:*'?ip
 
 f (^ 
 
 SOUTHERN BRANCH. 
 
 -UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, 
 
 LIBRARY, 
 
 ii-Of ANGELES. CALIF.
 
 RANDOM IMEMORIES
 
 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 BY 
 ERNEST WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW 
 
 WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 1922 
 
 50977
 
 COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 ALL EUGHTS RBSESVEO 
 
 Cbe Slibereit)e ^ttsi 
 
 CAMBRIDGE • MASSACHUSETTS 
 PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
 
 MD 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 This is not meant for a serious autobiography. In- 
 deed, those who know me know that I am seldom 
 serious. 
 I have thought that there ought to be some record 
 ■^ of the anecdotes connected with those early friends of 
 V my father's; also some of the bons mots of that period 
 '^^'^ which might otherwise be lost. I have added some 
 experiences as an art student as far back as the six- 
 ties of the last century, and some art criticisms, nec- 
 ^ essarily crude, from their brevity. In addition I have 
 given brief notes of travel in the past. 
 
 There are so many tragedies and injustices in this 
 
 world that unless we smile and keep on smiling, we 
 
 ^ are liable to be overwhelmed by despair. I have there- 
 
 "^ fore tried to look on life on its comic side, as far as 
 
 v possible. 
 
 Any one who has had the misfortune to be the son 
 of an illustrious parent knows how hard it is to be 
 taken seriously by people. He remains, with them, 
 always the son of his father. They generally try to 
 make matters better by reminding him that it is a 
 well-known fact that genius skips one generation.
 
 vl PREFACE 
 
 Then why try to be serious ? 
 
 There are some solemn-faced people who cannot 
 enjoy a joke, and who take as an Insult to their dig- 
 nity any attempted pleasantry. They are the people 
 of superior minds, the " Holier-than-Thous " who 
 formed the bulk of the Mugwump Party. Later, 
 as the "best thinkers," they opposed the war with 
 Spain on the ground that we should not meddle in 
 other people^s aifairs. Now, strange to say, these 
 " best thinkers " want us to join the League of Nations, 
 because it is our duty to mix in the aifairs of all the 
 world ! They would like America to be like the Irish- 
 man, who, seeing a street fight going on, wanted to 
 know if it was a private fight, or if anybody could 
 come in. The funny part is, that the "best minds" 
 are almost always wrong, while the common peo- 
 ple are almost always right. The " best minds of 
 the period" made fun of Lincoln, while the com- 
 mon people believed in him and trusted him. The 
 same might be said of Roosevelt, the most beloved 
 and popular man of his generation. The "best 
 minds" reviled him while he lived, but take another 
 view now. 
 
 For these "best minds" this book is not written. 
 They would find it hopelessly frivolous. My only 
 hope is that some congenial spirit may get a few hours' 
 amusement out of it. Let us, then, keep a cheerful
 
 PREFACE 
 
 Vll 
 
 countenance and do our little mite to uphold the 
 right, as we see the right. 
 
 Those likewise serve, who do their best 
 
 To Champion the Right. 
 
 Each smallest star 
 
 In space so far 
 
 Lends something to the night. 
 
 E. W. L. 
 
 October^ 19 21
 
 NOTE 
 
 I WISH especially to thank Mr. William Roscoe 
 Thayer for his kindness in helping to get this little 
 book published; also the editors of the Atlantic 
 Monthly for their courtesy in allowing the republica- 
 tion of the article on "Couture," and Curtis & Cam- 
 eron for permission to reproduce a photograph of one 
 of my paintings. 
 
 E. W. L. 
 
 October, 1921
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I. Craigie House i 
 
 II. My Father's Friends 20 
 
 III. Education and Other Things 48 
 
 IV. War 68 
 V. Quips and Cranks 81 
 
 VI. Art 96 
 
 VII. Italian Art 129 
 
 VIII. A Walking Tour in the Alps 142 
 
 IX. Life at Home and Abroad 158 
 
 X. Reminiscences OF Thomas Couture 177 
 
 XI. Winter in Siena 204 
 
 XII. Egypt 221 
 
 XIII. Professional Fortunes 261
 
 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 Henry WadSWORTH Longfellow Photogravure Frontispiece 
 
 From the portrait painted by Ernest W. Longfellow in 1876 
 
 Craigie House 2 
 
 From a sketch by Ernest W. Longfellow 
 
 E. W. L., June, 1861 48 
 
 Thomas Gold Appleton 64 
 
 Smoker: A Portrait Study (Alexander Longfellow) 116 
 
 From a painting by Ernest W. Longfellow 
 
 Frederic Crowninshield and E. W. L. on Walking- 
 Trip 142 
 
 Thomas Couture 188 
 
 From an etching by L. Massard 
 
 Stone Pines 206 
 
 From a painting by Ernest W. Longfellow 
 
 Sketches made on the Nile 238 
 
 Ernest W. Longfellow in his Studio 262
 
 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 • 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 CRAIGIE HOUSE 
 
 Under date of Sunday, November 23, 1845, may be 
 found the following entry in my father's journal: 
 "This morning, between two and three o'clock, came 
 into the village of Cambridge a little wandering mu- 
 sician, with a remarkable talent for imitating with his 
 mouth the penny trumpet and the wooden dog." 
 And later, under date of December 7, "We drank the 
 baby's health under the title of the Chevalier New- 
 kom on account of his being a newcomer and a great 
 musician in his way." 
 
 Now I ask, Is it quite fair to be introduced to the 
 world in this way.** Give a dog, even a wooden dog, a 
 bad name and hang him, much more a chevalier of 
 misplaced industry in the way of performing on penny 
 trumpets. However, my excuse for mentioning this 
 unpropitious advent is that it illustrates the vein of 
 gentle humor that was characteristic of my father. 
 He was fond of making harmless puns and small witti- 
 cisms when in the bosom of his family and in inter- 
 course with intimate friends, which those who knew
 
 2 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 him only through his writings might not suspect. Be- 
 sides, even the pipings of a penny trumpet may some- 
 times suggest the theme of a grand symphony, and so 
 these jottings from a rather uncertain and treacherous 
 memory may serve to reconstruct some of those scenes 
 that took place under my father's roof, where many 
 interesting events took place, and many illustrious 
 people came and went. 
 
 The old Craigie house, as it was called, where I was 
 bom ^s recorded above, and where my father lived 
 almost from the time he was appointed Professor of 
 Belles-Lettres at Harvard till his death in 1882, is so 
 well known as hardly to need a description. It was 
 called the Craigie house after the widow Craigie, who 
 was living in it at the time of my father's advent in 
 Cambridge, and who at first refused to take him as a 
 lodger, thinking him so young that he must be an 
 undergraduate trying to impose on her by calling 
 himself a professor. The house, however, was built 
 by the Vassals in about 1759 at about the same time 
 as the other Vassal houses, one of which, known as 
 the Bachelder house, was nearly opposite. Some- 
 what farther up the street was a house known as 
 the Riedesel house, from having been occupied for a 
 time by the Baron Riedesel and his charming wife, 
 when, with other Hessian officers, they were held 
 prisoners there, after Burgoyne's surrender. On one 
 
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 CRAIGIE HOUSE 3 
 
 of the window-panes of this house was to be seen the 
 name of the Baroness Riedesel, scratched there with 
 her diamond ring while she was a prisoner. 
 
 The Craigie house originally was probably a square 
 timber house, with bricks between the framing for 
 greater warmth, — I believe the bricks were brought 
 from England, — built in what is now called the Co- 
 lonial style of architecture, with huge, square beams 
 supporting the double-hipped roof, sheathed on the 
 outside with clapboards, and with wooden pilasters at 
 the corners and on either side of the front door. It 
 has always, as long as I can remember, been painted a 
 straw color with white trimmings and green blinds. 
 
 It was placed high on a double bank well back from 
 the street, with a straight path leading to it, and three 
 pairs of stone steps, giving it a commanding aspect. 
 The balustrade at the top of the first pair of steps was 
 a late addition, added at my suggestion by my father 
 in 1869. To show how false even the memory of great 
 men may be, Mr. Lowell always insisted he remem- 
 bered that balustrade when he was a boy. 
 
 The house, as originally built, contained four rooms 
 of equal size on each floor. There was a central hall 
 with stairs leading up from either side, and meeting in 
 the middle, only to part to reach the front and back 
 chambers respectively. At this junction was a parti- 
 tion, with door and large window with rounded top
 
 4 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 giving light to the back hall. These stairs were 
 adorned with the beautiful twisted balustrades of 
 the period, and up their creaking treads must have 
 passed many a time the weary step of the Father of 
 his Country in those anxious days of the siege of 
 Boston when the house was occupied by him as his 
 headquarters. 
 
 The Vassals were Tories and had fled to Nova 
 Scotia at the beginning of hostilities. Hence their 
 house was confiscated and assigned to Washington, 
 as the finest residence in the neighborhood. From 
 the front of the house the view extended to the 
 Brighton meadows and hills beyond, with the Charles, 
 in its windings making the letter "S" alluded to In 
 my father's sonnet to Charles Sumner. It was a tidal 
 river as far as Watertown, and with strong easterly 
 winds or exceptionally high tides, the meadows were 
 entirely flooded, making a beautiful lake, with only 
 the haycocks of marsh grass showing above the wa- 
 ters. In those early days great schooners were wont 
 to pass up and down with their freight of coal or lum- 
 ber, and the scent of the marsh grass was wafted 
 pleasantly to one's nostrils. Later, the river was 
 polluted by the gasworks on its border, and the sail- 
 ing vessels gave place to coal barges towed by fussy 
 tugs. Still, my father always loved that view, and 
 often have I seen him come out on his front steps.
 
 CRAIGIE HOUSE 5 
 
 bareheaded, merely to gaze at it, either in its noonday- 
 haze or lit up with the splendors of sunset. It was his 
 hope that it would never be obstructed, and it was 
 this wish that led his children to preserve it as best 
 they might, by giving the land opposite the house to 
 the city of Cambridge to be made into a park. The 
 assessors immediately raised the valuations on the 
 adjoining land, on the plea that now we lived on a 
 park. 
 
 Originally, two stately lines of elms led up on either 
 hand to the front door, but in old Mrs. Craigie's day 
 she would not have them protected from the canker- 
 worms, because, as she used to say, the canker-worms 
 had as good a right to live as the elms. Consequently 
 all but the one on the right of the house eventually 
 died, and the ones set out to replace them never 
 seemed to thrive. My father took great pains with 
 these trees and did all he could to protect them from 
 this Cambridge pest. He insisted on the gardener see- 
 ing to It that the trees were properly protected by tar, 
 and that the tar should be kept fresh, especially on the 
 warm days In winter, when the moths were wont to 
 climb the trees to lay their eggs. He was explaining 
 about this habit of the female to an Irish gardener, 
 when he was met with the astonishing rejoinder, 
 "Sure, your honor, don't ye know that the faymale 
 canker-woram dies before it is boran!" Which would
 
 6 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 seem to be a more effective way of disposing of the 
 worms than by tar. 
 
 Cambridge, as I first remember It, was little more 
 than a village, with Harvard College as the centre; 
 now it has become a large city. In those old days 
 Harvard Square had a large and beautiful elm in its 
 centre, flanked by the village pump and the hay 
 scales. Herds of cattle and flocks of sheep would pass 
 through on market days on their way to Brighton. 
 An omnibus, known as the "Hourly," used to ply once 
 an hour between Cambridge and Boston and was the 
 only public conveyance. It was a large bus drawn by 
 four horses, and was so accommodating that it would 
 go out of its way to pick up passengers in any part of 
 Cambridge, if duly notified. It was supposed to start, 
 however, from Harvard Square in Cambridge on the 
 hour, and from in front of the old Brattle Street 
 Church in Boston on the half-hour, if I remember 
 right. It was driven by a man named Morse, who in 
 his old age lost his mind and used to sit in front of his 
 fireplace with strings attached to his tea-kettle and 
 think he was still driving his "bus." Some wit, in 
 alluding to him, said, "Mors communis omnibus." 
 It is also related that on one occasion in the winter, 
 he had as a passenger on the box seat with him a 
 student who was slightly intoxicated, and who, on a 
 sudden lurch of the bus, fell off into a snowdrift. 
 
 )i 
 
 i
 
 CRAIGIE HOUSE 7 
 
 When Morse pulled up, the student calmly remarked, 
 " Hello, Morse, upset, have n't you ? " On being as- 
 sured to the contrary, he exclaimed, "Oh, if I had 
 known that, I would n't have jumped off." To collect 
 the fares, a small boy stood on the step at the rear, 
 and one boy, who had acquired a most remarkable 
 pepper-and-salt coat, excited my brother's admira- 
 tion particularly, and nothing would do but he must 
 be allowed to go into Boston and purchase a similar 
 coat. I believe his highest ambition at that time was 
 one day to be allowed to become the bus boy, 
 
 Boston in those days was also very different from 
 what it is to-day. The old Brattle Street Church 
 still had embedded in its front the round cannon-ball 
 that had been fired from the American lines. The 
 funny old group of buildings still blocked up the 
 centre of Scollay Square, where now the subway 
 stations reign supreme. The beautiful old Hancock 
 house, which should never have been taken down, was 
 still standing. The Back Bay came up to Charles 
 Street at the foot of the Common, with rope-walks 
 stretching out into it. The Milldam was really a mill- 
 dam, and was what is now the lower part of Beacon 
 Street. There were very few houses then on Beacon 
 Street below Charles, and I remember perfectly when 
 all those houses beyond what is now Arlington Street 
 were built, and it was considered very far out.
 
 8 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 What Is now the PubHc Garden and the whole sec- 
 tion beyond was filled in much later, mostly, we used 
 to say, with tin cans and hoopskirts. Fashionable 
 people still lived in Summer and Tremont Streets as 
 well as on Beacon Hill. My grandfather, Mr. Nathan 
 Appleton, lived at 39 Beacon Street, in one of those 
 beautiful old bow-front houses, with purple panes of 
 glass brought from Holland, that were the pride of 
 Bostonians of those days. We always drove in to dine 
 on Saturdays, dinner being then at the fashionable 
 hour of two o'clock. We also always dined there on 
 Thanksgiving Day, which I remember as a great event 
 for us children, as naturally we ate too much and re- 
 pented ruefully afterwards. Christmas was an event 
 of much excitement, as my grandfather always had a 
 Christmas tree, with a large party of all the relations 
 and friends, and many beautiful presents for every- 
 body. Farther up Beacon Street lived Uncle Sam Ap- 
 pleton and his wife, — Aunt Sam as we called her, — 
 a dear old lady, who represented my idea of a French 
 Marquise, with her side curls and her frilled caps. 
 She always wore white gloves, night and day, to keep 
 her hands white, but as nobody ever saw her without 
 her gloves, I never could see what good it did. Their 
 house was even finer than my grandfather's, with a 
 circular central hall, with a fountain in the middle, 
 and, supported by marble columns, a gallery connect-
 
 CRAIGIE HOUSE 9 
 
 ing the bedrooms running round it. This house was 
 very broad and was afterwards torn down to make 
 room for two modern houses. 
 
 Those were the days when people spoke of the 
 Ticknors with bated breath, and Mrs. Harrison Gray 
 Otis received on Washington's Birthday sitting in 
 state with her turban on. Everett and Winthrop 
 were the awe-inspiring orators of great occasions. 
 One of the anecdotes of the former is to the effect that 
 on some occasion, either the laying of the corner- 
 stone of Bunker Hill Monument or some subsequent 
 oration on Bunker Hill Day, Mr. Everett, who never 
 neglected any possible point that might be made, 
 carefully sought out an old survivor of the Battle of 
 Bunker Hill, and invited him to sit on the platform 
 -during the oration. He also requested him to rise at a 
 certain passage where he spoke of the few remaining 
 soldiers who had taken part in the action. Much to 
 the old veteran's astonishment, however, when Mr. 
 Everett had come to that part of the address and he 
 had risen according to instruction, Mr. Everett sud- 
 denly turned upon him and in thunder tones ex- 
 claimed, "Sit down! Sit down! It is fitter that we 
 should stand"; whereupon the old man, much per- 
 plexed, sat down, but the point had been made amid 
 great applause. 
 
 Mr. Winthrop was, as I remember him, rather a
 
 10 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 pompous old gentleman with spectacles, and with the 
 grand manner of the past generation. He had the 
 habit of greeting an acquaintance with a lofty air, his 
 hand raised, which was allowed to descend to grasp 
 that of his friend in rather a condescending manner. 
 On meeting Dr. Holmes one day, the latter, who was a 
 small man, and as quick in his motions as the other 
 was slow, suddenly slid his hand in underneath and 
 said, "Ah! Winthrop, I come the undercut." It is 
 hard to indicate in print the drollery of this without 
 having known and seen the contrast between the 
 two men. 
 
