Cambridge Sketches

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The reason for his economy did not become apparent until after his death.
When he first came to the university he made friends with a gentleman in
Cambridge to whom he was much attached, but who, at the time we write of,
had long since been dead. It was to support the daughters of his friend,
who would have otherwise been obliged to earn their own living, that he
saved his money; and in his will he left them a competency of fifty
thousand dollars or more.

On one occasion a Freshman was sent to him to receive a private
admonition for writing profane language on a settee; but the Freshman
denied the accusation. Sophocles's eyes twinkled. "Did you not," said he,
"write the letters d-a-m-n?" "No," said the boy, laughing; "it must have
been somebody else." Sophocles laughed and said he would report the case
back to the college faculty. A few days later he stopped the youth in the
college yard and, merely saying "I have had your private admonition
revoked," passed on. Professor Sophocles was right. If the Freshman had
tried to deceive him he would not have laughed but looked grave.

The morning in April, 1861, after President Lincoln had issued his call
for 75,000 troops, a Harvard Senior mentioned it to Sophocles, who said
to him: "What can the government accomplish with 75,000 soldiers? It is
going to take half a million of men to suppress this rebellion."

He was a good instructor in his way, but dry and methodical. Professor
Goodwin's recitations were much more interesting. Sophocles did not
credit the tradition of Homer's wandering about blind and poor to recite
his two great epics. He believed that Homer was a prince, or even a king,
like the psalmist David, and asserted that this could be proved or at
least rendered probable by internal evidence. This much is morally
certain, that if Homer became blind it must have been after middle life.
To describe ancient battle-scenes so vividly he must have taken part in
them; and his knowledge of anatomy is very remarkable. He does not make
such mistakes in that line as bringing Desdemona to life after she has
been smothered.

How can we do justice to such a great-hearted man as Dr. Andrew P.
Peabody? He was not intended by nature for a revolutionary character, and
in that sense he was unsuited, like Everett, for the time in which he
lived. If he had been chosen president of the university after the
resignation of Doctor Hill, as George S. Hillard and other prominent
graduates desired, the great broadening and liberalizing of the
university, which has taken place since, would have been deferred for the
next fifteen years. He had little sympathy with the anti-slavery
movement, and was decidedly opposed to the religious liberalism of his
time; but Doctor Peabody's interest lay in the salvation of human souls,
and in this direction he had no equal. He felt a personal regard in every
human being with whom he was acquainted, and this seemed more important
to him than abstract schemes for the improvement of the race in general.
He was a man of peace and wished all others to be at peace; the confusion
and irritation that accompanies reform was most disagreeable to him. Many
a Harvard student who trembled on the brink of an abyss, far from home
and left to his own devices, afterwards looked back to Doctor Peabody's
helping hand as to the hand of a beneficent providence held out to save
him from destruction; and those whom he was unable to save thought of him
no less gratefully.

In the autumn of 1864 a strange sort of student joined the Sophomore
class. He soon proved that he was one of the best scholars in it; but to
judge from his recitations it was long since he had been to school or
received any regular instruction. He lived chiefly on bread and milk, and
seemed not to have learned how to take exercise. It is feared that he
suffered much from loneliness in that busy hive, where everyone has so
many small affairs of his own to attend to. Just before the annual
examinations he was seized with brain-fever and died. Doctor Peabody
conducted the funeral services at the boarding-house of the unfortunate
youth, and the plainness of the surroundings heightened the eloquence of
his address. His prayer on that occasion was so much above the average
character of his religious discourses that it seemed to come from a
secret fountain of the man's nature, which could only be drawn upon for
great occasions.

With all his tenderness of feeling Doctor Peabody could be a very
vigorous debater. He once carried on a newspaper argument with Rev. Dr.
Minor, of Boston, on the temperance question, in which he took the ground
that drinking wine and beer did not necessarily lead to intemperance,--
which, rightly considered, indicates a lack of self-control; and he made
this point in what his friends, at least, considered a satisfactory and
conclusive manner.

