SCHOOLS AND TEACHERS
My first school was the pioneer Kindergarten of America, established and
taught by Miss Elizabeth Peabody, in a house on Pinckney Street, near
the corner of Joy Street. Miss Peabody was an enthusiastic follower of
Froebel, and did much to introduce his system of education into this
country. My fellow pupils were many, but I only remember Kitty Alger and
Frankie Watson, later the distinguished surgeon, Doctor Francis Sedgwick
Watson. We sat on tiny chairs, around a fascinating low table, where we
modeled birds’ nests in clay and filled the nests with tiny eggs.
Another useful art was the weaving of patterns with narrow strips of
colored paper. My first lessons in arithmetic were had at the
Kindergarten, with the help of a frame strung with red, green, and
yellow beads. The system by which addition and subtraction were taught
has passed from my mind, but the pleasure of juggling with the pretty
colored balls remains.
My sister Flossie, trying to help me with my arithmetic, set me a simple
sum, using as a textbook “Greenleaf’s Arithmetic.” After a stormy
argument, the ink bottle was hurled against the nursery wall, with the
passionate exclamation:
“Greenleaf is a liar!”
On leaving Miss Peabody’s Kindergarten, I went to Mr. Henry Williams’
school in Temple Place. The entrance was extremely mysterious to me. To
reach the classrooms, we passed through a paved inclosed court and up a
long flight of stairs, to a shadowy corridor that always depressed me. I
was not exactly afraid of it, as of the passage outside my room
inhabited by the foxes, nor did any hairy beast lurk there, as under the
staircase at Number 13 Chestnut Street, but it was uncanny and I took
care not to pass in or out alone.
I remember little of what I learned at the Temple Place School but a
deal about Mr. Williams, a commanding figure, in spite of such personal
defects, as a lump on his forehead and a missing forefinger. He had a
musical voice and a sort of masterful sweetness that won the heart of
every child. On Sundays he led the singing at the “Indiana Place
Chapel”, the first home of the Church of the Disciples, where my
mother’s beloved friend, James Freeman Clarke, was the pastor. The older
girls were taught by Mr. Williams, but I was in the primary department,
presided over by Miss Paul, a little lady who looked more like a brown
wren than a schoolma’am.
For me, the school of schools was the Hilliards’ at Number 113 Mount
Vernon Street, kept by Miss Julia and Miss Miriam Hilliard. Their
mother, one understood, had met with “reverses.” Whatever their nature,
they had left her dependent on her daughters. Mrs. Hilliard was
super-stately, remote, kindly, and painstaking in her dealings with us.
She wore stupendous corkscrew ringlets that must have taken hours every
morning to arrange. She gave me music lessons. Half-past nine found me
in the Hilliard “best parlor”, seated on an embroidered revolving stool
before the square piano, with the metronome tick-tacking beside me.
“One, two, three--keep the wrists low, raise the fingers high; _one_,
two, three; _one_, two, three!” I can feel the touch of the bamboo rod
now, as she places my hands in the proper position above the keyboard.
After the music lesson came arithmetic.
“No, Maud, seven times nine do not make fifty-four. Try again!”
This from Miss Julia, firmly holding my wandering gaze with her great
smoldering eyes. I can only look and look, with almost a lover’s gaze,
at the glorious wave of her dusky hair swept back from the perfect brow,
and calculate the weight of the great shining coil at the nape of her
neck. When she smiles, the sight of her small perfect teeth, and the
dimple that breaks the oval of her olive cheek, stir me to a mighty
effort. For her--not for Greenleaf--I master the multiplication table;
for her bend the full force of my will to make a fair copy of the wise
sentences, written out in her neat pointed hand. On Saturday mornings, I
am the first to arrive and place my little chair close to hers for the
sewing lesson.
“There is no choice; the thimble _always_ on the third finger of the
right hand. Do not pucker the cloth; hold the two edges firmly together,
the stitch not too deep.” So Miss Julia exhorts, while I bend my
obstinate fingers in a desperate effort to sew a fine seam; and in the
end learn, after a fashion, to hem, over and over, stitch, backstitch,
buttonhole, darn,--all, all for her!
“Half-past eleven. Recess. Have a good play; bring me back some roses in
your cheeks!”
