wife I am Always Affectionately yours,
J, L. Motley,
As I have begun my recollections of the literary men
whom I came to know during the years which intervened
between my return from Europe and my entrance into pubhc
life ¦with a historian, I ¦wiU go on to other historians whose
friendship I had the good fortune to possess. Although, as
I have said, Mr, Prescott was not only a friend of my grand
father, one whom he saw much and to whom he was much
attached, but also of my mother, I have no personal remem
brance of him, as he died in 1859 while I was stiU a boy. I
must have seen him many times, yet nothing remains in my
' This refers to the gathering kno-svn as " The Fifth Avenue Conference,"

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 313
memory except the impressions given me by my mother of his
charm and gentleness, his refinement and knowledge, and
of the distinction which any one can see in the calm, high
bred face that looks out upon us from his portrait. One little
story which my mother told me I still recaU, She said that
several times when she was a young girl Mr. Prescott would
take her aside when they met and say: "Come, let us talk
about our friend George Bancroft, We care nothing about
his politics, but we love the historian," This was at the
period when Mr, Bancroft's Democratic politics had made
him extremely unpopular in Boston and Massachusetts,
which were Whig strongholds, and when "Society" in the
fashionable sense was almost universally Whig and bitterly
hostUe to President Jackson, The remark was very char
acteristic of Mr, Prescott, and my mother always spoke most
affectionately of his kindness to her. One little note, which
in some way has escaped the destruction wrought by time,
I -wUl also print, recalling as it does a trifiing incident of the
days that are gone. It is addressed to my grandmother,
and what the gift referred to as a "Prince Albert" may have
been I cannot conjecture.
DEAR MRS, CABOT —
I think I know the "friend and admirer" — at least I have no
doubt as to the land friend, who sent me the "Prince Albert"
this morning, I am more likely indeed to fight my battles with
the pen than the sword — and though a sword is rather an odd
gage d'amitie, I most gladly receive it as such, and assure you I
shall always wear it next my heart — tho' you will hardly expect it
shall ever be at your service.
With the best wishes for a happy New Year, and many a happy
New Year, I am, my dear Mrs, Cabot,
Most truly your obliged friend
Wm. H, Prescott.
Bedford St,
Jan.— 1—184:1.

314 EARLY MEMORIES
The little story brings me to another historian, Mr.
Bancroft, whom I knew very well indeed, although he was
fifty years old when I was born. But he lived untU I was
myself more than forty, and I corresponded with him for
years, met him at Ne-wport, and after I came to Congress I
saw him constantly in Washington. He was an old friend
of our family, connected with us by marriage, as his sister
married my mother's uncle, Mr. John Blake. He was an es
pecial friend of my grandmother and my mother, and among
the latter's papers I found not only many notes from him,
but copies of verses, for he had a turn for writing verse in
his younger days and indeed published a small volume of
poems which he afterwards made every effort to buy up
and destroy, so that the book is now rare, and has become
a rarity prized by the collector.
Mr. Bancroft was a man of great vigor and activity, both
of body and mind. A graduate of Harvard and then of
Gottingen, he in this way received an education to which
very few Americans in those days attained. He was ambi
tious both in politics and in literature and in both he suc
ceeded. To both he brought great energy, unwearied in
dustry, a keen, penetrating, and relentless mind, and he
drove forward to his object with ceaseless effort. He began
by teaching school. It was a famous school in its day at
Round Hill in Northampton, and excellent in its instruction,
but the highly efficient head master was neither loved nor
popular. Then he went into politics, an aggressive Demo
crat in a wUderness of Whigs with a strong Federahst tra
dition. He was appointed by Van Buren collector of the
port of Boston, for the administration was only too delighted
to find in New England a man of Mr, Bancroft's position and
antecedents on the Democratic side. Already regarded with
disfavor by the Whig community in which he lived, his suc
cess increased his unpopularity, for success is the most unfor-

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 315
givable of sins in the eyes of those from whom we differ. On
his side, moreover, Mr, Bancroft was not a man to disarm dis
hke. He was combative, he could say bitter things, and he
said them freely. Then he was the Democratic candidate for
governor, secretary of the na-vy in Polk's cabinet, and min
ister to England, When he returned to the United States
he abandoned Boston, where he was so disliked, and made
his home in New York, There I first met him, although I
had kno^wn all about him from my earliest years, for my
mother had always maintained her friendship ¦with him, I
was a boy of fourteen when I was taken to dine at his house,
and I weU remember the occasion, the kindness and hospital
ity, and Mr, Bancroft's sharp incisive talk. Among other
things I recaU his saying that astronomers had recently
calculated that the earth as a home for man would last
only twenty-five mUlion years longer. It seemed to me
a most depressing statement, and I lay awake some time
that night thinking over the approaching destruction of
the world.
During these years of politics and public service the
"History of the United States" was begun and carried
steadUy forward. This is not the place to criticise or ex
amine Mr, Bancroft's great work. The florid style and the
apostrophes to freedom and equality characteristic of the
first edition and dear to the hearts of the followers of Jef
ferson and Jackson have lost their charm and now obscure
the merits of his history and the enormous labor which it
represented. But whatever the demerits of the style or
the opinions, Mr, Bancroft rendered an inestimable service
to American history by his thorough research, his examina
tion of huge masses of manuscripts, and by bringing to hght
an almost unlimited amount of original material never
touched before, and without which the story of the colonies
and the Revolution could never have been known or prop-

316 EARLY MEMORIES
erly told. For these labors the debt of the American people
and of all later historians and students of American history
to Mr, Bancroft is very great indeed.
After my first meeting ¦with Mr, Bancroft in New York
I did not see him again for many years, but when I returned
from Europe and started to collect material for my life of
my great-grandfather I began to correspond with him, and
after that we kept up a constant intercourse. I can never
forget his help, his encouragement, his unfaUing kindness
to me, and his interest in all I was doing and writing. Then
later, in Washington, I was much at his house. It seemed
to me that he was as quick, as alert, as sharp of speech in
those closing years, as at any time. Until the very last, age
did not wither him, and he used to ride and walk and talk as
if he were sixty instead of eighty. He had a great deal of
caustic humor, vast knowledge of all kinds, and was a most
interesting and entertaining companion. There was in his
nature a vein of hardness, and he was a good hater both in
life and in history. But he was an able man, a devoted
American, an earnest patriot, and to me the kindest of
friends. He had, no doubt, mellowed ¦with age, but the qual
ities which had made him unpopular were never shown
to me, although I can conceive that in his younger days he
may weU have been a formidable and also an irritating op
ponent, I am writing at the table on which he wrote, and a
picture of himself which he gave me hangs close by. They
awaken only pleasant memories of a kind and helpful friend
ship, and bring before my eyes the slender, alert figure, the
snow-white beard, the keen eyes, and the quick speech which
made Mr, Bancroft so long one of the marked figures of
Washington, He had outlived the bid hostUities and was
revered and respected by every one; honored by successive
Congresses as a man who had done great work both in wri
ting and in making history. I am going to give here a few

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 317
of his letters which wUl show the qualities I have tried to
describe better than any words of mine.
Mr. Howe, in his most excellent biography, has very
properly chosen the letters dealing with matters of imme
diate or historical moment. Of necessity they are grave
and elaborate in proportion to their importance. Those
from which I select are the little notes of friendship, hastUy
written, concerned with shght and passing incidents of the
day, of no deep import either in pohtics or history. But
they show a side of Mr, Bancroft which his more serious
letters do not disclose; the side which certainly appeared to
friends for whom he cared, even if the world never saw it.
In these letters his humor and his love of fun come out; while
through them runs at the same time a vein of sentiment and
affection which it seems to me now very pleasant to recall.
The letters which I have gathered together from their rest
ing-places begin ¦with one to my great-uncle. Dr. Kirkland, on
his resignation of the presidency of Harvard College, a letter
fuU of enthusiasm, admiration, and gratitude to the good
man to whom Mr. Bancroft felt that he owed much. This
letter was written in 1828; and the others to my mother,
to my father, and to me, come down across the years to
1888, From this long period of sixty years I choose a few,
beginning with some to my mother when she was a young
girl, ad-vising her as to her reading and studies:
The hermit hopes that his friend is not given up to gloom,
that she selects for topics such melanchofic subjects as the re
treat of the ten thousand and the faU of Empires!
(Addressed, -without date or signature, to Miss Cabot.)
This month I saw the moon over my right shoulder, and I
prepared myself for good luck. But little did I dare to expect
that my gray hairs would be honored with the present of the most

318 EARLY MEMORIES
beautiful purse that young hands ever knit. I shall keep your
precious gift, dear Miss Cabot, among the choicest of my man-
itous and pray heaven to teach me gratitude.
Most sincerely Your obliged
Oct, 26, George Bancroft,
Here is Sir John Caldwell's favorite volume of Rousseau,
The Confession of the Savoyard Vicar with which it opens is world-
renowned. Despise Cottin; or rather commiserate Beranger's
songs, I have: Lamartine's poems; Casimir de la Vigne; some
things of Chateaubriand, All, my dear Miss Cabot, at the serv
ice of your class, I can select beautiful detached passages of
Rousseau; Of Voltaire have you read Nanine?
With profound respect as is fitting
faithfully yrs
Wednesday. G, Bancroft,
On this fourth day of March 1841, Mr, Bancroft cannot
repress the expression of his exultation at discovering a transcen
dental neighbor. Cousin has written no system: his works are
fragmentary; all which Mr, B, has, and entirely at the service of
Miss Cabot, But this little volume of Damiron contains an out
line and history of the whole brood of eclectics, and furnishes a
pleasant introduction for one wishing information on the state of
opinion in France, as expressed by Cousin and his compeers.
DEAR MRS. lodge —
Mrs, Bancroft would neither let me read her letter, nor add a
postscript; so I blew a kiss into the letter which you wiU please
give to LiUie Lodge, I had a word to say, but with best regards
to Mr, Lodge, time would not let me say how strongly I am at
tached to old and faithful friends. Ever my dear Mrs, Lodge,
Very truly yrs
Feb, 3 — '47 George Bancroft
Mrs. Bancroft overlooks me and says this note is not worth
much. For myself I set a value on the shghtest testimony of
regard.

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 319
MY DEAR FRIEND,
You have not been out of my mind, chSre amie, since I left
America; and in token of it I beg to send you the homes of the
poets done in India ink on napkins by a fair dame of Scotland.
Your brother in law dweUs in my memory, and on arriving in
London, if I am absent, he will find a letter for him to Mr. Rush,
who is a little too old for the Meridian of Paris, and the Secretary
of Legation will look after him. I say, if I am absent, which on
my own account I should very much regret; for as you do not let
us see you, as we expected, I desire very much to get news of my
vis-a-vis, my true friend, who heaped upon me kindnesses and
whom I never forget. Indeed I cannot buy a ticket to hear Jenny
Lind or pay a debt of any kind without being reminded of my
debt of gratitude to you. For while one of my purses is treas
ured up as a talisman, the other is my constant companion,
Betty, my -wife, has never seen the continent. So I shall,
tomorrow night, take her across the Channel to Ostend and show
her Cologne and the Rhine, the Alps and their glaciers, Geneva
and its lakes; with Chamouni and perhaps Altdorf and the Lake
of Lucerne; and I shall leave her the option of her route back,
only she must return quickly. Louise we leave at school in Geneva
and my boys must plod at Greek and Latin at Vevey, It will be
two years before we sleep under a roof in America, two years more
that my household Gods must be travellers and sojourners.
Give my best regard to your father and to your husband and
remain my dear Mrs, Lodge the true friend of
Your affectionate cousin and friend
George Bancroft
90 Eaton Square
31 August 1847
To John E. Lodge^
New York 26 February — 1851
Blessed be the discoverers of tea, dear Mr. Lodge, and blessed
be the good "Padre" and the good friend that has enabled us to
'My father was, as I have said, a China merchant and always imported
for himself and his friends some chests of especially fine and rare tea. The
Dragon was a curio, but that was long before the days of Japanese and
Chinese collections and probably interested Mr. Bancroft very slightly.