It is pleasant to think that such a man should have met with unusual
prosperity in his old age--and the person to whom he owed this
improvement of his affairs was Nathaniel Thayer, of Boston. Mr. Thayer
took charge of Doctor Peabody's property and trebled or quadrupled it in
value. Mr. Thayer was very fond of doing such kindnesses to his friends,
especially to clergymen. He liked the society of clergymen, and certainly
in this he showed excellent judgment. During the last ten years of his
life he spent his summers at the Isles of Shoals, and generally with one
or more reverend gentlemen in his company. He was besides a most
munificent patron of the university. He provided the means for Agassiz to
go on his expedition to South America, and in conjunction with Doctor
Hill reestablished commons for the students--a reform, as he once stated,
as advantageous to their morals as to their purses. He afterwards built
the dormitory which is known by his name. He was so kind-hearted, that he
was said to have given up banking because he was not hard-hearted enough
for the profession. After his death his family received letters upon
letters from persons of whom they had never heard, but who wished to
express their gratitude for his generosity.

Prof. Benjamin Pierce, the mathematician, was rather an awe-inspiring
figure as he strolled through the college grounds, recognizing few and
speaking to none--apparently oblivious to everything except the internal
life which he led in the "functions of curves" and "celestial mechanics."
He was a fine-looking man, with his ashen-gray hair and beard, his wide
brow and features more than usually regular. When he was observed
conversing with President Hill the fine scholars shook their heads wisely
as if something remarkable was taking place. The president had said in
one of his addresses to the Freshmen that it would require a whole
generation to utilize Professor Pierce's discoveries in algebra; and I
believe, at last accounts, they have not been utilized yet. He would
often be seen in the horse-cars making figures on scraps of paper, which
he carried with him for the purpose, oblivious as ever to what was taking
place about him. To "have a head like old Benny Pierce" has become a
proverb in Boston and Cambridge.

Neither did he lack independence of character. In his later years he not
unfrequently attended the meetings of the Radical Club, or Chestnut
Street Club, at Mrs. John T. Sargent's, in Boston, a place looked upon
with pious horror by good Doctor Peabody, and equally discredited by the
young positivists whom President Eliot had introduced in the college
faculty. His remarks on such occasions were fresh, original, and very
interesting; and once he brought down the house with laughter and
applause by explaining the mental process which prevented him from
appreciating a joke until after all others had done so. This naive
confession made his audience like him.

It is a curious geneological fact that Professor Pierce had a son named
after him who would seem to have been born in mirth, to have lived in
comedy, and died in a jest. He was a college Yorick who produced roars of
laughter in the Dicky and Hasty Pudding clubs. Another son, called
affectionately by the students "Jimmy Mills," was also noted for his wit,
and much respected as an admirable instructor.

Doctor Holmes says, in Parson Turell's Legacy:

"Know old Cambridge? Hope you do,--
Born there? Don't say so! I was too.
Born in a house with a gambrel-roof,--
Standing still, if you must have proof.--

* * * * *

--Nicest place that ever was seen,--
Colleges red and Common green,
Sidewalks brownish with trees between."

This describes Cambridge as it was forty years since. In spite of its
timid conservatism and rather donnish society, as Professor Child termed
it, it was one of the pleasantest places to live in on this side the
Atlantic. It was a community of a refined and elegant industry, in which
every one had a definite work to do, and seemed to be exactly fitted to
his or her place,--not without some great figures, too, to give it
exceptional interest. There was peace and repose under the academic
shade, and the obliviousness of its inhabitants to the outside world only
rendered this more restful.

How changed is it now! The old Holmes house has been long since pulled
down to make way for the new Law-School building. Red-gravel paths
have been replaced by brick sidewalks; huge buildings rise before
the eye; electric cars whiz in every direction; a tall, bristling
iron fence surrounds the college yard; and an enormous clock on the
tower of Memorial Hall detonates the hours in a manner which is by no
means conducive to the sleep of the just and the rest of the weary. The
elderly graduate, returning to the dreamland of his youth, finds that it
has actually become a dreamland and still exists only in his imagination.

The university has broadened and extended itself wonderfully under the
present management, but the simple classic charm of the olden time is
gone forever.