So she dismisses us to those quiet streets of Beacon Hill, where we are
safe in our romping as in a walled garden. Those in funds rush round the
corner, to break breathlessly into Marm Horn’s tiny shop on Charles
Street; she is waiting for us, her eye on the clock. The Marm wears
shining brown side curls, that fit neatly into the hollows of her sallow
cheeks. She is slim and rather elegant in her stiff alpaca apron and
black silk half-mits.
“What’s the good word to-day?” Her invariable greeting.
The best word was “Jessups”, but that implied five cents in your pocket,
which purchased a very thick stick of candy, done up in brown paper,
stamped chocolate, lemon, or strawberry. For two cents, you got a stick
of black molasses candy and a pickled lime from the big bowl, like a
goldfish’s, in the window. It took courage, as well as bravado, to eat
that bitter lime, bought solely because at home all pickled
“abominations” were forbidden.
Our pennies safely invested, the whole troop rushes headlong uphill, to
Louisburg Square, the nerve-center of the great game of “I spy.” The
first to arrive takes possession of the granite doorsteps of Number One
(the Russell house); the others stand on the pavement in a circle, to be
“counted.” As soon as “_It_” is chosen, she takes her place on the
doorsteps, and, with closed eyes, recites in a loud singsong:
“Eeny meeny mony my, Barcelony bony stry, kay, bell, broken well,
harryky, warryky, we woe, wack!”
While these words are slowly chanted, the other children scatter and
hide. The moment “_It_” pronounces the final “wack”, the chase begins.
Never were such wonderful houses for hiding as those in Louisburg Square
and Mount Vernon Street. The Thayer, Sears, Hemenway, Warren, Paine, and
Gray houses have fine vestibules, with outer doors hospitably ajar, or
at least unlocked. Their owners are ranked as public benefactors. It is
a matter of honor that their hospitality must never be abused, and no
crumb of bread or scrap of orange peel be allowed to drop on their
immaculate steps. One child in one hiding place is the rule of the game,
and the competition is keen for certain favorite “hidey holes.”
Up and down the steep streets, we tore and ramped, in all weathers,
gathering Miss Julia’s roses. On zero days, when the sidewalks were
sheets of glare ice, sliding in a row, with hands on each other’s
shoulders, took the place of all other games. When spring came, and the
melancholy black trees in Louisburg Square broke out of bounds and waved
their slender branches in the world-ecstasy of the new birth, skipping
ropes appeared, as if by magic, governed by the same occult law that on
a certain day produces marbles among men children. With April, when the
streets were finally clear of ice and snow, mysterious hieroglyphics in
white chalk were sketched upon the sidewalks, and hop-scotch became the
only sport worthy of the name.
I am often asked in these days to subscribe money for a playground,
attendant guardians and new-fangled apparatus for play. At such times I
am glad that I was young when I was! No playground could ever make up
for the splendid freedom of those old Boston streets, where the children
of my time were turned loose to amuse themselves. When the old games,
played by the girls of Athens and Rome, grew stale, we invented new
games of our own.
Certain bolder spirits formed a secret society, called “the Rovers of
Boston.” Dinner, at this time, was commonly eaten at two or half-past
two o’clock, though some “fashionable” families dined at three. After
dinner the Rovers met at the Joy Street entrance of the Common, to plan
the afternoon adventures. At the time I am now speaking of, we were
living in Boston in one of the various houses my father either rented or
owned. The elder children were growing up and, for their sakes, he
reluctantly closed the Green Peace home and moved into the city, which
my mother greatly preferred. We enjoyed for several seasons the Sargent
house, Number 13 Chestnut Street, for many years the home of the Radical
Club.
As founder and leader of the Rovers, I had a sense of responsibility for
the afternoon’s fun. Life has brought me few sensations more thrilling
than the peculiar musical sound that, on certain cold winter mornings,
roused me from sleep. Metallic, muffled, rhythmic, all-pervading, a solo
under my window, and a distant chorus thundering from every street and
alley on Beacon Hill.
“The Snow Shovels!”
Out of bed in a flash and to the window, to see if it has stopped
snowing yet; or whether the snow is coming down in sharp small crystals,
which mean intense cold, or in great kindly flakes that settle gently
upon the earth and transform it into a wonderful white paradise. The
little spiteful flakes make the best sleighing and coasting, for they
pack harder and firmer; but for fortifications, snowballing, snow
statues, and snow ice cream, give me the big gentle flakes, that
oftenest bring a peculiar bracing ecstatic thrill to the air, without
the sting of extreme cold. On such a day as this, the Rovers’ best sport
was to see how many “rides behind” they could coax from the good-natured
hackmen, as the great booby-hucks swung slowly up and down the hill of
Chestnut Street, a secluded thoroughfare between Mount Vernon and
Beacon streets, which the children were allowed to make their very own.
