Cambridge Sketches by Frank Preston Stearns

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CAMBRIDGE SKETCHES

[Illustration: CHARLES SUMNER]

CAMBRIDGE SKETCHES

BY

FRANK PRESTON STEARNS

AUTHOR OF "TRUE REPUBLICANISM," "LIFE OF PRINCE OTTO VON BISMARCK,"
"SKETCHES FROM CONCORD AND APPLEDORE," ETC.

1905

PREFACE

It has never been my practice to introduce myself to distinguished
persons, or to attempt in any way to attract their attention, and I now
regret that I did not embrace some opportunities which occurred to me in
early life for doing so; but at the time I knew the men whom I have
described in the present volume I had no expectation that I should ever
write about them. My acquaintance with them, however, has served to give
me a more elevated idea of human nature than I otherwise might have
acquired in the ordinary course of mundane affairs, and it is with the
hope of transmitting this impression to my readers that I publish the
present account. Some of them have a world-wide celebrity, and others who
were distinguished in their own time seem likely now to be forgotten; but
they all deserve well of the republic of humanity and of the age in which
they lived.

THE EVERGREENS, JANUARY 4, 1905.

CONTENTS

* * * * *

THE CLOSE OF THE WAR

FRANCIS J. CHILD

LONGFELLOW

LOWELL

C. P. CRANCH

T. G. APPLETON

DOCTOR HOLMES

FRANK BIRD AND THE BIRD CLUB

SUMNER

CHEVALIER HOWE

THE WAR GOVERNOR

THE COLORED REGIMENTS

EMERSON'S TRIBUTE TO GEORGE L. STEARNS

ELIZUR WRIGHT

DR. W. T. G. MORTON

LEAVES FROM A ROMAN DIARY

CENTENNIAL CONTRIBUTIONS

* * * * *

THE CLOSE OF THE WAR

Never before hast thou shone
So beautifully upon the Thebans;
O, eye of golden day:

--_Antigone of Sophocles_.

One bright morning in April, 1865, Hawthorne's son and the writer were
coming forth together from the further door-way of Stoughton Hall at
Harvard College, when, as the last reverberations of the prayer-bell were
sounding, a classmate called to us across the yard: "General Lee has
surrendered!" There was a busy hum of voices where the three converging
lines of students met in front of Appleton Chapel, and when we entered
the building there was President Hill seated in the recess between the
two pulpits, and old Doctor Peabody at his desk, with his face beaming
like that of a saint in an old religious painting. His prayer was
exceptionally fervid and serious. He asked a blessing on the American
people; on all those who had suffered from the war; on the government of
the United States; and on our defeated enemies. When the short service
had ended, Doctor Hill came forward and said: "It is not fitting that any
college tasks or exercises should take place until another sun has arisen
after this glorious morning. Let us all celebrate this fortunate event."

On leaving the chapel we found that Flavius Josephus Cook, afterwards
Rev. Joseph Cook of the Monday Lectureship, had collected the members of
the Christian Brethren about him, and they were all singing a hymn of
thanksgiving in a very vigorous manner.

There were some, however, who recollected on their way to breakfast the
sad procession that had passed through the college-yard six months
before,--the military funeral of James Russell Lowell's nephews, killed
in General Sheridan's victory at Cedar Run. There were no recent
graduates of Harvard more universally beloved than Charles and James
Lowell; and none of whom better things were expected. To Lowell himself,
who had no other children, except a daughter, they were almost like his
own sons, and the ode he wrote on this occasion touches a depth of pathos
not to be met with elsewhere in his poetry. There was not at that time
another family in Cambridge or Boston which contained two such bright
intellects, two such fine characters. It did not seem right that they
should both have left their mother, who was bereaved already by a
faithless husband, to fight the battles of their country, however much
they were needed for this. Even in the most despotic period of European
history the only son of a widow was exempt from conscription. Then to
lose them both in a single day! Mrs. Lowell became the saint of Quincy
Street, and none were so hardened or self-absorbed as not to do her
reverence.

But now the terrible past was eclipsed by the joy and pride of victory.
The great heroic struggle was over; young men could look forward to the
practice of peaceable professions, and old men had no longer to think of
the exhausting drain upon their resources. Fond mothers could now count
upon the survival of their sons, and young wives no longer feared to
become widows in a night. Everywhere there was joy and exhilaration. To
many it was the happiest day they had ever known.

