A prominent trait in the character of Agassiz was his dislike of
ostentation. This is eminently illustrated in his virtual rejection of
all titles. He possessed all the honors that Universities and learned
societies could bestow, but made no use of them. On the title page of
his great works we find only “Louis Agassiz.” There was, however, one
title in which he did take pride—the only one he ever assumed. In his
last will he described himself as “Louis Agassiz, teacher.” An intimate
personal friend alluding to this, says that “he gloried in the title
of schoolmaster, preferring it to that of professor.” He deemed the
profession of teacher “the noblest of all professions, but included in
that category all good and great minds engaged in disseminating knowledge
or in increasing it.”
The desire to know something of his methods and ideas of teaching,
is often expressed. His methods were simple, but radically different
from prevailing methods. He despised recitations by rote from
text-books—allowed the use of books only for reference, and urged
the selection of such as were authoritative and the work of original
investigators. In teaching Natural History his leading purpose was to
stimulate and secure independent observation. A fine illustration of this
was given anonymously by one of his pupils, who subsequently became a
successful entomologist, in _Every Saturday_, in 1874, which we venture
to quote entire, as affording perhaps the best conception of his method:
“It was more than fifteen years ago that I entered the laboratory of
Professor Agassiz and told him I had enrolled my name in the scientific
school as a student of natural history. He asked me a few questions
about my object in coming, my antecedents generally, the mode in which
I afterward proposed to use the knowledge I might acquire, and finally,
whether I wished to study any special branch. To the latter I replied
that while I wished to be well grounded in all departments of zoölogy, I
purposed to devote myself specially to insects.
“‘When do you wish to begin?’ he asked.
“‘Now,’ I replied.
“This seemed to please him, and with an energetic ‘Very well,’ he reached
from a shelf a huge jar of specimens in yellow alcohol. ‘Take this fish,’
said he, ‘and look at it; we call it a Hæmulon; by and by I will ask what
you have seen.’
“With that he left me, but in a moment he returned with explicit
instructions as to the care of the object intrusted to me. ‘No man is
fit to be a naturalist,’ said he, ‘who does not know how to take care of
specimens.’
“I was to keep the fish before me in a tin tray, and occasionally moisten
the surface with alcohol from the jar, always taking care to replace
the stopper tightly. Those were not the days of ground glass stoppers
and elegantly shaped exhibition jars; all the old students will recall
the huge, neckless glass bottles with their leaky, wax-besmeared corks,
half eaten by insects and begrimed with cellar dust. Entomology was a
cleaner science than ichthyology, but the example of the Professor, who
had unhesitatingly plunged to the bottom of the jar to produce the fish,
was infectious, and though this alcohol had ‘a very ancient and fish-like
smell,’ I really dared not show any aversion within these sacred
precincts, for gazing at a fish did not commend itself to an ardent
entomologist. My friends at home, too, were annoyed when they discovered
that no amount of eau de cologne would drown the perfume which haunted
me like a shadow. In ten minutes I had seen all that could be seen in
that fish, and started in search of the Professor, who had, however, left
the museum; and when I returned, after lingering over some of the odd
animals stored in the upper department, my specimen was dry all over.
I dashed the fluid over the fish as if to resuscitate the beast from a
fainting fit, and looked with anxiety for a return of the normal sloppy
appearance. This little excitement over, nothing was to be done but
return to a steadfast gaze at my mute companion. Half an hour passed—an
hour—another hour; the fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over
and around; looked it in the face—ghastly; from behind, beneath, above,
sideways, at three-quarters view—just as ghastly. I was in despair; at
an early hour I concluded that lunch was necessary; so, with infinite
relief, the fish was carefully replaced in the jar, and for an hour I was
free.
“On my return, I learned that Professor Agassiz had been at the museum,
but had gone and would not return for several hours. My fellow-students
were too busy to be disturbed by continued conversation. Slowly I drew
forth that hideous fish, and with a feeling of desperation again looked
at it. I might not use a magnifying glass; instruments of all kinds were
interdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fish; it seemed a most
limited field. I pushed my finger down its throat to feel how sharp the
teeth were. I began to count the scales in the different rows until I
was convinced that that was nonsense. At last a happy thought struck
me—I would draw the fish—and now with surprise I began to discover new
features in the creature. Just then the Professor returned. ‘That is
right,’ said he; ‘a pencil is one of the best of eyes. I am glad to
notice, too, that you keep your specimen wet and your bottle corked.’
“With these encouraging words, he added: ‘Well, what is it like?’
“He listened attentively to my brief rehearsal of the structure of parts
whose names were still unknown to me; the fringed gill-arches and
movable operculum; the pores of the head, fleshy lips, and lidless eyes;
the lateral line, the spinous fins, and forked tail; the compressed and
arched body. When I had finished he waited as if expecting more, and
then, with an air of disappointment:
“‘You have not looked very carefully. Why,’ he continued more earnestly,
‘You haven’t even seen one of the most conspicuous features of the
animal, which is as plainly before your eyes as the fish itself; look
again, look again!’ and he left me to my misery.