320 EARLY MEMORIES
inhale its delicious fragrance and enjoy its delicate and exhUara
ting power. The tea came as you intended and we were aU im
patience to enter upon the experimental knowledge of its excel
lence. And be sure, it is the nicest black tea I have tasted for
many a long day. My wife is still more enraptured with it; so
she has deputed to my tempered and moderating admiration the
pleasing office of acknowledging your kindness. For a good cup
of tea, what a blessing it is ! And how constantly the benefit re
turns! Evening and morning, as regularly as the hymns of Adam
and Eve in Paradise, the delicious beverage is prepared; and I
assure you, in sober earnest, it is as good tea as I ever tasted.
For the Dragon, I am not so good a judge; and I have been so
pleased with the "Padre" that I shall not readily divide my hom
age at present with anything else,
I am glad you returned safely and found the babies well. I
hope you like us so much that you wiU soon come again. Give
our love to Mrs, Lodge; remind your daughter of us; make our
regards acceptable to Mr. Cabot and believe me
My dear Mr, Lodge
Very truly Your obliged George Bancroft.
Saturday 8 July (1876)
DEAR COUSIN, RELATrVE AND FRIEND,
Learn to do just homage to Brooks Adams, I lend you his
precious oration; but do not be misled into the idea that it was
Lincoln who received the sword of Cornwallis.
I dreamed last night of our drive over Indian Cliff, and our
finding our way into Paradise Avenue as tho' it had been made
for us. Yours devotedly George Bancroft
7 July '77
MY DEAR COUSIN AND FRIEND:
The rabbit said to the lioness, you have but one son: True,
said the lioness, but my only son is a lion, I congratulate you on
having a son who joins a devoted affection for his mother with
the superior ability and seriousness of character which his life of

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 321
George Cabot displays. Nothing could make me more happy,
than to have a son or grandson who would write a book, marked
by such exhaustive research, such manly independence and such
substantial impartiality of statement, while his heart was throb
bing with the intensest devotedness to the love of family and
home. The work of Mr. Lodge, which I have read or rather
studied from the first word to the last with the closest attention,
is the most important contribution to our history that has been
made for many a day,
I am ever dear Mrs, Lodge, with truth and affection, your
servant relative and friend, George Bancroft
Dr, Palfrey, Mr, Bancroft's contemporary and his senior
by only four years, was kind enough to give me ad-vice and
help when I was beginning my historical work, and I am glad
that I have among my letters a few from him. But he was
then so old a man, and li-ving in such retirement at Cam
bridge, that my acquaintance with him never went beyond
the correspondence, I regret that this should have been the
case, not only because I greatly admired Dr. Palfrey's "His
tory of New England," a monument of unwearying research
and of precise and careful narrative, but also because Dr.
Palfrey had been one of the antislavery leaders and had
fought the good fight in the darkest days with unwavering
courage and constancy. He was one of the oldest of the
"human-rights statesmen" who rose to control in Massa
chusetts and in the nation, and passed early from the stage
when those who followed him or fought by his side were
predominant. All that remains to me is the pleasant
memory of the kindness of an old and eminent man, dis
tinguished in politics and letters, to a young feUow just
entering hfe.
One other American historian of that time, who was
nearly a generation younger than Palfrey and Bancroft, but
yet associated with them m my memories, I knew weU,

322 EARLY MEMORIES
and my remembrance of Francis Parkman, his friendship
and unvarying kindness to me, are among the best of the
possessions which are assured to me by the grim security
of the past.
Some years ago Theodore Roosevelt and I published a
little volume entitled "Hero Tales of American History,"
and I found a subject for one of the tales which I tried to
teU in the life of Parkman, One does not look usually to
the hves of historians and men of letters for examples of
heroism, and yet if there ever was a heroic life and a "victory
of -wUl and courage over pain and infirmity, it was that of
the man who wrote the books which tell the story of the
great struggle between France and England for the control
of the American continent. For many years practicaUy
bhnd, never able to use his eyes except in the most limited
way, crippled at times physically by affections of the nerves,
a constant sufferer from sleeplessness and intense pain in
the head, he examined difficult manuscripts, toiled through
dusty archives, amassed material for an almost untouched
subject, and wrote a great history in many volumes. If he
had simply cared for his health and borne -without complaint
that long disease, his life, those who knew him would justly
have wondered at and admired such fortitude. But he
trampled pain and infirmity under foot, performed an amount
of labor which would have been heavy for the strongest, and
if ever there was a high and victorious spirit it was his. As
to bis work, I agree with my friend Mr. Rhodes that it is
the one achievement of an American historian which be
longs to that small number of histories which never become
obsolete and are never superseded. There is no room for
the discovery of new material sufficient to supplant his story
or seriously modify his conclusions. It will be no more
possible for the future historians of the American continent
to push Parkman aside than it is for new writers on the

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 323
Roman Empire or the early Middle Ages to relegate Gibbon
to obscurity or remove him from the lonely height which he
occupies with Thucydides and Tacitus. So thorough was
Parkman's work that but little new material exists un
touched by him; and his histories have, moreover, the endur
ing qualities of precision, fairness, and dignity, as weU as a
finished and simple style, usuaUy somewhat cold but capable
of rising to great heights, as in the chapter which describes
the -victory and death of Wolfe and the defeat and death
of Montcalm, heroic figures both.
I remember weU seeing Mr. Parkman when I was a boy,
and he made an impression on my memory and imagination
which is vi-vid to this day. A tall, slender figure in a long
gray coat, with a fur cap, in winter, drawn down close over
his head, he would come walking up Beacon Street moving
¦with great rapidity, a heavy cane in each hand, on which
he rested his weight and by which he propelled himself.
Going at a tremendous pace, he would suddenly stop as if
exhausted and lean against a house or a raUing. Then in a
few minutes he would resume his canes, and push away as
though he were running a race. I learned afterwards that he
was at that time much crippled, and that only in this way
could he get air and exercise; but he could not move deliber
ately and his intense nervous energy drove him forward with
restless rapidity, although every exertion was a pain to him.
I remember asking my mother who the gentleman was
who thus arrested my wandering attention, and she ex
plained to me that it was Mr. Frank Parkman and told me
what a battle for life he was compeUed to make.
When I came to know him after my return from Europe
he was much better. He walked normaUy, he was one of
the corporation of Harvard CoUege, he was able to go about
and see his friends, now and then he dined out, but not
often, for his sleep was still insecure and his eyes required

324 EARLY MEMORIES
the most delicate and constant care. I found on nearer
view that the striking figure of my boyhood was accom
panied by a face and look even more striking. All Mr.
Parkman's features were irregular. Under analysis I do
not suppose one of them could have justly been praised as
handsome. Yet I have seldom seen a finer face. What
ever the details, the effect was that of beauty; intellect,
force, character, breeding, distinction, were aU there in his
strongly marked features, and, despite all he had passed
through, so powerful had been his ¦will that he had no ex
pression of suffering nor in the least the look of an invalid.
My acquaintance -with Mr. Parkman began, as did that
¦with Mr. Bancroft, and was continued in roses. Both were
rose-growers and most successful. Mr, Parkman, however,
carried his pursuit, taken up when he could not work at his
history, to the perfection of a profession. He not only
won prizes everywhere -with his roses, but he viTote a most
exceUent book in regard to them and their cultivation. The
manner in which he dealt with this amusement was very
characteristic. He pursued the occupation -with relentless
energy untU he had made himself complete master of his
subject and attained the highest degree of excellence.
Spurred by these Ulustrious examples, I, too, began to cul
tivate roses, and, writing to Mr, Bancroft and Mr, Parkman
for information, received the most cordial advice and help
from both, which enabled me to succeed in growing the most
beautiful of flowers sufficiently well to give myself much
pleasure until absorption in other and more serious occupa
tions compeUed me to turn my bushes over to my gardener.
From that time forward I saw a great deal of Mr, Park-
man and talked with him freely about politics and history
and the affairs of the college. He dined with us occasionaUy,
came to see us frequently, and was most kind to my children,
who thought him the best of companions, for he had the

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 325
qualities which attracted chUdren, although I do not think
that side of his character was generally appreciated, any
more than his abundant humor, sometimes a little grim but
always very real and true. He was a perfectly fearless man
and would set forth unpopular opinions with an entire dis
regard of consequences. As he expressed all his -views on
any subject -with a most incisive vigor, no one was ever in
doubt as to what he thought. But the memory which dwells
with me was of his constant kindness and sympathy freely
given to a very young man, of the patience -with which he
would listen, the help and ad-vice which he would give, and
the freedom with which he would discuss all subjects, inter
esting me very much and teaching me more.
From the historians I come to the poets, the makers,
members of that goodly company which during the cen
turies of recorded time have sung to us and rejoiced the heart
of mankind, and who out of their imagination, whether in
verse or prose, have created men and women often more
real to us than those who march in the pageant of human
history. The first poet I ever saw was Mr. LongfeUow.
He lived at Nahant in summer, and his love of the place,
of the sea and shore, of the lights and shadows and sounds
of the ocean, is told in many charming verses. As a boy I
saw him constantly and gazed upon him with a distant awe
because I had read and recited many of his baUads and nar
rative poems, and a real poet in the flesh seemed very won
derful to me. In those early days I naturaUy did not talk
with him, but it was much to me then to have seen him. I
have often, as I have recaUed that dream-hke past, had
Browning's lines come to my lips:
"Ah, did you once see Shelley plain?
And did he stop and speak to you?
And did you speak to him again?
How strange it seems and new!"

326 EARLY MEMORIES
No men more unlike than LongfeUow and SheUey could be
conceived. As poets they not only cannot be compared,
but they cannot even be named together, so far did SheUey
outsoar Longfellow, as indeed he outsoared almost aU other
poets of the modern world. Yet I like to think that as a
boy I saw Longfellow plain, and I am sure that he must
have been much pleasanter to live -with than the "pard-
like spirit" whose fevered hfe ended in the waters of the
Mediterranean, Yet although I had often seen LongfeUow as a boy, I
did not really know him untU after my return from Europe,
Then in various ways I came to see him frequently. He was
Sumner's most intimate friend and loved him ¦with a deep
loyalty of affection, Sumner, as I have said, di-vided his
time at Nahant every year between Mr, LongfeUow and
ourselves. The result was that I dined at Mr, LongfeUow's
and went there often to see Mr, Sumner, and he dined with
us, not only to meet Sumner, but my father-in-law. Admiral
Davis, who was a lifelong friend of the old Cambridge time.
In those days when I saw him Mr, LongfeUow was very
quiet, invariably gentle, but usually sUent whUe others
talked, although he always hstened sympathetically, I used
to imagine that he had gro^wn sUent since the tragic death of
his wife, and that the shadow of that sorrow never lifted.
OccasionaUy I met him on his walks, and then he would
allow me to join him and talked much more than when others
were present. It was most delightful to be with him, for he
seemed so calm, so removed above the storms of life, and yet
always so kind, so very gentle, and so sympathetic. But
the gentleness implied nothing soft or indefinite. He held
strong opinions and was ¦without fear, I remember weU at
a dinner which my mother gave for Mr, Schurz, when he
delivered in Boston his eulogy upon Sumner, I sat next to
Mr, Longfellow, Mr, Schurz was an accomplished speaker.

