THERE had apparently been some mistake in Agamemnon’s education. He had
been to a number of colleges, indeed, but he had never completed his
course in any one.
He had continually fallen into some difficulty with the authorities. It
was singular, for he was of an inquiring mind, and had always tried to
find out what would be expected of him, but had never hit upon the right
thing.
Solomon John thought the trouble might be in what they called the
elective system, where you were to choose what study you might take.
This had always bewildered Agamemnon a good deal.
“And how was a feller to tell,” Solomon John had asked, “whether he
wanted to study a thing before he tried it? It might turn out awful
hard!”
Agamemnon had always been fond of reading, from his childhood up. He was
at his book all day long. Mrs Peterkin had imagined he would come out a
great scholar, because she could never get him away from his books.
And so it was in his colleges; he was always to be found in the library,
reading and reading. But they were always the wrong books.
For instance: the class were required to prepare themselves on the
Spartan war.
This turned Agamemnon’s attention to the Fenians, and to study the
subject he read up on “Charles O’Malley,” and “Harry Lorrequer,” and
some later novels of that sort, which did not help him on the subject
required, yet took up all his time, so that he found himself unfitted
for anything else when the examinations came. In consequence he was
requested to leave.
Agamemnon always missed in his recitations, for the same reason that
Elizabeth Eliza did not get on in school, because he was always asked
the questions he did not know. It seemed provoking; if the professors
had only asked something else!
But they always hit upon the very things he had not studied up.
Mrs. Peterkin felt this was encouraging, for Agamemnon knew the things
they did not know in colleges. In colleges they were willing to take
for students only those who already knew certain things. She thought
Agamemnon might be a professor in a college for those students who
didn’t know those things.
“I suppose these professors could not have known a great deal,” she
added, “or they would not have asked you so many questions; they would
have told you something.”
Agamemnon had left another college on account of a mistake he had made
with some of his classmates. They had taken a great deal of trouble to
bring some wood from a distant wood-pile to make a bonfire with,
under one of the professors’ windows. Agamemnon had felt it would be a
compliment to the professor.
It was with bonfires that heroes had been greeted on their return from
successful wars. In this way beacon-lights had been kindled upon lofty
heights, that had inspired mariners seeking their homes after distant
adventures. As he plodded back and forward he imagined himself some hero
of antiquity. He was reading “Plutarch’s Lives” with deep interest. This
had been recommended at a former college, and he was now taking it up in
the midst of his French course.
He fancied, even, that some future Plutarch was growing up in Lynn,
perhaps, who would write of this night of suffering, and glorify its
heroes.
For himself he took a severe cold and suffered from chilblains, in
consequence of going back and forward through the snow, carrying the
wood.
But the flames of the bonfire caught the blinds of the professor’s
room, and set fire to the building, and came near burning up the whole
institution. Agamemnon regretted the result as much as his predecessor,
who gave him his name, must have regretted that other bonfire, on the
shores of Aulis, that deprived him of a daughter.
The result for Agamemnon was that he was requested to leave, after
having been in the institution but a few months.
He left another college in consequence of a misunderstanding about the
hour for morning prayers. He went every day regularly at ten o’clock,
but found, afterward, that he should have gone at half-past six. This
hour seemed to him and to Mrs. Peterkin unseasonable, at a time of year
when the sun was not up, and he would have been obliged to go to the
expense of candles.
Agamemnon was always willing to try another college, wherever he could
be admitted. He wanted to attain knowledge, however it might be found.
But, after going to five, and leaving each before the year was out, he
gave it up.
He determined to lay out the money that would have been expended in a
collegiate education in buying an Encyclopædia, the most complete that
he could find, and to spend his life studying it systematically. He
would not content himself with merely reading it, but he would study
into each subject as it came up, and perfect himself in that subject.
By the time, then, that he had finished the Encyclopædia he should have
embraced all knowledge, and have experienced much of it.
The family were much interested in this plan of making practice of every
subject that came up.
