HARVARD COLLEGE (1854-1858)
ONE day in June, 1854, young Adams walked for the last time
down the steps of Mr. Dixwell's school in Boylston Place, and felt no
sensation but one of unqualified joy that this experience was ended.
Never before or afterwards in his life did he close a period so long as
four years without some sensation of loss--some sentiment of habit--but
school was what in after life he commonly heard his friends denounce as
an intolerable bore. He was born too old for it. The same thing could
be said of most New England boys. Mentally they never were boys. Their
education as men should have begun at ten years old. They were fully
five years more mature than the English or European boy for whom
schools were made. For the purposes of future advancement, as
afterwards appeared, these first six years of a possible education were
wasted in doing imperfectly what might have been done perfectly in one,
and in any case would have had small value. The next regular step was
Harvard College. He was more than glad to go. For generation after
generation, Adamses and Brookses and Boylstons and Gorhams had gone to
Harvard College, and although none of them, as far as known, had ever
done any good there, or thought himself the better for it, custom,
social ties, convenience, and, above all, economy, kept each generation
in the track. Any other education would have required a serious effort,
but no one took Harvard College seriously. All went there because their
friends went there, and the College was their ideal of social
self-respect.
Harvard College, as far as it educated at all, was a mild and
liberal school, which sent young men into the world with all they
needed to make respectable citizens, and something of what they wanted
to make useful ones. Leaders of men it never tried to make. Its ideals
were altogether different. The Unitarian clergy had given to the
College a character of moderation, balance, judgment, restraint, what
the French called mesure; excellent traits, which the College attained
with singular success, so that its graduates could commonly be
recognized by the stamp, but such a type of character rarely lent
itself to autobiography. In effect, the school created a type but not a
will. Four years of Harvard College, if successful, resulted in an
autobiographical blank, a mind on which only a water-mark had been
stamped.
The stamp, as such things went, was a good one. The chief
wonder of education is that it does not ruin everybody concerned in it,
teachers and taught. Sometimes in after life, Adams debated whether in
fact it had not ruined him and most of his companions, but,
disappointment apart, Harvard College was probably less hurtful than
any other university then in existence. It taught little, and that
little ill, but it left the mind open, free from bias, ignorant of
facts, but docile. The graduate had few strong prejudices. He knew
little, but his mind remained supple, ready to receive knowledge.
What caused the boy most disappointment was the little he got
from his mates. Speaking exactly, he got less than nothing, a result
common enough in education. Yet the College Catalogue for the years
1854 to 1861 shows a list of names rather distinguished in their time.
Alexander Agassiz and Phillips Brooks led it; H. H. Richardson and O.
W. Holmes helped to close it. As a rule the most promising of all die
early, and never get their names into a Dictionary of Contemporaries,
which seems to be the only popular standard of success. Many died in
the war. Adams knew them all, more or less; he felt as much regard, and
quite as much respect for them then, as he did after they won great
names and were objects of a vastly wider respect; but, as help towards
education, he got nothing whatever from them or they from him until
long after they had left college. Possibly the fault was his, but one
would like to know how many others shared it. Accident counts for much
in companionship as in marriage. Life offers perhaps only a score of
possible companions, and it is mere chance whether they meet as early
as school or college, but it is more than a chance that boys brought up
together under like conditions have nothing to give each other. The
Class of 1858, to which Henry Adams belonged, was a typical collection
of young New Englanders, quietly penetrating and aggressively
commonplace; free from meannesses, jealousies, intrigues, enthusiasms,
and passions; not exceptionally quick; not consciously skeptical;
singularly indifferent to display, artifice, florid expression, but not
hostile to it when it amused them; distrustful of themselves, but
little disposed to trust any one else; with not much humor of their
own, but full of readiness to enjoy the humor of others; negative to a
degree that in the long run became positive and triumphant. Not harsh
in manners or judgment, rather liberal and open-minded, they were still
as a body the most formidable critics one would care to meet, in a long
life exposed to criticism. They never flattered, seldom praised; free
from vanity, they were not intolerant of it; but they were
objectiveness itself; their attitude was a law of nature; their
judgment beyond appeal, not an act either of intellect or emotion or of
will, but a sort of gravitation.