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 327
His address had been received with great applause and I
had faUen in with the current, and ¦without analysis was in a
mood of uncritical admiration, although I cannot now recaU
a word that Mr. Schurz said, nor did he give me a thought
or a phrase which has remained with me. I asked Mr.
LongfeUow if he did not think Mr. Schurz's address very
fine. "No," he rephed, with clear decisiveness; "it was a
clever speech, but I do not believe in proceeding by nega
tions. I did not ¦wish to have him teU us what Sumner was
not, but what he was." Under the gentle maimer now and
then, if he were roused by anjrthing, or if his indignation
was excited there would come a flash in his eyes and a look
in his face which made one feel the presence of a strong
nature and strongly suggested that his own "Viking bold"
was numbered among his ancestors.
He was a very handsome man, handsome, as so rarely
happens, in his old age, with his clear blue eyes and snow-
white hair and beard. Inseparable from him was the air
of distinction and high breeding ¦without a trace of egotism
or any suggestion that he was conscious of his o^wn fame,
which, however men may differ as to his poetry, was as
wide as the language in which he wrote, and which had con
quered recognition in other tongues. He had read widely
and weU, and one always felt the presence of the scholar
when one was with him. As an English critic said at the
time, Mr. LongfeUow was always an artist, and his respect
for his art and his refined taste were perfectly apparent in
the converse of daUy life. He comes back to me now as a
very noble figure of those early days, and I like to think
that he was one of the men I knew. I ¦wUl give one
little note from him, not because it has any intrinsic im
portance, but because it shows how ready he was out of
sheer kindness of heart to extend a helping hand to a young
man to whom he had given his friendship. With Mr. John

328 EARLY MEMORIES
T, Morse, Jr,, I had just taken up the editorship of the
International Review, and I wrote to Mr. LongfeUow asking
if he would not send us a poem for publication. This was
his reply: CAMBRrooE, March 18*'' 1879
DEAR MR LODGE
I am sorry I have not something more elaborate to send you
for the International than these two stanzas. They are enough,
perhaps, to show you my good-will, and being short, stand a
better chance of being read than if they were longer,
I am glad you have taken the Review and hope it may be
fully successful. For that you have my best wishes.
Yours very truly
Henry W. Longfellow
Then foUows the little poem entitled "Jugurtha" written
out in his own clear, precise hand.
Mr, Emerson I saw at the Historical Society and on one
or two other occasions, I cannot, and I deeply regret that
I cannot, say that I really knew him. When I saw him I
watched him with the deepest interest, although I was then
far from realizing what a truly great man he was and that I
was in the actual presence of one of the remarkable minds
of the century; poet, thinker, creator of ideas, planter of
thoughts which were to grow up and flower in alien soUs to
which the very name of him who sowed the seed was un-
kno^wn. Tall, thin, with a face full of inteUect, unscarred
by passion, in a way remote in look and yet -with such human
sympathy and feeling in the regard that no one could call
it ascetic, he seemed to me a man whose mere appearance
must have impressed the most careless gazer. The last
time I saw him was at the Historical Society, where he read
a little paper in memory of Carlyle. His mind had begun
to faU, or rather his characteristic absent-mindedness had
increased. His daughter was with him to help him -with

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 329
his papers. All that he said had the old charm, but there
was a slight touch of sadness, of pathos about it. His
words, as Lowell says of Villon's famous line,
"Oil sont les neiges d'antan,"
seemed "to falter and fade away in the ear like the last
stroke of Beauty's passing beU." The occasion on which I
remember Mr. Emerson best was at a dinner at my mother's
house, to which I have already referred in connection ¦with
Mr. Longfellow, on the occasion of the Schurz eulogy upon
Sumner, AprU 29, 1874. By some lucky accident I made a
note of it in one of the many diaries which in the ardor of
youth I was continually beginning, only to drop them into
some convenient oubliette with their little ¦writing and their
many blanks. I find from my notes that Mr. and Mrs.
Schurz and their daughter, Longfellow, Emerson, and Dr.
Holmes were the guests. Then the note continues: "Long
fellow as always very sUent except to his next neighbor
(who happened to be myself). Emerson also very quiet.
Only one remark of his I remember. Dr. Holmes was
describing a dynamometer, or contrivance for measuring
memory, with great enthusiasm. The machine was his
o^wn invention. Emerson hstened in sUence and then said,
in a low voice, 'Such things are very disagreeable to me.'
The beauty of Emerson's smUe is very striking. I never
saw so ¦winning and attractive a smUe in a man. Holmes
talked weU and drew Schurz out and mto a very interest
ing talk about debating." So the meagre entry in the diary
ends, but I am glad to have even so poor a record of an
evening that stUl dwells in my memory.
"Holmes taUced weU," says the note. When did he not
talk weU? Good talk at the dinner-table, or after dinner,
or by the fireside — I mean the best talk — ^is very rare. It
is much rarer than is generally supposed, for I am excluding

330 EARLY MEMORIES
tete-a-tete and mean talk to a group, with others present to
talk and listen, I think I have heard some of the best
talkers of my time, "They were not many, they who stood
upon the heights," but I am sure of their quahty, John
Hay, Mr. Evarts, Lord Rosebery, Mr. Balfour, Lord Mor-
ley, Henry Adams, Mr. Speaker Reed, Mr. Lowell, Mr.
T, B, Aldrich, Dr, Holmes; these seem to me the best, I
am speaking only of after-dinner talk, an art by itself, I
could cover the page with the names of men of abihty to
whom it was always a pleasure to listen and whose talk has
been to me an admiration and delight, appealing to every
faculty and stimulating every nerve. But the talk to the
little company around the table or by the fire, which it is
impossible to define exactly, is peculiar in its requirements
and demands an especial combination of qualities. It must
have humor, wit, and seriousness, aU three. It demands
wide knowledge of books and men. The anecdote it uses
must be apt to the highest degree and sparingly employed.
It must pierce deeply and yet touch lightly. In a word, it
must have charm, that impalpable attribute which no one
can define but which in absence or in presence is at once
recognized. Among those men whom I have just men
tioned it would be in-vidious even to attempt a rank-list, but
I may go so far as to say that in this most difficult art I do
not think Dr. Holmes was surpassed by any one. In fact,
I have referred to it only to define Dr. Holmes. In this talk
he seemed to me to be gifted ¦with every one of the rare
quahties, stUl rarer in conjunction, which the art requires.
His wit and humor were boundless and always on the alert.
His memory was extraordinary and his knowledge in aU di
rections remarkable. His curiosity was insatiable and had
taken all learning for its pro-vince, while at the same time it
made him eager to know the experience and thoughts of
every one else, no matter how young or insignificant the

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 331
every one else might be. This rendered the monologue, the
great danger of aU brilliant talkers, impossible to him, and
made him as good in listenmg as he was in speech, a very
uncommon combination. His criticism was frank and tell
ing, sometimes severe, but never harsh or wounding, and my
impression was always strong of his kindness and sympathy.
We all were so used to him in Boston that, much as we
loved and admired him, I am quite sure that we never did
him fuU justice.
When he was a very young man, just beginning the prac
tice of medicine, he placed a card on his door bearing these
words: "The smallest fevers thankfully received and grate
fully acknowledged." Every one laughed, but it hurt him
professionaUy, although he was a most accomplished phy
sician and an admirable teacher of anatomy, upon which
he lectured for half a century. It is a perilous thing to
make people look to you habitually for a laugh if you are
trying to do serious work in the world. If a man is sus
pected of not taking himself seriously there is danger that
other people ¦wUl faU to do so. Everybody loves the jester
who jests weU, but those who listen and laugh are apt to for
get that under the jest of a really briUiant man the most seri
ous purpose may be hidden. No one jested more or better
than Lincoln; the joke was often his armor of defence, and
yet no man ever lived ¦with a higher seriousness of purpose or
who did a mightier work. I have always thought that the
stories about Lincoln and his own jokes were a powerful rea
son for the misapprehension from which he suffered in his
lifetime and unduly protracted the period which passed be
fore he came into his own. I remember very weU one day in
the House Mr. S. S. Cox, then a member from New York,
and one of the ablest Democrats in the House, as he was
the wittiest and cleverest in pubhc life, when I was laughing
at some criticism which he had uttered, said with a touch of

332 EARLY MEMORIES
bitterness: "If I were six feet taU instead of five feet six and
had never made a joke I should be in that chair (pointing to
the Speaker's place) and not on the floor. The people like
those who make them laugh, but they wUl never give the
highest places to anyone whom they do not think serious."
John AUen, of Mississippi, who was in the House ¦with me,
was a man of great humor and drollery. Whenever he arose
the House prepared to laugh, and generally ¦with good reason.
But when he tried to make a serious speech — and he could
make a very good one, and held serious opinions on many
subjects — the House would not listen to him, of which I
have heard him complain.
This Nemesis of the jester, the humorist, and the wit
hung over Dr. Holmes, I think. Indeed, he says himself:
" While my gay stanza pleased the banquet's Lords
My heart within was tuned to deeper chords."
People hstened ¦with delight to the occasional verses which
flowed so readUy whenever asked, and which sparkled and
glittered ¦with a never-failing freshness, and they forgot too
often that the same hand had written "The Chambered
Nautilus." They rejoiced in the good things, the repartees,
the quick jests which he gave out ¦with utter profusion to
any one he met, and they did not remember that he was
also a great writer, a creator of characters, of fine imagina
tion, ¦with a large seriousness of purpose and full of tender
and beautiful thoughts. The "Autocrat of the Breakfast
Table" is a great as weU as a brUhant book, and so, too, in
perhaps a slightly less degree, are its successors. It is brim
ming over with ¦wit and wisdom, with sentiment and feeling.
It is full of curious learning and of passages which strike
deep, of reflections upon the meaning of life and of the uni
verse marked by anticipations of those Eastern philosophies
¦with which the world has grown more famUiar during the

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 333
last fifty years. The "Autocrat" is far better reading than
the "Anatomy of Melancholy," of which the Doctor himself
was so fond. It is quite worthy to stand on the same table
by the bedside -with Montaigne and Tristram Shandy. As
Dogberry says, "comparisons are odorous," but I know one
reader who loves all three and prefers the "Autocrat" to
either the French gentleman or the English parson, brilliant
as they both were. In due time the "Autocrat" will come
to its own as one of the world's best books in that small,
rare class of which Montaigne may now be taken as the
accepted exemplar.
Dr. Holmes is one of my earliest and strongest memories.
Mrs, Holmes was a cousin of my mother, and I heard the
Doctor quoted and spoken about from the days when I first
"took notice," To me, as a boy, he was one of the most
familiar figures in the to-wn, as indeed he was to every one
in Boston, Short, erect, alert in every fibre, he passed
along the streets, the embodiment of vi-vid existence; the
long, capacious head with its inteUectual forehead, the keen,
kindly eyes, the mouth dra-wn do-wn in a quizzical way at
the comers, would aU impress the most careless -with a sense
of power, inteUigence, and humor, if one took the trouble
to look twice. Carlyle pored over portraits as among the
most important documents for history, and I think any one
who studied Dr. Holmes's face and expression would have
found them a book in which could be read not only strange
but many other interesting matters. When I try to recall
him to my mind, m his habit as he lived, I always think of
him first on the occasion of the breakfast given to him by
the publishers of the Atlantic to celebrate his seventieth
birthday. The company consisted in the main of the con
tributors to the Atlantic, and included many well-known
writers and distinguished men. When Dr. Holmes rose to
respond to the heartfelt fehcitations and expressions of ad-

334 EARLY MEMORIES
miration and affection which had poured in upon all sides,
the applause was followed by a hush of the kind which im
plies a deeper feeling than any shouts or plaudits can mani
fest. Then it is that he stands before me again as I think
of him. The short, alert figure, the face so full of the keenest
and highest intelligence, the humorous look, not there at
that instant but in its stead the e-vidence of restrained emo
tion. He then read his poem, "The Iron Gate." His voice,
slightly veUed, always had a peculiar quality which was very
effective, and never more so than on that day. There are
many very beautiful lines in that poem, but then it was all
suffused with a feeling which was more affecting than any
verse. When he concluded, he had moved his audience so
much that no one felt ready to speak because there was
something the matter -with his throat, and no one saw very
clearly because his eyes seemed a httle dim. There could
have been no greater tribute of affection, no clearer confes
sion of the power of the orator or of the art of the poet, I
see him again very ¦vi'vidly at the annual meeting of the
Historical Society, AprU 17, 1882, when he delivered an
address on LongfeUow, "He closed by reading a poem, the
last written by the dead poet, and also one of his own.
The address was very interesting and often briUiant, show
ing very strongly his wonderful preservation of freshness."
So runs the mechanical entry in the diary, but the com
monplace words do not picture the central figure of that day
as I see it in the procession of the ghosts of thirty years ago.
The abundant hair had turned white, but age had not
withered him; the fire, the charm, the tenderness awakened
by the thoughts of his departed friend, were aU there, un-
faded and undimmed.
As the years passed by, and after I had left college, I
came much nearer to him than merely repeating his verses
or looking at him ¦with admiration. I came to know him