The people who lived there seemed all to be parents, or grandparents,
and mothered and fathered each other’s children.
The Reverend Cyrus Bartol, of whom Phillips Brooks once spoke as “that
little old moth-eaten angel”, lived just below us, and Mr. Patrick Grant
a few doors above. On the opposite side of the street was the fine old
double house, with wide brownstone steps, divided by the families of Mr.
Patrick Jackson and Doctor Luther Parks. Doctor Lothrop lived a few
doors off, and the Jere Abbotts next door but one. The Grant boys, Pat,
Harry, and Bob, probably had no idea with what longing eyes the little
girl at Number 13 watched them, wishing above all else to be invited to
join their play. They took no more notice of me than if I had not
existed, looking through me as if I had been glass. They were merry lads
and famous snow architects. The moment the snow stopped, they were out
with their shovels, clearing the steps and the sidewalk. That duty over,
they were free for snowballing, building snow bastions, coasting on
great “double-runners”, or hiking off to Jamaica Pond with their skates
under their arms. Like many other little girls, I wanted to be a boy and
play with boys. I did not like dolls, doll houses, or any of the
pleasures which at that time little girls were supposed to content
themselves with. Later in life, I grew to have a pleasant acquaintance
with Judge Robert Grant, distinguished as a jurist and author.
My mother felt an old-fashioned obligation of courtesy toward her
neighbors. Just because they were neighbors, they had an almost sacred
claim that must never be neglected. They were always included in her
entertainments; and as they often had little in common with the other
guests, it came about that there was great variety in the people who
came to our parties. We did not belong to any set, while people from
every set came to our house. I have always been grateful to my parents
for this catholicity, for I have felt at home in whatever company I have
found myself. I had a smiling acquaintance with most of the neighbors,
not only in our own, but in the adjacent streets. One figure, however,
filled me with a blind panic, a pale man, who wore black-rimmed
spectacles and used two stout canes when he walked. I can see him now,
tramping with a sort of desperate energy for a few blocks, and then
sitting down to rest. To come upon him unexpectedly, lying in wait for
me on a doorstep, or walking along at a terrific clip as if some demon
were after him, curdled my blood. I have never feared any mortal as I
feared that pale specter. The terror lay far too deep for words, like
that other fear of the hangman that haunted my youth. One day, walking
with my mother, my heart stood still, for she stopped and spoke to the
sinister figure.
“I am glad to see you out again, Mr. Parkman. You look much better than
when I last saw you.”
They shook hands, he remaining seated, she leaning over him with gentle
friendliness in face and voice.
“You know him?” I whispered, as we walked on together.
“Very well. That is the father of your friend Katie. He has been so ill
that he can only walk a little distance without resting. He is writing a
very important book, but he can only work at it twenty minutes at a
time.”
Years afterward, I learned that the man with the two sticks was Francis
Parkman, the great historian, who at that time was at work upon his
“Pioneers of France in the New World.”
At the time I am writing of, the early sixties, the houses of Beacon
Street extended only a short distance beyond the Public Garden. We went
for long walks, across what is now the Back Bay, to the Milldam. The
Brighton Road was the stretch where the Boston horse fanciers showed the
paces of their famous trotters. When the sleighing was good, it was
crowded of an afternoon with stately family sleighs, filled with young
people, old people, and children. A prettier carnival scene it would be
hard to imagine than a bright Saturday afternoon on the Brighton Road in
sleighing season. Up and down the middle, the jaunty cutters raced back
and forth, to the delight of the youngsters, and to the scandal of the
elders; for many of them were driven by sporting characters, who had no
relation with good society, as represented by the wealthy merchants and
manufacturers and their families, who kept demurely to the outer edges
of the “Road.” I owe these glimpses of the sleighing carnival to kind
Mrs. William Gray, the mother of my playmate, Ellen, who sometimes took
me in her handsome sleigh, filled with buffalo robes and children. I
never remember taking a mere pleasure drive with either of my own
parents. We kept horses and were all taught to ride; my father rode
every day for his health, taking one of his daughters with him. He found
that he could get the greatest amount of exercise in the shortest time
on horseback. When he drove, it was to get somewhere, to accomplish some
specific thing. I have been thankful all my life that I was not born of
the class to whom the afternoon drive is as much a part of life’s daily
routine as eating or sleeping.