He did not, of course, get on very fast in this way. In the second
column of the very first page he met with A as a note in music. This led
him to the study of music. He bought a flute, and took some lessons, and
attempted to accompany Elizabeth Eliza on the piano. This, of course,
distracted him from his work on the Encyclopædia. But he did not wish to
return to A until he felt perfect in music. This required a long time.
Then in this same paragraph a reference was made; in it he was requested
to “see Keys.” It was necessary, then, to turn to “Keys.” This was
about the time the family were moving, which we have mentioned, when the
difficult subject of keys came up, that suggested to him his own simple
invention, and the hope of getting a patent for it. This led him astray,
as inventions before have done with master-minds, so that he was drawn
aside from his regular study.
The family, however, were perfectly satisfied with the career Agamemnon
had chosen. It would help them all, in any path of life, if he should
master the Encyclopædia in a thorough way.
Mr. Peterkin agreed it would in the end be not as expensive as a college
course, even if Agamemnon should buy all the different Encyclopædias
that appeared.
There would be no “spreads” involved; no expense of receiving friends at
entertainments in college; he could live at home, so that it would not
be necessary to fit up another room, as at college. At all the times of
his leaving he had sold out favorably to other occupants.
Solomon John’s destiny was more uncertain. He was looking forward
to being a doctor some time, but he had not decided whether to be
allopathic or homeopathic, or whether he could not better invent his own
pills. And he could not understand how to obtain his doctor’s degree.
For a few weeks he acted as clerk in a druggist’s store. But he could
serve only in the toothbrush and soap department, because it was found
he was not familiar enough with the Latin language to compound the
drugs. He agreed to spend his evenings in studying the Latin grammar;
but his course was interrupted by his being dismissed for treating the
little boys too frequently to soda.
The little boys were going through the schools regularly. The family had
been much exercised with regard to their education. Elizabeth Eliza
felt that everything should be expected from them; they ought to take
advantage from the family mistakes. Every new method that came up was
tried upon the little boys.
They had been taught spelling by all the different systems, and were
just able to read, when Mr. Peterkin learned that it was now considered
best that children should not be taught to read till they were ten years
old.
Mrs. Peterkin was in despair. Perhaps, if their books were taken from
them even then, they might forget what they had learned. But no, the
evil was done; the brain had received certain impressions that could not
be blurred over.
This was long ago, however. The little boys had since entered the public
schools. They went also to a gymnasium, and a whittling school, and
joined a class in music, and another in dancing; they went to some
afternoon lectures for children, when there was no other school, and
belonged to a walking-club. Still Mr. Peterkin was dissatisfied by the
slowness of their progress. He visited the schools himself, and found
that they did not lead their classes. It seemed to him a great deal of
time was spent in things that were not instructive, such as putting on
and taking off their india-rubber boots.
Elizabeth Eliza proposed that they should be taken from school and
taught by Agamemnon from the Encyclopædia. The rest of the family might
help in the education at all hours of the day. Solomon John could take
up the Latin grammar, and she could give lessons in French.
The little boys were enchanted with the plan, only they did not want to
have the study-hours all the time.
Mr. Peterkin, however, had a magnificent idea, that they should make
their life one grand Object Lesson. They should begin at breakfast, and
study everything put upon the table,--the material of which it was made,
and where it came from.
In the study of the letter A, Agamemnon had embraced the study of music,
and from one meal they might gain instruction enough for a day.
“We shall have the assistance,” said Mr. Peterkin, “of Agamemnon, with
his Encyclopædia.”
Agamemnon modestly suggested that he had not yet got out of A, and in
their first breakfast everything would therefore have to begin with A.
“That would not be impossible,” said Mr. Peterkin. “There is Amanda, who
will wait on table, to start with--”
“We could have ‘am-and-eggs,” suggested Solomon John Mrs. Peterkin was
distressed. It was hard enough to think of anything for breakfast, and
impossible, if it all had to begin with one letter.