President Hill was seen holding a long and earnest conversation with
Agassiz on the path towards his house. The professors threw aside their
contemplated work. Every man went to drink a glass of wine with his best
friend, and to discuss the fortunes of the republic. The ball-players set
off for the Delta, where Memorial Hall now stands, to organize a full
match game; the billiard experts started a tournament on Mr. Lyon's new
tables; and the rowing men set off for a three-hours' pull down Boston
harbor. Others collected in groups and discussed the future of their
country with the natural precocity of youthful minds. "Here," said a
Boston cousin of the two young Lowells, to a pink-faced, sandy-haired
ball-player, "you are opposed to capital punishment; do you think Jeff.
Davis ought to be hung?" "Just at present," replied the latter, "I am
more in favor of suspending Jeff. Davis than of suspending the law,"--an
opinion that was greeted with laughter and applause. The general
sentiment of the crowd was in favor of permitting General Lee to retire
in peace to private life; but in regard to the president of the Southern
Confederacy the feeling was more vindictive.

We can now consider it fortunate that no such retaliatory measures were
taken by the government. Much better that Jefferson Davis, and his
confederates in the secession movement, should have lived to witness
every day the consequences of that gigantic blunder. The fact that they
adopted a name for their newly-organized nation which did not differ
essentially from the one which they had discarded; that their form of
government, with its constitution and laws, differed so slightly from
those of the United States, is sufficient to indicate that their
separation was not to be permanent, and that it only required the
abolition of slavery to bring the Southern States back to their former
position in the Union. If men and nations did what was for their true
interests, this would be a different world.

* * * * *

At that time the college proper consisted of three recitation buildings,
and four or five dormitories, besides Appleton Chapel, and little old
Holden Chapel of the seventeenth century, which still remains the best
architecture on the grounds. The buildings were mostly old, plain, and
homely, and the rooms of the students simply furnished. In every class
there were twelve or fifteen dandies, who dressed in somewhat above the
height of the fashion, but they served to make the place more picturesque
and were not so likely to be mischievous as some of the rougher country
boys. It was a time of plain, sensible living. To hire a man to make
fires in winter, and black the boots, was considered a great luxury. A
majority of the students blacked their own boots, although they found
this very disagreeable. The college pump was a venerable institution, a
leveller of all distinctions; and many a pleasant conversation took place
about its wooden trough. No student thought of owning an equipage, and a
Russell or a Longworth would as soon have hired a sedan chair as a horse
and buggy, when he might have gone on foot. Good pedestrianism was the
pride of the Harvard student; and an honest, wholesome pride it was.
There was also some good running. Both Julian Hawthorne and Thomas W.
Ward ran to Concord, a distance of sixteen miles, without stopping, I
believe, by the way. William Blaikie, the stroke of the University crew,
walked to New York during the Thanksgiving recess--six days in all.

The undergraduates had not yet become acquainted with tennis, the most
delightful of light exercises, and foot-ball had not yet been regulated
according to the rules of Rugby and Harrow. The last of the pernicious
foot-ball fights between Sophomores and Freshmen took place in September,
1863, and commenced in quite a sanguinary manner. A Sophomore named
Wright knocked over Ellis, the captain of the Freshman side, without
reason or provocation, and was himself immediately laid prostrate by a
red-headed Scotch boy named Roderick Dhu Coe, who seemed to have come to
college for the purpose, for he soon afterwards disappeared and was never
seen there again. With the help of Coe and a few similar spirits, the
Freshmen won the game. It was the first of President Hill's reforms to
abolish this brutal and unseemly custom.

The New York game of base-ball, which has since assumed such mammoth
proportions, was first introduced in our colleges by Wright and Flagg, of
the Class of '66; and the first game, which the Cambridge ladies
attended, was played on the Delta in May of that year with the
Trimountain Club of Boston. Flagg was the finest catcher in New England
at that time; and, although he was never chosen captain, he was the most
skillful manager of the game. It was he who invented the double-play
which can sometimes be accomplished by muffing a fly-catch between the
bases. He caught without mask or gloves and was several times wounded by
the ball.

