DEAR M.,--You say in your last letter, "Do tell me something about your
school." If I only had the time, I could write volumes about my school,
and especially about my teachers.
To begin with, Professor Agassiz gives us lectures on zoölogy, geology,
and all other ologies, and draws pictures on the blackboard of trilobites
and different fossils, which is very amusing. We call him "Father Nature,"
and we all adore him and try to imitate his funny Swiss accent.
Professor Pierce, who is, you know, the greatest mathematician in the
world, teaches us mathematics and has an awful time of it; we must be very
stupid, for the more he explains, the less we seem to understand, and when
he gets on the rule of three we almost faint from dizziness. If he would
only explain the rule of one! The Harvard students say that his book on
mathematics is so intricate that not one of them can solve the problems.
We learn history and mythology from Professor Felton, who is very near-
sighted, wears broad-brimmed spectacles, and shakes his curly locks at us
when he thinks we are frivolous. He was rather nonplussed the other day,
when Louise Child read out loud in the mythology lesson something about
"Jupiter and ten." "What," cried Mr. Felton, "what are you reading? You
mean 'Jupiter and Io,' don't you?" "It says ten here," she answered.
Young Mr. Agassiz teaches us German and French; we read Balzac's _Les
Chouans_ and Schiller's _Wallenstein_.
Our Italian teacher, Luigi Monti, is a refugee from Italy, and has a sad
and mysterious look in his black eyes; he can hardly speak English, so we
have things pretty much our own way during the lessons, for he cannot
correct us. One of the girls, translating _capelli neri_, said "black
hats," and he never saw the mistake, though we were all dying of laughter.
No one takes lessons in Greek from long-bearded, fierce-eyed Professor
Evangelinus Apostolides Sophocles, so he is left in peace. He does not
come more than once a week anyway, and then only to say it is no use his
coming at all.
Cousin James Lowell replaces Mr. Longfellow the days he can't come. He
reads selections of "literary treasures," as he calls them, and on which
he discourses at length. He seems very dull and solemn when he is in
school; not at all as he is at home. When he comes in of an afternoon and
reads his poems to aunty and to an admiring circle of cousins and sisters-
in-law, they all roar with laughter, particularly when he reads them with
a Yankee accent. He has such a rippling little giggle while reading, that
it is impossible not to laugh.
The other day he said to me, "Cousin Lillie, I will take you out for a
walk in recess." I said, "Nothing I should like better, but I can't go."
"Why not?" said he. "Because I must go and be a beggar." "What do you
mean?" he asked. "I mean that there is a duet that Mrs. Agassiz favors
just now, from Meyerbeer's 'Le Prophète,' where she is beggar number one
and I am beggar number two." He laughed. "You are a lucky little beggar,
anyway. I envy you." "Envy me? I thought you would pity me," I said. "No,
I do not pity you, I envy you being a beggar with a voice!"
I consider myself a victim. In recess, when the other girls walk in Quincy
Street and eat their apples, Mrs. Agassiz lures me into the parlor and
makes me sing duets with her and her sister, Miss Carey. I hear the girls
filing out of the door, while I am caged behind the piano, singing, "Hear
Me, Norma," wishing Norma and her twins in Jericho.
There are about fourteen pupils now; we go every morning at nine o'clock
and stay till two o'clock. We climb up the three stories in the Agassiz
house and wait for our teachers, who never are on time. Sometimes school
does not begin for half an hour.
Mrs. Agassiz comes in, and we all get up to say good morning to her. As
there is nothing else left for her to teach, she teaches us manners. She
looks us over, and holds up a warning finger smilingly. She is so sweet
and gentle.
I don't wonder that you think it extraordinary that all these fine
teachers, who are the best in Harvard College, should teach us; but the
reason is, that the Agassiz's have built a new house and find it difficult
to pay for it, so their friends have promised to help them to start this
school, and by lending their names they have put it on its legs, so to
speak.
The other day I was awfully mortified. Mr. Longfellow, who teaches us
literature, explained all about rhythm, measures, and the feet used in
poetry. The idea of poetry having feet seemed so ridiculous that I thought
out a beautiful joke, which I expected would amuse the school immensely;
so when he said to me in the lesson, "Miss Greenough, can you tell me what
blank verse is?" I answered promptly and boldly, "Blank verse is like a
blank-book; there is nothing in it, not even feet," and looked around for
admiration, but only saw disapproval written everywhere, and Mr.
Longfellow, looking very grave, passed on to the next girl. I never felt
so ashamed in my life.
Mr. Longfellow, on passing our house, told aunty that he was coming in the
afternoon, to speak to me; aunty was worried and so was I, but when he
came I happened to be singing Schubert's "Dein ist mein Herz," one of
aunty's songs, and he said, "Go on. Please don't stop." When I had
finished he said:
"I came to scold you for your flippancy this morning, but you have only to
sing to take the words out of my mouth, and to be forgiven."
"And I hope you will forget," I said, penitently.
"I have already forgotten," he answered, affectionately. "How can one be
angry with a dear little bird? But don't try again to be so witty."
"Never again, I promise you."
"That's the dear girl you are, and 'Dein ist mein Herz'!" He stooped down
and kissed me.
I burst into tears, and kissed his hand. This is to show you what a dear,
kind man Mr. Longfellow is.
[Illustration: THE FAY HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE, MASSACHUSETTS]