This was Harvard College incarnate, but even for Harvard
College, the Class of 1858 was somewhat extreme. Of unity this band of
nearly one hundred young men had no keen sense, but they had equally
little energy of repulsion. They were pleasant to live with, and above
the average of students--German, French, English, or what not--but
chiefly because each individual appeared satisfied to stand alone. It
seemed a sign of force; yet to stand alone is quite natural when one
has no passions; still easier when one has no pains.
Into this unusually dissolvent medium, chance insisted on
enlarging Henry Adams's education by tossing a trio of Virginians as
little fitted for it as Sioux Indians to a treadmill. By some further
affinity, these three outsiders fell into relation with the Bostonians
among whom Adams as a schoolboy belonged, and in the end with Adams
himself, although they and he knew well how thin an edge of friendship
separated them in 1856 from mortal enmity. One of the Virginians was
the son of Colonel Robert E. Lee, of the Second United States Cavalry;
the two others who seemed instinctively to form a staff for Lee, were
town-Virginians from Petersburg. A fourth outsider came from Cincinnati
and was half Kentuckian, N. L. Anderson, Longworth on the mother's
side. For the first time Adams's education brought him in contact with
new types and taught him their values. He saw the New England type
measure itself with another, and he was part of the process.
Lee, known through life as "Roony," was a Virginian of the
eighteenth century, much as Henry Adams was a Bostonian of the same
age. Roony Lee had changed little from the type of his grandfather,
Light Horse Harry. Tall, largely built, handsome, genial, with liberal
Virginian openness towards all he liked, he had also the Virginian
habit of command and took leadership as his natural habit. No one cared
to contest it. None of the New Englanders wanted command. For a year,
at least, Lee was the most popular and prominent young man in his
class, but then seemed slowly to drop into the background. The habit of
command was not enough, and the Virginian had little else. He was
simple beyond analysis; so simple that even the simple New England
student could not realize him. No one knew enough to know how ignorant
he was; how childlike; how helpless before the relative complexity of a
school. As an animal, the Southerner seemed to have every advantage,
but even as an animal he steadily lost ground.
The lesson in education was vital to these young men, who,
within ten years, killed each other by scores in the act of testing
their college conclusions. Strictly, the Southerner had no mind; he had
temperament. He was not a scholar; he had no intellectual training; he
could not analyze an idea, and he could not even conceive of admitting
two; but in life one could get along very well without ideas, if one
had only the social instinct. Dozens of eminent statesmen were men of
Lee's type, and maintained themselves well enough in the legislature,
but college was a sharper test. The Virginian was weak in vice itself,
though the Bostonian was hardly a master of crime. The habits of
neither were good; both were apt to drink hard and to live low lives;
but the Bostonian suffered less than the Virginian. Commonly the
Bostonian could take some care of himself even in his worst stages,
while the Virginian became quarrelsome and dangerous. When a Virginian
had brooded a few days over an imaginary grief and substantial whiskey,
none of his Northern friends could be sure that he might not be
waiting, round the corner, with a knife or pistol, to revenge insult by
the dry light of delirium tremens; and when things reached this
condition, Lee had to exhaust his authority over his own staff. Lee was
a gentleman of the old school, and, as every one knows, gentlemen of
the old school drank almost as much as gentlemen of the new school; but
this was not his trouble. He was sober even in the excessive violence
of political feeling in those years; he kept his temper and his friends
under control.
Adams liked the Virginians. No one was more obnoxious to them,
by name and prejudice; yet their friendship was unbroken and even warm.
At a moment when the immediate future posed no problem in education so
vital as the relative energy and endurance of North and South, this
momentary contact with Southern character was a sort of education for
its own sake; but this was not all. No doubt the self-esteem of the
Yankee, which tended naturally to self-distrust, was flattered by
gaining the slow conviction that the Southerner, with his slave-owning
limitations, was as little fit to succeed in the struggle of modern
life as though he were still a maker of stone axes, living in caves,
and hunting the bos primigenius, and that every quality in which he was
strong, made him weaker; but Adams had begun to fear that even in this
respect one eighteenth-century type might not differ deeply from
another. Roony Lee had changed little from the Virginian of a century
before; but Adams was himself a good deal nearer the type of his
great-grandfather than to that of a railway superintendent. He was
little more fit than the Virginians to deal with a future America which
showed no fancy for the past. Already Northern society betrayed a
preference for economists over diplomats or soldiers--one might even
call it a jealousy--against which two eighteenth-century types had
little chance to live, and which they had in common to fear.