Let us retrace the steps of time and take a look at the old Delta on a
bright June evening, when the shadows of the elms are lengthening across
the grass. There are from fifty to a hundred students, and perhaps three
or four professors, watching the Harvard nine practise in preparation for
its match with the formidable Lowell nine of Boston. Who is that slender
youth at second base,--with the long nose and good-humored twinkle in his
eye,--who never allows a ball to pass by him? Will he ever become the
Dean of the Harvard Law School? And that tall, olive-complexioned fellow
in the outfield, six feet two in his ball-shoes,--who would suppose that
he is destined to go to Congress and serve his country as Minister to
Spain! There is another dark-eyed youth leaning against the fence and
watching the ball as it passes to and fro. Is he destined to become
Governor of Massachusetts? And that sturdy-looking first-baseman,--will
he enter the ministry and preach sermons in Appleton Chapel? These young
men all live quiet, sensible lives, and trouble themselves little
concerning class honors and secret societies. If they have a
characteristic in common it is that they always keep their mental balance
and never go to extremes; but neither they nor others have any suspicion
of their several destinies. Could they return and fill their former
places on the ground, how strangely they would feel! But the ground
itself is gone; their youth is gone, and the honors that have come to
them seem less important than the welfare of their families and kindred.

Misdemeanors, great and small, on the part of the students were more
common formerly than they have been in recent years, for the good reason
that the chances of detection were very much less. Some of the practical
jokes were of a much too serious character. The college Bible was
abstracted from the Chapel and sent to Yale; the communion wine was
stolen; a paper bombshell was exploded behind a curtain in the Greek
recitation-room; and Professor Pierce discovered one morning that all his
black-boards had been painted white. All the copies of Cooke's Chemical
Physics suddenly disappeared one afternoon, and next morning the best
scholars in the Junior Class were obliged to say, "Not prepared."

A society called the Med. Fac. was chiefly responsible for these
performances; but so secret was it in its membership and proceedings that
neither the college faculty nor the great majority of the students really
knew whether there was such a society in existence or not. A judge of the
United States Circuit Court, who had belonged to it in his time, was not
aware that his own son was a member of it.

Some of the members of this society turned out well, and others badly;
but generally an inclination for such high pranks shows a levity of
nature that bodes ill for the future. A college class is a wonderful
study in human nature, from the time it enters until its members have
arrived at forty or fifty years of age. There was one young man at
Harvard in those days who was so evidently marked out by destiny for a
great public career that when he was elected to Congress in 1876 his
classmates were only surprised because it seemed so natural that this
should happen. Another was of so depraved a character that it seemed as
if he was intended to illustrate the bad boy in a Sunday-school book. He
was so untrustworthy that very soon no one was willing to associate with
him. He stole from his father, and, after graduating, went to prison for
forgery and finally was killed by a tornado. There was still another, a
great fat fellow, who always seemed to be half asleep, and was very
shortly run over and killed by a locomotive. Yet if we could know the
whole truth in regard to these persons it might be difficult to decide
how much of their good and evil fortune was owing to themselves and how
much to hereditary tendencies and early influences. The sad fact remains
that it is much easier to spoil a bright boy than to educate a dull one.

The undergraduates were too much absorbed in their own small affairs to
pay much attention to politics, even in those exciting times. For the
most part there was no discrimination against either the Trojans or
Tyrians; but abolitionists were not quite so well liked as others,
especially after the close of the war; and it was noticed that the sons
of pro-slavery families commonly seemed to have lacked the good moral
training (and the respect for industry) which is youth's surest
protection against the pitfalls of life. The larger proportion of
suspended students belonged to this class.

During the war period Cambridge social life was regulated by a coterie of
ten or twelve young ladies who had grown up together and who were
generally known as the "Spree,"--not because they were given to romping,
for none kept more strictly within the bounds of a decorous propriety,
but because they were accustomed to go off together in the summer to the
White Mountains or to some other rustic resort, where they were supposed
to have a perfectly splendid time; and this they probably did, for it
requires cultivation and refinement of feeling to appreciate nature as
well as art. They decided what students and other young ladies should be
invited to the assemblies in Lyceum Hall, and they arranged their own
private entertainments over the heads of their fathers and mothers; and
it should be added that they exercised their authority with a very good
grace. They had their friends and admirers among the collegians, but no
young man of good manners and pleasing address, and above all who was a
good dancer, needed to beg for an invitation. The good dancers, however,
were in a decided minority, and many who considered themselves so in
their own habitats found themselves much below the standard in Cambridge.