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 335
weU, and I shared in the affection which aU who knew him
weU felt for him. He dined with us frequently in Boston,
and came often to our house at Nahant, especially when
Admiral and Mrs. Davis, to whom he was a devoted friend,
were ¦with us. There are one or two places or one or two
-views mdelibly associated with him in my mmd. Standing
in the haU of my house and looking north one sees Egg Rock
with its lonely lighthouse just framed in by the glass set in
the upper hah of the door. Coming one day to luncheon,
the Doctor paused and looked at the rock, remarking on its
picturesqueness, I said, "Yes, it is very picturesque, but
it is not always a pleasant place to live in -winter. Last
winter the weather was so severe, and there was so much
floating ice, that the keeper could not get ashore for six
weeks. During that time his wife died, and he placed the
body in the outhouse where it froze stiff. When the weather
broke he took the body ashore in his dory, buried it, and
brought off another wife the same night, in the same dory,"
The Doctor laughed, and then said: "But there is the sub
ject for a poem in that story. It would begin something in
this way: "Her corpse begemmed with frozen tears,
I now to earth restore,"
Another day we were stroUing about the place and stopped
on an abrupt headland to look out over the ocean. It was
a lovely summer afternoon with a light air just ruffling the
smooth surface of the water. The Doctor looked down,
and then quoted Tennyson's beautifiU line :
"The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls,"
"The wrinkled sea," he repeated; "how perfect! Why
didn't I think of that; I might have," It was on another

336 EARLY MEMORIES
occasion, of which this little story reminds me, that he said
to me what I have often quoted: "Every man who writes
or speaks with any success wiU once, or perhaps twice or
three times, do a little better than he knows how. You ¦wUl
some day, I did when I ¦wrote ' The Chambered NautUus.' "
It was profoundly true, but I suppose some people might
say that it was vain in him to refer to his own poem, I
thought his doing so in that connection the reverse of vain.
He was accused of vanity, but if he had that quahty it was
joined with a most generous admiration of others. It was a
vanity which went hand in hand ¦with an intense interest in
the experiences, the opinions, and the thoughts of other
people, no matter how young or how obscure. It was a
vanity which never grated on any one else's feelings. He
undoubtedly took a delight in his own success and achieve
ments. But his pleasure was as frank and simple as that
of a chUd, He was far too clever not to appreciate his own
cleverness, and why should he not have shown that appre
ciation? When Thackeray was ¦writing the great scene in
which Rawdon Crawley discovers Becky alone with Lord
Steyne, as he ¦wrote the words: "Even at that moment, she
admired her husband, strong, ¦victorious, triumphant," he
flung do^wn his pen, as we are told, and cried out: "By God,
that's genius!" A stroke of genius it certainly was, and I
always loved him for saying so. It was so much more human
and more real to cry out the truth and rejoice in it. Only
the petty soul would caU it vanity and try to pick a flaw in a
man who was creating lives and characters more real per
haps, certainly more lasting, than those among which our
waking days are spent. No one could have been kinder or
more generous in appreciation of others, or more sympathetic
with them, especiaUy ¦with young men, than Dr. Holmes. I
know from my o^wn experience how more than kindly he al
ways was. After I had entered Congress he would write to

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 337
me about my speeches, and in a way which showed that he
had read something which I had said, a not over-common
mark of interest, especially from an old and very distin
guished man to a young and quite undistinguished one.
For my o^wn satisfaction I wUl give two of his notes to me
which bring out this very attractive trait in his character:
296 Beacon Street
March 14, 1893
MY DEAR CABOT
I have just finished reading your speeches which you have
kindly sent me and for which I return you my sincere thanks, I
do not often read the pamphlets and books sent me, but I could
not sit down and thank you, as we all have to in many cases,
without opening the leaves of the gift we have received, I could
not do that because you, Cabot Lodge, whose course I have watched
with pride and interest, were its author. And having once begun
reading I could not help keeping on. The patriotism, the manly
sense and eloquent enthusiasm of these truly American addresses
were like the injection of pure blood from a young man's arteries
into my old veins. Every sentiment is generous, every aspiration
is that of one who loves his country and is proud of it,
I hope the way will be clear before you, that your influence
may find full scope for action and that the whole country may
reap a full harvest from your fast ripening talents.
Believe me
Faithfully and affectionately
Yours
Oliver Wendell Holmes
296 Beacon Street
April 9th 1892
dear MR. lodge
I write you a few words which only ask for one word in reply.
Where does your quotation about the "fringy edges of battle"
come from? Always faithfuUy Yours
O. W, Holmes

338 EARLY MEMORIES
In the last he shows not only that he had read the speech,
but he could not be easy untU he knew the author of the
lines I had quoted, although it seems odd that he should
not have recognized them as coming from Clough's "Dip-
sychus," ^ But the eager curiosity in the largest sense, the
desire to know and learn, went -with him to the end. He
said more than once that he should like to live on because
he was anxious to know what was going to happen. He
lived to a ripe age, keeping always his alertness of mind as
well as his quick sympathy, writing now and again verses
full of tenderness and feeling, and -with the old -wit flashing
up almost to the very last. After his death it seemed as
if a part of the city itself had gone, when the voice which
had charmed it for so many years and so long spoken for
it to the world at large suddenly fell sUent.
Mr. Lowell, the youngest of the famous group, was, of
course, a famUiar figure to me in Cambridge, and a very
fine and strong figure he was as we students saw him striding
along -with a stout stick in his hand, usually in a rough, short
jacket and no overcoat, vrith a very slouch hat on his head.
But what a noble head it was, -with the big beard just turn
ing gray, the handsome features, the deep, penetrating eyes,
and the leonine look, a thought terrifying or, rather, awe-
inspiring to heedless youth fondly supposed to be in pursuit
of a liberal education. As I have said, I had enough sense
to take his course in English literature but not sufficient to
take also his course on Dante, which I have bitterly re
gretted ever since, all the more because those who were wise
enough to do so were asked to his house, and there he would
discourse to them of the great poet who covered all Italy
¦with his hood. In later years I came to know him quite
^The lines were:
"For high deeds haunt not the fringy edges of the fight.
But the pell-mell of men."

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 339
well, I recaU him and Mrs, LoweU at my sister's house,
and remember hearing him one summer day after a
luncheon, at which Dr. Holmes was also present, discourse
upon the Jews. He was possessed vrith that subject at the
time, and he insisted that the Jewish blood was every
where; that it ran in all our veins; that Lowell was a cor
ruption of Lowe, a Jevsdsh name of the days when the chosen
people were forced to take the names of animals. He was
most brUliant and entertaining, if not scientifically sound,
and, I think, took much satisfaction in his o-wn extrava
gances. Here is the dry contemporary record of that day
by the sea which dweUs so happUy in my memory: Aug, 30—1876,
Lunched yesterday at G, A, J,'s with Lowell and Holmes,
Had much talk with the former. He has a mania about Jews,
believes they are absorbing the power of the world; have posses
sion of the money and the European press etc. The number of
prominent names of Jewish origin which he cited was astonishing.
He said Leigh Hunt told him that Shelley looked like a spirit
just descended from Heaven and about to reascend.
He said that the first time he ever met Landor, the conver
sation turning on Italy, he remarked that he had visited Lan
der's vUla at Fiesole, "Ah," said Landor, "a lovely place from
which that intolerable woman keeps me out," The "intolerable
woman" was his wife, Lowell said the "Gebir" was more MU-
tonic than anything in modern literature.
Asked Lowell and Holmes who Photius was of whom Macaulay
speaks. Neither knew. Looked it up and found to my horror
that the author of the Myriobiblion was tJw Photius of history,
the Photius of the Schism, Here was a nice piece cf ignorance
not to have connected the two as one and the same person.
The aUusion to Photius occurs in the "Histoiy of Eng
land," when Macaulay, writing of learning at Oxford,
speaks of "Greek Literature from Homer to Photius." I
fear that I should not now regard with "horror" a faUure

340 EARLY MEMORIES
to connect the author of the "Myriobiblion" with the
famous Photius of the ninth century, who led in the schism
of the Eastern and Western churches, or regard it as such a
"piece of ignorance" as I did at twenty-six. It seems to
me in these days, when studies in the history of the dark
ages lie so far behind me, a venial forgetfulness.
For many years whUe LoweU was in Spain and England
I saw nothing of him, but after his return I met him fre
quently. He dined -with us more than once when we hved
in Mount Vernon Street, and most delightful he was. He
resembled Dr, Johnson, I think, in liking to have his talk
out, and there was never better talk than his. He told us
much of his experiences, and although years, and stUl more
sorrow, had aged him and he often seemed sad, yet when he
was roused and interested there was no abatement in his
brUliancy and charm. Of all that talk so enjoyed at the
moment, one little anecdote which he told has always re
mained in my memory. He said that when he had just
arrived in England, Lord Coleridge, who was reputed to be
the best after-dinner speaker in London, said to him: "You
wUl be asked very often to make an after-dinner speech and
I -wish to teU you how such a speech should be made. Select
your anecdote beforehand. When you are called upon, lead
up to your anecdote, tell it, go gently away from it and your
speech is made." It was excellent advice, as sound as it
was witty, but I felt that the greatest humor in the story
lay in Lord Coleridge telling Lowell how to make an after-
dinner speech, for Lowell was a past-master in that art, and
I have never heard any one on such occasions who even
approached him. He seemed to combine every quality
that a speaker should possess. His voice was singularly
fine and his enunciation, which is rare, was quite perfect,
-with an intonation that cannot be described but which was
singularly attractive. Many men make clever speeches,

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 341
fuU of good points and very teUing. LoweU not only had wit
and humor in aboundmg measure, but he had also the imag
ination of the poet, the literary touch, a finished style, and
a knowledge of aU hterature such as very few men, indeed,
ever possess. I have heard him often in serious addresses
as weU as m the lighter moments of an after-dinner speech,
and I always listened to him -with en-vious delight.
Even his slightest words seemed to have a peculiar charm.
I can see him now on our Commencement day, when he
spoke of some of the early benefactors of the coUege of
whom nothing was kno-wn and who have become mere
names to a grateful posterity. I seem to hear again the
beautiful voice as he said: "There is WUliam Pennoyer of
whom we know nothing, except that he comes down to us in
that most graceful of attitudes -with his hand in his pocket."
The -wit which shone and the epigram that sparkled
through all his -writings were generously given out in con
versation. He was not a miser and did not hoard up his
humor, his learning, or his -wit. They are also in his letters
with much more that is profoundly serious. It is to be
hoped that some day all his letters, in their entirety, -wUl be
given to the world ¦without being arranged and selected to
suit the tastes or prejudices of an editor. He was one of
the best of letter-writers and at a time when that delightful
art had begun to decline. We should have them all, for we
desire to know the ¦writer and not the editor. We -wish to
read the letters for their own sake and learn LoweU's real
thoughts and opinions from year to year and not what
some one else believed those thoughts and opinions ought to
have been.
There was one other poet who belonged also, in his way,
to the human-rights statesmen in the middle of the century
whom I knew only slightly, but none the less personally,
toward the end of his career. In 1884 the defection from

342 EARLY MEMORIES
the Repubhcan ranks caused by the nomination of Mr.
Blaine drew Whittier from his retirement to the defence of
the party in whose traditions and principles he profoundly
believed. When that party found itself in real danger of
defeat he came at once to its support and gave his name as
vice-president at some of our large meetings and exerted his
influence in every way in behalf of Mr. Blaine, This brought
me, as chairman of the Repubhcan State Committee, in
contact with him, for Whittier was an ally who in those
days was a tower of strength. He wrote me occasionally
about political conditions in Essex County and I met him
frequently. Very plain and simple in person and dress,
rather sUent, and most gentle, he had about him an atmos
phere of purity and at the same time of power which one
felt at once. Beneath the quiet look, the gentle speech, the
sUent manner were the courage and fortitude so character
istic of the people called "Quakers." He had all the quali
ties of his ancestry, the dauntless spirit obedient only to the
inner voice, the fearless nature, and the utter indifference
alike to the physical danger of mob violence and to the hos
tUe opinion of fashionable society or of those who were fond
of describing themselves as the "better element." This is
not the place for literary criticism or for an analysis of
Whittier's poetry, because I am writing only of the man as
I remember him. But he was like his poetry, and there
were many of his poems which I knew by heart and had
recited at school as many another New England boy had
done. There was much tenderness and sweetness as well
as much righteous indignation against wrong in all his
verse. Although in that as in aU else he was simple and
without pretence, he was a genuine poet. The verse, like
the man, always rang true. It has seemed to me that he
came nearer to the popular heart and was more the poet of
the people than any one else in our literature. Having for