Nothing short of this curious sympathy could have brought into
close relations two young men so hostile as Roony Lee and Henry Adams,
but the chief difference between them as collegians consisted only in
their difference of scholarship: Lee was a total failure; Adams a
partial one. Both failed, but Lee felt his failure more sensibly, so
that he gladly seized the chance of escape by accepting a commission
offered him by General Winfield Scott in the force then being organized
against the Mormons. He asked Adams to write his letter of acceptance,
which flattered Adams's vanity more than any Northern compliment could
do, because, in days of violent political bitterness, it showed a
certain amount of good temper. The diplomat felt his profession.
If the student got little from his mates, he got little more
from his masters. The four years passed at college were, for his
purposes, wasted. Harvard College was a good school, but at bottom what
the boy disliked most was any school at all. He did not want to be one
in a hundred--one per cent of an education. He regarded himself as the
only person for whom his education had value, and he wanted the whole
of it. He got barely half of an average. Long afterwards, when the
devious path of life led him back to teach in his turn what no student
naturally cared or needed to know, he diverted some dreary hours of
faculty-meetings by looking up his record in the class-lists, and found
himself graded precisely in the middle. In the one branch he most
needed--mathematics--barring the few first scholars, failure was so
nearly universal that no attempt at grading could have had value, and
whether he stood fortieth or ninetieth must have been an accident or
the personal favor of the professor. Here his education failed
lamentably. At best he could never have been a mathematician; at worst
he would never have cared to be one; but he needed to read mathematics,
like any other universal language, and he never reached the alphabet.
Beyond two or three Greek plays, the student got nothing from
the ancient languages. Beyond some incoherent theories of free-trade
and protection, he got little from Political Economy. He could not
afterwards remember to have heard the name of Karl Marx mentioned, or
the title of "Capital." He was equally ignorant of Auguste Comte. These
were the two writers of his time who most influenced its thought. The
bit of practical teaching he afterwards reviewed with most curiosity
was the course in Chemistry, which taught him a number of theories that
befogged his mind for a lifetime. The only teaching that appealed to
his imagination was a course of lectures by Louis Agassiz on the
Glacial Period and Paleontology, which had more influence on his
curiosity than the rest of the college instruction altogether. The
entire work of the four years could have been easily put into the work
of any four months in after life.
Harvard College was a negative force, and negative forces have
value. Slowly it weakened the violent political bias of childhood, not
by putting interests in its place, but by mental habits which had no
bias at all. It would also have weakened the literary bias, if Adams
had been capable of finding other amusement, but the climate kept him
steady to desultory and useless reading, till he had run through
libraries of volumes which he forgot even to their title-pages. Rather
by instinct than by guidance, he turned to writing, and his professors
or tutors occasionally gave his English composition a hesitating
approval; but in that branch, as in all the rest, even when he made a
long struggle for recognition, he never convinced his teachers that his
abilities, at their best, warranted placing him on the rank-list, among
the first third of his class. Instructors generally reach a fairly
accurate gauge of their scholars' powers. Henry Adams himself held the
opinion that his instructors were very nearly right, and when he became
a professor in his turn, and made mortifying mistakes in ranking his
scholars, he still obstinately insisted that on the whole, he was not
far wrong. Student or professor, he accepted the negative standard
because it was the standard of the school.
He never knew what other students thought of it, or what they
thought they gained from it; nor would their opinion have much affected
his. From the first, he wanted to be done with it, and stood watching
vaguely for a path and a direction. The world outside seemed large, but
the paths that led into it were not many and lay mostly through Boston,
where he did not want to go. As it happened, by pure chance, the first
door of escape that seemed to offer a hope led into Germany, and James
Russell Lowell opened it.
Lowell, on succeeding Longfellow as Professor of
Belles-Lettres, had duly gone to Germany, and had brought back whatever
he found to bring. The literary world then agreed that truth survived
in Germany alone, and Carlyle, Matthew Arnold, Renan, Emerson, with
scores of popular followers, taught the German faith. The literary
world had revolted against the yoke of coming capitalism--its
money-lenders, its bank directors, and its railway magnates. Thackeray
and Dickens followed Balzac in scratching and biting the unfortunate
middle class with savage ill-temper, much as the middle class had
scratched and bitten the Church and Court for a hundred years before.