“I was piqued; I was mortified. Still more of that wretched fish. But
now I set myself to work with a will, and discovered one new thing after
another, until I saw how just the Professor’s criticism had been. The
afternoon passed quickly, and when, towards its close, the Professor
inquired:
“‘Do you see it yet?’
“‘No,’ I replied, ‘I am certain I do not—but I see how little I saw
before.’
“‘That is next best,’ said he earnestly, ‘but I won’t hear you now; put
away your fish and go home; perhaps you will be ready with a better
answer in the morning. I will examine you before you look at the fish.’
“This was disconcerting; not only must I think of my fish all night,
studying, without the object before me, what this unknown but most
visible feature might be; but also, without reviewing my new discoveries,
I must give an exact account of them the next day. I had a bad memory;
so I walked home by Charles River in a distracted state, with my two
perplexities.
“The cordial greeting from the Professor the next morning was reassuring;
here was a man who seemed to be quite as anxious as I, that I should see
for myself what he saw—‘Do you perhaps mean,’ I asked, ‘that the fish has
symmetrical sides with paired organs?’
“His thoroughly pleased ‘Of course, of course!’ repaid the wakeful hours
of the previous night. After he had discoursed most enthusiastically—as
he always did—upon the importance of this point, I ventured to ask what I
should do next. ‘Oh, look at your fish!’ he said, and left me again to my
own devices.
“In a little more than an hour he returned and heard my new catalogue.
‘That is good, that is good!’ he repeated; ‘but that is not all; go on;’
and so for three long days he placed that fish before my eyes, forbidding
me to look at anything else, or to use any artificial aid. ‘Look, look,
look,’ was his repeated injunction.
“This was the best entomological lesson I ever had—a lesson whose
influence has extended to the details of every subsequent study; a legacy
the Professor has left to me, as he has left it to many others, of
inestimable value, which we could not buy, with which we can not part.
“A year afterward, some of us were amusing ourselves with chalking
outlandish beasts upon the museum black-board. We drew prancing
star-fishes; frogs in mortal combat; hydra-headed worms; stately
craw-fishes, standing on their tails, bearing aloft umbrellas; and
grotesque fishes with gaping mouths and staring eyes.
“The Professor came in shortly after and was amused as any at our
experiments. He looked at the fishes. ‘Hæmulons, every one of them,’ he
said; ‘Mr. ⸺ drew them.’
“True; and to this day, if I attempt a fish, I can draw nothing but
Hæmulons. The fourth day a second fish of the same group was placed
beside the first, and I was bidden to point out the resemblances and
differences between the two; another and another followed, until the
entire family lay before me, and a whole legion of jars covered the table
and surrounding shelves; the odor had become a pleasant perfume; and
even now, the sight of an old, six-inch, worm-eaten cork brings fragrant
memories!
“The whole group of Hæmulons was thus brought in review; and, whether
engaged upon the dissection of the internal organs, the preparation and
examination of the bony framework, or the description of the various
parts, Agassiz’s training in the method of observing facts and their
orderly arrangement, was ever accompanied by the urgent exhortation not
to be content with them. ‘Facts are stupid things,’ he would say, ‘until
brought into connection with some general law.’
“At the end of eight months it was almost with reluctance that I left
these friends and turned to insects; but what I had gained by this
outside experience has been of greater value than years of later
investigation in my favorite groups.”
In Prof. Agassiz’s opening lecture to the Anderson School at Penikese
some notable sayings occur, a few of which are quoted in further
illustration of his ideas. “It is a great mistake to suppose that _any
one_ can teach the elements of a science. This is indeed the most
difficult part of instruction, and it requires the most mature teachers.”
“Not by a superficial familiarity with many things, but _by a thorough
knowledge of a few things_, does any one grow in mental strength and
vigor. De Candolle told me that he could teach all he knew with a dozen
plants. Unquestionably he could have done it better with so few than
with many, certainly for beginners. If a teacher does not require many
specimens, so they be well selected, neither should he seek for them far
and wide. _Let the pupil find in his daily walks the illustrations and
repeated evidence of what he has heard in the school room._ I think there
should be a little museum in every school room, some dozen specimens of
radiates, a few hundred shells, a hundred insects with some crustacea and
worms, a few fishes, birds and mammalia, enough to characterize every
class in the animal kingdom. Pupils should be encouraged to find their
own specimens, and taught to handle them. This training is of greater
value and wider application than it may seem. Delicacy of manipulation,
such as the higher kinds of investigation demand requires the whole
organization to be brought into harmony with the mental action. The whole
nervous system must be in subordination to the intellectual purpose. Even
the pulsation of the arteries must not disturb the steadiness of attitude
and gaze of the investigator.”
“The study of Nature is a mental struggle for the mastery of the external
world. If we do not consider it in this light we shall hardly succeed in
the highest aims of the naturalist. It is truly a struggle of man for an
intellectual assimilation of the thought of God.”