Elizabeth Eliza thought it would not be necessary. All they were to do
was to ask questions, as in examination papers, and find their answers
as they could.
They could still apply to the Encyclopædia, even if it were not in
Agamemnon’s alphabetical course.
Mr. Peterkin suggested a great variety. One day they would study the
botany of the breakfast-table, another day, its natural history.
The study of butter would include that of the cow. Even that of the
butter-dish would bring in geology.
The little boys were charmed at the idea of learning pottery from the
cream-jug, and they were promised a potter’s wheel directly.
“You see, my dear,” said Mr. Peterkin to his wife, “before many weeks,
we shall be drinking our milk from jugs made by our children.”
Elizabeth Eliza hoped for a thorough study.
“Yes,” said Mr. Peterkin, “we might begin with botany. That would be
near to Agamemnon alphabetically. We ought to find out the botany of
butter. On what does the cow feed?”
The little boys were eager to go out and see.
“If she eats clover,” said Mr. Peterkin, “we shall expect the botany of
clover.”
The little boys insisted that they were to begin the next day; that very
evening they should go out and study the cow.
Mrs. Peterkin sighed, and decided she would order a simple breakfast.
The little boys took their note-books and pencils, and clambered upon
the fence, where they seated themselves in a row.
For there were three little boys. So it was now supposed. They were
always coming in or going out, and it had been difficult to count them,
and nobody was very sure how many there were.
There they sat, however, on the fence, looking at the cow. She looked at
them with large eyes.
“She won’t eat,” they cried, “while we are looking at her!”
So they turned about, and pretended to look into the street, and seated
themselves that way, turning their heads back, from time to time, to see
the cow.
“Now she is nibbling a clover.”
“No, that is a bit of sorrel.”
“It’s a whole handful of grass.”
“What kind of grass?” they exclaimed.
It was very hard, sitting with their backs to the cow, and pretending to
the cow that they were looking into the street, and yet to be looking at
the cow all the time, and finding out what she was eating; and the upper
rail of the fence was narrow and a little sharp. It was very high,
too, for some additional rails had been put on to prevent the cow from
jumping into the garden or street.
Suddenly, looking out into the hazy twilight, Elizabeth Eliza saw
six legs and six india-rubber boots in the air, and the little boys
disappeared!
“They are tossed by the cow! The little boys are tossed by the cow!”
Mrs. Peterkin rushed for the window, but fainted on the way. Solomon
John and Elizabeth Eliza were hurrying to the door, but stopped, not
knowing what to do next. Mrs. Peterkin recovered herself with a supreme
effort, and sent them out to the rescue.
But what could they do? The fence had been made so high, to keep the cow
out, that nobody could get in. The boy that did the milking had gone
off with the key of the outer gate, and perhaps with the key of the shed
door. Even if that were not locked, before Agamemnon could get round by
the wood-shed and cow-shed, the little boys might be gored through and
through!
Elizabeth Eliza ran to the neighbors, Solomon John to the druggist’s for
plasters, while Agamemnon made his way through the dining-room to the
wood-shed and outer-shed door. Mr. Peterkin mounted the outside of the
fence, while Mrs.
Peterkin begged him not to put himself in danger. He climbed high enough
to view the scene. He held to the corner post and reported what he saw.
They were not gored. The cow was at the other end of the lot. One of the
little boys were lying in a bunch of dark leaves. He was moving.
The cow glared, but did not stir. Another little boy was pulling his
india-rubber boots out of the mud. The cow still looked at him.
Another was feeling the top of his head. The cow began to crop the
grass, still looking at him.
Agamemnon had reached and opened the shed-door. The little boys were
next seen running toward it.
A crowd of neighbors, with pitchforks, had returned meanwhile with
Elizabeth Eliza. Solomon John had brought four druggists. But, by the
time they had reached the house, the three little boys were safe in the
arms of their mother!
“This is too dangerous a form of education,” she cried; “I had rather
they went to school.”
“No!” they bravely cried. They were still willing to try the other way.