The middle class had the power, and held its coal and iron well in
hand, but the satirists and idealists seized the press, and as they
were agreed that the Second Empire was a disgrace to France and a
danger to England, they turned to Germany because at that moment
Germany was neither economical nor military, and a hundred years behind
western Europe in the simplicity of its standard. German thought,
method, honesty, and even taste, became the standards of scholarship.
Goethe was raised to the rank of Shakespeare--Kant ranked as a
law-giver above Plato. All serious scholars were obliged to become
German, for German thought was revolutionizing criticism. Lowell had
followed the rest, not very enthusiastically, but with sufficient
conviction, and invited his scholars to join him. Adams was glad to
accept the invitation, rather for the sake of cultivating Lowell than
Germany, but still in perfect good faith. It was the first serious
attempt he had made to direct his own education, and he was sure of
getting some education out of it; not perhaps anything that he
expected, but at least a path.
Singularly circuitous and excessively wasteful of energy the
path proved to be, but the student could never see what other was open
to him. He could have done no better had he foreseen every stage of his
coming life, and he would probably have done worse. The preliminary
step was pure gain. James Russell Lowell had brought back from Germany
the only new and valuable part of its universities, the habit of
allowing students to read with him privately in his study. Adams asked
the privilege, and used it to read a little, and to talk a great deal,
for the personal contact pleased and flattered him, as that of older
men ought to flatter and please the young even when they altogether
exaggerate its value. Lowell was a new element in the boy's life. As
practical a New Englander as any, he leaned towards the Concord faith
rather than towards Boston where he properly belonged; for Concord, in
the dark days of 1856, glowed with pure light. Adams approached it in
much the same spirit as he would have entered a Gothic Cathedral, for
he well knew that the priests regarded him as only a worm. To the
Concord Church all Adamses were minds of dust and emptiness, devoid of
feeling, poetry or imagination; little higher than the common scourings
of State Street; politicians of doubtful honesty; natures of narrow
scope; and already, at eighteen years old, Henry had begun to feel
uncertainty about so many matters more important than Adamses that his
mind rebelled against no discipline merely personal, and he was ready
to admit his unworthiness if only he might penetrate the shrine. The
influence of Harvard College was beginning to have its effect. He was
slipping away from fixed principles; from Mount Vernon Street; from
Quincy; from the eighteenth century; and his first steps led toward
Concord.
He never reached Concord, and to Concord Church he, like the
rest of mankind who accepted a material universe, remained always an
insect, or something much lower--a man. It was surely no fault of his
that the universe seemed to him real; perhaps--as Mr. Emerson justly
said--it was so; in spite of the long-continued effort of a lifetime,
he perpetually fell back into the heresy that if anything universal was
unreal, it was himself and not the appearances; it was the poet and not
the banker; it was his own thought, not the thing that moved it. He did
not lack the wish to be transcendental. Concord seemed to him, at one
time, more real than Quincy; yet in truth Russell Lowell was as little
transcendental as Beacon Street. From him the boy got no revolutionary
thought whatever--objective or subjective as they used to call it--but
he got good-humored encouragement to do what amused him, which
consisted in passing two years in Europe after finishing the four years
of Cambridge.
The result seemed small in proportion to the effort, but it was
the only positive result he could ever trace to the influence of
Harvard College, and he had grave doubts whether Harvard College
influenced even that. Negative results in plenty he could trace, but he
tended towards negation on his own account, as one side of the New
England mind had always done, and even there he could never feel sure
that Harvard College had more than reflected a weakness. In his opinion
the education was not serious, but in truth hardly any Boston student
took it seriously, and none of them seemed sure that President Walker
himself, or President Felton after him, took it more seriously than the
students. For them all, the college offered chiefly advantages vulgarly
called social, rather than mental.
Unluckily for this particular boy, social advantages were his
only capital in life. Of money he had not much, of mind not more, but
he could be quite certain that, barring his own faults, his social
position would never be questioned. What he needed was a career in
which social position had value. Never in his life would he have to
explain who he was; never would he have need of acquaintance to
strengthen his social standing; but he needed greatly some one to show
him how to use the acquaintance he cared to make. He made no
acquaintance in college which proved to have the smallest use in after
life. All his Boston friends he knew before, or would have known in any
case, and contact of Bostonian with Bostonian was the last education
these young men needed. Cordial and intimate as their college relations
were, they all flew off in different directions the moment they took
their degrees. Harvard College remained a tie, indeed, but a tie little
stronger than Beacon Street and not so strong as State Street.