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 343
a long time held this opinion, I was interested to find a
wholly disinterested critic, Mr, Andrew Lang, in his "His
tory of Enghsh Literature," pubhshed only a year ago,
writing as foUows : " If we insist that a very young literature
must produce for inspection her national poet (and Mr,
LoweU says that foreign critics made this demand very
early mdeed) the poet cannot be Poe and Whitman is hardly
eligible, Whittier seems so far to be the best candidate
for the bays."
"Many admirers of Burns ¦wUl be eager to confess that
Whittier's 'Snow-Bound' has merits superior to the Ayr
shire ploughman's companion piece, ' The Cotter's Saturday
Night.' "
Certain it is that the simple, often artless, verse, fre
quently full of ¦vigor or tenderness, touched the hearts of
those who never saw Whittier, just as the plain, quiet,
rather austere man, looking like a New England farmer, won
¦without effort the affection of those who had the happiness
to know him. One reason for this, of course, was the quick
sympathy of the poet's nature. Some years after the Blaine
campaign, when I was a young congressman in the receipt
of more kicks than halfpence, Whittier, whom I had not
seen for a long time, ¦wrote me the foUo^wing note:
Amesbury, Mass.,
February 17, 1891
DEAR friend,
Let me thank thee for thy manly speech. It has the ring and
is worthy of the best days of Massachusetts — of Webster and
Sumner and John Quincy Adams. I am truly thy friend,
John G. Whittier,
I was not misled at the moment by the generous overpraise
of a now quite forgotten speech any more than I am to-day.
It never occurred to me that I deserved to be classed with

344 EARLY MEMORIES
the three men he mentioned. If such an idea had crossed
my mind at any time I should not print the note here, but
then as now those kind words, so helpful as they were to me,
touched my heart when I read them, and in their warm
sympathy they show why, like so many others to whom that
firm and gentle voice has spoken, whether from the written
paper or the printed page, I hold Whittier in affectionate
remembrance. So the remarkable literary group of the middle of the
nineteenth century in New England ends. But there were
two others much younger than these but older than I, with
whom I was thrown in the days of which I am ¦writing,
whom I may venture to caU my friends, and to whose friend
ship and kindness I look back ¦with many thoughts of happy
days and pleasant intercourse. One is WiUiam D. HoweUs,
in regard to whom it is a happiness to be able to use the
present tense. The other was Thomas BaUey Aldrich, who
died prematurely at the age of the Psalmist, stiU, as it
seemed, ¦with that flush of youth upon him which it was his
happy fortune always to retain,
I met them both at the outset of my career in literature,
to use a large term, simply because it is most convenient,
for a very small and modest performance. They were in
succession editors of the Atlantic Monthly, and they were
good enough in that capacity to accept some writings of
mine for publication. In this way I came to know them
well, I think, and ¦with much affectionate regard on one side
at least, Mr. HoweUs I knew first. He hved for many
years in Cambridge and Boston, and, after I had made his
acquaintance, editorially, I saw much of him in other ways.
Then as now he was a most accomplished man. He had a
very quiet and gentle manner, coupled with a great deal of
dry humor, and very strong and definite opinions upon
many subjects outside of literature. He was a thorough

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 345
Republican in pohtics; but in politics as weU as in literature,
he had marked radical tendencies which I found most in
teresting and suggestive. In the one case he leaned toward
what is usually called socialism; in the other he was a cham
pion of realism, just then very much pressed as the one true
theory of art, and advocated on the basis of being a revolt
against romanticism. A reaction against the romanticism
which had driven out the formalism and conventional
methods of the eighteenth century was sure to come, espe
ciaUy when the romantic movement had run to extremes
and had degenerated very often into sentimentality as is
apt to happen in all great movements in literature and art.
But the realism so fashionable and so much lauded during
the latter half of the last century was not infrequently quite
as unreasoning and violent as the theory and practice which
it sought to overthrow. Its most conspicuous professors,
in Europe at least, in their revolt from the unreal, rushed to
the other extreme, and apparently would have us suppose
that a true picture of hfe is to be found only in the gutter,
the brothel, or the jaU. They mistook a part for the whole
quite as completely as the worst of those whom they aimed
to overthrow. The truth is that the greatest romanticists
have also been the greatest realists. The imagination of the
highest genius goes hand in hand with the most complete
reahsm. Homer and Dante, and Shakespeare, greatest of
poets, have a realism, that is a truth to the eternal qualities
of human nature, which no professed and exclusive realist
has ever approached. And no realist of genuine literary
worth ever existed who had not in him a strong imagination
and a touch of romance. Mr. HoweUs schooled himself to
-write in the most realistic vein, and to depict the various
commonplaces of daily life with the utmost truth, and with
great success, as he amply proved by such books as "The
Rise of SUas Lapham," "The Lady of the Aroostook," and

346 EARLY MEMORIES
many others. But he had abundant imagination as weU as
the touch of the poet, -without which he could not have suc
ceeded in such ample measure. One summer he passed at
Nahant, where he occupied an old place -with gardens faUen
to decay and a "belvedere," a remnant of the romantic
times, which, half ruinous, stUl overhung the sea, and
watched the waves sweep back and forth and the tides crawl
in and out across a -wide expanse of shining sand. When I
went to see him we talked about the old garden and the
"belvedere" and presently a book came forth which was born
of his imagination, to which the forsaken garden by the sea
and the old summer-house had appealed. It was a charm
ing story, one of his best, I thought, and it seemed to me
pure romance of the finest kind. He talked of it in a hah-
apologetic way, as I thought, but "c'etait plus fort que lui"
— ^the imagination when once awakened could not be curbed
by any theory of realism, I have, however, no intention of
discussing the somewhat large question of reahsm and ro
manticism in literature, which in its essence has a good deal
about it of the conventional shield -with two sides, and yet
always the same shield. StUl less do I mean to analyze the
delightful art and writings of Mr. HoweUs, although I have
read aU his books and criticisms with much pleasure and in
struction. My thought here is of Mr. HoweUs himseh; the
scholar, the man of letters, the author already distinguished;
who was so helpful and sympathetic to the quite undistin
guished and unknown young man who wished to pubhsh
an occasional article in the Atlantic Monthly. The debt of
gratitude for his goodness to me in encouraging my attempts
to write, and for his admitting me to his friendship, is what
I -wish to record here, however imperfect and inadequate the
expression may be.
Of Mr. Aldrich, his successor in the Atlantic editorship, as
it happened, I saw much more, for he never deserted Boston

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 347
for New York, as was the case with Mr. HoweUs. He was
equaUy kind to me m my capacity as a contributor, and in
addition we became very warm friends. His official sanctum
was in a little outlying room at the back of the old houses
on Park Street, which had been converted into offices for
Houghton, Mifflin & Co., the owners and publishers of
the Atlantic. Through a circuitous path and up a winding
staircase this room was reached by those who were per
mitted to enter it. It looked out over the old Granary
Burying Ground, Ijdng peacefiUly among the great buUdings
which surrounded it on three sides, and with the crowd and
traffic of Tremont Street passing it on the other. One might
say that this was not a particularly cheerful prospect. Yet
it was none the less a very pleasant one. It was an ancient
burial-place, to use the words of the statute, and was no
longer, or only very rarely, used for interment. The grave
stones were of the plain gray slate preferred by our ancestors,
the few more stately memorials were those known as table
tombs, and the only monument at all conspicuous was the
simple granite shaft in commemoration of the parents of
Benjamin Franklin. Many of the fathers of the hamlet,
many of the eminent men of past times, were there buried.
It was as utterly different as could weU be imagined from the
sprawling stone-cutters' yards, glaring with white marble
and polished granite, accentuated by monuments and figures
of every variety of tasteless ugliness, which now serve for
cemeteries. The sunhght fell warmly through the taU elms
upon the quiet graves, and when the window was open the
city's voice came to us in a subdued murmur as if it was
lowered and hushed out of reverence to the dead, who lay
between. I feU mto the habit of pausing at this agreeable room in
the morning when I had occasion to go down-town, and there
I used to sit and chat with Mr. Aldrich. He was an active,

348 EARLY MEMORIES
efficient, and most successful editor, but he always seemed
to have time to spare, and he never made me feel that I was
interfering with his work. Realizing very fully that he was
a busy man, I was, I think, careful never to take advantage
of his good-nature, although it was difficult to tear one's
self away from that charming companionship. We talked
about everjrthing: "Shakespeare and the Musical Glasses,"
" Shoes and Ships and Sealing Wax and Cabbages andKings,"
everything in the heavens above and on the earth beneath.
There was never a more delightful talker. He had -wit and
humor in high degree, remarkable power of epigrammatic
statement, a whimsical fancy, an intense love of mere fun
and jest, and behind it all deep seriousness and profound
conviction in regard to all things which were really important.
His criticisms on literature, his love of art and beauty in
every form, were as remarkable as his inexhaustible clever
ness and his skUl in narration no matter how slight the sub
ject. He told me much of his earlier days in New York,
and I remember especially an account he gave me of his
narrow escape from the mob of the draft riot, where the per
vasive humor and light touch seem to enhance rather than
disguise the peril he had been in and the black doings of
those e-vU days. Of our talks at that time, as is the case
with so many others, I have kept, alas, no record. They
passed like the joys of a midsummer day spent by the ocean's
edge and left only the memory of a time fiUed with sunshine
and hght, with warmth and happiness.
One example of his quickness in repartee comes up to
me out of the past. He gave a dinner to Matthew Arnold
when the latter was in this country. Mr. Arnold sat on
his right hand. Dr. Holmes on his left. The conversation
turned on savages and cannibals, and Arnold said that he
often wondered what he should do under such disagreeable
circumstances if he happened to find himself among them.

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 349
" Why, pick an acquaintance," said Aldrich. The reply was
so like one of his own that it is said to have depressed Dr.
Holmes with regret that he had not thought of it himself.
Some one, I suppose, wUl now arise and point out that the
joke was made by Menander, if not earlier, but it struck
me at the time as new and good and very characteristic
of Aldrich's extreme readiness.
To Aldrich I also owed the opportunity of knowing Edwin
Booth, who was one of his most intimate friends. Booth
had settled in Boston and had taken an attractive old house
on Chestnut Street, -with the end to the street and the front
door on the side, opening upon a pleasant grass-plot adorned
then with a little fountain and a smaU conservatory at the
back. I went there to breakfast one morning -with Aldrich
and Laurence Hutton. For years Booth had been one of
my great admirations on the stage, and I was eager to know
him. He did not disappoint me. He was stUl very hand
some and romantic-looking, but with an expression of in
effaceable sadness, for his life had been fiUed with sorrows.
He had charming manners, very quiet and gentle. Although
he talked but httle he was very sympathetic and was a most
attractive host. I breakfasted there again with Edmund
Gosse, who had brought me letters and had dined -with me
the night before. Mr. Gosse I found most dehghtful, and
many years afterwards I had the pleasure of renewing our
acquaintance m London when I dined with him one Sunday
at his house.
Aldrich was also an admirable critic and I learned much
from him, but he was prone to criticise his own works, and
he was so fastidious that, unlike most writers, after his
place was made and his success and fame attained he -wrote
less and less. He found it much harder to satisfy himself
than to gratify the pubhc. He has left poems so charming
that one always is disposed to complain that there are not

350 EARLY MEMORIES
more of them. He always reminded me of Gray, whose
standard was so high and who was so hard to please that he
would never go beyond two or three masterpieces, and even
about those he had doubts.
Mr. Aldrich always seemed the very embodiment of life,
both physical and intellectual, and I little thought that the
day was ever to come when I should be one of those who
were chosen to bear his pall, I saw him constantly as long as
I lived in Boston, where for a time we had adjoining houses.
When I went to Congress we were of necessity separated in
winter and our summer homes were far apart. But when
ever we met he was always the same, always cheerful,
abounding in wit, kind, sympathetic, with the same capacity
for indignation, breaking out in winged words against every
thing that was mean, wrong, or unworthy. So that, little as
I saw him in the later years, he remained one of the poten
tialities which are often so much to us, and my affection and
admiration went with him always, undimmed untU the end
came all too soon.
Thus far, in speaking of the men whom I knew, I have,
with few exceptions, written only of those Imown to a larger
world than that which was bounded by the limits of Boston
or of Massachusetts. But there are many other figures
that rise up before me as I recall those happy years which
stretch from the closing gates of Harvard to the opening
doors of public life. "Old faces look upon me, old forms
go trooping past," and I -wish I could interest others in
them all as they interested me, to whose happiness and en
joyment they so largely contributed. That I cannot is
wholly my own fault and misfortune, "Had I the pen of
a G. P. R. James or a Sir Archibald Alison," to borrow
Thackeray's phrase, no doubt I could do it. The character
and life of any man, however obscure, is of profound interest
could we but know it aright and display it to the world;

PUBLIC MEN AND MEN OF LETTERS 351
but it requires the hand of a master to tell the story and
paint the picture. Without the touch of the humorist, the
poet, the creator, one's own memories of those whom the
reader does not know cannot be communicated, and the
effort fades into a catalogue unUlumined by the light of
fancy or imagination. It seems to me that the friends -with
whom I hved my daily life in those years, whose thoughts
and interests I shared, were not only delightful companions
but clever men of much accomplishment, lovers of books,
active in mind and body, li-ving eagerly the life of their
time, I am sure that I have never met any men who formed
a more agreeable society or one better and pleasanter to
hve with, I must pass them over for the most part in sUence,
although they formed a large part of my life and had a deep
influence upon me. Some were the friends of school and
coUege who have found inadequate allusion in these pages.
Some were older men with whom I came in contact, perhaps
more than some of my contemporaries, for I always liked to
meet and know my seniors. But here I must reluctantly
pause where early memories begin to merge in those of a later
time. In entering public life I came upon a broader held and
into relations with many men of whom there is no mention
made in this volume, men who played a large part and had in
their degree an influence upon the history which they helped
to make. But all that is another story which at some future
day, if time and strength permit, I shall perhaps try to tell.