 It was my grandfather who bought the Craigie 
 house and presented it to the newly wedded couple 
 when my father married my mother, his second daugh- 
 ter, who it may be remembered figured as the heroine 
 of one of my father's prose works — "Hyperion." 
 The oldest daughter married a son of Sir James Mack- 
 intosh, the historian, who was at one time Governor 
 of some of the West Indian islands, but they mostly 
 lived in London. 
 
 At the time my father and mother took up their 
 abode in the Craigie house there were also living in 
 part of the house Mr. Worcester, the lexicographer, 
 and his wife, whose lease had not expired. They soon 
 moved out, however, and lived in a house that Mr. 
 Worcester built on an adjoining estate. There was a
 
 CRAIGIE HOUSE ii 
 
 pond on the line of separation between the two es- 
 tates, and on that pond we boys sailed boats in summer 
 and skated in winter, and tumbled in and got wet, 
 impartially, summer and winter. Mr. Worcester, as 
 I remember him, was a widower and rather a crusty 
 old gentleman, who was given to complaining to my 
 father of our depredations on his property, not without 
 reason, I am free to confess. A high board fence sep- 
 arated the adjoining lands except at the pond, and 
 on that fence we used to perch, and when Mr. Worces- 
 ter's gardener's back was turned, we would swoop 
 down upon his apples or pears, and, regaining the 
 fence, would make good our escape. Although we had 
 plenty of apples and pears in our own garden, they 
 never tasted so good as those acquired with a sense of 
 danger. In the winter, too, on the ice, I am afraid we 
 made an awful racket, which must have disturbed the 
 worthy Mr. Worcester in his search for unknown 
 words and their meanings to put into his "Dictionary 
 of the English Language"; for he used to issue forth 
 in great wrath and request us to leave his part of the 
 pond, which we proceeded to do with great speed till 
 he had retired, when of course we came back again, 
 as only a very small part of the pond was on our land. 
 The pond has since been filled up, and no longer 
 exists. 
 
 At that time the Craigie estate was quite large and
 
 12 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 extended up to the Harvard Observatory. Craigie 
 and Buckingham Streets had not been laid out, but 
 were cut through and built upon well within my mem- 
 ory. Sparks Street was a green lane with a gate at 
 the bottom on Brattle Street, which goes to show what 
 a country village Cambridge was then. We had in our 
 house neither gas nor water, and I well remember the 
 excitement of us children when the floors were pulled 
 up to put in the pipes. Mr. Lowell has written such a 
 charming description of Cambridge in the early days 
 that it leaves little for others to say. 
 
 My father, as I first remember him, was a man 
 somewhat over forty: clean-shaven except for small 
 mutton-chop side whiskers, turning grey; hair rather 
 long, parted in the middle behind, and brought for- 
 ward over the ears in what would now be considered 
 a rather tousled condition, but was the fashion of that 
 time. He had rather a large mouth, but finely cut, a 
 slightly aquiline nose, broad and fine forehead, and 
 beautiful blue eyes. His whole expression was benign 
 and sweet, and did not belie his character, which was 
 the most perfect imaginable. He had a well-set-up 
 figure of middle height, with rather square shoulders, 
 and a jauntiness in his walk and bearing which gave 
 rise to the lines in a college doggerel of the period. 
 
 With his hat on one whisker, and an air that says, 'Go it, 
 You have here the great American poet.'"
 
 CRAIGIE HOUSE 13 
 
 In the days when professors and even other men in 
 Boston and Cambridge were rather slovenly in their 
 appearance, he was always very carefully dressed, and 
 indeed was considered rather a dandy, and I believe 
 Mrs. Craigie, when he first came to board with her, 
 thought his gloves of much too light a shade to be 
 worn by a strictly virtuous man. An English govern- 
 ess, however, who was employed to teach my sisters, 
 was so impressed by the beauty of his character that, 
 although a very strict Episcopalian, she declared that, 
 after knowing my father, it was impossible for her 
 ever again to recite the Athanasian Creed, as she 
 could not believe that even though a Unitarian he 
 would be condemned to eternal damnation. 
 
 My father was very methodical and careful in his 
 ways. He believed in having a place for everything 
 and everything in its place, and kept with the great- 
 est care anything that could be useful. He always 
 carefully folded up and put away, in a drawer de- 
 voted to the purpose, the wrapping paper that came 
 on bundles, and untied, never cut, the string, and put 
 that away in another drawer, thus having them both 
 on hand when needed. The paper that he wrote his 
 manuscripts on was of a certain kind called cartridge 
 paper, and cut to a certain size and kept in large quan- 
 tities ready for use. 
 
 He wrote most of his manuscripts on this paper
 
 14 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 with pencil (having always several ready sharpened) 
 in a beautifully clear hand, very evenly spaced and 
 with few erasures or corrections. In the early days he 
 wrote standing at a desk by one of the front windows 
 of his study, where he could look out on the Charles 
 in its windings. Later he sat at a round table in the 
 centre of the room. For his correspondence he used at 
 first quill pens which he mended with great care him- 
 self, and afterwards rubber or stub pens. He was very 
 conscientious about answering his large correspond- 
 ence himself, and refused to have a secretary till the 
 last few years of his life, sacrificing a great deal of his 
 valuable time to answering trivial demands upon his 
 kindness. 
 
 It was always to my father that we went in our 
 childish troubles. He was very skilful in putting on a 
 bandage for a sore throat or doing up a cut finger, 
 keeping at hand little bandages already rolled up for 
 immediate use. He also doctored us with homoeo- 
 pathic remedies for our small ailments, but of course 
 calling in a regular doctor for anything serious. I re- 
 member, however, one occasion when I had a high 
 fever, which the doctor seemed unable to subdue, 
 that my father, who had once been at a German 
 water cure, did me up himself in wet sheets with many 
 blankets over me, till I was in a profuse perspiration 
 and the fever conquered.
 
 CRAIGIE HOUSE 15 
 
 He was always the most kind and indulgent of 
 parents, and one of the few things I can look back 
 upon with satisfaction in my life is the fact that I 
 never caused him any worry or anxiety on my account, 
 and that till the day of his death we never had the 
 slightest misunderstanding, but were always on the 
 most intimate and affectionate terms. 
 
 My father and mother had six children in all : my 
 brother Charles, who was born within a year of their 
 marriage and was a year and a half my senior; a sister, 
 who was born two or three years after me, but lived 
 only a short time ; and my three sisters who figure in 
 the "Children's Hour" — 
 
 ' . "Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra, 
 And Edith with golden hair" 
 
 — the latter of whom came really between the other 
 two. 
 
 It was while walking up and down with his second 
 daughter, then a baby in his arms, that my father 
 composed and sang to her the well-known lines: 
 
 "There was a little girl. 
 
 Who had a little curl, 
 Right in the middle of her forehead. 
 
 When she was good, 
 
 She was very good indeed, 
 But when she was bad she was horrid.**
 
 i6 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 Many people think this a Mother-Goose rhyme, but 
 this is the true version and history. 
 
 It may interest people to know that the "Verses to 
 a Child" were written about my brother Charles, 
 while "The Castle-Builder," published many years 
 later, related to me : 
 
 "A gentle boy, with soft and silken locks, 
 A dreamy boy, with brown and tender eyes, 
 A castle-builder, with his wooden blocks. 
 And towers that touch imaginary skies." 
 
 We were all born in the old Craigie house and there 
 passed our childhood, with summers passed mostly 
 at Nahant, where we boarded first at Mrs. Johnson's 
 in the village, next to the general store and post-office, 
 and later lived in the cottage that my father bought 
 on the south side of Nahant. Mrs. Johnson was a 
 typical New England woman, tall and bony, but an 
 excellent cook, and her popovers and sponge cake 
 were renowned. 
 
 In those early days we kept a carriage and a pair of 
 dapple-grey horses, and always drove down through 
 Maiden and Lynn when we moved to Nahant. That 
 moving, which could not take place till the college 
 term was over, was a great excitement to us children, 
 and I can remember now how delicious the first scent 
 of the seaweed was, as we crossed Lynn beach and got 
 the first breath of the sea.
 
 CRAIGIE HOUSE 17 
 
 We all loved the life at Nahant, except, I think, 
 my father, who, though he enjoyed the rest after his 
 long winter work in college, missed his books and his 
 delightful study in Cambridge. But it was good for 
 us children, and he was content, although, as he used 
 to say, it was impossible to do any work there as the 
 air seemed to have a somnolent and deadening effect 
 upon his muse. And it was not till the autumn came 
 again that his inspiration returned, but with it, alas, 
 the drudgery of his college work which took up so 
 much of his time. 
 
 My father had charge in the college of the Depart- 
 ment of Modern Languages, with tutors under him to 
 do a great deal of the direct teaching. His lecture- 
 room was in the right-hand entry of University Hall 
 in what is now, I believe, the Faculty Room. At that 
 time the chapel services were held in the central hall 
 of "University," the students having their seats on 
 the floor of the hall, while the professors and their 
 families had pews in the large gallery at one end, and 
 the choir in the small one at the other. Professors, as 
 well as students, were expected to attend prayers at 
 eight o'clock in the morning, and divine service, 
 morning and afternoon, on Sundays. Fortunately, 
 my father lived just beyond the half-mile limit and 
 so was relieved of the necessity of prayers, but the 
 two services a day on Sunday had to be endured, and
 
 1 8 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 even we children often went in the afternoon as well 
 as the morning; and how very long and sleepy those 
 afternoon services seemed! The college was then 
 strictly Unitarian, but students of other denomina- 
 tions were allowed to attend their own churches under 
 certain restrictions. The old Puritan Sunday still sur- 
 vived in a great measure, and I remember that we 
 were not allowed to read the same books as on week- 
 days, and had special Sunday clothes which were 
 specially uncomfortable, as if to remind us that we 
 must be on our good behavior, and could not play 
 any games or frolic; in consequence of which we 
 looked upon Sunday as a day to be dreaded; and a 
 long and dreary day it was, to young boys full of 
 animal spirits and a desire to work them off. I do not 
 remember that we went to any Sunday school, be- 
 cause I think there was none connected with the col- 
 lege chapel, but our mother gave us religious instruc- 
 tion at home. The presidents of the college were 
 always clergymen, and conducted the services in the 
 chapel themselves. They seemed to me a succession 
 of dull preachers, Presidents Sparks, Walker, and Hill, 
 but perhaps that was only because my young under- 
 standing was not equal to the profundity of their re- 
 marks. President Felton was the first president not a 
 clergyman. 
 
 Speaking of Puritan Sundays: it was only a few
 
 CRAIGIE HOUSE 19 
 
 years ago that on one Sunday morning in Boston I 
 heard a boy, returning from church with his father on 
 Commonwealth Avenue, shout to another boy on the 
 other side of the street, whereupon his father re- 
 proved him by saying, "Hush, you forget it is Sun- 
 day" — so the old spirit still lingers.
 
 CHAPTER II 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 
 
 My father's special friends, in the early days, were 
 Charles Sumner, Professor Felton, Professor Agassiz, 
 James Russell Lowell, Professor Charles Eliot Nor- 
 ton, and James T. Fields. Mr. Sumner was, I think, 
 nearer to my father than any one. They seemed to 
 share the same ideals, and had the same hatred of 
 injustice and oppression, and were in entire accord 
 politically until Mr. Sumner's quarrel with General 
 Grant and his support of Greeley, when my father re- 
 mained staunch to the Republican Party, to which he 
 had belonged from its foundation. 
 
 Sumner was a large and tall man of over six feet, of a 
 genial temperament, but somewhat wanting in humor, 
 and took himself and the causes he advocated very 
 seriously. He was a cultivated man with a wonderful 
 memory, and had been much in England and on 
 the Continent. He almost always wore a frock coat 
 and white waistcoat, with check trousers and white 
 spats, quite in the English statesman's style. He 
 corresponded constantly with my father and always, 
 when he was in Boston, dined with us on Sundays, 
 having a house on Hancock Street and usually walking
 
 MY FATIiER'S FRIENDS 21 
 
 out for the then midday nieal. He was rather awe- 
 inspiring to us children, and had a way of resting his 
 hand affectionately upon our heads and gradually 
 bearing down as he forgot himself in conversation, till 
 we, who at first did not dare to move, at last gave 
 way under the pressure and collapsed. He also would 
 take one's hand in his and, grinding his thumb into 
 the back of it till we could bear the pain no longer, 
 would then release it with a laugh. I do not think he 
 intentionally made us suffer, it was only his idea of 
 being playful: a rather elephantine one, I must con- 
 fess. He used to tell a story on himself and thought 
 It a great joke, about once, on a Fourth of July, calling 
 up his office boy and delivering to him an impromptu 
 Fourth-of-July oration of what the day meant, and all 
 that, and then giving him a quarter and telling him he 
 could go and pass the day at Mount Auburn (the 
 cemetery in Cambridge). Let us hope the boy spent it 
 in fire-crackers and on Boston Common instead. 
 
 Mr. Sumner, as I remember him best, had iron-grey 
 hair and side whiskers and a rather long nose which he 
 was fond of pulling. I remember wondering as a boy 
 whether it was so long because of this habit of his, or if 
 he pulled it because it was so long. He had rather small 
 and what might be called pig's eyes, with red rims, 
 but on the whole was a fine-looking man, with an 
 imposing presence. I remember well the terrible com-
 
 22 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 motion made by the attack upon him in the Senate 
 Chamber by Brooks. He was struck from behind as 
 he was seated at his desk, and In his frantic efforts to 
 rise to escape the terrible blows of the cane on the 
 back of his head, tore the desk bodily from Its fasten- 
 ings. It was many years, and after much suffering 
 and searing with white-hot irons on his back, before he 
 recovered his health, and I imagine his nervous system 
 never fully recovered, which may have 'had something 
 to do with the infelicities of his marriage, late in life, to 
 the widow Hooper, afterwards known as Mrs. Mason, 
 she having resumed her maiden name after the divorce. 
 
 One amusing incident In relation to Mr. Sumner I 
 must not forget. My father had had constructed in 
 his dressing-room a shower bath, let into the wall, with 
 curtains in front. He was one day showing it with 
 pride to Mr. Sumner and explained how by pulling a 
 cord the water descended, whereupon Mr. Sumner 
 stepped into the alcove, and pulled the cord, without 
 thinking, just to see how it worked, and was of course 
 drenched. Alas, for the dignified Sumner! 
 
 Another story of Sumner that he used to tell against 
 himself related to one of his voyages to Europe. As 
 the guest of honor on board he had a seat on the right 
 hand of the captain at his table. Mr. Sumner had 
 been ill for three days and at last dragged himself up 
 in time for dinner, but was a little late. Those were
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 23 
 
 the days when the captain sat at the head of a long 
 table and carved the roast himself. On this occasion 
 the captain called loudly for the steward to know where 
 the beef gravy was. " Please, sir," said the steward, " this 
 gentleman has eaten it, thinking it was the soup." 
 Whereupon Mr. Sumner retiredmore sick than before. 
 
 Mr. Sumner was very kind to me later, when at the 
 age of seventeen I had the ambition to enter West 
 Point; although he must have known my father's 
 aversion to war or anything connected with it, he had 
 me appointed to the Academy. Unfortunately, when 
 the time came for me to go up for my examination, I 
 was sick in bed and had little courage, and gave in to 
 my father's objections to my entering on a soldier's 
 career. I have always regretted this, as I still believe 
 that I should have made a better soldier than artist. 
 
 Mr. Sumner's brother George was also a frequent 
 visitor at the house. He was a cultivated man and 
 much travelled. He was also responsible for having the 
 State House painted chocolate color. Another brother, 
 Albert, also came sometimes. He and his wife were 
 lost at sea in a collision of steamships outside New 
 York, and I remember there was a lawsuit about the 
 property as to which was likely to have survived the 
 other. The court finally decided, I believe, that the 
 man, being supposedly the stronger, would naturally 
 survive the longer.
 