“The Rovers of Boston” was not a long-lived society; its membership was
fluctuating, but it was extremely active during the few years of its
life. How the city streets belonged to us! How jealously we watched any
change or innovation! How we raged when the noble old Hancock House was
torn down. How faithfully we reported to our elders any over vigorous
pruning of city trees, or any abuse of city property. We had a sense of
citizenship, of holding a stake in the community, sometimes lacking in
“grown-ups.” Arlington and Berkeley streets already existed, and we
waited impatiently for the naming of the other streets, which were to
follow an alphabetical sequence. To us, there was something romantic in
the plan. We hailed every new name as each street came into
being,--Clarendon, Dartmouth, Exeter, Fairfield, Hereford, Gloucester;
each one brought a new thrill. They were such distinguished names,
familiar too, if one had studied English history, and so well suited to
the population that was to inhabit them.
On Monday and Thursday afternoon, I went to Papanti’s dancing school, on
Tremont Street, nearly opposite the old Boston Museum. You entered a
narrow door, walked past a dentist’s showcase filled with dreadful
grinning false teeth, mounted two flights of stairs, and made your way
into the ladies’ dressing room. Here you took off your wraps, hung them
up, put your snow boots in the locker below, and waited your turn before
the long cheval glass to see if your curls were in order, your guimpe
straight, your sash properly spread out. I remember my first dancing
lesson well. Clinging to my mother’s hand, I was led into the most
magnificent ballroom in the world. It was surrounded on two sides with
raised benches; the third was filled with long gilded mirrors, the
fourth by a “Minstrel’s Gallery.” The benches and hangings were neatly
covered with brown holland, the great crystal chandelier veiled by a bag
sheer enough to give a glimpse of its glories. Kitty Alger held my hand
as we were presented to that distinguished Neapolitan _Maestro di
Ballo_, Signor Lorenzo Papanti.
He was in evening dress, with black silk stockings, patent-leather
pumps, and his historic snuff-colored wig. He laid his hand on his
heart, as he bowed low to my mother, greeting her in Italian:
“_Signora, è un honore di farla, la benvenuta!_” Then turning to the two
trembling children, he said:
“And these I shall call my leetle vite mice!”
One little white mouse was frightened as she rarely remembers having
been.
If Papanti’s biography has not been written, it should be. He was the
Czar of dancing masters, a stern but beneficent despot; the inventor of
the classic Boston waltz, the best of all round dances. While he lived
and ruled, Boston girls and boys had the name of being the best dancers
in the country; he taught at least five generations of us, and is
gratefully remembered by many elderly beaux and belles. With shy,
heavy-footed, or awkward children, he was satirical to the verge of
cruelty,--a cruelty that was really kindness, for he labored with that
biting satire of his to make the children committed to his care little
ladies and gentlemen with good manners, as well as twinkling feet. I
cannot remember Mr. Papanti without the fiddle, on which he played for
us beginners. I can feel the tip of his bow against my toes, as he
tapped my feet into the “first position.” How he labored to teach Kitty
and me to make a proper courtesy.
“’Eels together, slide ze right foot to ze right, left foot out be’ind,
one, two, t’ree; one, two, t’ree; one, two, t’ree!”
We were taught the waltz, galop, polka, lancers, and quadrille. The best
dancers learned the gavotte and shawl dance, to the secret envy of the
others. The Burgess boys, Sydney and Edward (the famous yacht builder)
and one or two more brothers, wonderfully turned out lads, with
immaculate clothes and tightly curling hair, were the champion dancers
among the boys; Annie Merwin, Susie Spring, and Fannie Bartlett among
the girls. On the wonderful “last day”, the dancing class was
transformed into a real party. The boys wore white kid gloves--on
ordinary days only the girls sported them. The brown holland disappeared
from benches and wall hangings, revealing a handsome dark-blue brocade.