INDEX

INDEX

Abbott, Jacob, books about boys, 68-69
Abbott, Judge, counsel for Rice kid
nappers, 78.
Adams, Brooks, 274-275; Bancroft's al
lusion to, 320.
Adams, Charles Francis, reply to Eng
lishmen about the flghting of the South
erners, 127; directions to Dr. EUis
about his father, 271; member of
Wednesday Evening Club, 273; re
ply about Federalists, 274; personal
appearance, 297; character and qual
ities, 298; place in history, 299; let
ters from, 300-301.
Adams, Henry, his success as professor,
186-187; goes with H. C. Lodge to
Salerno, 187; letter of advice from,
238; offers H. C. Lodge eissistant
editorship of North American Review,
240-241; course in Anglo-Saxon law,
263; anecdote of Sumner, 277; as a
talker, 330.
Adams, John Quincy, description of
visit to New York, 1844, 271-273; his
account of his speech at dinner, 273.
Adams, Miss Mary, 147.
Africa steamship, 138.
Agassiz, Louis, home at Nahant, 33;
early recollections of, 54.
Aldrich, Thomas Bailey, as a talker, 330;
succeeds HoweUs as editor of the At
lantic, 346: his office in Park Street,
347; his charm and wit in conversa
tion, 348-349; his friendship with
Edwin Booth, 349; as a critic; his
character, 349-350.
Allen, John, of Mississippi, danger of too
much jesting by public men, 332.
AUston, Washington, classmate of Henry
Cabot, 43.
Amadeo, Prince, 177.
American Academy of Arts and Sciences,
274.
Amory, Francis I., schoolmate at Mr.
DixweU's, 83.
Anderson, Professor, juggler, 101.
Andrew, Governor John A., in the war
time, 116-117; account of and im
pression made by, 292.
Antietam, visit with McKinley to, 121.
Appleton, Thomas G., comment on
Sumner's anecdote, 281.
Arch, Joseph, visit to Sumner, 284-285.
Argyle, Duke of, description of, 171-172.
Amaux, Doctor, French teacher, 21.

Arnold, Matthew, Aldrich's dinner to,
348.
AspinwaU, Colonel, survivor of the "War
of '12," 249.

Balfour, Arthur J., 150; as a talker, 330.
Baltimore, attack on Massachusetts
troops in, 117-118; reception of troops
in, 1898, 119.
Bancroft, George, house in Winthrop
Place, 18; early days in Massachu
setts politics, 314; in Polk's cabinet,
315; his history of the United States,
315-316; his old age In Washington,
316; letters from, 317-321; as a rose
grower, 322.
Banks, N. P., recommends purchase of
Hancock House, 63.
Barberini, Palazzo, home of the Storys,
162.
Barrett, Lawrence, as Mark Antony, 92 ;
passenger on Africa, 140.
Bartlett, General, 123.
Bartol, Reverend Cyrus, anecdote of,
105.
Beadle, dime novels, 103.
Bedford Street, 15.
Beecher, Henry Ward, at Irving dinner,
255.
BeU and Everett, 114.
Benjamin, Judah P., Sir BoundeU Palm
er's opinion of, 256.
Bigelow, George T., opinion in Rice case,
73.
Bigelow, Henry J., description of, 56-57;
opinion of bathing after eating, 84.
Bigelow, MelviUe, 251.
Bigelow, WilUam Sturgis, helps to push
over statue, 14; treasure cave at
Nahant, 37; at Mrs. Parkman's, 65;
account of our education, 83; good
shot, 86; behind scenes at Boston
Theatre, 97; seeing Artemus Ward,
101; with H. C. Lodge m New York,
109; Porcupine Club, 274.
Bismarck, Prince, Motley's accoimt of,
307.
Blake, Anna (Mrs. Henry Cabot), de
scription of, 7-8.
Blake, Charles, counsel for Rice kid
nappers, 78.
Blake, Joshua, house in Winthrop Place,
18.
Blake, Robert, 7,

355

356

INDEX

Blake, WiUiam, 7.
Blake family, account of, 7.
Blitz, Signor, 34.
Booth, Edwin, as Cassius, 92; as Sir
Giles Overreach, 98; imsurpassed as
Hamlet, 191; breakfast at his house
in Boston, 349.
Boston, eighteenth century atmosphere
of, 16; population of, 1850-1860, 17;
area of, 1850-1860, 18; character of,
1850-1860, 19; nearness to country,
1850-1867, 20; sleighing in, 95; great
flre of, 1872, 241-243.
Boston Athenseum, 275.
Boston Museum, account of plays at,
92-94.
Boston Theatre, origin and description
of, 95-96; baU for Prince of Wales
at, 100.
Bourne, Mrs. (mother of Mrs. Henry
Rice), supplies money for abduction,
76; employs counsel for kidnappers,
78; furnishes baU, 79.
Bradish, Luther, 273.
Brattle Street Church, account of, 105.
Brattle, Thomas, 5.
Brooks, Preston, assault on Sumner, 45;
denoimced by Burlmgame, 46; de
clines BurUngame's chaUenge, 47.
Bruce, Lady Charlotte, 171.
Bryce, James, 150.
Burgess, Edward, schoolmate at Mr.
DixweU's, 84.
Burlingame, Anson, denounces Brooks's
assault on Sumner, 46; accepts
Brooks's chaUenge, 47; impression
made by, 294.
Butler, General B. P., story of Choate,
53.
Cabot, George (uncle of H. C Lodge),
friend of Bishop Fitzpatrick, 56.
Cabot, George, accovmt of, 8-9; Mr.
Morrison's description of, 9; Mr.
Webster's opinion of, 10; Mr. Chan
ning's description of, 10-13; visited
by Washington at Beverly, 41; let
ter to Washington, 42; memoir of,
his destruction of letters, 264.
Cabot, Henry, 7 ; his pedigree and descent
from Francis Higginson, 8; description
of, 40-43; friendship with Webster, 43-
44; takes H. C. Lodge to see "Julius
Csesar," 91; death of, 109; leaves Whig
party, 113.
Cabot, Mrs. Henry (See Blake, -Anna),
letter from Prescott, 313.
Cabot, Samuel, house in Winthrop
Place, 18.
Cabot, Samuel, schoolmate, 65.
Cabot, Stephen, at Cooper Street Ar
mory, 122.
Cabot family, account of, 8.
Canning, George, 149.
Canrobert, Marshal, 156.
Carnegie, Andrew, 209.
" Cataract of the Ganges," 97.
Cent-Garde, 156-157.

Chadwick, Prank, schoolmate at Mr.
SuUivan's, 66; schoolmate at Dix
weU's, 83; run down in boat with H.
C. Lodge, 85-86; good shot, 86.
Channing, WUUam EUery, description of
George Cabot, 10-13.
Chaucer, Geoffrey, 8.
Choate, Rufus, anecdote about, 14;
house in Winthrop Place, 18 ; descrip
tion of, and anecdotes, 50-53.
Clark, Bishop of Rhode Island, story of
Paran Stevens, 90.
Coleridge, Lord, 256-257; his advice to
LoweU, 340.
"CoUeen Bawn," 93.
CooUdge, Jefferson, 273.
Cox, S. S. , danger of too much jesting by
pubUc men, 331.
Cunard Company, treatment of pas
sengers, 139.
Curtis, George Ticknor, Evarts's story
of, 256.
Curtis, George WilUam, describes Na
hant, 32; asks H. C Lodge to put
lectures into book for Harpers, 268.
Cushing, Caleb, at dinner at Sumner's,
description of, 282-283.
Cushman, Charlotte, description of,
175-176.
Dalton, Charles, 273.
Davenport, E. L., as Brutus, 92; a9
Sir Giles Overreach, 98.
Davis, Charles Henry (Rear Admiral),
father of Constant Davis, 135; men
tioned in letter from Story, 165; serv
ices and scientific attainments, 194;
manners, 195; scholarship, 196; na
ture and character, 197; letter from
J. L. Motley about, 197-198; friend
ship of Dr. Holmes for Admiral and
Mrs. Davis, 335.
Davis, Charles Henry (midshipman),
159.
Davis, Constant, goes to Europe with H.
C Lodge, character and description
of. 135-137.
Debs, Eugene, predictions as to capital
ism, 213 g.
Denver, John, walks tight-rope at Na
hant, 33.
Devens, Judge Charles, examines H. C.
Lodge for admission to bar, 247.
Diaz, Porflrio, dinner to, 261-262.
Dickens, Charles, his readings, and
criticism of, 191-193.
DixweU, Epes Sargent (schoolmaster),
description of, 80; last three weeks
at school of, 178.
Dodge, Miss Abigail (Gail Hamilton),
attack on memoir of George Cabot,
268-269.
Dungeon Rock (Lynn), 36.
Elective system at Harvard, 184-187.
Eliot, Charles W., becomes president of
Harvard, 180; letter to H. C. Lodge
on giving up lectureship, 267.

INDEX

357

EUot, Samuel, sella his house to J. E.
Lodge, 59; library given to him by
friends, 60-61; letter to J. E. Lodge,
61-62.
EUerton, Elizabeth, 4.
EUerton, John Lodge, proposes change
of name to H. C. Lodge, 4; descrip
tion of, 151; reconciliation with
brother, 152.
Ellerton family, account of, 4.
EUis, Dr. George, knowledge of local his
tory, 270; anecdote of Webster, 270-
271; description of visit to New York
with John Quincy Adams, 271-273.
EUsworth, Colonel, shooting of, 119-120.
Emerson, Ralph Waldo, verses about
Nahant, 32; remark about Samuel
Hoar, 248; appearance, 328; last
time at Historical Society, 328-329;
at dinner in 1874, anecdote of, 329.
Endicott, WiUiam C.,Jr., flnds letter of
George Cabot, 41.
Endicott, Judge WiUiam C, 251.
England, poUcy toward the United
States, 148-150.
"Essex Junior," 274.
Essex Street, 15.
EugSnie, Empress, 156.
Evarts, WiUiam M., personal appear
ance, 254; anecdote of at election, 255;
at Irving dinner, 255; at dinner of H.
C. Lodge in Boston, 256; Washington
throwing doUar across the Rappahan
nock, 256-257; State Department
anecdotes of, 257 ; reply to Mr. Hoar,
character and abiUty, 258; as a
talker, 330.
Everett, Edward, speech about Monitor
and Merrimac, 122.
Fette, schoolmaster at Nahant, 73-76.
Fitzpatrick, Bishop John, 56.
Florence, WiUiam, at Irving dinner, 255.
Forney, John W., flattery of Sumner, 282.
Forrest, Edwin, as Metamora, 100; as
RicheUeu and Hamlet, 190-191.
France in 1866, 154; the army, 157-158.
Freeman, Edward, dinner to, 251; de
scription of, 252.
Gambetta, Sumner's anecdote of, 281.
Gladstone, WUUam E., 148.
Gosse, Edmund, in Boston and London,
349.
Granary Biirylng Ground, description
of, 347.
Grant, Mrs. Patrick, 72.
Gray, Horace, anecdote of Governor
Andrew, 116-117; kindness to and
taUis with H. C. Lodge, 250-251 ; Jus
tice of United States Supreme Court,
253; character and appearance on
bench, 253-254.
Gray, John C, 250.
Gray, RusseU, treasure-seeking, 38;
schoolmate at Mr. SuUivan's, 64; Por
cupine Club and Boston Athenaeum,
274-275.