 24 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 About 1848 there appeared on the scene a young 
 German poet, Emmanuel Scherb by name; slender, 
 with dark hair worn long like Liszt's. He was a con- 
 stant visitor at the house and was, I imagine, a po- 
 litical refugee. He seemed to be very poor, and no 
 doubt was glad of the economy of constant dinners 
 and teas at our house. He was a cultivated man, 
 however, and my father seemed fond of him, or at 
 least he tolerated him, perhaps out of compassion, as 
 he did so many others. We boys, and also my Uncle 
 Tom Appleton, specially disliked him, and I think it 
 must have been of him that my father once remarked, 
 when some one asked him why he allowed him to come 
 so much to the house, "Who would be kind to him if 
 I were not?" We caught him once surreptitiously 
 rubbing a small round bald spot on the top of his 
 head, that looked surprisingly like a priest's tonsure, 
 and asked him why he did it, and he said that the 
 friction would make the hair grow, whereas we felt 
 convinced it would have quite the contrary eflfect, 
 and were perfectly sure after that that he was a 
 Jesuit in disguise. However, later, as he became more 
 and more down on his luck, I believe he became a 
 Unitarian preacher, and finally in '62 or '63 he was 
 detected in bounty-jumping, or, in other words, of 
 enlisting to get the bounty that was paid for recruits, 
 and then deserting. I believe my father had to pay
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 25 
 
 a considerable sum to get him out of that scrape. 
 Shortly afterwards, to the relief of every one, he 
 died in a hospital in Boston. 
 
 Professor Felton, afterwards president of the col- 
 lege, was a man of large bulk, with a smooth-shaven 
 face and tight-curling black hair, and resembled some 
 of the old Romans, especially as his nose was of the 
 type known by that name. He was a very genial man 
 with a hearty laugh, and came a great deal to the 
 house in the early days, and to Nahant, where he 
 lived in the Gary Cottage, near the Spouting Horn 
 on the north shore. 
 
 I remember his telling us how one day, when he had 
 stripped for his daily swim and was contemplating 
 the waves, which were unusually high, and had just 
 made up his mind that it was too rough safely to take 
 a swim, a huge wave, larger than its fellows, picked 
 him up from the rock on which he was sitting, as if he 
 had been a baby, and carried him out to sea, when 
 another equally large one brought him back again 
 and deposited him on the same spot, only very much 
 bruised and scratched: he was so fat he was like a 
 cork, and was easily tossed about, and must have 
 been an amusing sight; but it was no joke for him. 
 
 Professor Agassiz was the most charming man of 
 all my father's friends. He was the embodiment of 
 bonhomie and had the most delightful and contagious
 
 26 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 laugh I ever heard. We saw much of him, both at 
 Cambridge and at Nahant, where he also had a cot- 
 tage, at the foot of the hill on which the Gary Cottage 
 stood. He was like a child in his delight when some 
 new fish or medusa was brought to him by the fisher- 
 men, who all understood that anything unusual that 
 came up on their lines, or that was caught in their nets, 
 was to go direct to him. He had large tanks con- 
 nected with his house, where, in constantly renewed 
 salt water, he had them put, so that he could study 
 them at leisure. He also took the greatest interest in 
 geology and would dance with joy when he found 
 some rock smooth and polished by ice that confirmed 
 his glacial theory, or stray boulders of a diff"erent ma- 
 terial from that of the surrounding rocks, showing 
 that they must have been brought from a distance; 
 and he would treat with the greatest contempt the 
 suggestion that they might have been deposited on 
 the shore by icebergs, which I believe is the theory 
 of some scientists. There are several of these large 
 boulders in Essex County, the Ship Rock in Saugus 
 and the Agassiz Boulder in Manchester being two of 
 the largest and visited by Agassiz with great interest. 
 With all his charm and good nature the mention of 
 Darwin and his theory acted on him like a red rag to a 
 bull, and he would become so excited and furious that 
 it would be well to drop the subject as quickly as pos-
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 27 
 
 sible, and then he would calm down with a great burst 
 of laughter at his own rage. He would never allow 
 that Darwin had a leg to stand on, and always argued 
 that if the Creator could make many species develop 
 from one, He could equally and with more reason 
 create all the different species. I do not know whether 
 he ever changed his mind or ever accepted, what all 
 the rest of the scientific world soon came to accept as 
 one of the fundamental principles of creation — • the 
 development of species. He spoke English wonder- 
 fully well, with only a slight foreign accent, and was 
 one of the most delightful lecturers I ever heard, so 
 clear and concise, and with a wonderful talent for 
 drawing in chalk on the blackboard. It was a real 
 treat to see a perfect fish or skeleton develop under 
 his hand with extraordinary sureness and perfect 
 knowledge, without any hesitation or correcting, like 
 a Japanese drawing in its truth to nature, and it 
 seemed a shame that such beautiful drawings were 
 only in chalk and had to be rubbed out again. I re- 
 member his saying once that the first time he lec- 
 tured, he told his audience all he knew in twenty 
 minutes, and had been elaborating ever since. Such 
 was the modesty of one of the most learned of men. 
 To show the extraordinary kindness of the man — 
 once, when I was just beginning my artistic career, he 
 was talking to me of the carelessness of artists in de-
 
 28 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 picting the different species of trees or geological for- 
 mations, and spoke of Calarme, a Swiss artist, in whose 
 pictures, on the contrary, these things were always 
 carefully attended to. Poor dear man, he little under- 
 stood that science and art are widely separated, and 
 that a slavish copying of nature is not art, and that 
 art does not concern itself with fauna and geological 
 periods, but with the impression a particular scene or 
 effect has on the spectator and can be made to have 
 on the imagination of others. However, in this par- 
 ticular case, he very kindly asked me to come over to 
 his place on the north side of Nahant the next morn- 
 ing, and he would give me a lecture on rock forma- 
 tion. So the next morning I appeared at his cottage 
 and he took me out on the shore, and for an hour and 
 a half of his valuable time, he gave me a most delight- 
 ful talk on the geological periods and the formation 
 of different rocks. 
 
 One of my great regrets in life is that my father 
 would not let me go with Agassiz on his expedition to 
 Brazil and his exploration of the Amazon. Agassiz 
 had offered me the post of artist to the expedition and 
 I had been wild to go, but I was not yet of age, and 
 my father very much opposed it, fearing I could not 
 stand the climate, so I reluctantly gave it up. It was 
 certainly one of the lost chances of my life. That was 
 very characteristic of my father; he always thought
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 29 
 
 it wisest not to do a thing. He had none of the adven- 
 turous spirit. "To stay at home is best," he wrote. 
 He hated excess or extremes. He dishked extreme 
 cold or extreme heat, and beHeved in the juste milieu 
 in everything. Not for him, therefore, the extreme 
 heights or depths of the tragic poets. He was not a 
 rushing river, boiHng and tumbling over rocks, but 
 the placid stream flowing through quiet meadows. 
 He hated war, he hated violence in any form, and 
 though nothing roused his indignation like injustice, 
 he was for peaceful measures if possible. 
 
 None of the abolitionists hated slavery more than 
 he, but he did not believe in violent methods, and 
 thought that in time gradual emancipation could 
 be brought about with proper compensation to the 
 slave-owners. But, unfortunately, the South did be- 
 lieve in violent measures, and by their violence pulled 
 the temple about their ears, and brought about the 
 very catastrophe that they dreaded. "They that take 
 the sword shall perish with the sword." 
 
 James Russell Lowell was, of course, one of the 
 most frequent visitors to our house, living as he did at 
 Elmwood, only a short distance beyond, and passing 
 daily on his walks to and from the college, when as 
 Professor of Belles-Lettres he succeeded my father in 
 1857. Mr. Lowell was a handsome man with reddish 
 beard, and hair parted in the middle, which at that
 
 30 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 time was thought very effeminate; I remember an ad- 
 vertisement of the period, in which a man was wanted, 
 which ended with "No one who parts his hair in the 
 middle need apply." Mr. Lowell always seemed to me 
 hard to understand, and it was only after his death, 
 when his letters were published by Charles Eliot 
 Norton, that there seemed to be a clue to the enigma. 
 I think he was a very sensitive and perhaps shy man, 
 and thought he was not appreciated, as appears in his 
 letters, and was jealous of the successes of others. A 
 man genial and charming as host in his own house, he 
 seemed constrained and shy in company; given to 
 saying sharp things and doing occasionally most ex- 
 traordinarily gauche things, for a man of the world. 
 It was only as Minister to England, where he was 
 made much of, and flattered to his heart's content, that 
 he seemed to find himself. In America, before he was 
 appointed as Minister to Spain, he went little into 
 society, and preferred to shut himself up in his own 
 house, where he received a few intimate friends, and 
 where, by his own fireside with his pipe in his mouth, 
 he was the most delightful conversationalist, with 
 many quips and cranks, and much unusual and eru- 
 dite knowledge. 
 
 I could give several instances of his gaucherie in so- 
 ciety that have been related to me, but will give only 
 one instance that happened to me personally. To be-
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 31 
 
 gin with, at the time of my father's death, Mr. Lowell, 
 then in England, was the only one of my father's inti- 
 mate friends who did not write either to my sisters or 
 myself some word of condolence and sympathy. The 
 first time I saw Mr. Lowell after that event was at my 
 youngest sister's wedding some years later, at the 
 Craigie house. I had not seen him since I had been in 
 Madrid, at the time he was Minister there, when he 
 had been most cordial and hospitable. Seeing him 
 standing in the middle of the room talking with Mr. 
 Norton, I went up to him and very cordially took him 
 by the hand and said how glad I was to see him back 
 in America. I then turned to shake hands with Mr. 
 Norton. Mr. Lowell, to my utter astonishment, 
 turned on his heel, and without a word to me walked 
 across the room to Miss Norton, who was standing at 
 some distance, and did not come near me again. I 
 have never been able to understand this incident. I 
 saw Mr. Lowell frequently after that, before his death, 
 but no explanation was ever offered by him or asked 
 for by me, and he always seemed most cordial when I 
 called upon him at his house, which I did several times 
 while he was ill. 
 
 Charles Eliot Norton was another of my father's 
 friends, although much younger. He came much to 
 the house in the days of the Dante suppers so charm- 
 ingly described by Mr. Howells. A sweet, gentle
 
 32 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 nature, perhaps a little over-refined, but a ripe scholar 
 and a lover of art. My father relied much on his judg- 
 ments in things literary, and especially on his criti- 
 cisms of his translation of Dante. In art, however, he 
 was a Ruskinlte, and did not believe, with the excep- 
 tion of Turner and Burne- Jones, that any art existed 
 since the Renaissance. He once apologized to me for 
 having a charming Corot hanging in his hall, left by 
 some friend for him to care take of. Fancy apologiz- 
 ing for a Corot ! 
 
 Ralph Waldo Emerson came seldom to my father's 
 house, but I saw him occasionally at the Saturday 
 Club, where my father sometimes took me, and also 
 at lectures given by Mr. Emerson in Boston, where he 
 invariably got his manuscript mixed and would fill in 
 the space with his beaming smile, as if to take his au- 
 dience into his confidence, and say, "You see how it is 
 with philosophers, they can't be expected to do things 
 like other people." That wonderful, benignant smile 
 is the chief thing I remember about him. There is a 
 story told about him and Alcott, a neighbor in Con- 
 cord, which, if not true, is "ben trovato." It seems 
 that Alcott used to visit Emerson In the mornings and 
 Emerson would get off some of his Orphic sayings, 
 and in the afternoon Emerson would visit Alcott, 
 when the latter would repeat some of the things Emer- 
 son had said in the morning. Emerson, quite forget-
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 33 
 
 ting that he had said them, would say, "What a 
 remarkable mind Alcott haB.'" 
 
 A unique character in Cambridge In those days was 
 Sophocles, the Greek Professor. Of small stature, with 
 a great mass of tousled grey hair and beard, out of 
 which gleamed two piercing black eyes, he was sup- 
 posed to live in almost abject poverty, in one room, 
 cooking his own meals, that he might send all his 
 salary to his aged mother in Greece. He used to tell a 
 marvellous tale about his father and the primitive 
 habits of life in Greece. I cannot do justice to the 
 story, but it seems that his father lived somewhere in 
 the country where he was visited one day by some 
 cut-throats who announced that they had come to 
 kill him. His father knew these men and knew that 
 they had come from an enemy of his. So he said to 
 them, "How much does my enemy give you to kill 
 me.**" — and they named a sum, a very small sum in 
 our money. And he said to them, " I will give you so 
 much more" — and he named a sum — "if you will 
 go back and kill my enemy instead of me." And after 
 they had eaten and drunk, they departed to kill his 
 enemy. Then Sophocles would give a most unholy 
 chuckle. 
 
 An occasional visitor to our house was the "Wicked" 
 Sam Ward, so called to distinguish him from the 
 "Good" Sam Ward, who was a banker and the agent
 
 34 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 of the Barings in America. Sam Ward had been a 
 fellow-student of my father's in Germany, I think at 
 Heidelberg, and always had a warm affection for him, 
 in spite of their being so dissimilar in every way. He 
 was a most charming and agreeable man. He, on 
 several occasions, sold poems for my father to news- 
 papers or publishers at a much higher price than my 
 father would have dared to ask. He was the brother 
 of Julia Ward Howe, and uncle of Marion Crawford, 
 the novelist, and it was owing to his urging that the 
 latter wrote his first book, "Mr. Isaacs," which had 
 such an Immediate success. Mr. Ward, in later years, 
 lived in Washington, and was known as the "King of 
 the Lobby." He gave wonderful dinners, and was 
 supposed thereby to be able to "put over" legisla- 
 tion when his guests were in a mellow mood. 
 
 A certain Hungarian, Szerdehaly — if that is the 
 right spelling, which probably it is not — at one time 
 came much to the house. He had been an officer in the 
 army and had fought under Kossuth. He was won- 
 derfully well-read on all military matters, and could 
 describe all Napoleon's campaigns and battles in 
 great detail. What his special attraction was, to my 
 father, I do not know, certainly not his recital of 
 battles. Probably his being an exile was enough for 
 my father to be kind to him. 
 
 Another political exile was Luigi Monti, a Sicilian,
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 35 
 
 and a much more sympathetic friend. He taught 
 Italian under my father in college, and we all became 
 very fond of him. He had the Italian faculty of play- 
 ing on the piano, from memory, most of the Italian 
 operas, and was always a welcome guest. He married 
 an American, the sister of Dr. T. W. Parsons, who 
 was an Italian scholar, and who made one of the best 
 translations in verse of Dante's "Inferno." Mr. 
 Monti figured, as the Sicilian, in my father's "Tales 
 of a Wayside Inn," as did also Dr. Parsons, as the 
 poet, and is described there better than I can do it. 
 Through Mr. Sumner he was later made consul to 
 Palermo, but was removed by Grant when he and 
 Sumner quarrelled. 
 
 The genial publisher James T. Fields and his 
 charming and romantic wife were, of course, frequent 
 visitors at Cambridge. My father, I think, often re- 
 lied on their criticism and suggestion before publish- 
 ing his poems. Mr. Fields was a large man, with a 
 superb curly black beard, and was a great raconteur. 
 His wife was rather small and frail-looking. If he got 
 a crumb lodged in his beard, she would say, "Jamie, 
 dear, there is a gazelle in the garden," which amused 
 his friends and became a household expression in our 
 family. She would also have lapses and a far-away 
 look, and when questioned would say, "Oh, I was in 
 Italy." In her later years she became one of the most
 
 36 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 delightful old ladies I ever met, so cultivated and in- 
 terested in everything, as well as given up to good 
 works. 
 
 Mr. Fields was once waked in the night, by hear- 
 ing some one moving about below stairs. Fearing 
 burglars, he went to the head of the stairs, and called 
 out in a rather shaky voice, "Who's there.?" "Come 
 down and see," was the response from below, where- 
 upon Mr. Fields very wisely locked himself into his 
 room and from the window called loudly for the police. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Fields had a little box of a house on 
 Charles Street, in the same block with Dr. Holmes, 
 where they dispensed a charming hospitality. They 
 had many interesting souvenirs from celebrated 
 people, and in later years Mrs. Fields held the near- 
 est approach to a salon of anybody in Boston. Mrs. 
 Whitman, Mrs. Pratt, and Mrs. Bell, daughters of 
 Rufus Choate; Julia Ward Howe, Mrs. Thaxter, and 
 Miss Jewett were some of the ladies who added lustre 
 to these gatherings. It was through Mr. and Mrs. 
 Fields that all the literary celebrities of the world 
 that came to America were passed on to my father, 
 such as Thackeray, Dickens, Trollope, and many 
 others, not to mention Americans like Bayard Taylor, 
 Bret Harte, Howells, etc. 
 