Mrs. James Russell Lowell was one of the lady patronesses of the
assemblies, and her husband sometimes came to them for an hour or so
before escorting her home. He watched the performance with a poet's eye
for whatever is graceful and charming, but sometimes also with a humorous
smile playing upon his face. There were some very good dancers among the
ladies who skimmed the floor almost like swallows; but the finest waltzer
in Cambridge or Boston was Theodore Colburn, who had graduated ten years
previously, and with the advantage of a youthful figure, had kept up the
pastime ever since. The present writer has never seen anywhere another
man who could waltz with such consummate ease and unconscious grace.
Lowell's eyes followed him continually; but it is also said that Colburn
would willingly dispense with the talent for better success in his
profession. Next to him comes the tall ball-player, already referred to,
and it is delightful to see the skill with which he adapts his unusual
height to the most _petite_ damsel on the floor. Here the "Spree" is
omnipotent, but it does not like Class Day, for then Boston and its
suburbs pour forth their torrent of beauty and fashion, and Cambridge for
the time being is left somewhat in the shade.

Henry James in his "International Episode" speaks as if New York dancers
were the best in the world, and they are certainly more light-footed than
English men and women; but a New York lady, with whom Mr. James is well
acquainted, says that Bostonians and Austrians are the finest dancers.
The true Bostonian cultivates a sober reserve in his waltzing which, if
not too serious, adds to the grace of his movement. Yet, when the german
is over, we remember the warning of the wealthy Corinthian who refused
his daughter to the son of Tisander on the ground that he was too much of
a dancer and acrobat.

* * * * *

From 1840 to 1860 Harvard University practically stagnated. The world
about it progressed, but the college remained unchanged. Its presidents
were excellent men, but they had lived too long under the academic shade.
They lacked practical experience in the great world. There were few
lectures in the college course, and the recitations were a mere routine.
The text-books on philosophical subjects were narrow and prejudiced.
Modern languages were sadly neglected; and the tradition that a French
instructor once entertained his class by telling them his dreams, if not
true, was at least characteristic. The sons of wealthy Bostonians were
accustomed to brag that they had gone through college without doing any
real studying. To the college faculty politics only meant the success of
Webster and the great Whig party. The anti-slavery agitation was
considered inconvenient and therefore prejudicial. During the struggle
for free institutions in Kansas, the president of Harvard College
undertook to debate the question in a public meeting, but he displayed
such lamentable ignorance that he was soon obliged to retire in
confusion.

The war for the Union, however, waked up the slumbering university, as it
did all other institutions and persons. Rev. Thomas Hill was chosen
president in 1861, and was the first anti-slavery president of the
college since Josiah Quincy; and this of itself indicated that he was in
accord with the times,--had not set his face obstinately against them. He
was not so practical a man as President Quincy, but he was one of the
best scholars in America. His administration has not been looked upon as
a success, but he served to break the ice and to open the way for future
navigation. He accepted the position with definite ideas of reform; but
he lacked skill in the adaptation of means to ends. He was determined to
show no favoritism to wealth and social position, and he went perhaps too
far in the opposite direction. One day when the workmen were digging the
cellar of Gray's Hall, President Hill threw off his coat, seized a
shovel, and used it vigorously for half an hour or more. This was
intended as an example to teach the students the dignity of labor; but
they did not understand it so. At the faculty meetings he carried
informality of manner to an excess. He depended too much on personal
influence, which, as George Washington said formerly, "cannot become
government." He wrote letters to the Sophomores exhorting them not to
haze the Freshmen, and, as a consequence, the Freshmen were hazed more
severely than ever. Then he suspended the Sophomores in a wholesale
manner, many of them for slight offences. However, he stopped the foot-
ball fights, and made the examinations much more strict than they had
been previously. He endeavored to inculcate the true spirit of
scholarship among the students,--not to study for rank but from a genuine
love of the subject. The opposition that his reforms excited made him
unpopular, and Freshmen came to college so prejudiced against him that
all his kindness and good will were wasted upon them.