FRANCIS J. CHILD

Fifty years ago it was the fashion at Harvard, as well as at other
colleges, for professors to cultivate an austere dignity of manner for
the purpose of preserving order and decorum in the recitation-room; but
this frequently resulted in having the opposite effect and served as a
temptation to the students to play practical jokes on their instructors.
The habitual dryness of the college exercises in Latin, Greek, and
mathematics became still more wearisome from the manner in which these
were conducted. The youthful mind thirsting for knowledge found the road
to it for the most part a dull and dreary pilgrimage.

Professor Francis J. Child would seem to have been the first to break
down this barrier and establish more friendly relations with his classes.
He was naturally well adapted to this. Perfectly frank and fearless in
his dealings with all men, he hated unnecessary conventionality, and at
the same time possessed the rare art of preserving his dignity while
associating with his subordinates on friendly terms. Always kindly and
even sympathetic to the worst scapegraces in the division, he could
assert the superiority of his position with a quickness that often
startled those who were inclined to impose on him. He did not call out
the names of his class as if they were exceptions to a rule in Latin
grammar, but addressed each one of them as if he felt a personal interest
in the man; so that they felt encouraged to speak out what they knew and
even remembered their lessons so much the better. As a consequence he was
universally respected, and there were many who felt an affection for him
such as he could never have imagined. His cordial manner was sufficient
of itself to make his instruction effective.

Francis J. Child was the first scholar in his class at the Boston Latin
School, and afterwards at Harvard. That first scholars do not come to
much good in the world is an illusion of the envious. It is true that
they sometimes break down their health by too strenuous an effort, but
this may happen to an ambitious person in any undertaking. In Professor
Child's case, as in many another, it proved the making of his fortune,
for which he did not possess any exceptional advantages. Being of an
amiable disposition and good address, he was offered a tutorship on
graduation, and rose from one position in the university to another until
he became the first authority on the English language in America. His
whole life was spent at Harvard College, with the exception of a few
short expeditions to Europe; and his influence there steadily increased
until it became a power that was universally recognized.

He was a short, thick-set man, like Sophocles, but as different as
possible in general aspect. Sophocles was always slow and measured, but
Professor Child was quick and lively in all his movements; and his face
wore an habitual cheerfulness which plainly showed the sunny spirit
within. Most characteristic in his appearance was the short curly yellow
hair, so light in color that when it changed with age, his friends
scarcely noticed the difference.

During his academic years he created a sensation by declining to join the
Hasty Pudding Club. This was looked upon as a piece of inordinate self-
conceit; whereas, the true reason for it was that he had little money and
preferred to spend it in going to the theatre. He said afterwards, in
regard to this, that he was not sorry to have done it, for "the students
placed too much importance on such matters."

Through his interest in fine acting, he became one of the best judges of
oratory, and it was always interesting to listen to him on that subject.
He considered Wendell Phillips the perfection of form and delivery, and
sometimes very brilliant, but much too rash in his statements. Everett
was also good, but lacked warmth and earnestness. Choate was purely a
legal pleader, and outside of the court-room not very effective. He
thought Webster one of the greatest of orators, fully equal to Cicero;
but they both lacked the poetical element. Sumner's sentences were florid
and his delivery rather mechanical, but he made a strong impression owing
to the evident purity of his motives. The general public, however, had
become suspicious of oratory, so that it was no longer as serviceable as
formerly.

"After all," he would say, "the main point for a speaker is to have a
good cause. Then, if he is thoroughly in earnest, we enjoy hearing him."
He once illustrated his subject by the story of a Union general who tried
to rally the fugitives at Pittsburg Landing, and said, waving his sword
in the air: "In the name of the Declaration of Independence, I command, I
exhort you," etc., while a private soldier leaning against a tree, with a
quid of tobacco in his mouth, remarked, "That man can make a good
speech," but showed no intentions of moving. This summary, however, gives
no adequate idea of the brightness of Professor Child's conversation. He
was an animated talker, full of wit and originality.

When the classes at Harvard were smaller than at present, he would
arrange them in University Hall for declamation, so as to cover as much
space as possible. They did not understand this until he said, "Now we
have a larger audience, if not more numerous;" and this placed every one
in the best of humor.