 Thackeray I do not remember, but Dickens, on his 
 second visit, came several times to lunch and dine. He
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 37 
 
 was very entertaining, with many amusing stories, 
 but somehow not quite a gentleman. He was fond of a 
 red plush waistcoat and a very loud watch-chain. On 
 that second visit he gave readings from his own works 
 which had a great success, and I imagine that Amer- 
 ican dollars made him look more kindly on the coun- 
 try than he did on his first visit. He had as a manager 
 an Englishman named Dolby, a large man, and a 
 walking-match was arranged between him and Mr. 
 Osgood, the publisher, a small man. Every one sup- 
 posed the large Englishman would have an easy vic- 
 tory over his small competitor, especially as English- 
 men are known as such great walkers. However, when 
 the match came off, owing, I fancy, partly to Mr. 
 Dolby's over-confidence and his not taking the 
 trouble to get himself into condition, and Mr. Os- 
 good's doing so, the over-confident and large Dolby 
 soon found himself out of breath and outdistanced on 
 the hills, and Osgood came in an easy winner. 
 
 Lord Houghton came often to dine on his numer- 
 ous visits to America. He was very genial, but rather 
 eccentric, and had very bad table manners, slobber- 
 ing his food. I afterwards saw him in London, where 
 he came to call on my wife and me. He did nothing 
 but laugh as if he thought that it was a huge joke 
 that he should have returned our call at all; but in 
 spite of the times he had dined at my father's house 
 
 50977
 
 38 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 in Cambridge, he did not invite us to his house, nor 
 did his daughters return my wife's call. Different 
 countries, diflferent ways. 
 
 Speaking of table manners, my uncle, Mr. Mack- 
 intosh, of whom I have already spoken, had an 
 aversion to napkins, and always took his from his 
 plate and threw it into the corner of the room, using 
 the edge of the tablecloth instead. At that time nap- 
 kins were not used much in England, and I remember 
 that up to 1873 the Cunard Company did not furnish 
 any, and we had to carry our own when we went to 
 England. There is a story that one day in England a 
 lady making a visit on some titled person remarked 
 that she understood that the Queen had introduced 
 the custom of having napkins at lunch; and the other 
 remarked that the Queen ought to be very careful 
 how she tampered with the customs of England. . 
 
 To return to the celebrities: Aubrey de Vere, the 
 Irish poet, I remember coming to dine in a sealskin 
 waistcoat, which must have been very hot, besides 
 showing that he thought the American barbarians did 
 not dress for dinner. 
 
 Trollope was a very loud-voiced individual, with 
 the true British self-confidence. He boasted that he 
 made a practice of always writing just so many hours 
 a day, whether he felt like it or not : which accounts 
 for much of his long-drawn-out tediousness.
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 39 
 
 Of Americans, Bayard Taylor came often. He was 
 a very handsome man of fine carriage, and must have 
 looked superb in the Arab costume which he wore in 
 his travels in the East. He had many thrilling tales 
 to tell of his explorations of unknown lands. 
 
 Bret Harte, a slight man, with sensitive face, al- 
 though perhaps at home in the wilds of California, 
 had so little sense of locality that I remember I was 
 asked to pilot him back to his lodgings in Boston after 
 his first visit to us. Later he came on to deliver a 
 poem before the Phi Beta Kappa Society. Every one 
 was disappointed at the rather commonplace and not 
 at all appropriate poem he delivered. But it was 
 whispered about privately that the reason was that 
 the poem he had prepared for the occasion was de- 
 stroyed, the night before, by his wife, who was known 
 to be out of her mind, so he had to take whatever he 
 had on hand. Poor man! He, of course, wanted so 
 much to make a good impression before all these 
 Eastern bigwigs in literature. 
 
 Mr. Howells came to live in Cambridge and was 
 always a welcome visitor. A charming, genial man, 
 with a keen sense of humor and a delightful laugh 
 easily provoked. My father, as well as the rest of us, 
 grew to be very fond of him. 
 
 Henry James, Sr., and his two celebrated sons also 
 lived a long time in Cambridge. Of the three, Mr.
 
 40 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 James, Sr., was perhaps the most Interesting. He was 
 one of the best talkers I ever heard. Not long before 
 he died, he had his portrait painted by Duveneck, and 
 as Mr. James was an old man and lame, I offered my 
 studio in Cambridge for the sittings. So the two of us 
 painted him at the same time, and he entertained 
 us all the while with the most delightful talk. Profes- 
 sor William James belonged to a dining-club with me 
 in Cambridge and was a most delightful comrade, 
 though I must confess sometimes too profound for 
 my comprehension. His brother Harry, as we called 
 him, was nearer my age, and, like his father, was a 
 charming talker when in the mood, which was not al- 
 ways. In those early days he had not acquired the 
 stutter that he picked up in England, and I remember 
 how eagerly we welcomed his first books. His later 
 manner became so involved that, like the rest of the 
 world, we almost gave up reading him. One had to 
 go through such a struggle with obscure sentences, 
 and hardly any plot, that it was seldom worth the 
 eifort. Why literary people pretended to admire his 
 later style I can't imagine. The best style should be 
 the clearest and simplest. 
 
 One of the most delightful of men was George Wil- 
 liam Curtis, who came on from New York occasion- 
 ally. He had great charm of manner and a most musi- 
 cal voice, and was a great favorite as a lecturer. Once
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 41 
 
 in the fifties we stayed in the same house with him 
 at Newport. He was at that time courting his future 
 wife, Miss Shaw. She was devoted to horses, and, I 
 suppose to ingratiate himself with her, he bought a 
 fast trotter, and used to take her to ride, although I 
 do not think he was at all a horsy man himself. One 
 day she could not go with him, and he took me in- 
 stead, a lad of ten or twelve, and was just as agreeable 
 and nice to me as if he had not been disappointed in 
 his companion, which shows what a sweet disposition 
 he had. 
 
 I had almost forgotten Dr. Holmes, the dear little 
 man. He was like a sparrow, always chirping so 
 gaily. I remember one memorable lunch at Nahant 
 when were present the Doctor, Mr. Sumner, Professor 
 Agassiz, Mr. Appleton, my father, and myself. How 
 gay the talk was, and how brilliant! It would be hard 
 to find four more wonderful talkers than the first four. 
 I sat next to Dr. Holmes, and when he was not firing 
 off volleys of fire-crackers in response to the sallies of 
 the others, he was plying me with questions as if to see 
 how little I knew. I think it was Dr. Holmes who 
 once related how on one of his lecturing tours, in 
 some small country town, he had struggled hard to 
 get a laugh out of the audience. All his funniest sal- 
 lies fell flat; only an occasional spasmodic twitch or 
 grimace would pass over the face of some one. Much
 
 42 • RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 discouraged, he finished his lecture and was about to 
 depart, when one of the selectmen came up to him 
 and thanked him warmly for the lecture, and re- 
 marked that "some of the things you said were so 
 funny that it was all we could do not to laugh." 
 
 Indeed, to have seen so much of all the talented 
 people who came to our house was a liberal educa- 
 tion in itself, and I have always felt that I never had 
 any education at all in comparison with the learning 
 of those men, and it has rather spoiled me for ordinary 
 society. 
 
 Of course, besides literary people there were many 
 other celebrities — actors, singers, and artists, as well 
 as public characters like Kossuth and the Prince of 
 Wales, later Edward VII, whom I remember coming 
 to pay their respects to my father. Of the actresses, 
 first place should be given Mrs. Kemble, whose won- 
 derful reading of Shakespeare enthralled us when we 
 were young. She was a large woman, with a beau- 
 tiful voice, and a tragic Lady Macbeth manner that 
 inspired many people with awe. There is a story that 
 she was introduced to a timid youth in Europe who, 
 to make conversation, said, " I believe, madam, that 
 you have many fine hotels in America." She glared 
 at him a moment, and then crushed him with the re- 
 mark in her most tragic manner, " I have no hotel in 
 America." She was, however, really a most kindly
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 43 
 
 person. We once passed a summer at Nahant in the 
 same boarding-house with her and her daughter, 
 Mrs. Wister. I was then only a boy and one day we 
 had all gone for a picnic to the Ship Rock in Saugus. 
 For some reason, either from the heat of the sun, or 
 from the viands, or both, I had a violent sick headache. 
 Mrs. Kemble took compassion on me and took my 
 head in her lap. Mrs. Wister, whose father, Mr. 
 Butler, was an American, was once in Europe at a 
 table d'hote where a lot of English were making fun of 
 Americans for their pronunciation and queer phrases. 
 When she could stand it no longer, she said in the 
 beautiful English learned from her mother, "We may 
 not speak your language, but we understand it." 
 Tableau ! 
 
 Of course Sarah Bernhardt came to see my father, 
 and it Is said kissed him, but I cannot vouch for that, 
 though it sounds likely. 
 
 The two beautiful women Miss Nilsson, the singer, 
 and Miss Neilson, the actress, I remember coming; 
 especially the latter, who was the most lovely Juliet 
 ever seen on the stage, with a beautiful English voice 
 and charming acting. Nilsson the singer I first heard 
 in Paris, where she was singing in 1866 at the Lyric 
 Theatre, now, I believe, the Sarah Bernhardt. She 
 was then singing contralto parts, having a mezzo- 
 soprano voice, Cavallo, the wife of the manager,
 
 44 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 taking the soprano. She was then young and very 
 beautiful and a great favorite, which naturally made 
 Cavallo jealous. 
 
 Among the musicians I must not forget Ole Bull, 
 the great violinist. He came often to play to my fa- 
 ther, and was like a great child in his simplicity and 
 self-esteem. He told once of his son by his first mar- 
 riage, whom he had not seen for many years, coming 
 to America to find him, and how he went to a concert 
 and, not remembering his father by sight after so 
 long, was not sure it was he till he heard him play, and 
 then he said, "Ah! it is the great Ole Bull.'^ Ole Bull 
 married, in this country, a charming woman, much 
 younger, a Miss Thorp, whose brother married my 
 youngest sister, so that the families were brought 
 much together. He was a most genial and kindly 
 man and figured in the "Tales of a Wayside Inn" as 
 the violinist. I do not know how musical people rank 
 him as a virtuoso, but I fancy he was accused of being 
 too fond of showing off. However, he certainly gave 
 us a great deal of pleasure by his playing, so what is 
 the use of comparisons ? 
 
 Fechter we all liked very much when he was acting 
 in Boston. Socially also he was delightful, so full of 
 bonhomie and good spirits. He made the most roman- 
 tic of lovers, and we young people were never tired 
 of quoting the many romantic speeches from his plays.
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 45 
 
 such as, "Dost like the picture?" and, "Wilt walk?" 
 or, "I am here, Lagardere." 
 
 Booth came too. Poor, melancholy Booth ! I think 
 he never recovered from his brother's dastardly crime. 
 I remember being in the same hotel with him in New 
 York when he was playing with Salvini. He gave 
 Mrs. Longfellow and me a box one night, and in the 
 scene where Othello throws lago down, Booth was so 
 drunk, or ill, that he lay with his head in the footlights, 
 and could not get up till Salvini came and pulled him 
 up. Poor man! he was hissed, and it was very em- 
 barrassing for me the next day when I had to thank 
 him for the pleasure the performance had given us. 
 
 Salvini also came to my father's house many times, 
 and my father enjoyed talking Italian with him. He 
 certainly was a remarkable tragic actor, who could 
 carry off a play speaking Italian when the rest of the 
 company were speaking English. 
 
 My father was very fond of music, being able him- 
 self to play a little on the piano, and having been 
 guilty of playing the flute in his youth, sometimes 
 even playing it occasionally in later years for our 
 benefit. Therefore, he enjoyed the many musicians 
 who came, and who were delighted to play or sing to 
 him. Also he was always receiving seats and boxes for 
 the operas and concerts. 
 
 I can remember the first operas I heard as a boy.
 
 46 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 with Mario and Grisi, and later, when about sixteen, 
 Patti's first appearance. How charming and beauti- 
 ful she was, and how like a bird she sang! Of course 
 nobody has ever come up to her since, in her particu- 
 lar line. My father's favorite opera was "Don Gio- 
 vanni," and I think it has been mine also, when well 
 given, but it needs an uncommonly strong cast, which 
 is not always obtainable. 
 
 Many artists and critics passed through our doors : 
 the former mostly in search of a job to paint my 
 father's portrait; but for some reason there was 
 never a really satisfactory picture ever made of him. 
 
 Lawrence, the English artist, made a very good 
 drawing, done before my father grew a beard, but 
 slightly too fierce in expression. 
 
 Healy painted him three times, twice in Rome in 
 1869 — ' once with his daughter Edith, and once stand- 
 ing under the Arch of Titus. What his idea was I do 
 not know. The other portrait he painted I think in 
 1862, not long after my mother's tragic death, and 
 when my father for the first time had grown a beard. 
 
 Many sculptors tried their hands at busts: one a 
 negress in Rome; what has become of it I do not 
 know. The best was by Powers in Florence, but still 
 not quite satisfactory. The bust in Westminster Ab- 
 bey, by Brock, an Englishman, from photographs 
 we sent him, although it looks very well in its posi-
 
 MY FATHER'S FRIENDS 47 
 
 tlon, has too much the look of a prosperous English 
 business man. 
 
 I remember well William Winter, in later years the 
 dramatic critic, coming to see my father when he was 
 a young man, rather timid and shy. My father would 
 always offer him a cigar, which he was too timid to re- 
 fuse, and which invariably made him sick, so that he 
 would have to retire to the garden. The same thing 
 happened every time he came, much to the amuse- 
 ment of us boys. 
 
 Among others living in Cambridge was a painter of 
 some note who was also a poet. One day I had been 
 reading some of his poetry, and I said to my father 
 that I thought Mr. C.'s poetry was better than his 
 paintings. My father said, "On the contrary, his 
 paintings are better than his poetry," which, between 
 two expert opinions, seemed to leave very little of the 
 unfortunate gentleman. 
 
 A little poet named Street came to lunch at Na- 
 hant one day. After lunch my father and he took a 
 walk in the course of which they met a nicely dressed 
 woman, to whom my father, always very polite to his 
 servants, took off his hat. Mr. Street demanded to 
 know who the handsome lady was; my father said, 
 "That is the lady who waited on you at lunch," much 
 to the amusement of both.
 
 CPIAPTER III 
 
 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS 
 
 The two Adamses, Charles and Henry, have each 
 written a book to try to prove that they had no edu- 
 cation. I knew both of them well enough to know 
 that no one else would have dared to make such an 
 assertion. The Adamses have from the time of John 
 Adams loved to be in the opposition, and I venture to 
 say that, with the family trait of one always contra- 
 dicting the other, Henry probably said that Charles 
 had quite as good an education as was good for him, 
 and Charles, after reading "The Education of Henry 
 Adams," would have said it was rubbish, whereas it 
 is an uncommonly edifying book. It is like red pepper; 
 it tickles the palate without giving much nourish- 
 ment, and leads nowhere. 
 
 I once passed a rainy Sunday at The Glades, a 
 summer colony, where two Adamses, Jack and 
 Charles, sat all the afternoon on the piazza in rock- 
 ing-chairs, and whatever one said the other contra- 
 dicted flatly. 
 
 Education ought to be a training of the faculties 
 and not the mere cramming of knowledge into a boy, 
 like potatoes into a sack. Education really never 
 ceases from the time we are born until we die, and de-
 
 ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW 
 June, iS6i
 
 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS 49 
 
 pends more on teaching one to use his brain, to ac- 
 quire knowledge through experience, and judgment 
 of what facts are useful and what a waste of time. 
 Many people never seem to use their brains or to have 
 any judgment. We learn more from our failures than 
 from our successes, and it is one of the tragedies of 
 life that we can pass on such a small part of our ac- 
 cumulated knowledge. The rising generation seldom 
 thinks much of the wisdom of its elders, or pays much 
 attention to its admonitions, but has to learn from sad 
 experience for itself. 
 
 It is related of William James that he gave a frog 
 to his first-born, when a baby, to see what would hap- 
 pen. The child naturally put it in its mouth; which 
 delighted the experimental parent, and I am sure 
 convinced the infant that frogs in the uncooked state 
 were not desirable food, and that it had better not 
 try it again. Hence we learn by experience! 
 