The crystal chandelier came out of its chrysalis and became a blaze of
glory. There was a real orchestra in the “Minstrel’s Gallery”; the
mysterious double doors leading to the supper room were thrown wide, the
boys coerced into offering ice cream and cake to their partners before
falling-to themselves. The benches were crowded with admiring parents;
some, to encourage the youngsters, “took a turn” with the dancing master
or his assistant, Miss Hunt, a correct lady in brown silk, gloves to
match, and bronze slippers!
Most of the children came from the exclusive quarter known as “Beacon
Street” and belonged to the conservative class called by the Young
Whigs, “Hunkers.” On a certain afternoon, soon after my introduction to
Papanti’s, I came running home, weeping bitterly, and threw myself into
my mother’s arms, crying out:
“Mama, Mama! What is an abolitionist? Are we that sort of thing? The big
girls at the dancing school wouldn’t speak to the Andrew children and
me; they said we were nasty little abolitionists.”
This was the first, but not the last time that I have been made to
suffer for holding a minority opinion. I connect this incident with
General McClellan’s visit to Boston, in the year of emancipation, 1862.
Feeling ran very high over the question of McClellan’s loyalty. My
father, Governor Andrew, and Charles Sumner thought little of him, but
the Hunkers made much of him, invited him to Boston, where they held a
great reception for him and presented him with a sword, though he had
but lately been relieved from his last command in the Union Army; and
from a military point of view, at least, his career was over.
My last school was Miss Wilby’s, on Bowdoin Street. During my time, the
old régime changed, Miss Wilby retiring, full of honors, after a long
useful career, and Miss Hubbard taking over the school. The teacher I
remember with the most affection here was Mr. Theodore Weld, with whom
we read Shakespeare. We prepared for our lessons by marking in the text
lines that, for us, contained passages of especial beauty, or references
we did not understand. Among my fellow students were Effie Bird, later
Mrs. Linzee Tilden, and Alice Kent Robertson-Quimby. Alice Kent became a
professional reader and Effie an amateur of distinction. Often in after
years, while enjoying the acting of these two friends, I have remembered
our old master with gratitude.
Mr. George Bradford, who taught me history and astronomy, was a
Transcendentalist and, I believe, a member of the Brook Farm Colony. I
once overheard my mother say that he was “Bourbon faced.” His features
certainly did suggest an affectionate sheep. His clothes were unlike any
I have ever seen. On reading Thoreau’s account of a conversation between
himself and his tailoress, the mystery of Mr. Bradford’s garments was
explained; I believe that, like Thoreau, he employed a tailoress. The
dear quaint old pedagogue succeeded in interesting me more in my work
than most of my teachers. His method of teaching ancient history had one
feature that I hope survives in some educational backwater.
“You will find in this,” he said at our first lesson, handing me a long,
narrow, green volume, “charts of all the centuries. Each page stands for
one century and is subdivided with a space for every year. After each
lesson you will make an illustration in water color, with the tints
indicated, of the events that have most impressed you, using your own
fancy and judgment.”
At our next lesson I submitted the book to Mr. Bradford, who ran over my
illustrations encouragingly:
“Here we have the siege of Troy, 1180 B.C., a walled town well
indicated. This illustrates the Passage of the Israelites across the Red
Sea, quite clear, well colored and striking. This marks the year when
Tiglath-Pileser was at the height of his power and suggests Hosea’s
bribe of gold and silver talents, happily thought out!”
If I were asked to name the man with whom I had most enjoyed
“star-gazing”, I could not hesitate for one moment,--George Bradford, of
course!
With great patience he strove to give me some knowledge of astronomy,
and, because he so loved his subject, succeeded in imparting a
rudimentary understanding of the science. The indoor lessons, with books
and plates of the firmament, had a romantic interest; we believed in the
Nebular Hypothesis then; it has doubtless long since been superseded.
Mr. Bradford was at his best in the lessons in practical star-gazing. At
night he wore a curious close-fitting cap. If the weather were cool, he
wrapped a green knitted scarf about his neck and buttoned the
tailoress’s coat over it. Walking by his side, up and down the garden at
Green Peace, I made those lifelong friends, Sagittarius, Corona, Aquila,
Cassiopeia, the greater and the lesser Dipper.
In spite of my affection for several of my teachers, I did not love my
lessons; life was so tremendously interesting, such great affairs were
always going on about me! Much as I regret the wasted hours, I cannot
think it strange that I began to live at a period when I ought to have
been learning how to live.