Besides his regular college duties, Professor Child had three distinct
interests to which he devoted himself in leisure hours with all the
energy of an ardent nature. The first of these, editing a complete
edition of the old English ballads, was the labor of his life, and with
it his name will always be associated, for it is a work that can neither
be superseded nor excelled. He was the first to arouse English scholars
to the importance of this, as may be read in the dedication of a partial
edition taken from the Percy manuscripts and published in London in 1861.
He recognized in them the true foundation of the finest literature of the
modern world, and he considered them so much the better from the fact
that they were not composed to be printed, but to be recited or sung.
Matthew Arnold wrote in a letter from America: "After lecturing at
Taunton, I came to Boston with Professor Child of Harvard, a very
pleasant man, who is a great authority on ballad poetry," very warm
praise, considering the source whence it came. Late in life Professor
Child edited separate versions in modern English of some curious old
ballads, and sent them as Christmas presents to his friends. It is not
surprising that he should have been interested as well in the rude songs
of the British sailors, which he heard on crossing the ocean. He was
mightily amused at their simple refrain:

"Haul in the bowlin', long-tailed bowlin',
Haul in the bowlin' Kitty, O, my darlin'."

"That rude couplet," he said, "contains all the original elements of
poetry. Firstly, the anthropomorphic element; the sailor imagines his
bowline as if it had life. Secondly, the humorous element, for the
bowline is all tail. Thirdly, the reflective element; the monotonous
motion makes him think of home,--of his wife or sweetheart,--and he ends
the second line with 'Kitty, O, my darlin'.' I like such primitive verses
much better than the 'Pike County Ballads,' a mixture of sentiment and
profanity."

Then he went on to say: "I want my children, when they grow up, to read
the classics. My boy will go to college, of course; and he will translate
Homer and Virgil, and Horace,--I think very highly of Horace; but the
literal meaning is a different thing from understanding the poetry. Then
my daughters will learn French and German, and I shall expect them to
read Schiller and Goethe, Moliere and Racine, as well as Shakespeare and
Milton. After that they can read what they like, but they will have a
standard by which to judge other authors." He was afraid that the
students wasted too much time in painting play-bills and other similar
exercises of ingenuity, which lead to nothing in the end.

He gave some excellent advice to a young lady who was about visiting
Europe for the first time, who doubted if she could properly appreciate
the works of art and other fine things that she would be called upon to
admire. "Don't be afraid of that," said Professor Child; "you will
probably like best just those sights which you do not expect to; but if
you do not like them, say so, and let that be the end of it. Now, I am so
unfortunate as not to appreciate Michel Angelo. His great horned Moses is
nothing more to me than a Silenus in a garden. The fact does not trouble
me much, for I find enough to interest me as it is, and I can enjoy life
without the Moses."

After mentioning a number of desirable expeditions, he added: "You will
go to Dresden, of course, to see Raphael's Madonna and Titian's 'Tribute
Money'; and then there are the Green Vaults. I have known the Green
Vaults to have an excellent effect on some ladies of my acquaintance.
They did not care one-quarter as much for a diamond ring as they did
before they went into the Green Vaults. You will see a jewelled fireplace
there which is worth more than all I own in the world." The young lady
looked, however, as if it would take more than the Green Vaults to cure
her love for jewelry.

* * * * *

Professor Child's second important interest was politics, and as a rule
he much preferred talking on this to literary subjects.

Josiah Quincy was the most distinguished president that Harvard College
has had, unless we except President Eliot; and his admirers have been
accustomed to refer to his administration as "Consule Planco." His
politics did not differ widely from those of John Quincy Adams, who was
the earliest statesman of the anti-slavery struggle, and a true hero in
his way. After Quincy, the presidents of the university became more and
more conservative, until Felton, who was a pronounced pro-slavery Whig,
and even attempted to defend the invasion of Kansas in a public meeting.
The professors and tutors naturally followed in the train of the
president, while a majority of the sons of wealthy men among the
undergraduates always took the southern side. The son of an abolitionist
who wished to go through Harvard in those days found it a penitential
pilgrimage. He was certain to suffer an extra amount of hazing, and to
endure a kind of social ostracism throughout the course.