 My education began as the youngest pupil in a 
 dame's school in an old gambrel-roofed house under 
 the shadow of the Washington Elm in Cambridge, 
 where the Congregational Church now stands. There 
 I learned to make my pothooks and hangers, and I 
 suppose learned my three R's. Later I graduated to 
 a boys' school on Kirkland Street, kept by one Am- 
 brose Wellington. I was a good boy, but I can't re- 
 member that I learned much there. I chiefly remem-
 
 50 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 ber the struggle to get over that mile between our 
 house and the school by nine o'clock, especially in 
 winter mornings when sometimes the snowdrifts were 
 waist-deep. When we were about eleven or twelve, 
 my brother and I persuaded my father to let us go to 
 Boston to a school kept by Mr. George Bradford in 
 the old Liberty Block on Washington Street, oppo- 
 site the Boylston Market. Mr. Bradford was a very 
 amiable old gentleman, and I think much too lenient, 
 so that we did not progress very fast. Finally he gave 
 up the school and I was transferred to Mr. Dixwell's 
 school in Boylston Place. There we all had to work 
 hard, as Mr. Dixwell was a stern and sarcastic task- 
 master, and kept the under-teachers up to their work. 
 It was there that I heard a boy translate " cum summa 
 diligentia" into "Caesar came into Gaul on the top 
 of a diligence." Owing to an attack of measles and 
 the ensuing weak eyes, I lost nearly the whole of one 
 winter, and so fell very far behind my class in Latin 
 and Greek. I was not very good at Latin or Greek, 
 and could never see the good of learning long strings 
 of words that were governed by the ablative or of 
 committing to memory a lot of Greek irregular verbs. 
 It is that kind of teaching that does so much to dis- 
 courage boys and to make them hate their studies 
 instead of making them interested, which so easily 
 could be done by the right kind of teaching.
 
 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS 51 
 
 I was always good at mathematics, which for some 
 reason in the human mind never goes with the acquir- 
 ing of languages. So, having been two years in the 
 first class in mathematics and the second or third in 
 Latin and Greek, I took the bull by the horns and 
 persuaded my father to let me go to the Lawrence 
 Scientific School instead of the College. It seems to 
 me that mathematics is the best training for the rea- 
 soning faculties. It induces, indeed demands, clear 
 thinking, and makes inexact statements and sloppy 
 reasoning fatal. It was at this time that I made my 
 futile effort to go to West Point. 
 
 Philosophical speculation may be excellent gym- 
 nastics for the mind, but I think it largely a waste of 
 time. What we want are concrete facts, and not theo- 
 ries, as to what might, could, or should be. I have 
 always had a horror of theorists. I have seen too 
 many artists and others wrecked on the reefs of theory. 
 My uncle, Mr. Appleton, once expressed it very well 
 in telling of how he was asked by his professor in 
 college to explain the theory of the billiard ball. He 
 said, "Confound him! I could n't explain that, but I 
 could give him seventy-five out of a hundred at bil- 
 liards and beat him." 
 
 I had the good fortune, or perhaps the misfortune, 
 to have two remarkable scholars in my class, Edward 
 Pickering, afterwards head of the Harvard Observa-
 
 52 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 tory in Cambridge, and John Trowbridge, later Pro- 
 fessor of Physics at Harvard. They set such a high 
 standard that it was difficult for the rest of us to keep 
 up. Pickering, not being satisfied with the usual les- 
 sons set by the teacher, used to ask for difficult prob- 
 lems besides. The result was that I got my degree 
 only by the skin of my teeth. Fortunately for me I 
 had given much time to the study of military engi- 
 neering, which was not in the course, and handed in, 
 as my thesis on graduation, an elaborate drawing 
 of a semi-permanent field fortification, which much 
 pleased General Eustis, then at the head of the school. 
 
 This shows, I think, that if I had been allowed to 
 carry out my ambition of going to West Point, I 
 should have made a success of it. I may add that in 
 my second year at the school I had the off"er, among 
 others, of being made a second lieutenant in an en- 
 gineer regiment then being formed by the Govern- 
 ment, but again my father objected, as I was not 
 of age, and as my brother was in the cavalry at 
 the front, he thought one son risking his life was 
 enough. 
 
 When I graduated, in the summer of 1865, the war 
 was over, and, owing to the many engineers return- 
 ing to civil life, I thought the chance of getting em- 
 ployment as an engineer was small, so, although I 
 had my degree of S.B., I gave up the idea of devoting
 
 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS 53 
 
 my life to engineering, and decided to take up the 
 study of art instead. 
 
 So ended my education at school. My education 
 by experience began at the tender age of four and a 
 half, when my father and mother and we two boys 
 made a journey to Washington in the spring of 1850. 
 
 Such a journey then was much more of an affair 
 than it Is now, and of course to children It was a mo- 
 mentous experience. Even though I was only four 
 and a half, I can remember now that we drove over to 
 Brighton and took the cars there instead of at Boston, 
 I suppose to save driving Into town. I distinctly re- 
 member a high flight of steps that had to be descended 
 to reach the track. We had to pass the first night at 
 Springfield. When we reached New York the follow- 
 ing day, the train was drawn Into the city by horses 
 as far as what Is now Madison Square Garden, which 
 was then the site of the station, and. Indeed, remained 
 so until 1870, I believe. We put up at the old Astor 
 House and my father gave me a picture of the hotel 
 with our windows marked In red. 
 
 I cannot remember much about our journey 
 through Philadelphia and Baltimore, or our arrival 
 in Washington. We put up at a hotel with a veranda 
 running around the upper story as well as one below. 
 I think It was called the National Hotel. 
 
 Henry Clay was staying In the same house, and
 
 54 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 my father saw much of him, but I do not remember 
 him; I remember only that somebody gave my 
 brother and myself tack-hammers, with which we 
 amused ourselves by hammering tacks into the floor 
 of the verandas. How trivial things stick in the memory 
 when much more important things vanish! However,! 
 distinctly remember being taken to see President Tay- 
 lor and his shaking hands with me, tot that I was. 
 
 There is nothing unusual in the life of most boys. 
 Like others, I played marbles in the spring, — why 
 marbles are played by boys only in the spring I don't 
 know, — bathed and boated in the summer, played 
 baseball, football, and hockey in the autumn, and 
 skated and played hockey on the ice on Fresh Pond 
 or smaller ponds in the winter. 
 
 I found it difficult to learn to swim, I remember, 
 because when I was quite young my nurse used to 
 carry me out in her arms and duck me bodily, which 
 was a cruel thing to do, and gave me a horror of hav- 
 ing my head under water. The result was that, in 
 learning to swim, as soon as my head went under, as 
 it was sure to do, I struggled to stand up. Finally I 
 was so disgusted with myself that I boldly launched 
 myself from a rock, where I knew the water was over 
 my head, and swam to another rock at some distance 
 because I had to, or drown: after that I had no 
 trouble.
 
 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS 55 
 
 When I was quite young I came very near drown- 
 ing in Charles River. There was a place where the 
 boys all bathed, a la Cupid, where there was a shelv- 
 ing beach and a few rocks. I had waded in till the 
 water was up to my waist or a little more, when sud- 
 denly the current, which was quite strong, took me 
 off my feet and I was rapidly drifting downstream 
 with my legs kicking in space as it were. I could not 
 swim and the other boys did not notice anything. I 
 did not call out, but realized that I was going under 
 and wondered what would happen next. What hap- 
 pened was that my feet struck a rock and, pushed by 
 the current, I stood up, with the water up to my chin, 
 and was able to make a spring into more shallow 
 water. It all happened in a moment, but it was cer- 
 tainly a lucky escape. I excelled at football and skat- 
 ing, and was a very fast runner, the fastest in Dix- 
 well's School when I was there, and I could dodge on 
 the ice, like a terrier, when we played hockey. 
 
 I was also fond of rowing and had much practice 
 at Nahant, where I won a number of races from boys 
 of my own age or older. While at the Scientific 
 School we formed a six-oar crew, in which I some- 
 times pulled stroke, but more often bow. I was not 
 heavy enough, however, — weighing only one hun- 
 dred and twenty pounds, — for entering races, in 
 which the crew later distinguished itself. I have al-
 
 56 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 ways kept up rowing, and have rowed a great deal on 
 the ItaHan lakes and sometimes on the Thames, in 
 England. 
 
 When tennis was introduced into America about 
 1880, I was thirty-five; rather late to learn a new 
 game. I became, however, quite expert for my age, 
 and won the championship of our tennis club in Cam- 
 bridge, in the singles, doubles, and mixed doubles. 
 At a tournament at the St. George's Cricket Club of 
 Staten Island, where there were many good players, 
 I was beaten only by the winner of the tournament, 
 so that although I do not claim to have been a crack, 
 I was no duffer. I even had the honor of having had a 
 man tell me he used to come out to Cambridge from 
 Boston to see me play. I played often at Nahant, 
 with Mr. Sears, who was national champion for seven 
 years, and although he could give me fifteen and 
 beat me easily, it was good practice. 
 
 In the summer of 1852, we deserted Nahant, and 
 went to Newport, where we stayed at the Cliff House. 
 Mr. Appleton, who was with us, and who had been a 
 great football player in his youth, performed the re- 
 markable feat of kicking a football over the hotel, 
 much to our boyish delight and admiration. I re- 
 member there was a remarkable character at New- 
 port called Count Gurowski, a Russian with only one 
 eye, who was supposed to be a Russian spy. He came
 
 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS 57 
 
 often to the hotel, and I am sure, if not a spy, was a 
 Russian agent of some sort. I remember his turning 
 up in Washington during the Civil War, and coming 
 to see my father, when we were there to hunt for my 
 brother when he was wounded. He said he had been 
 much annoyed by a dog in a neighboring yard that 
 barked at night. But he said he had stopped all that; 
 he had thrown him some poisoned meat, and that was 
 the end of the dog. Pleasant for the owner of the dog! 
 
 There was quite an interesting group of people in 
 the Cliff House that summer, among others Julia 
 Ward Howe. We have a daguerreotype in which she 
 figures, also my father in a marvellous tall hat, and a 
 man by the name of Costa, I think, who had had an 
 extraordinary adventure. He had been on a steamer 
 on the Hudson which was burned, with great loss of 
 life. Being a good swimmer, he rescued a number of 
 people, and then, being exhausted, sat down on a 
 trunk that had been washed ashore. To his aston- 
 ishment he found it was his own trunk that some 
 one had thrown overboard, and he was therefore 
 able to change and put on dry clothes. 
 
 Our life at Nahant in the summer was a very 
 simple one. The house that my father bought was 
 known as the Wetmore Cottage; it was rather a cheap 
 affair, and poorly furnished. My uncle, Mr. Apple- 
 ton, owned a share in it, and formed part of our
 
 58 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 household, much to our deHght. He Hved in a semi- 
 detached L, where he had his own suite of rooms, and 
 where he spent much of his time painting, mostly on 
 rounded pebbles for paper-weights, which was quite 
 a fad with him 
 
 As I have said, the house was on the southern side 
 of Nahant, on a triangular plot close to the water, and 
 therefore on hot days got the refreshing southwest 
 wind directly from the ocean. It had a piazza run- 
 ning entirely round it, and on the back piazza over- 
 looking the bay my father passed a great deal of his 
 time. The house has since been burned. 
 
 We kept rowboats just below, and my uncle had a 
 sloop yacht called the Alice after my eldest sister. He 
 was very fond of yachting, but knew nothing about 
 sailing a boat himself. Sometimes he would take the 
 helm, but the skipper would surreptitiously do the 
 steering. I have even known Mr. Appleton to stand 
 looking over the stem thinking he was directing the 
 boat, when fortunately another hand was doing it. 
 
 We enjoyed many sails on the Alice, and also 
 cruised as far east as Mount Desert, along the beauti- 
 ful Maine coast and among its many lovely islands. 
 Many days we were held up by fog, but with a merry 
 party what did that matter.^ On one of these cruises, 
 when we had gone on shore at the Isles of Shoals to 
 pass the evening dancing at the hotel, we came near
 
 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS 59 
 
 having a serious accident. When we came to the shore 
 at the nearest point to where our yacht was anchored, 
 which, as there was no good anchorage near the hotel, 
 was at some distance, we found the wind had risen 
 and there was quite a sea on. We had difficulty in 
 making the man on the yacht hear our hail, as the 
 wind was directly on shore. Finally the skipper came, 
 but as it was very dark and the waves high, he could 
 not come very near to the rocks, and we had to make 
 a flying leap into the boat, as best we could. As there 
 were five of us besides the man, it was a rather heavy 
 load for the small boat, and as each one leaped into 
 the boat he let in some water, so that as we started off 
 we had quite a lot washing about our feet. As we 
 went on, the waves broke more and more over the 
 side, and in spite of our bailing, it soon became evi- 
 dent that we should be swamped before long. 
 
 It was not a pleasant prospect; in that dark night 
 and choppy sea, the chances of being able to swim to 
 safety were slight. I am proud to say that whatever 
 we felt, not one of us showed the slightest sign of fear, 
 but we all sat perfectly still, except for bailing the boat. 
 We shouted to the yacht in vain; as we had the only 
 small boat, those on board could have done nothing, 
 even if they had heard us. Fortunately some fisher- 
 men in a boat not far off heard our cries and came to 
 our rescue, just as we were about to sink. As they
 
 6o RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 came alongside and pulled us aboard, our boat was 
 awash, and in another minute we should have had to 
 swim for it. We were wet to our waists as it was. 
 
 The Shoals was a charming resort in those days 
 with Mrs. Thaxter as presiding genius. She had been 
 born on the island and had never, I believe, been to 
 the mainland, or seen a horse even, till she married 
 Mr. Thaxter when she was sixteen. 
 
 She was a very bright woman and wrote poems of 
 great beauty, especially about her beloved island and 
 the sea. She loved music, and surrounded herself 
 with musicians and artists, and the evenings passed 
 in her cottage, with its wild garden, were a great 
 treat. Alas! those days are no more. Mrs. Thaxter 
 has passed away, and the hotel over which her father 
 and then her brothers presided was burned, not to be 
 rebuilt. 
 
 In 1866, my brother, Captain Clark (a neighbor), 
 and Harry Stanfield, with a crew of three sailors, 
 crossed the Atlantic in the Alice. This was a very 
 daring adventure to take in a sloop of only twenty- 
 eight or thirty tons, about the size of Columbus's 
 smallest ship, but they arrived safely after a quick 
 run of eighteen days. I have always thought that it 
 was a much more remarkable feat for Columbus to 
 get back than to go out, as going he had the trade 
 winds with him. My brother afterwards crossed
 
 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS 6i 
 
 twice in a yacht with James Gordon Bennett, with 
 whom he often went yachting. 
 
 Mr. Appleton was very fond of chowder, so we had 
 it every day at Nahant. And such chowder I have 
 never tasted since. As we all had splendid appetites 
 from sea bathing and being in the open air all day, we 
 never tired of it. 
 
 Nahant was dubbed "Cold Roast Boston" be- 
 cause it was the favorite summer resort of the elite of 
 that city. It is said to have been purchased from the 
 Indians for a suit of clothes, though why Indians were 
 foolish enough to want the white man's ugly habili- 
 ments it is hard to see; it would have been more 
 natural for them to sell their birthright for a mess 
 of pottage. 
 
 Nahant was probably originally an island that the 
 waves and tides had turned into a peninsula by form- 
 ing the long strip of sand connecting it with the main- 
 land. The favorite way of reaching it was by steam- 
 boat from Boston, but people also could take a train 
 to Lynn and drive across the long beach in a kind of 
 open omnibus called, in local parlance, a barge. Mr. 
 Appleton once invited Mrs. Church, the wife of the 
 artist, to come to Nahant, and told her she would find 
 a barge at Lynn to bring her across. She naturally 
 thought Nahant must be an island, and when she 
 reached Lynn looked about in vain for some sort of
 
 62 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 boat; having, I suppose, visions of a gorgeous craft, 
 something Hke Cleopatra's barge, with silken sails, 
 etc. It was a great come-down to be shown the lowly 
 omnibus and told that that was the barge. 
 
 In the early days of which I am writing there was a 
 fine large hotel there, kept by Paran Stevens, whose 
 widow, afterwards, thanks to her large fortune, be- 
 came a leader in London society, and whose daughter 
 married Lord Paget. The hotel occupied large grounds 
 at the eastern end of Nahant and was very fashionable 
 at one time, and became so overcrowded one year that 
 Mr. Stevens added a large L. The very next year, 
 for no apparent reason, the current changed, and each 
 year fewer and fewer people came, until finally the 
 hotel was closed. A few years later it was set on fire 
 by somebody, and burned to the ground. We boys 
 had always hoped to have the courage to set it on fire 
 and see it blaze, and I remember the regret I felt that 
 some one else had had that joy, and that we had left 
 Nahant the day before it happened. The estate was 
 afterwards bought by Mr. Lodge, the father of Sen- 
 ator Lodge, and the Senator has his house on the beau- 
 tiful grounds that formerly belonged to the hotel. 
 