Strangers might perhaps gain something from the college if they were
hard pressed for social connections. A student like H. H. Richardson,
who came from far away New Orleans, and had his career before him to
chase rather than to guide, might make valuable friendships at college.
Certainly Adams made no acquaintance there that he valued in after life
so much as Richardson, but still more certainly the college relation
had little to do with the later friendship. Life is a narrow valley,
and the roads run close together. Adams would have attached himself to
Richardson in any case, as he attached himself to John LaFarge or
Augustus St. Gaudens or Clarence King or John Hay, none of whom were at
Harvard College. The valley of life grew more and more narrow with
years, and certain men with common tastes were bound to come together.
Adams knew only that he would have felt himself on a more equal footing
with them had he been less ignorant, and had he not thrown away ten
years of early life in acquiring what he might have acquired in one.
Socially or intellectually, the college was for him negative
and in some ways mischievous. The most tolerant man of the world could
not see good in the lower habits of the students, but the vices were
less harmful than the virtues. The habit of drinking--though the mere
recollection of it made him doubt his own veracity, so fantastic it
seemed in later life--may have done no great or permanent harm; but the
habit of looking at life as a social relation--an affair of
society--did no good. It cultivated a weakness which needed no
cultivation. If it had helped to make men of the world, or give the
manners and instincts of any profession--such as temper, patience,
courtesy, or a faculty of profiting by the social defects of
opponents--it would have been education better worth having than
mathematics or languages; but so far as it helped to make anything, it
helped only to make the college standard permanent through life. The
Bostonian educated at Harvard College remained a collegian, if he stuck
only to what the college gave him. If parents went on generation after
generation, sending their children to Harvard College for the sake of
its social advantages, they perpetuated an inferior social type, quite
as ill-fitted as the Oxford type for success in the next generation.
Luckily the old social standard of the college, as President
Walker or James Russell Lowell still showed it, was admirable, and if
it had little practical value or personal influence on the mass of
students, at least it preserved the tradition for those who liked it.
The Harvard graduate was neither American nor European, nor even wholly
Yankee; his admirers were few, and critics his many; perhaps his worst
weakness was his self-criticism and self-consciousness; but his ambitions,
social or intellectual, were necessarily cheap even though they might
be negative. Afraid of such serious risks, and still more afraid of
personal ridicule, he seldom made a great failure of life, and nearly
always led a life more or less worth living. So Henry Adams, well aware
that he could not succeed as a scholar, and finding his social position
beyond improvement or need of effort, betook himself to the single
ambition which otherwise would scarcely have seemed a true outcome of
the college, though it was the last remnant of the old Unitarian
supremacy. He took to the pen. He wrote.
The College Magazine printed his work, and the College
Societies listened to his addresses. Lavish of praise the readers were
not; the audiences, too, listened in silence; but this was all the
encouragement any Harvard collegian had a reasonable hope to receive;
grave silence was a form of patience that meant possible future
acceptance; and Henry Adams went on writing. No one cared enough to
criticise, except himself who soon began to suffer from reaching his
own limits. He found that he could not be this--or that--or the other;
always precisely the things he wanted to be. He had not wit or scope or
force. Judges always ranked him beneath a rival, if he had any; and he
believed the judges were right. His work seemed to him thin,
commonplace, feeble. At times he felt his own weakness so fatally that
he could not go on; when he had nothing to say, he could not say it,
and he found that he had very little to say at best. Much that he then
wrote must be still in existence in print or manuscript, though he
never cared to see it again, for he felt no doubt that it was in
reality just what he thought it. At best it showed only a feeling for
form; an instinct of exclusion. Nothing shocked--not even its weakness.