For many years before the election of Lincoln, Professors Child, Lowell,
and Jennison were the only pronounced anti-slavery members of the
faculty; and this left Francis J. Child to hear the brunt of it almost
alone, for Lowell's connection with the university was semi-detached, and
although he was always prepared to face the enemy in an honest argument,
he was not often on the ground to do so.

Now that the most potent cause of political agitation resides in the far-
off problem of the Philippine Islands it is difficult to realize the
popular excitement of those times, when both parties believed that the
very existence of the nation depended on the result of the elections.
Professor Child was not the least of an alarmist, and deprecated all
unnecessary controversy. In 1861 he even cautioned Wendell Phillips
Garrison against introducing too strong an appeal for emancipation in his
commencement address; but he was as firm as a granite rock on any
question of principle, and when he considered a protest in order he was
certain to make one. He did not trust party newspapers for his
information, but obtained it from persons who were in a position to know,
and his facts were so well supported by the quick sallies of his wit that
those who interfered with him once rarely attempted it again. Moreover,
as we all see now, he had the right on his side.

[Illustration: PROFESSOR FRANCIS J. CHILD]

He was proud of having voted twice for Abraham Lincoln. What he thought
of John Brown, at the time of the Harper's Ferry raid, is uncertain; but
many years later, when one of his friends published a small book in
vindication of Brown against the attack of Lincoln's two secretaries, he
wrote to him:

"I congratulate you on the success of your statement, which I have read
with very great interest. John Brown was like a star and still shines in
the firmament. We could not have done without him."

He considered Governor Andrew's approbation of John Brown as more
important than anything that would be written about him in the future.

He did not trouble himself much in regard to Lincoln's second election,
for he saw that it was a foregone conclusion; but after Andrew Johnson's
treachery in 1866, he felt there was a need of unusual exertion. When the
November elections arrived, he told his classes: "Next Tuesday I shall
have to serve my country and there will be no recitations." When Tuesday
came we found him on the sidewalk distributing Republican ballots and
soliciting votes; and there he remained until the polls closed in the
afternoon. He had little patience with educated men who neglected their
political duties. "Why are you discouraged?" he would ask. "Times will
change. Remember the Free-soil movement!" He attended caucuses as
regularly as the meetings of the faculty, and served as a delegate to a
number of conventions. More than once he aroused the good citizens of
Cambridge to the danger of insidious plots by low demagogues against the
public welfare. The poet Longfellow took notice of this and spoke of him
as an invaluable man.

On another occasion Professor Child was discoursing to his class on
oratory and mentioned the fact that Webster and Choate both came from
Dartmouth; that Wendell Phillips graduated at Harvard, but the university
had not seen much of him since. At the mention of Wendell Phillips some
of the boys from pro-slavery families began to sneer. Professor Child
raised himself up and said determinedly, "Wendell Phillips is as good an
orator as either of them!" He was chagrined, however, at Phillips's later
public course,--his support of Socialism and General Butler. Neither did
he like Phillips's Phi Beta Kappa oration, in which he advocated the
dagger and dynamite for tyrants. "A tyrant," said Professor Child, "is
what anyone chooses to imagine. My hired man may consider me a tyrant and
blow me up according to Mr. Phillips's principle." The assassins of
Garfield and McKinley evidently supposed that they were ridding the earth
of two of the worst tyrants that ever existed. Professor Child was
exceptionally liberal. He even supported Woman Suffrage for a time, but
he held Socialism in a kind of holy horror,--such as one feels of a
person who is always making blunders.

In 1878 Professor Child and some other political reformers were elected
to a Congressional convention and went with the hope of securing a
candidate who would represent the educated classes,--the incumbent at
that time being a shoe manufacturer. They argued and worked hard all day,
but without success. Late in the afternoon the shoe manufacturer, a
worthy man but very ignorant, who afterwards became governor of the
State, was renominated; and when it was proposed to make the nomination
unanimous Professor Child called out such an emphatic No that it seemed
to shake the whole assembly. Not content with this he entered a protest
next day in the Boston _Advertiser_. He was so much used up by the
exertion that he was unable to attend to his classes. Some years later he
enjoyed the satisfaction of seeing his candidate, Theodore Lyman,
nominated and elected.

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