 One day another boy and I had lost our ball over 
 the fence of a triangular piece of ground that seemed 
 to belong to nobody, not far from the entrance to 
 these grounds. As I climbed over the fence to get the
 
 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS 63 
 
 ball, one of the pickets came away in my hands; after 
 that as we walked along we occasionally pulled at the 
 pickets to see if any others were rotten, meaning no 
 harm. Suddenly descended upon us a man in a furious 
 rage and struck at me with a heavy cane. It was Mr. 
 Lodge, who owned the land without our knowing it. 
 I put up my arm to ward off the blow, and my left 
 arm became helpless. I thought he had broken it. He 
 then turned on the other boy, but fortunately a 
 neighbor who had seen the occurrence rushed out of 
 his house and saved us from further chastisement. 
 Every one was very indignant that Mr. Lodge should 
 have so far lost his temper as to treat young boys in such 
 a brutal manner. I had to carry my arm in a sling for 
 a week or more; perhaps I carried It so a little longer 
 than necessary to excite sympathy. What wonder! 
 My brother vowed vengeance on Mr. Lodge, and 
 one night carried ofT the revolving stile that pre- 
 vented Mr. Lodge's cows from wandering from his 
 place. He hid the stile under his bed for some days, 
 and then took it out to sea in his boat, and cast it 
 overboard. Mr. Lodge was naturally very angry at 
 having his cows let out, and as they wandered over to 
 Lynn, it was some days before he got them back. He 
 issued a reward for the miscreant who had stolen the 
 stile and let them escape; but my brother was never 
 found out.
 
 64 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 Not far from us, at Nahant, lived a family of seven 
 boys, with whom we had much to do. Their father, 
 Mr, Curtis, called his house "The House of the Seven 
 Gabbles." His oldest son, Mr. Dan Curtis, enjoyed 
 the distinction of being one of the two most noted wits 
 in Boston at that time, his rival being Mr. Appleton. 
 Many of their sayings have become classic, and the 
 sayings of one are often attributed to the other. It 
 was Mr. Curtis, not Mr. Appleton, who called Na- 
 hant "Cold Roast Boston," and it was he who one 
 cold winter day came into the Studio Building on 
 Tremont Street and said he wished some one would 
 tether a shorn lamb on the corner of Winter Street, a 
 peculiarly exposed and windy corner. I have had the 
 temerity to add that they could have found plenty 
 of shorn lambs on State Street, not far away. 
 
 Mr. Dan Curtis had the poor taste once to pull 
 the nose of a gentleman on the train, and the misfor- 
 tune to select a lawyer for the experiment. The result 
 was that he was fined in court for assault and bat- 
 tery, and, being a pugnacious individual, he "refused 
 to pay the fine, so had to spend a time in jail. After he 
 got out, he and his wife, who was English, were so dis- 
 gusted with a town that interfered with the liberty to 
 pull noses, that they shook the dust of Boston from 
 their feet, and went to live in Venice, where there was 
 no dust.
 
 THOMAS GOLD APPLETON 
 
 About 1880
 
 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS 65 
 
 At the time they were living there, Don Carlos, the 
 pretender to the throne of Spain, was living on the 
 opposite side of the Grand Canal. On one very hot 
 summer day, Mr. Curtis and some friends were going 
 down the canal in their gondola and espied Don Car- 
 los and friends sitting on their balcony, evidently very 
 hot. Mr. Curtis immediately said, "Look at Don 
 Carlos and his friends conspiring at every pore." 
 Once at the opera there was a party of Russians in a 
 near-by box; one of the ladies wore a very decoUetee 
 dress, and Mr. Curtis was asked if he knew who she 
 was. He said that she must be the Princess Chimezoff, 
 nee Orloif . 
 
 Mr. Appleton's most quoted bon mot was that "all 
 good Americans when they die go to Paris." Mr. 
 Appleton, however, said so many good things that it 
 is impossible to quote many things that would give 
 any idea of the brilliance of his conversation. I have 
 known him to be more amusing at breakfast, with 
 only some children as audience, than when he had 
 more important listeners. He simply could not help 
 being original and funny; not like some humorists who 
 have to have an appreciative audience. Mark Twain, 
 for instance, when I have met him, seemed to have 
 the air that something was expected of him, and that 
 he must play up and be funny to order. Miss Hale in 
 her life of Mr. Appleton has quoted some of his say-
 
 ^ RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 ings, but failed to convey any idea of his ready wit. 
 
 There was in Boston at one time a very plain spin- 
 ster of uncertain age, by the name of Joy. Mr. Apple- 
 ton used to say of her, "A thing of beauty is a joy 
 forever." He was once at a wedding reception where 
 no wine was served; when he asked the waiter for 
 some champagne, and was told there was none, he re- 
 marked, "Ah! got ahead of our Saviour, have they?" 
 — referring, of course, to the marriage of Cana. 
 
 Some one once asked him if he knew who the lady 
 was that was driving with Mr. Hearn ; he said he sup- 
 posed it was "his'n." When one of us children had 
 lost a tooth he would say, " Sharper than a serpent's 
 fang, it is, to have a toothless child." Also he was 
 fond of saying, "Man wants but little here below, but 
 wants that little Longfellow." 
 
 Mr. Appleton belonged to a club of artists and ama- 
 teurs, in Boston, called the Allston Club, which had 
 a short and struggling existence. After it had been 
 going on for ten years, one of its members proposed 
 that they have their portraits painted in a group. 
 "Yes," said Mr. Appleton, "Boors carousing, after 
 Teniers," which killed the project. Shortly after that 
 they were persuaded by another member to purchase 
 a large picture by Courbet, called the "Quarry," 
 which caused the club to go into bankruptcy. This 
 picture is now in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts.
 
 EDUCATION AND OTHER THINGS 67 
 
 The Reverend Dr. Huntington, then a Unitarian, 
 was at one time preacher at Harvard College, and 
 induced all the college people to subscribe to a chime 
 of bells for the chapel. While the bells were being 
 made in Europe, Dr. Huntington went over to the 
 Episcopal Church, and when the bells were finished, he 
 took the bells, which had been ordered in his name, 
 with him, and the chimes were set up in Christ Church, 
 Cambridge, instead of in the College Chapel. Mr. 
 Appleton thereupon remarked that the bells would 
 say, "Turn again, Huntington, Bishop of Boston." 
 As a matter of fact he did become the Bishop of West- 
 em New York. 
 
 For a number of years, while we were at Nahant, 
 my grandfather Appleton had a cottage on Ocean 
 Street, Lynn. One day my brother, on one of his wild 
 expeditions, got himself upset from a dory on the 
 beach below the cottage, and was fitted out with dry 
 clothes and an old pair of slippers, and sent home. 
 When the clothes and slippers were returned, there 
 was found pinned to the bundle the following lines in 
 my father's well-known handwriting : 
 
 "Slippers tha4; perchance another, 
 Sailing o'er the Bay of Lynn, 
 Some forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 
 Seeing, may purloin agin!"
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 WAR 
 
 An event of importance in our life was the panic of 
 1857, when everybody felt poor and had to economize. 
 We had to give up horses, which we had always had, 
 and our butler; and I distinctly remember how we 
 children were admonished not to take any more on 
 our plates than we could eat, even at my grandfather's 
 and Aunt Sam's in Boston, whom we had always sup- 
 posed to be very rich. 
 
 In the years before 1861 there was much talk pro 
 and con about slavery and whether the South would 
 secede, in which my brother and I were old enough to 
 take an interest. All my boy friends, pretty nearly, 
 were of Whig families and opposed to the election 
 of Lincoln, and said dreadful things about the rail- 
 splitter and Charles Sumner and the abolitionists, so 
 that we had violent debates and discussions. 
 
 In the spring of 1861, when the storm burst, and 
 the rebels fired on Sumter, the sentiment changed, 
 however. I remember well the excitement of the first 
 troops going off in Governor Andrew's famous brown 
 overcoats and their being fired upon in Baltimore, and 
 how many of the older boys we knew well enlisted,
 
 WAR 69 
 
 and all the drilling on the Common. I was, alas, too 
 young to go, but we were all filled with the desire, and 
 finally my brother, in the autumn a year later, ran 
 away when he was only eighteen, and enlisted in a 
 Massachusetts battery. Later, through the offices of 
 Major Curtis, of the First Massachusetts Cavalry, 
 who was engaged to our aunt, he was given b}'' Gov- 
 ernor Andrew a commission in that regiment as 
 second lieutenant. 
 
 It was in the summer of 1861 that my mother died, 
 from burns from a match setting fire to her light dress 
 while she was sealing some packages for my sisters. I 
 was staying at Nahant at the time, but had been up to 
 Cambridge to lunch that day, and, as I was stepping 
 on the horse-car to go into town to take the boat to 
 Nahant, my mother drove by in a carriage and waved 
 her hand to me. That was the last I saw of her alive. 
 She met with the accident that afternoon and the 
 next morning was dead. This was my first great 
 grief, and my first acquaintance with death, that great 
 mystery. My father was badly burned while trying 
 to save her, and I remember his lying in bed and 
 holding up his poor bandaged hands and murmuring, 
 "Oh, why could I not save her?" It was a terrible 
 blow to him, from which he never recovered, as he 
 recorded in his poem "The Cross of Snow." ^ 
 
 ^ See Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, by Samuel Longfellow. 
 The poem was never published in the collected editions, as being 
 
 too mtimate.
 
 70 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 In June, 1862, we made up a party to visit Niagara, 
 I think principally to divert my father. There were, 
 besides my father, my aunt. Miss Appleton, and two 
 friends of hers, Miss Beebe and Miss Shattuck, my 
 brother Charles, and myself. As the girls were several 
 years older than we boys, they made a good deal of us, 
 and we had a very merry time. We stopped at Utica 
 to visit Trenton Falls, which at that time had to be 
 done by stage-coach. My father, knowing nothing 
 about the politics of the Albany papers, had bought 
 an Albany "Argus"; as we stopped at a way station 
 to change horses, he gave it to one of the loafers sit- 
 ting about. The man received it rather grudgingly 
 and said, "Hum! Democrats abroad! " which amused 
 us very much, as the feeling against the Democrats, 
 who were mostly opposed to the war, was very strong 
 with us, 
 
 Trenton Falls was then not so much visited, and 
 was not so overrun by wedding couples as I found it 
 on a later visit, when it was quite embarrassing as 
 at every turn you came on couples embracing. Its 
 amber water, foaming and tumbling between its high 
 wooded cliffs, is very beautiful. 
 
 From there we went to Niagara, where we slept 
 with the thunder of the falls in our ears, and especially 
 enjoyed the rapids above the falls, where you could 
 get close to the rushing water. We returned to Bos-
 
 WAR 71 
 
 ton by way of Toronto, the rapids of the St. Law- 
 rence, and Montreal. I think the trip did my father 
 good, and the merriment of us young people must 
 have cheered him up and distracted his mind from his 
 great loss. 
 
 As was natural, my father was much upset by my 
 brother's running away and becoming a soldier so 
 young. And I know he had the never-ceasing anxiety 
 that he might be killed or wounded that all parents 
 suffered at that time. Every morning he opened the 
 paper with fear and trembling, fearing that he might 
 see his name in those terrible lists after great battles 
 that seemed to be always going against the North. 
 Finally he got word that he had camp fever and 
 would be invalided North, and as he passed most of 
 the summer of 1863 with us at Nahant, he escaped 
 the action of Aldie, in which his regiment was severely 
 handled, and the subsequent Battle of Gettysburg. 
 Shortly after he rejoined his regiment, he was the 
 officer of the day, at, I think, Culpeper Court-House, 
 when he found the lady of the house, in the yard in 
 which his men were stationed, was engaged in asking 
 them questions and trying to learn the disposition 
 of the Northern forces, evidently to send word 
 through the lines to the rebels. My brother politely 
 asked the lady, who turned out to be the wife of 
 Governor Wise of Virginia, to stop asking the men
 
 72 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 questions and retire into the house. She indignantly 
 refused, so my brother told her that if she did not re- 
 tire he would have his men carry her bodily into the 
 house. She was then furious, and demanded his name, 
 and when she found on further inquiry that he was 
 the son of the poet, she said, as she finally flounced 
 into the house, that she would never read any more 
 of his father's poems as long as she lived. 
 
 In the Mine Run Campaign, shortly after, my 
 brother was badly wounded through both lungs. He 
 was out in the thick woods of the wilderness near 
 Good Hope Church trying to connect the skirmish 
 line that had been broken. His men were dismounted 
 and acting as skirmishers, and he himself was carry- 
 ing a gun, when he saw two men in grey. As he took 
 aim at one, another farther to the left fired at him and 
 the ball passed under his shoulder-blades and through 
 both lungs as his arms were thrown forward in the 
 act of firing. They shouted that they had got him, 
 so he plunged through the thick undergrowth with 
 the rebels after him, and then dodged sideways to 
 a road, where some of his men fortunately saw him 
 fall, and brought him in and put him in the pulpit of 
 the church. Some newspaper-man saw him there, 
 covered with blood, and telegraphed my father that 
 his son was dangerously wounded in the face. 
 
 We received the telegram while at lunch, and my
 
 WAR 73 
 
 father and I immediately started for Washington by 
 the Fall River boat. There were no staterooms nor 
 even berths to be had, so we had to sit up in arm- 
 chairs all night in the saloon. When we reached 
 Washington, we could get no news of my brother or 
 of his whereabouts. Dr. Knapp, of the Sanitary Com- 
 mission, did his best to help. At the War Ofhce a 
 supercilious clerk said, in an airy manner, that there 
 had been no battle, that there were only a little over 
 a thousand killed and wounded in the advance. We 
 were told, however, that there was a train of wounded 
 expected at Alexandria the next day, and that he 
 might be in that. So we journeyed down the river to 
 that point, but he was not there. After two days of 
 anxiety we were told he was probably in a train that 
 was expected that evening at the station on the Wash- 
 ington side of the Long Bridge. Sowewent there and 
 waited and waited at a little tumble-down station 
 with a telegraph clicking away, and I thought, if there 
 were important messages going through, how easy for 
 any of the loafers or spies sitting round to read them 
 off. Finally after a two hours' wait a train of freight 
 cars came in, crammed with wounded, lying or sitting 
 on the straw-covered floors. Pretty hard going for 
 wounded men, officers as well as privates ; not even a 
 day coach. As the poor wrecks were lifted out, we 
 finally came upon my brother. A more forlorn, be-
 
 74 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 draggled, and wretched being It would be hard to 
 imagine. His wound had not been dressed for three 
 days, and before reaching the train he had been 
 bumped and banged over bad roads for two days in 
 an ambulance, with hardly anything to eat or drink. 
 How those men lived through it, it is hard to see; 
 some did not. 
 
 After we had got him to the hotel and given him a 
 bath, and had a doctor dress his wound and put him 
 to bed, he became quite cheerful. He said that the 
 one thing he thought of when he was wounded was 
 the sense of relief that he no longer had any responsi- 
 bility about his men. Owing to the shortage of offi- 
 cers, he, a second lieutenant, only nineteen, had been 
 in charge of his company, and the responsibility 
 weighed heavily upon him. His wound was so severe 
 that although he eventually recovered his health, he 
 was not able to go back into the service before the 
 war was over. 
 
 A curious thing in regard to his efforts to enlist 
 when he ran away from home was that he tried first to 
 enlist in the regular army, but they would not take 
 him because he had lost the thumb on his left hand, 
 from a bursting shotgun when he was twelve, and they 
 said he would not be able to hold a gun. After the 
 war he became a crack shot at clay-pigeon shooting, 
 showing how absurd their objection was. He became
 
 WAR 75 
 
 a noted yachtsman and traveller and died when only 
 forty-eight. I have always felt that his death was 
 really hastened by his wound, so that in a sense he 
 died for his country. 
 
 I must confess that my brother and I had very 
 little in common. He was a good horseman, while I 
 never could feel at home on a horse, but I owned and 
 drove horses for a number of years. He owned several 
 yachts and sailed them himself with skill. I, too, 
 owned a small yacht for over fifteen years, of which I 
 was skipper, but I never acquired the love of yacht- 
 ing he had. He also, as I have said, was a good shot, 
 while I disliked shooting. I was told that when I went 
 up the Nile I must take a gun, as there was plenty of 
 game. I went out only once and after shooting a 
 number of birds, I was so disgusted with myself, and 
 the birds were so much more beautiful hopping and 
 flying about, that I have never shot a bird since. Why 
 people want to destroy God's creatures for what they 
 call sport passes my understanding. But tastes differ, 
 and the Englishman is supposed to say, "What a 
 beautiful morning ! Let's kill something." Which re- 
 minds me of a story that Mr. Lowell used to tell. One 
 beautiful moonlight night he met the local butcher 
 somewhere in the small hours, wandering in Harvard 
 Square. Mr. Lowell inquired what he was doing there, 
 to which he replied that it was such a beautiful night
 
 76 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 for slaughtering that he could not stay in bed. Mr. 
 Appleton used to say, "Pigs wha hae wi' Wallace 
 bled," Wallace being the name of the butcher. 
 