Greene, Doctor Samuel, 270.
Grey, Sir Edward, 150.
Guild, Mrs. S. E., 72,
Hackett, J. H., as Falstaff, 99.
Hamley, General, 147-148.
Hancock House, account of, 63.
Harcourt, Lady, named for aunt of H.
C. Lodge, 303; at Nahant, 308.
Harcourt, Louis, 150.
Harrison, President, appoints AUen Rice
as minister to Russia, 79.
Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 303.
Hay, John, as a talker, 330.
Healey, Father, 56.
"Herrmann," juggler, 101.
Higginson, Francis, 8; his character, 13.
Higginson, Thomas Wentworth, descrip
tion of cosmopolitanism, 205; remarks
on Gail Hamilton's criticism, 269.
HIU, Thomas, president of Harvard, 180.
Hoar, Judge Ebenezer Rockwood, de
scription and anecdotes of, 247-250;
his remarks on funeral of Wendell
PhUlips, 294.
Hoar, George F., story as to Francis
Higginson, 8; Evarts's reply to, 258.
Hoar, Leonard (president of Harvard),
248.
Hoar, Samuel (father of Ebenezer R.
Hoar), Emerson's remark about, 248.
Holmes, Dr. Oliver Wendell, describes
dynamometer, 329; as a talker, 330-
331 ; effect of his reputation as humor
ist and wit, 331-332; a great writer,
332-333; his personal appearance,
333; at the Atlantic dinner, 333-334;
anecdotes of him at Nahant, 335;
character of the vanity with which he
was charged, 336; letters from, 337;
his last days, 338.
Holmes, Mrs. Oliver Wendell, cousin of
Mrs. J. E. Lodge, 333.
Holmes, Oliver Wendell (Justice), his
conversation with General Hamley,
147-148; anecdote of, 179.
Hosmer, Miss Harriet, 171.
Howe, Dr. G. S., appearance of and im
pression made by, 293.
HoweUs, William D., his book, "A Boy's
Town," 68; editor o! Atlantic Monthly,
344; description of, 344-345; summer
at Nahant, 346; kindness of, 346.
Hubbard, Frank, schoolmate at Mr.
SuUivan's, 66; with H. C. Lodge in
Canada and the Adirondacks, 179.
Irving, Henry, dinner in New York to, 255.
Jackson, negro servant of Mr. Rice, 73.
Jackson, Frank, schoolmate at Mr. Sul
livan's, 66.
James, George Abbot (brother-in-law of
H. C. Lodge), 135.
"Jeanie Deans," 93.
Jefferson, Joseph, opinion of acoustics at
Boston Theatre, 96.

358

INDEX

Kean, Charles, as an actor, 191.
Kean, Mrs. (Ellen Tree), as an actress,
191.
Kemble, Mrs. Fanny, reads to children
at Mrs. Parkman's, 22; letter to
Henry GreviUe about Nahant, 33;
description of, in public reading, 191.
KenUworth, 143.
Kidd, Captain, belief in his burled treas
ure, 36-37.
Kirkland, Elizabeth Cabot, description
of, 44-45.
Kirkland, John Thornton, 44.
Lamar, L. Q. C, eulogy of Sumner,
48.
Lang, Andrew, opinion of Whittier, 343.
Langdell, Professor C. C, his work In the
Harvard Law School, 246.
Langdon, John, 5.
Langdon, Mary (Mrs. Giles Ijodge), 5;
portrait of, 7.
Langdon, Samuel, president of Harvard
College, 5.
Langdon family, account of, 5.
Lansdowne, Lord, 150.
Laughlin, J. Lawrence, 263.
Lawrence, Massachusetts, trial of Rice
kidnappers at, 77-78.
Lawrence, William (Bishop), schoolmate
at Mr. DixweU's, 84.
Leamington, 142-143.
Lee, Harry, schoolmate, 65.
Lee, Colonel Henry, helps H. C. Lodge
on memoir of George Cabot, 265 ; de
scription and character of, 266-267.
Lincoln, Abraham, assassination of, 129;
his place in history, 190; his opinions
as to property. 215-216.
Lind, Jenny, 153.
Locker, Frederick, 171.
Lodge, Adam, description of, 152.
Lodge, Anna Cabot (Mrs. J. E. Lodge),
7; character, and love of reading, 39;
friend of WiUiam Story, 162; Story's
feeling about, 165; WendeU Phillips's
opinion of, 285; letters from Bancroft
to, 317-321; cousin of Mrs. O. W.
Holmes, 333.
Lodge, Elizabeth Cabot (Mrs. James),
40.
Lodge, Francis, 4.
Lodge, Giles, birth, 4; comes to West
Indies, 4; escapes from Santo Do
mingo, 4-5; settles In Boston and mar
ries, 5 ; death, 5 ; appearance and char
acter, 5-6; his cane and book, 6-7.
Lodge, Henry Cabot, birth and birth
place, 14 ; garden, 15 ; events at period
of birth, 16; playing in gardens and
yards, sports on the common, 19; sent
to Mrs. Parkman's school, 20; studies
at first school, 21 ; hears Mrs. Kemble
read, 22; fondness for sea, 22; his
father's counting-room and ships, 22-
23; getting molasses from casks, 24—
25; stamp-collecting, 25-26; at the
shipyard in Medford, 20; companion

ship of his father, 27-32; books read
as a boy, 29-32; love of the sea at
Nahant, 35; hunting for treasure, 36;
treasure-cave at Nahant, 37 ; treasure-
seeking in Boston, 38; earliest recol
lections of Sumner, 45 ; sees Sumner on
his return to Boston after Brooks's
assault, 48-50; recollections of Rufus
Choate, 50-53; recollections of J. L.
Motley, 53-54; recollections of Long
fellow, 54; recollections of Agassiz, 54;
recollections of Benjamin Peirce, 55;
recollections of Bishop Fitzpatrick, 66;
recoUections of Henry Bigelow, 56-57;
heroes of boyhood and the Heenan-
Sayers fight, 58; leaves Winthrop
Place for 31 Beacon Street, 59; de
scription of Beacon Street quarter and
31 Beacon Street, 62; the Hancock
House, 63; leaves Mrs. Parkman's
school and goes to that of Mr. Sulli
van, 64; companions at Mrs. Park-
man's school, 65; companions at Mr.
Sullivan's school, 66; boys and boy
nature, 67-72; friendship with Allen
Bice. 72; witnesses abduction of
Allen Rice, 73-74; identifies one of
the kidnappers at jaU, 75-76; fails to
identify third man, 76; witness before
Grand Jury, 77 ; witness at Lawrence,
77-78; kindness of Judge Lord to, 78;
friendship with Allen Rice In later
years, 79; leaves Mr. Sullivan's and
goes to Mr. DixweU's school, 81 ; con
duct and studies there, 82-83; edu
cation in other directions, 83-84;
swimming, 84^85; sailing and run
down by the Idler, 85-86; bird-nesting
and shooting, 86; other sports, 86-87;
learning to ride and first horse, 87-88;
at Newport, 87-88; flrst time at thea
tre, 90; the Ravels, 91; "JuUus
Csesar," 91; sees Davenport, Booth,
Barrett, and McCuUough in "Julius
Csesar," 92; goes to Boston Museum,
93; plays "Colleen Bawn" in play
room, 93 ; sale of Boston Museum prop
erties, 94; behind scenes at Boston
Theatre, 97; plays and actors there,
97-100; sees jugglers and Artemus
Ward, 100; love of reading, 102-104;
reading in church, 104-106; flrst visit
to New York theatres, 109-110; ad
venture at Trenton FaUs, 109;
Niagara, 110; earliest impressions of
politics, 113; campaign of 1860,
113-115; flring on Sumter, 115; recol
lections of Governor Andrew, 116; the
attack on the troops in Baltimore, 117-
118; thirty-seven years later, 118-119;
the shooting of Ellsworth, 119; the first
Bull Run, Island Number 10, Donelson,
and Port Royal, 120; visit to Antietam
with McKinley, 121; the Monitor and
Merrimac and the representation of
their fight In Boston, 121 : Mr. Ever
ett's speech, 122; "Vicksburg, Gettys
burg, Sherman, Sheridan, and the faU

INDEX

359

of Richmond, 122; effect of war on
mind of, 123-125; effect of war on
boys of that period, 125; opinions and
convictions left by war, 126; hears of
Lincoln's assassination, 129; feeling
toward Southern men and Northern
sympathizers, 130-131; hostUity to
ward England, 131-132; one side
right in the war, the other wrong, 133-
134; goes to Europe, 1866-1867, 135;
the voyage, 138-139 ; arrival at Liver
pool, 141; sights in Liverpool, 142;
Leamington, 142-143; Warwick and
Stratford, 143; goes to London, 144;
goes to Mount Felix, 145 ; occupations
at Mount FeUx, 146; account of
General Hamley, 147-148; feeling
about English scenery, 150-151; goes
to opera and theatre, and hears Jenny
Lind in London, 153; on the Conti
nent, Switzerland and Paris, 154;
sees sights in Paris, 155; grand review,
155-156; sees Emperor and Empress,
156; sees Offenbach's operas, 158;
takes French lessons, 160; journey to
Rome, 161; winter in Rome, 162;
flrst hunt In Rome, 172-174; Incidents
of hunting, 174-175; meeting with
Charlotte Cushman, 175-176; the
last run, lames horse, 176-177; to
Naples and Venice, 177; to Vienna,
178; arrival at home, 178; examina
tions for and entrance to Harvard,
178-179; fi.shing and shooting in
Canada and the Adirondacks, 179;
Harvard at time of entrance, 180-181;
account of "mock parts," 181-182;
reads them, 182 ; the last to do so, 183 ;
effect of elective system, 184-187;
enjoyment of Harvard, 187; athletics,
188; college theatricals, 188-189;
goes on as "supe" at theatres, anec
dote, 189-190; theatre-going while at
college, 190-191; hears Mrs. Kemble
read, 191; and Dickens, 191-193; re
sult of going to Harvard, 193 ; becomes
engaged, 194; marries and sails for
Europe, 199; retrospect and contrast,
200; changes in communication and
transportation, 201; changes in en
vironment, 202 ; society of his youth,
203; prevalence of EngUsh habits,
203-205; effect of Civil War and im
migration, 205-206; development of
great wealth, 206-208; fortunes in his
youth and old families, 208 ; the mod
em American plutocrat, 208-210; law
lessness of modem plutocrat, 211;
effect of wealth on politics. 212; change
of popular view as to property In the
United States, 213-216; alterations
in society, 216; character of conversa
tion, 216-217; society in Boston dur
ing youth of, 217-218; restlessness of
society to-day, 218-219; its effect on
style, 219-220; on sculpture, 220; on
painting, 220-221 ; loss of form, 221-
222; Incoherence of thought, 222-223;

meaning of these changes, 224; in
Europe again, 225; sees Passion play
226; auction of Imperial effects, 228
description of Paris in 1871, 229-231
goes to Germany and Italy, 231-232
friendship with Simpson, 232-233
his effect upon, 234-236 ; goes to Paris
and The Hague, 237; in England and
the Low Countries, 237-238; asks ad
vice of Henry Adams, 238; works at
early Germanic law, 239; at Norfolk,
Virginia, 240; offered assistant editor
ship of the North American Review,
240-241; description of the Boston fire,
241-242; visits among the poor, 242-
243; work on North American Review.
245; flrst articles in North American
Review, 245; enters law school, 245-
246; examined for the bar, 247;
friendship with Judge Gray, 250-254;
friendship with and anecdotes of
Evarts, 254-258; friendship with and
account of Francis E. Parker, 259-262;
essay on Anglo-Saxon law and degree
of Ph.D., 263-264; begins memoir of
George Cabot, 264; friendship with
and account of Henry Lee, 265-267;
lectures on American history at Har
vard, and letter from President Eliot,
267; lectures at Lowell Institute and
publication of lectures as book, 268;
writes for Nation and Atlantic Monthly,
261; elected to Massachusetts His
torical Society, 270; elected to Wednes
day Evening Club, 273; elected to
American Academy of Arts and Sci
ences, 274; account of Porcupine Club
and its members, 274-275; friendship
with and account of Sumner, 276;
meets Henry Wilson, account of him,
291; recollections of Governor An
drew, 292-293; recollections of and
account of Wendell Phillips, 294-297;
recollections of Charles Francis Adams,
297-301; recollections of Robert C.
Winthrop, 301-303; recoUections of
Mr. Prescott, 303 ; relations of to Mr.
Bancroft, 314; flrst meeting with Mr.
Bancroft, 315; friendship with him In
his last years, 316; recollections of
Dr. Palfrey, 321 ; recollections and ac
count of Francis Parkman, 322-325;
earliest recollections of Longfellow,
325; later recoUections, 326; descrip
tion of Longfellow, 327-328; recol
lections of Emerson, 328-329 ; recollec
tions of Dr. Holmes as a talker, 330; his
love of jokes and his serious side, 331-
332 ; his greatness as a writer, 332-333 ;
description of Dr. Holmes, 333; recol
lections of him at the Atlantic din
ner and the Historical Society, 334;
anecdotes of him at Nahant, 335; his
pleasure in his own success, 336; let
ters from Dr. Holmes, 337; recollec
tions of Lowell at Cambridge, 338;
anecdotes of LoweU, 339; friendship
with him after his return from England,