Inevitably an effort leads to an ambition--creates it--and
at that time the ambition of the literary student, which almost took
place of the regular prizes of scholarship, was that of being chosen as
the representative of his class--Class Orator--at the close of their
course. This was political as well as literary success, and precisely
the sort of eighteenth-century combination that fascinated an
eighteenth century boy. The idea lurked in his mind, at first as a
dream, in no way serious or even possible, for he stood outside the
number of what were known as popular men. Year by year, his position
seemed to improve, or perhaps his rivals disappeared, until at last, to
his own great astonishment, he found himself a candidate. The habits of
the college permitted no active candidacy; he and his rivals had not a
word to say for or against themselves, and he was never even consulted
on the subject; he was not present at any of the proceedings, and how
it happened he never could quite divine, but it did happen, that one
evening on returning from Boston he received notice of his election,
after a very close contest, as Class Orator over the head of the first
scholar, who was undoubtedly a better orator and a more popular man. In
politics the success of the poorer candidate is common enough, and
Henry Adams was a fairly trained politician, but he never understood
how he managed to defeat not only a more capable but a more popular
rival.
To him the election seemed a miracle. This was no mock-modesty;
his head was as clear as ever it was in an indifferent canvass, and he
knew his rivals and their following as well as he knew himself. What he
did not know, even after four years of education, was Harvard College.
What he could never measure was the bewildering impersonality of the
men, who, at twenty years old, seemed to set no value either on
official or personal standards. Here were nearly a hundred young men
who had lived together intimately during four of the most
impressionable years of life, and who, not only once but again and
again, in different ways, deliberately, seriously, dispassionately,
chose as their representatives precisely those of their companions who
seemed least to represent them. As far as these Orators and Marshals
had any position at all in a collegiate sense, it was that of
indifference to the college. Henry Adams never professed the smallest
faith in universities of any kind, either as boy or man, nor had he the
faintest admiration for the university graduate, either in Europe or in
America; as a collegian he was only known apart from his fellows by his
habit of standing outside the college; and yet the singular fact
remained that this commonplace body of young men chose him repeatedly
to express his and their commonplaces. Secretly, of course, the
successful candidate flattered himself--and them--with the hope that
they might perhaps not be so commonplace as they thought themselves;
but this was only another proof that all were identical. They saw in
him a representative--the kind of representative they wanted--and he
saw in them the most formidable array of judges he could ever meet,
like so many mirrors of himself, an infinite reflection of his own
shortcomings.
All the same, the choice was flattering; so flattering that it
actually shocked his vanity; and would have shocked it more, if
possible, had he known that it was to be the only flattery of the sort
he was ever to receive. The function of Class Day was, in the eyes of
nine-tenths of the students, altogether the most important of the
college, and the figure of the Orator was the most conspicuous in the
function. Unlike the Orators at regular Commencements, the Class Day
Orator stood alone, or had only the Poet for rival. Crowded into the
large church, the students, their families, friends, aunts, uncles and
chaperones, attended all the girls of sixteen or twenty who wanted to
show their summer dresses or fresh complexions, and there, for an hour
or two, in a heat that might have melted bronze, they listened to an
Orator and a Poet in clergyman's gowns, reciting such platitudes as
their own experience and their mild censors permitted them to utter.
What Henry Adams said in his Class Oration of 1858 he soon forgot to
the last word, nor had it the least value for education; but he
naturally remembered what was said of it. He remembered especially one
of his eminent uncles or relations remarking that, as the work of so
young a man, the oration was singularly wanting in enthusiasm. The
young man--always in search of education--asked himself whether,
setting rhetoric aside, this absence of enthusiasm was a defect or a
merit, since, in either case, it was all that Harvard College taught,
and all that the hundred young men, whom he was trying to represent,
expressed. Another comment threw more light on the effect of the
college education. One of the elderly gentlemen noticed the orator's
"perfect self-possession." Self-possession indeed! If Harvard College
gave nothing else, it gave calm. For four years each student had been
obliged to figure daily before dozens of young men who knew each other
to the last fibre. One had done little but read papers to Societies, or
act comedy in the Hasty Pudding, not to speak of regular exercises, and
no audience in future life would ever be so intimately and terribly
intelligent as these. Three-fourths of the graduates would rather have
addressed the Council of Trent or the British Parliament than have
acted Sir Anthony Absolute or Dr. Ollapod before a gala audience of the
Hasty Pudding. Self-possession was the strongest part of Harvard
College, which certainly taught men to stand alone, so that nothing
seemed stranger to its graduates than the paroxysms of terror before
the public which often overcame the graduates of European universities.
Whether this was, or was not, education, Henry Adams never knew. He was
ready to stand up before any audience in America or Europe, with nerves
rather steadier for the excitement, but whether he should ever have
anything to say, remained to be proved. As yet he knew nothing.
Education had not begun.