 To return to the war, from which I seem to have 
 wandered to other kinds of slaughtering: the most 
 thrilling sight of the war was the march down State 
 Street in Boston of its first colored regiment, with 
 Colonel Shaw at their head and all singing "John 
 Brown's Body." Saint-Gaudens has well represented 
 in his Shaw Memorial the contrast between the aris- 
 tocratic features and carriage of this noble New Eng- 
 land type and his faithful and humble followers. 
 
 In the middle of the war. General Fremont took a 
 cottage near us at Nahant, and we saw a good deal of 
 Mrs. Fremont and their daughter. There was also a 
 Pole, whose name I have forgotten, who had been on 
 Fremont's staff. He had with him a horse that he had 
 ridden in the war in Missouri. This horse had a bad 
 scar on his rump. Mr. Appleton asked the Pole how 
 he got such a scar, and he said he got it at Springfield, 
 whereupon Mr. Appleton said they were very careless 
 on the railroads. Poor man! his one claim to glory 
 had been in the Battle of Springfield, Missouri. Sic 
 transit gloria mnndi! 
 
 As boys we had been in the habit of bathing on the 
 property taken by the Fremonts, but at some dis- 
 tance from the house. My brother was at home on
 
 WAR 77 
 
 sick-leave while recovering from camp fever, and he 
 and another young man went in bathing from the old 
 spot, with nothing on, as had been our custom. In 
 spite of our friendliness with the Fremonts, Mrs. 
 Fremont had them arrested for bathing without 
 clothes. When the trial came on, my brother's counsel 
 asked her how she knew it was my brother who was 
 bathing, as it was impossible from the house to recog- 
 nize any one at that distance. She had to confess, 
 blushing, that she used an opera-glass! After that, 
 of course, she lost her case. 
 
 When my brother went to the war, he left behind 
 his Scotch terrier, called Trap, who was then getting 
 old and rheumatic. He attached himself to my father 
 and followed him everywhere, and spent most of his 
 time in my father's study sleeping on a closed register, 
 where just enough heat came through to make him 
 comfortable. My father used often to take a nap in 
 the afternoon in his armchair in front of the fire. As 
 the gods nod, so do poets sometimes snore. When 
 this happened, it seemed to disturb the dog in his 
 slumbers, and he would get up and paw at my father's 
 knee till he waked him up, and then would lay him- 
 self down again with a sigh of contentment to con- 
 tinue his own sleep undisturbed. There was some- 
 thing so human about this that my father never 
 resented it.
 
 78 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 As can be imagined, with my love of military affairs 
 I was tremendously interested in the war, and fol- 
 lowed all the campaigns with great faithfulness. I 
 could give detailed descriptions of all operations, and 
 of battles, even to the names of the generals on both 
 sides, and the number of troops engaged ! At first I 
 was a great believer in General McClellan, as were 
 most of the people in the East and all the Army of 
 the Potomac, and even swallowed the excuse of the 
 change of base in the Peninsula ; but I lost faith in him 
 after the Battle of Antietam, when Lee was at his 
 mercy if he had only used the large reserve force that 
 had not been engaged, and when he might have 
 bagged the whole outfit if he had attacked the second 
 day instead of doing nothing and allowing Lee to re- 
 cross the Potomac unmolested. 
 
 I was in Washington in 1863 when Grant was 
 bogged before Vicksburg, and it seemed impossible 
 that he could get on. Great pressure was brought on 
 Lincoln to have him removed. I was often in Mr. 
 Sumner's rooms and heard many stories there of 
 Grant's drunkenness and incapacity. All the politi- 
 cians were against him, and the enmity between him 
 and Sumner must have begun then. It was at that 
 time that Lincoln made his celebrated remark, when 
 he was urged to remove him on account of his drink- 
 ing, that he wished he knew what brand of whiskey
 
 WAR 79 
 
 Grant used so that he could send It to some of his 
 other generals. 
 
 Washington in war-time was a terrible place. 
 Pennsylvania Avenue at that time was hardly any- 
 thing but shanties between the Capitol and the 
 Treasury Building. It was unpaved and a sea of mud. 
 I remember seeing an army wagon stalled and de- 
 serted in the middle of the avenue. The city swarmed 
 with officers on leave and camp-followers and polit- 
 ical hangers-on. How anything was accomplished in 
 such a chaos is hard to see. 
 
 Halleck, the Chief of Staff, was incompetent. Gen- 
 eral after general was tried in command of the Army 
 of the Potomac, only to prove unequal to the task. 
 Fortunately Stanton, at the War Office, was a man of 
 iron, and when Grant came East and took supreme 
 command things began to move, and the end was ob- 
 viously only a question of time. Numbers and re- 
 sources were bound to tell, and the terrible war came 
 to an end. 
 
 As my father used to say, autobiographies are what 
 biographies ought to be, but often they unconsciously 
 betray their writers. There were three autobiogra- 
 phies written after the war — by Grant, Sherman, 
 and McClellan — that contained this self-revelation 
 in a notable degree. Every one agrees that Grant's 
 "Personal Memoirs" was a remarkable book from
 
 8o RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 its clearness, simplicity, and unexpected literary 
 quality. It raised him even higher in public esteem 
 than before. Sherman's book was disappointing, and 
 I think left the impression that he was not quite the 
 great general that we had thought him, and that 
 he was not the superior of Grant, as he himself 
 seemed to think, although he always loyally carried 
 out Grant's orders. His doubting of the wisdom of 
 Grant's campaign in the rear of VIcksburg, which 
 turned out one of the most perfectly conducted and 
 masterly strokes of the war, is a case in point. 
 
 McClellan tried in his book to vindicate himself, 
 and succeeded only In making his incapacity and in- 
 decision more apparent. He was undoubtedly a great 
 organizer, but had temperamental limitations that 
 prevented his success as a general. He was an en- 
 gineer officer to begin with and always seemed anxious 
 to exercise his training. He started a regular siege be- 
 fore Yorktown when there were few forces to oppose 
 him, and when he could easily have taken that place 
 if he had attacked ; he always waited to see what the 
 other fellow was going to do, instead of imposing his 
 own initiative on the enemy. He also always mag- 
 nified the size of the opposing forces and was perpet- 
 ually calling for reenforcements.
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS 
 
 Every person of prominence has queer experiences 
 with cranks and otherwise unintentionally humorous 
 persons. My father was no exception, and indeed 
 suffered more than others, because of his kindness of 
 heart. Fortunately, he had a sense of humor, and 
 could see the funny side of things, which enabled him 
 to bear up under many boring experiences. 
 
 Some of these happenings it is worth recording, if 
 only to add to the gaiety of nations. 
 
 There was a man at Newport who, after being in- 
 troduced to my father, said, in the most impressive 
 manner, "Oh! Mr. Longfellow, I have long wished to 
 meet you, as I am one of the few people who appre- 
 ciate your 'Evangeline.' " 
 
 My father was once walking down to Harvard 
 Square when he was stopped by an Irishman. "And 
 is this Mr. Longfellow?" he inquired. "And are you 
 the poet.?" Being assured that he was, he proceeded 
 to say, "I am happy to meet you, sorr. I have a 
 brother in the Port [Cambridgeport] who is also a 
 poet, and a drunkard." 
 
 There was also the gushing poetess who had
 
 82 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 brought a manuscript poem for my father's approval, 
 and, I suppose wishing to ingratiate herself with the 
 poet, exclaimed with clasped hands and eyes rolled 
 up, "Evangeline, sir, is a very superior article, a very 
 superior article." 
 
 A rustic individual was once calling with his bride, 
 and by way of entertaining them my father was show- 
 ing them the things of interest on his study table, 
 among others Coleridge's inkstand that had been 
 given my father by an English admirer. My father 
 had said that perhaps the "Ancient Mariner" had 
 been written from this very inkstand. Coleridge evi- 
 dently conveyed but a vague idea to the man, who 
 burst out with, "'The Old Oaken Bucket,' now, who 
 done that?" 
 
 My father once received a letter from a student in a 
 Western college stating that there was to be a prize 
 given for the best poem written by one of the stu- 
 dents, and he was sure if my father would write it for 
 him, he would win the prize. He added in a post- 
 script, "Please send bill." 
 
 A gigantic Russian called Bakunin, of some emi- 
 nence as a writer and with a voice like a megaphone, 
 arrived once to see my father. He came about noon, 
 and stayed so long that my father invited him to 
 lunch, whereupon he bellowed, "Yiss, and I will dine 
 with you too," and he did, and did not leave till eleven
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS 83 
 
 o'clock at night. Bakunin, it seems, was a violent 
 anarchist, although I am sure my father never sus- 
 pected it. We did not trouble about such things in 
 this country In those days. I believe he is considered 
 to have been the parent of the present Bolshevik 
 movement. 
 
 Mr. Fields, the publisher, gave Bakunin a dinner 
 to meet the literary celebrities of Boston. Those were 
 the happy days when you could have genuine canvas- 
 back ducks. When that course arrived, Bakunin 
 took one mouthful of the delicious morsel, and then 
 called the waiter to him. "Wat iss dass.?" "Canvas- 
 back duck, sir." "Mor^.''" bellowed the Russian, and 
 proceeded to gobble what was on his plate. 
 
 My three sisters were painted as the three Graces 
 by Buchanan Read, the poet-artist, who wrote and 
 painted "Sheridan's Ride." But the artist was em- 
 barrassed by the six arms, and in order to get rid of 
 one, he painted my youngest sister with one arm be- 
 hind her back. Not being very skilful, it looked as if 
 she had lost an arm, so the story got about that she 
 was born with only one arm. Mr. Lowell was once 
 riding in the Cambridge horse-car when he heard a 
 woman, as they were passing my father's house, re- 
 lating the story in a loud voice, for the benefit of the 
 whole car. This was too much for Mr. Lowell, so he 
 said to the woman, "Excuse me, madam, but I know
 
 84 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 the Longfellow family very well, and I can assure you 
 that the young lady has both her arms." "Excuse 
 me, sir," said the woman, not to be put down, "but I 
 have it on the best authority." 
 
 To show how stories of this sort travel, and grow 
 as they travel, I was once asked by a lady in Eng- 
 land if it was true that one of my sisters had no arms, 
 and as she had a great talent for poetry wrote beau- 
 tifully with her feet! This is a fact, though incredi- 
 ble. Nor did she mean poetical feet either. 
 
 There was one day a crazy woman who arrived 
 at my father's house with all her baggage, and an- 
 nounced that she was married to my father and had 
 come to stay. Mr. Greene, an old and palsied friend 
 of my father's, who was staying in the house at the 
 time, went out into the hall to remonstrate with her 
 and persuade her to go away. She demanded his 
 name, and what right he had to interfere. When he 
 said his name was Greene, she turned on him with 
 "Get away, you old green snake," and the old man 
 fled. Finally, I believe, the police had to be called in 
 to get rid of her. 
 
 This same George Washington Greene, a grandson 
 of General Greene, of the Revolution, had been a 
 friend of my father's youth, in Italy. In his old age 
 he became very feeble, and when he visited us my 
 father had practically to undress him and put him to
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS 85 
 
 bed. One night he came into my father's room in the 
 middle of the night, and, waking him up, announced 
 that he smelled smoke, so the two old gentlemen took 
 candles and went poking about the house to find the 
 fire. Wherever they went, Mr. Greene smelled smoke, 
 but my father could not. At last my father turned on 
 Mr. Greene and said, "George, you have been smok- 
 ing to-night after dinner, and you are not used to 
 smoking, and what you smell is the smoke in your 
 moustache." After a hearty laugh the two old men 
 retired to bed again. 
 
 Colonel Harper, of Kentucky, had a celebrated 
 race-horse named "Longfellow." When the Colonel 
 was asked why he named him after the poet Long- 
 fellow, he said, "Poet nothing; I called him 'Long- 
 fellow' because he had such a long body." This much 
 amused my father. 
 
 Tales and jokes have to be very apropos, not to seem 
 flat as champagne when the sparkle is gone. "Brev- 
 ity is the soul of wit." A joke or a story should be 
 spontaneous and should not be too long in the tell- 
 ing, lest it become tedious. The best story-teller I 
 ever heard was Whistler; he always managed to end 
 his story in an unexpected manner. I knew a man 
 once who collected stories and jokes in a little book, 
 and when he was going out to dinner he got up a 
 few, and tried to lead the conversation round so he
 
 86 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 could work them in. Anything more ghastly I can't 
 imagine. 
 
 I once knew a man named by his friends "Conver- 
 sation" Clark. Whatever topic was started he would 
 say, "Oh, that reminds me"; or, " Speaking of"; and 
 oif he would go, and there was no way of stopping him 
 till he became entirely exhausted by his own volubility. 
 I did once get the better of him, however; I happened 
 to meet him at the Riffel Inn at Zermatt, where I was 
 stopping for sketching purposes. After he had nearly 
 talked us to death at lunch, I invited him to go with 
 us up the hills to the Riffel Lake, where I was finishing 
 a sketch. It was a rather stiff climb, and in that high 
 air one got easily out of breath. I was in good train- 
 ing, having been doing a good deal of climbing, and 
 he was not. We started off gaily enough, he talking 
 as fast as ever, but pretty soon he began to pant, 
 and had to stop talking, being quite out of breath. 
 "Funny," he said, "I never had to stop talking be- 
 fore." I noticed after that he fought shy of us, and 
 we were not sorry when he soon departed for more 
 congenial climes. 
 
 Speaking of ready wit, my uncle, the Reverend 
 Samuel Longfellow, was once at a dinner given by 
 Mr. Longworth at Cincinnati, and in response to a 
 toast from Mr. Longworth, replied, "Worth makes 
 the man, and want of it the fellow."
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS 87 
 
 Sometimes I have been guilty of saying things my- 
 self that perhaps I may be permitted to put down. I 
 was once, shortly after the earthquake in San Fran- 
 cisco, asked by an Englishman who was going to 
 America, and had letters to people in Philadelphia, if 
 they had earthquakes in that city. I responded that 
 I had never heard of any, but I knew they had Quak- 
 ers. I think to this day he is puzzling over that reply. 
 
 Once some one was remarking on the habit of some 
 wives to find trivial fault with their husbands. I said, 
 "Yes, women look at a man through a magnifying 
 glass before marriage, and through a microscope 
 after." Speaking of marriage, I once said that the 
 holy state of matrimony was so holey that there were 
 plenty of loopholes of escape. 
 
 A lady in England was speaking about some man 
 who had just been knighted, who had made his for- 
 tune through wholesale dealings in fish, and wondered 
 why there was such a difference between him and a 
 fishmonger. I said it must be the difference of scale. 
 
 Once on the Nile, when there was an unusual collec- 
 tion of natives on the bank waiting for the ferry, a 
 lady on the boat asked me what the crowd meant. I 
 said it must be a bank holiday. She said that she did 
 not suppose they would have a bank in such a small 
 village. I assured her that on the contrary there were 
 two banks, one on each side of the river.
 
 88 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 The first day of May in Europe, like our Labor Day, 
 is given up to parades and celebrations by the Social- 
 ists. One spring in Paris it was rumored that the 
 Royalists were going to use the common people and 
 Socialists to stir up a revolt, and cause, if possible, a 
 revolution, when the Royalists hoped to come into 
 power. People were so alarmed that they laid in pro- 
 visions and canned goods, in case of a state of siege, 
 and the Government filled Paris with troops con- 
 cealed in cellars and unfinished buildings, and warned 
 the people to keep off the streets on May i st, and not 
 to gather in groups. As a result the streets were quite 
 deserted in the morning and cavalry patrolled every- 
 where. As nothing happened, in the afternoon the 
 populace, Parisian-like, came out to see why nothing 
 had happened. In fact the whole plot was a fiasco. 
 A few days later my cousin came to call on us, and 
 brought my wife a bunch of lilies-of-the-valley. He 
 apologized for their being so small, and I said, "Yes, 
 since the first of May, the lilies of France had been 
 very small." I don't think he knew what I meant, 
 but a lady, long a resident of Paris, who happened to 
 be present, thought it very clever, and repeated it to all 
 her friends ; of course not including her French friends, 
 because in French, fleur-de-lis, the symbol of the Royal- 
 ists, and lily-of-the-valley have quite a different name, 
 and do not come under the same head of lily as with us.
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS 89 
 
 One day in Rome, Signor BonI, the archaeologist, was 
 discoursing on a recent excavation in the Forum in 
 which he had dug down farther than had ever been 
 done before, and discovered some remarkable pot- 
 tery. I remarked that I supposed if he had gone still 
 farther, he would have come to China. I am afraid he 
 thought this remark flippant. 
 