Writing of his own childhood, Henry James the elder says:
“I am satisfied that, if there had been the least spiritual Divine
leaven discernible within the compass of the family bond; if there
had been the least subordination in it to any objective or public
and universal ends, I should have been very sensitive to the fact.
But there was nothing of the sort. Our family righteousness had as
little felt relation to the public life of the world, as little
connection with the hopes and fears of mankind, as the number and
form of the rooms we inhabited, and we contentedly lived the same
life of stagnant isolation from the race which the great mass of
modern families live, its surface never dimpled by anything but the
duties and courtesies we owed our private friends and
acquaintances.”
Our home was the exact opposite of this. A swift current of the world’s
life flowed through our house. Great public questions, the causes of
freedom, education, and the succoring of the weak and afflicted of our
own and other lands took precedence over all private affairs. Among our
guests were distinguished European travelers, political exiles, Greeks,
Italians, Poles, Hungarians, who had sought refuge in our country and
were made welcome at our table.
“To ride the errand of the hour,” is a phrase my mother used in speaking
of my father’s restless activity. Whether the errand took him to
President Lincoln in Washington with a message from John Andrew, or to
Crete with a shipload of food and clothing from Boston to help the
Cretans in their fight for liberty, he was ready, booted and spurred for
action. In his youth, he was given a Greek decoration, carrying the
title of Chevalier. His friends gave him the nickname of “Chev”; I never
heard my mother address him by any other name.
In thinking back over my first decade, I realize that my best teachers
were my father, my mother, and my sister Julia. One of my early memories
is of an evening when I was allowed to sit up to see Julia dressed for a
party. She wore a white tarletan dress; Madame Canagalli, the Italian
hairdresser, and my mother had a discussion as to which camellia they
should place in her beautiful black hair, fine as a baby’s and softer
than any other! I remember noticing that the white camellia was the same
color as her smooth forehead “that looked like marble and smelt like
myrrh”, that the red camellia matched the color in her cheeks and lips.
This is the first impression I have of personal beauty. The vision
persists, clear-cut as it was that night, when I first realized that
some people are better to look at than others.
Julia read me all the Waverley novels and all of Dickens. I have often
read them since, but that first impression remains the strongest. Julia,
who introduced me to this company, was the intimate of my childhood, but
I remember a curious withdrawal the moment my feet touched the threshold
of girlhood. She had been the beneficient and adored elder sister of my
childhood, but when I braided my tawny mane and “put up” my hair like a
big girl, I lost something that had been an intrinsic part of our
comradeship. I understand it all now, I could not then.
In the evening my father read us the poems of Byron, Scott, and
Macaulay. He had a fine voice and read--recited rather, for he knew them
by heart--many a stirring poem in the hour of rest he allowed himself
after the evening meal. I can hear his voice now, reciting a line he
always gave with great spirit:
“Roderick Vich Alpin Dhu, ho ieroe!”
While my father was teaching me to love poetry, my mother was teaching
me to love good music. At dusk we gathered around the Chickering grand
piano, while Mama sang to us. She had a beautiful, cultivated voice, and
the flexible hands of the trained pianist, which she kept to the end of
her life. Her repertoire was immense; she sang the florid arias of
Bellini, the grand recitatives of Handel, folk-songs of France and
Italy, Scotch and English ballads, German _lieder_, plantation melodies.
We all joined in the chorus of these polyglot songs,--Irish, Polish, and
Russian!
Beside a taste for poetry and music, the most valuable life asset I
acquired in these days was a love of art. Our house was filled with
pictures and statuary. While I do not remember either parent talking to
me about them, their influence was none the less powerful. A copy of the
Greek Clytie stood on the stairs; I loved her so much that on going up
to bed, after having kissed all the family good night, I would pause
and, if nobody were looking, reach up and kiss the cold lips of the
marble woman. A set of engravings of the Greek temples hung in my
father’s study; long before I knew what they were, I had learned to love
the Parthenon, the Temple of Victory, the Erectheum, so that when I
first saw the Acropolis at Athens I was well prepared for its glories.
Mama had inherited a number of old masters from her father’s gallery,
remembered as the first private picture gallery in the country. Of these
I liked best the Velasquez portrait of the Little Prince. There were a
dozen good Italian and Dutch pictures, all of which I studied
thoroughly, if unconsciously, for when I went to live in Italy, I found
no difficulty in attributing these pictures to their proper schools.