360

INDEX

340; his speeches and his writings, 341 ;
friendship with and account of Thomas
BaUey Aldrich, 346-350; meets Edwin
Booth, 349; meets Edmund Gosse,
349.
Lodge, John EUerton, merchant of Bos
ton, 3; counting-room and ships, 22—
23; description of . 27 ; his courage, 27;
his generosity, 28 ; his companionship,
28-29 ; his love of poetry and reading,
29-31; passport, 34; his visits to
England, 35; generosity to orphan
asylum, 56; buys 31 Beacon Street,
59; raises fund to buy Mr. EUot's
Ubrary, 60; letter to Mr. Eliot, 62;
Mr. Prescott's aUusion to, 62; gives
watch to H. C. Lodge, 79; buys hotel
place at Nahant, 90; president of
board of directors of Boston Theatre,
96-97; death of, 106; leaves Whigs
and supports Fr6mont, 113; desire
to go to war, 124; letter from Ban
croft, 319.
Lodge, Matthew, 4.
Lodge, Thomas, archdeacon, 4.
Lodge, Thomas, poet, 4.
Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, poems
about Nahant, 32; early recollections
of, 54; friendship for Sumner, 277-
326; anecdote of Sumner, 278; at
Nahant, 325; attractiveness in soci
ety, 326; his criticism of Schurz's ad
dress, 326-327; personal appearance,
327; sends H. C. Lodge poem for
the International Review, 328; Dr.
Holmes's address on, 334.
Lord, Judge Otis, 78.
"Lost Cause," sympathy with, 129.
Lothrop, Dr. S. K., 273.
LoweU, Augustus, 273.
LoweU, James Russell, his course in Eng
Ush Uterature at Harvard, 196; as a
talker, 330; at Cambridge, 338; hatred
of Jews and anecdote of, 339; brU-
Uancy as a speaker, 340-341.
LoweU. Judge John, 251-252.
Lyman, George, schoolmate at Mr. Sul
livan's, 66.
Nahant, drives to, when a boy, 26-27;
description of, 32; accounts of, in
prose and verse, 32; account of hotel
at, 33; burning of hotel at, 89.
Napier, Lady, at Nahant, 34.
Napier, Lord, at Nahant, 34.
Napoleon, Louis, 155; description of,
156-157.
Newport, Rhode Island, description of,
88-89.
New South Church, 15.
Nickerson, kidnapper of Allen Rice, 74;
identifled at jaU, 76; convicted, 79.
North American Review, editorship of,
240-241; work on. 244-245.
Oberammergau, Passion play at, 226.
Offenbach operas, 158-159.

Otis Place, 14.
Otis, WiUiam, advice to jump overboard,
85-86.

Palfrey, Dr. John G., recoUections of,
321.
Palmer, Sir RoundeU, opinion of Ben
jamin, 256.
Paris in 1866, 155 ff.; after the war, 227;
the Commune, 227-229 ; contemporary
description of, 229-231.
Parker, Francis E., description of, 259;
wit, 260; in State Senate, 260-261;
personal appearance of, 261 ; at dinner
to Diaz, 262; anecdote of waiter, 262.
Parkman, Mrs., her school, 20; descrip
tion of, 20-21.
Parkman, Francis, dinner at Judge
Gray's, 251; physical obstacles to his
work, 322; standing of his histories,
323; early recoUections of, 323; in
later years, 323-324; character and
abiUty, 325.
Parkman, Henry, 22; schoolmate, 65.
PaiU, Herbert, consolidation of the
United States, 132,
Peirce, Benjamin, description of, 55; Mr.
Motley's message to, 311.
Peirce, Benjamin, Jr., In Paris, 159; de
scription of, 160.
Pennoyer, WilUam, Lowell's aUusion to,
341.
PhiUips, Wendell, house In Essex Street,
15; feeling toward Sunmer and letters
about him, 284-285; character in
poUtics, 294; looks and appearance,
295; his attractive manner, 296; his
advice about public speaking, 297.
Photius, H. C. Lodge asks LoweU and
Holmes about, 339-340.
"Pip," flrst horse of H. C. Lodge, 88-89.
Pollock, Sir Frederick, sends book to H.
C. Lodge, 263.
Porcupine Club, 274.
Prescott, WUliam H., home at Nahant,
33; aUusIon to J. E. Lodge, 62; in
herited recoUections of, 312-313; let
ter to Mrs. Henry Cabot, 313.
Prince of Wales, baU for, 100.

Ravels, the, account of, 91.
Reed, 'Thomas Brackett, anecdote of ad
mission to the bar, 247; as a talker,
330.
RepubUcan torchUght procession, 114.
Rhodes, James Ford, opinion of Park-
man's work, 322.
Rice, Charles Allen Thorndike, 72; cus
tody awarded to father, 73 ; abducted
from school, 74; carried by mother to
England, 75; later life and death, 79-
80.
Rice, Henry, father of AUen Rice, 72;
divorce, 73; desires H. C. Lodge £is
witness, 75 ; gives ring to H. C. Lodge,
79.

INDEX

361

Rice, Mrs. Henry, divorce, 73; takes
AUen Rice to England, 75; probably
one of the kidnappers, 77.
Rodin, Auguste, 220.
Ropes, John C, story of generosity of
J. E. Lodge, 28.
Ropes and Gray, H. C. Lodge studies
in office of, 246.
Rosebery, Lord, 150; as a talker, 330.
Round Hill, Northampton, Massa
chusetts, Bancroft's school at, 314.
Rubio, Senator, at Diaz dinner, 262.
RusseU, George, 203 and 216.
Russell, Lord John, 148.
Saint HeUer, Lady, her impression of
Mr. Motley, 306.
Salemo, 187.
Santo Domingo, 4.
Sargent, Horace, schoolmate at Mr. Sul
hvan's, 66.
Sargent, Lucius ManUus, schoolmate at
Mr. SuUivan's, 66; account of, 274-
275.
SaviUe, Lady Theresa (wife of Mr.
EUerton), 152.
Schneider, Hortense, In Offenbach's op
eras, 158.
" School Days at Rugby," criticism of, 69.
Schurz, Carl, Judge Gray's feeling about,
251; story of Evarts, 257; his Boston
address criticised by LongfeUow, 326-
327.
Schuyler, General PhUip, 173.
Shaw, George Bernard, 209.
Shaw, Colonel Robert Gould, 123.
"Short History of the Colonies," 268.
Simpson, Michael Henry, at Harvard,
232; with H. C. Lodge m Rome, 233;
his beliefs and plans, 235-236; his
death, 237.
Smith, kidnapper of AUen Rice, 74;
identifled at jaU, 76; convicted, 79.
Sothern, in "Lord Dundreary," 153.
Stephen, Mrs. Leslie, 226.
Stevens, Paran, starts hotel at Nahant,
33; faUure of hotel, 89-90.
Stockton, Howard, Porcupine Club and
Boston Athenseum, 274r-275.
Story, WilUam W., 162; as sculptor and
writer, 163; fondness for Italy, anec
dote, 164; at Nahant, 165; letters
from, 165-171; in 1871, 231.
Story, Mrs., 226.
Stratford, 143.
Stuart, GUbert, anecdote of, 296.
Sturgis, Henry, 146.
Sturgis, Howard, 146.
Sturgis, JuUan, 146.
Sturgis, May, 146.
Sturgis, RusseU, accoimt of, 145; in
1871, 225.
Sturgis, Mrs. RusseU, account of, 144 and
146.
SuUivan, Thomas RusseU, Sr., his
school, 64.
SuUivan, Thomas Russell, Jr., descrip
tion of wharves and ships, 24; treas

ure-seeking, 38; schoolmate at Mr.
SuUivan's, 66; as CoUeen Bawn in
play-room, 93.
Summer Street, 14-15; residents in,
18.
Sumner, Charles, habit of coming to
Nahant, 33; earliest recollections of,
45; Brooks's attack upon, 45-46;
generosity toward South and eulogy
by Lamar, 48; scene on return to
Boston after assault, 49; physical
effects of assault, 50; letter on death
of J. E. Lodge, 107; friendship with
H. C. Lodge's family, 276; at Nahant
every summer and note to H. C. Lodge,
277; personal appearance and learn
ing, 278; speeches and conversation,
279; attack on Grant, 280; lack of
humor, 280-281; his reply to Gam
betta, 281; his announcement to
Motley of his appointment, 282; his
vanity, 282-285; his essential great
ness, 285; his real nature, 286; pubUc
service and course in direct claims, 287 ;
poUcy as to Canada and Cuba, 288;
policy as to the South, 288-289; his
place in history, 289-290; his lov-
ableness, loneliness, courage, 290;
Longfellow's friendship for, 326.
Sumner, George, 290.
Swettenham (Governor of Jamaica),
150.
Swift, Henry, writes burlesque with H.
C. Lodge, 189.
Thackeray, W. M., anecdote of, 336.
Thackeray, Miss, 226.
Thuolt, Mr., teacher of riding, 87.
Ticknor, George, his opinions of Quincy
and PhiUips, 295; description of, 295-
296.
"Tippoo Sahib," 97.
Titiens, as Lucrezia Borgia, 153.
Wadsworth, Herbert, schoolmate, 65.
Wadsworth, Livingston, schoolmate, 65.
WaUey, John, soldier and judge, 5; an
cestor of WendeU PhiUips, 296.
WaUey, Mary, 5.
WaUey, Thomas, 5.
Ward, Artemus, account of, 101.
Warren, WiUiam, account of, 92.
Warwick, 143.
Washington, George, visit to George
Cabot at Beverly, 41-42; anecdotes
of, in letter from Story, 169-171;
throwing doUar, 256-257.
Webster, Daniel, opinion of George
Cabot, 10; house in Summer Street,
18; friendship for Henry Cabot and
letter about trout, 43-44 ; anecdote of,
by Dr. EUis, 270-271; feeling of
Robert C. Winthrop toward, 302.
Wednesday Evening Club, 273.
West, Sir Algernon, 203 and 216.
Wheatleigh, WilUam, brings out "Henry
IV," 99.

362

INDEX

White, Edward Douglas (Chief Justice),
34.
White (Governor of Louisiana), 34.
Whittier, Charles, dinner to Diaz, 261-
262.
Whittier, John G. , describes Nahant, 32 ;
description of, looks and character,
342; character of his poetry and let
ter from, 343-344.
WUUs, N. P., describes Nahant, 32.

WUson, Henry, account of and impression
made by, 291.
Winthrop, Robert C, president of Mas
sachusetts Historical Society, 270;
Wednesday Evening Club, 273; ap
pearance, 301; political character,
302-303.
Winthrop Place, 14; houses In, 18;
residents in. 18.
Wolcott. Huntington, death of, 124.

3 9002 00823 4602 ^

^M%«#-''#^it'-"'t'«2^Jtr^'' :

3',' -«

¦¦M&fsnssic "«" ¦ w'.j» . ""Js