"There goes the greatest man in this country," said a fashionable Boston
youth, one day in the spring of 1866. It was Louis Agassiz returning from
a call on President Hill. Such a statement shows that the speaker
belonged to a class of people called Tories, in 1776, and who might
properly be called so still. As a matter of fact, Agassiz had long since
passed the meridian of his reputation, and his sun was now not far from
setting. He had returned from his expedition to South America with a
valuable collection of fishes and other scientific materials; but his
theory of glaciers; which he went there to substantiate, had not been
proven. Darwin's "Origin of Species" had already swept his nicely-
constructed plans of original types into the fire of futile speculation.
Yet Agassiz was a great man in his way, and his importance was
universally recognized. He had given a vigorous and much-needed impetus
to the study of geology in America, and as a compendium of all the
different branches of natural history there was nobody like him. In his
lifelong single-minded devotion to science he had few equals and no
superiors. He cared not for money except so far as it helped the
advancement of his studies. For many years Madam Agassiz taught a select
school for young ladies (to which Emerson, among others, sent his
daughters), in order to provide funds for her husband to carry on his
work. It is to be feared that the Commonwealth of Massachusetts was
rather stingy to him. Edward Everett once made an eloquent address in his
behalf to the legislature, but it had no effect. Louis Napoleon's
munificent offers could not induce him to return to Paris, for he
believed that more important work was to be done in the new world,--
which, by the way, he considered the oldest portion of the globe.

In height and figure Agassiz was so much like Doctor Hill that when the
two were together this was very noticeable. They were both broad-
shouldered, deep-chested men, and of about the same height, with large,
well-rounded heads; but Agassiz had an elastic French step, whereas
Doctor Hill walked with something of a shuffle. One might even imagine
Agassiz dancing a waltz. Lowell said of him that he was "emphatically a
man, and that wherever he went he made a friend." His broad forehead
seemed to smile upon you while he was talking, and from his simple-
hearted and genial manners you felt that he would be a friend whenever
you wanted one. He was the busiest and at the same time one of the most
accessible persons in the university.

On one occasion, happening to meet a number of students at the corner of
University Building, one of them was bold enough to say to him: "Prof.
Agassiz, would you be so good as to explain to us the difference between
the stone of this building and that of Boylston Hall? We know that they
are both granite, but they do not look alike." Agassiz was delighted, and
entertained them with a brief lecture on primeval rocks and the crust of
the earth's surface. He told them that Boylston Hall was made of syenite;
that most of the stone called granite in New England was syenite, and if
they wanted to see genuine granite they should go to the tops of the
White Mountains. Then looking at his watch he said: "Ah, I see I am late!
Good day, my friends; and I hope we shall all meet again." So off he
went, leaving each of his hearers with the embryonic germ of a scientific
interest in his mind.

Longfellow tells in his diary how Agassiz came to him when his health
broke down and wept. "I cannot work any longer," he said; and when he
could not work he was miserable. The trouble that afflicted him was
congestion of the base of the brain, a disorder that is not caused so
frequently by overwork as by mental emotion. His cure by Dr. Edward H.
Clarke, by the use of bromides and the application of ice, was considered
a remarkable one at the time; but five years later the disorder returned
again and cost him his life.

He believed that the Laurentian Mountains, north of the St. Lawrence
River, was the first land which showed itself above the waste of waters
with which the earth was originally surmounted.

Perhaps the most picturesque figure on the college grounds was the old
Greek professor, Evangelinus Apostolides Sophocles; a genuine importation
from Athens, whom the more imaginative sort of people liked to believe
was descended from the Greek poet Sophocles of the Periclean age. He was
much too honest himself to give countenance to this rumor, and if you
inquired of him concerning it, he would say that he should like very well
to believe it, and it was not impossible, although there were no surnames
in ancient Greece before the time of Constantine; he had not found any
evidence in favor of it. He was a short, thick-set man with a large head
and white Medusa-like hair; but such an eye as his was never seen in an
Anglo-Saxon face. It reminded you at once of Byron's Corsair, and
suggested contingencies such as find no place in quiet, law-abiding New
England,--the possibility of sudden and terrible concentration. His
clothing had been long since out of fashion, and he always wore a faded
cloth cap, such as no student would dare to put on. He lived like a
hermit in No. 3 Holworthy, where he prepared his own meals rather than
encounter strange faces at a boarding-house table. Once he invited the
president of the college to supper; and the president went, not without
some misgivings as to what his entertainment might be. He found, however,
a simple but well-served repast, including a French roll and a cup of
black coffee with the grounds in it. The coffee loosened Sophocles's
usually reticent tongue, and after that, as the president himself
expressed it, they had a delightful conversation. Everybody respected
Sophocles in spite of his eccentric mode of life, and the Freshmen were
as much afraid of him as if he had been the Minotaur of Crete.

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