 On another occasion I had been having a conver- 
 sation with an Englishman across the table at a 
 table (Thote. After a little he said, " I should not have 
 thought you were an American. You don't talk 
 through your nose"; meaning, I have no doubt, to be 
 very complimentary. "That is singular," I said. "I 
 was not sure you were an Englishman because you do 
 not drop your A's." He became huffy, thinking I was 
 pulling his leg, as he would have expressed it. 
 
 During my father's life an educated Englishwoman, 
 the wife of a dean, who certainly ought to have 
 known better, asked me where my father was then. 
 I said he was in America. She wanted to know what 
 he was doing there. I told her that he lived there. 
 "But he was born in England," she declared, and I 
 had hard work to convince her that I knew where my 
 father was born. 
 
 Another Englishwoman declared that it was a pity 
 that we had no literature in America. I said we had 
 some authors, and ran over a list of a dozen, begin-
 
 90 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 ningwith Cooper and ending with Howells and James. 
 "But", she said, "we claim all those as English." Of 
 course I said, "If you claim all our principal authors, 
 then we have no literature."" 
 
 Per contra, speaking of Howells and James, I be- 
 lieve that in one of Gilbert and Sullivan's operas, 
 where somebody sings of " a Howell and James young 
 man," most Americans think they are alluding to 
 those authors, instead of the clerks in the emporium 
 of that name. 
 
 I was once staying in the house of a very nice Eng- 
 lishman, with people who I suppose might be called 
 the fast set. Among the party was a rector of about 
 thirty-five who was of the sporty-parson sort. He 
 played cricket for his county, and was also a crack 
 tennis player. After dinner one night, as the gentle- 
 men were crossing the hall to join the ladies in the 
 drawing-room, he suddenly came up to me and 
 slapped my face, saying, " I wanted to say that I had 
 slapped the face of the son of the poet Longfellow." 
 Then he bolted to the protection of the ladies. Now 
 that is a kind of joke that I do not appreciate, espe- 
 cially coming from a parson who is protected by his 
 cloth, so I could not take it out of him later. He prob- 
 ably was a little drunk, if that makes it any better. 
 None of the other men seemed to think it was out of 
 the way, but I confidently expected an apology from
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS 91 
 
 my host. As none came I told him I was very sorry 
 but I had to leave for London the following morning. 
 This rector was the rector to Lord Salisbury at his 
 place near by, and was evidently a gentleman except 
 in his manners. 
 
 At a lunch at Lord Playfair's in London a gentle- 
 man, an entire stranger to me, leaned across the table 
 and said to me, "Your Senators all get their places by 
 bribery, do they not?" Now, that was a nice thing to 
 say to a stranger! I replied that I knew several Sen- 
 ators, and I thought they would compare favorably 
 with members of the upper house of any other country. 
 I might have added that, as Labouchere once declared 
 to me, it was quite a common thing in England, if a 
 man made a large enough contribution to the party 
 funds, for him to be made a peer or at least be 
 knighted. However, we must take people as we find 
 them, and not measure every one with one foot-rule 
 as the English are prone to do. 
 
 There is one curious thing about Englishmen, and 
 that is that, while the young men are apt to be bump- 
 tious and self-satisfied, when they pass fifty and have 
 seen something of the world, no more charming people 
 exist than Englishmen. As to women, English, Amer- 
 ican, or others, it is safest not to make comparisons. 
 Each nation naturally thinks its own women the most 
 beautiful and charming.
 
 92 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 Another curious experience In London I must men- 
 tion. I was called on there once by an entire stranger, 
 an M.P., who wished me to lunch with him. I believe 
 he said he got my address from Lord Houghton. I 
 had no desire to lunch with him, and pointed out to 
 him that I had with me my wife and a cousin, and that 
 I did not wish to desert them. He quite ignored them, 
 however, when I Introduced them, and made not the 
 faintest sign of including them In the invitation, so I 
 thought It must be a man's lunch. As he was persist- 
 ent and would not take no for an answer, I finally 
 accepted. At the appointed time I arrived at his 
 house, a large mansion in one of London's fashionable 
 squares. There was a large gathering assembled of 
 ladies and gentlemen, I should think about twenty. 
 He introduced me to his wife, but to nobody else, 
 which, of course, is the English custom, but rather 
 trying to strangers, as evidently all the others were 
 very much at home. I was rather angry, because in 
 such a large company it seemed to me rude not to 
 have included my wife, at least, in the invitation, es- 
 pecially as when we went down to lunch I was left 
 with a young man to follow on behind, as there were 
 two ladles short. I found a place as best I could, 
 without any attention whatever from my host or 
 hostess, nor did I have a word with them till I took 
 my leave. I have never to this day understood that
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS 93 
 
 man's persistence in having me to lunch, or his utter 
 neglect of a stranger after he got him there. I sup- 
 posed when he asked me, he wanted to boast of hav- 
 ing the son of the poet to lunch, but as he introduced 
 me to nobody, that did not seem the reason. I, of 
 course, left a card at the house ; but I have never seen 
 the man again and don't even remember his name. I 
 mention the incident only as an example of the curious 
 manners of an English M.P. and a man of wealth. 
 
 After my father's death an Englishman wrote for 
 some London paper a detailed account of an ascent of 
 Vesuvius by moonlight accompanied by my father. 
 There was not a bit of truth in it. I was at Naples 
 with my father at the date mentioned and know that 
 he did not go up the mountain, much less by moonlight. 
 
 A short time ago I saw in an English newspaper 
 that the "village smithy" was in a certain English 
 village that was named; as a matter of fact, as every- 
 body knows, it was on Brattle Street, Cambridge, 
 Massachusetts. 
 
 I do not wish it thought from these many allusions 
 to the English that I dislike them; on the contrary, I 
 have many friends there, but I am not mentioning 
 here the many pleasant memories, but only the queer 
 things that sometimes happen. There is one trait that 
 I especially like in the English — their simplicity and 
 straightforwardness, often amounting to naivete.
 
 94 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 I once met an Englishman on a steamer In the Med- 
 iterranean who was much taken with a charming 
 American girl on board. He confided to me how de- 
 lightful it was to be able to get acquainted so easily. 
 He said that in England if you saw much of a girl, so 
 as to get to know her, her father or brother were sure 
 to want to know what your intentions were, when as a 
 matter of fact you had n't any except to get to know 
 her. He added with a sigh in the most naive manner, 
 "I married my cousin because I knew her." 
 
 Another time I sat next an English woman for sev- 
 eral days at the table d'hote in Venice. She seemed im- 
 pressed by the fact that I was the son of the poet, for 
 when she was going awa}^ she made me a curtsy and 
 said that the pleasantest remembrance of her trip 
 abroad would be having met me. 
 
 A curious thing happened to me once at Windsor. 
 I had gone down with a party to pass the afternoon 
 on the river. After lunch at the hotel, it came on to 
 rain; as I was putting on my overcoat in the hall, I 
 leaned my umbrella up against a sofa behind me; 
 when I turned round to take it, It was gone. I had 
 seen a nice-looking gentleman in the hall near me, and 
 I asked the porter if he could have taken it by mis- 
 take. He said he knew the gentleman well, as he lived 
 in the neighborhood, and he would ask him when he 
 came in again. So I left my address in London with
 
 QUIPS AND CRANKS 95 
 
 the porter with a good tip and asked him to send me 
 the umbrella if it was brought back. I was quite con- 
 vinced in my own mind that the umbrella had not 
 been taken by accident because one certainly knows 
 one's own umbrella by the feel. Several days later 
 the umbrella was returned to me with the handle bro- 
 ken, and done up inside so that it could not have been 
 broken in transit. I think the gentleman might at 
 least have had it mended for me after stealing it.
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ART 
 
 When one has lived over seventy years, one has nec- 
 essarily seen many changes in the fashions in art. 
 It is a far cry from the Diisseldorf school, or Pre- 
 Raphaelitism, to the Post-Impressionists or Cubists, 
 not to mention Futurism. 
 
 In the fifties, when I first became conscious of 
 paintings, the so-called Hudson River school was in 
 the ascendant in America. I take it it was an out- 
 growth of Diisseldorf. 
 
 Although we had some good pictures in our house, 
 notably a head of a Venetian Senator by Tintoretto, a 
 very fine work, and a large picture of two children, 
 supposed to be the children of Sir William Pepperell, 
 attributed to Copley, but which I now think may 
 have been painted by Sir William Beechey, besides 
 two good Stuarts, I do not think they made much 
 impression on my childish mind. 
 
 I, of course, drew pictures, as all children do, but it 
 was not till a summer at Newport, when I was ten 
 or eleven, and we were living in the same house 
 with Kensett, the artist, that I really became inter- 
 ested in painting. I remember I used to watch him
 
 ART 97 
 
 paint, and when he lent me some of his paints and 
 brushes I painted my first picture in oils, I think of a 
 sailboat in a rough sea, on a piece of tobacco-box. 
 My uncle, Mr. Appleton, was an amateur painter of 
 some talent, who might have become a real artist if 
 he had been willing to devote himself to art and had 
 not been too indolent to take lessons and work hard. 
 He had many friends among the artists, especially 
 Kensett and Church, he of the "Heart of the Andes" 
 and Niagara fame. 
 
 In this way I became familiar with the work of the 
 North River school, which now seems very thin and 
 over-elaborated. Kensett was a charming man, and 
 had as an artist a delightful touch; but his pictures 
 lack what artists call quality. 
 
 Church was well known for his large and ambitious 
 compositions in something of the classical style, with 
 a great deal of detail in the foreground and rainbows 
 and that sort of thing in the sky, which appealed to the 
 uneducated. 
 
 Cropsey was devoted to autumn foliage of the most 
 brilliant description, which you might say was a trifle 
 gaudy. 
 
 Mclntyre was perhaps one of the best of the school, 
 with his quiet brown autumn scenes. 
 
 While the work of this school was well studied and 
 composed, it was worked out with almost too much
 
 98 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 detail and painstaking care, and, I regret to say, 
 owing to its thin quality, came perilously near to the 
 chromo. 
 
 Then followed in the fifties the devotees of Ruskin 
 and Pre-Raphaelitism. Mr. Norton was one of these; 
 and through him and Mr. Lowell there appeared in 
 Cambridge a Mr. Stillman. He devoted days to paint- 
 ing the moss on a tree-trunk or on a stone. He wished 
 to paint my father's portrait sitting under a giant oak 
 at Waverley, some four miles away. So my poor father 
 had to journey day after day, to be set down under 
 this oak, when any tree-trunk in our own garden 
 would have done as well, once the picture was started. 
 
 There is such a thing as carrying realism too far. 
 The followers of Ruskin seem to have had no sense of 
 proportion ; a pebble seemed to them as important as 
 a whole mountain-side. One of them named Freeman 
 spent years on the Nile painting temples with the 
 most meticulous care, even using an opera-glass to 
 read and record the hieroglyphics which a photo- 
 graph would do much better, and he boasted that 
 archaeologists would be able thereby to read the in- 
 scriptions in his pictures — and this in the name of art! 
 
 Ruskin, with his charm of style, probably did more 
 to injure English art in the last century than even 
 the philistine puritanism of the Victorian era. No 
 wonder he and Whistler came to blows.
 
 ART 99 
 
 A little later Blerstadt was covering acres of canvas 
 in an endeavor to convey the grandeur of the Rocky 
 Mountains. His pictures of the undoubted Diissel- 
 dorf school have a certain spaciousness, and have an 
 added interest as a record of an era that has passed 
 away, with their Indians and the wildness of the 
 mountains in those days. He was followed by Hill, 
 who did much the same thing, only perhaps in a 
 broader style, and with not so much detail. 
 
 In the late fifties or early sixties pictures of the Bar- 
 bison school began to trickle into America. William 
 Hunt came back from studying with Couture and 
 Millet, and brought pictures with him. I have always 
 thought the best things Hunt ever did wxre under the 
 influence of Couture; like his hurdy-gurdy boy, and 
 the girl at the fountain; also his powerful portrait of 
 Chief Justice Shaw. The influence of Millet seemed 
 to have a weakening influence on his art, and also led 
 him into that ever-hot color which at one time af- 
 flicted him. His own style developed later, and was 
 marked by a more loose handling, but a carelessness 
 of drawing. In his boys bathing, so much admired, 
 the poise of the boy standing on the other's shoulder 
 is admirable, but why was it necessary to sacrifice the 
 drawing of the latter's arm.^ So in his decorations for 
 the Capitol at Albany, the drawing of the figures was 
 as bad as could be. Perhaps it is fortunate for his
 
 loo RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 fame, now that so much more expert draughtsman- 
 ship is expected in decoration, that the paintings 
 were destroyed by damp. 
 
 Hunt's fame was almost entirely local and was due 
 to his many portraits of Boston people, and to his 
 having a class of lady pupils. No surer road to ac- 
 quiring fame exists than to have a class of admiring 
 females, exclaiming at every stroke of the brush, and 
 carrying your praises abroad. 
 
 Mr. Hunt's talent did not seem to be appreciated 
 by his fellow-townsmen at first, as it deserved. I re- 
 member an exhibition he had that seemed on the 
 point of failure, when one of his friends had the in- 
 genious idea of writing an article for the "Transcript" 
 abusing his work; the next evening an article by the 
 same man praising it extravagantly appeared; in this 
 way a discussion was started that raged in all the 
 papers for a week, and all the world flocked to the ex- 
 hibition to see for itself; so the show became a great 
 success. Few people seem to have the critical faculty 
 or are judges of pictures, and fewer still know anything 
 about drawing; most follow like sheep where they are 
 led. 
 
 Another artist who had studied in Paris returned 
 about this time, W. Allan Gay. He had been a pupil 
 of Troyon, but painted only landscapes — -charming 
 views of the Cohasset shore for the most part. He was
 
 ART loi 
 
 a great friend of Mr. Appleton's, who bought several 
 of his pictures. Mr. Appleton did not think he was 
 sufficiently encouraged, and one day, meeting one of 
 the richest men of Boston, who was also by way of be- 
 ing a philanthropist, told him that he ought to encour- 
 age the fine arts, that he ought to buy some of Mr. 
 Gay's pictures. A few days later, meeting him again, 
 he asked him if he had done so; whereupon the gen- 
 tleman said, No, he had not done so because he had 
 made inquiries, and he had found that Mr. Gay was 
 not in impecunious circumstances. Comment is need- 
 less ! However, a few years later, the same gentleman 
 gave me an order for two pictures, so I suppose he had 
 either seen a light, or else he considered me such a poor 
 artist, in one way or the other, that I needed help. 
 
 The pictures of the Barbison school that these art- 
 ists brought home, and others that began to appear in 
 the dealers' galleries, inspired me with such enthu- 
 siasm for the French school that I determined to go to 
 Paris to study when I had finished my studies at the 
 Lawrence Scientific School, as I have before men- 
 tioned. (I may mention here that Mr. Appleton gave 
 an order to Millet for a picture to cost two hundred 
 dollars, I think; but Millet was so long finishing the 
 picture that Mr. Appleton countermanded the order. 
 This picture was the celebrated Angelus, which was 
 afterwards sold for ^100,000.) Accordingly, accom-
 
 I02 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 panled by my uncle, the Reverend Samuel Longfel- 
 low, as bear leader, and to keep me out of mischief, 
 I suppose, I sailed in October of 1865 for the great 
 adventure. And it was a great adventure, for I was 
 not yet quite twenty; I had never taken any lessons in 
 drawing or painting, except such as one has at school, 
 which practically amounted to nothing; I had never 
 drawn from the life, and not even from casts. There 
 were no good art schools in Boston then that I could 
 have gone to; but I had a natural gift for drawing and 
 a correct eye. 
 
 The first three days at sea I was deadly seasick and 
 very homesick. The Cunarders of those days were 
 not very comfortable. The saloon was aft, with the 
 cabins grouped around it, or down below; we had one 
 of the latter, and there was little ventilation and the 
 smells on board were awful. There was no way to 
 keep warm except to stand next the smokestack on 
 deck. There was no protection on the upper deck, 
 there were no chairs, and we had to sit on rugs on the 
 deck. There was n't even a smoking-room, but an 
 enclosed space over the main hatch, called the "fid- 
 dle," where the few gentlemen who smoked gathered, 
 and told the usual smoking-room yarns. After the 
 first few days, however, I enjoyed the voyage. There 
 was a young man not much older than myself, with 
 his wife, and a lady friend travelling with them. He
 
 ART 103 
 
 also had thoughts of studying art, but later gave it 
 up to become an actor and playwright of considerable 
 reputation. We saw a good deal of them later in 
 Paris. 
 
 My uncle and I stopped a few days in London to 
 visit the galleries and sights and see some of my un- 
 cle's friends. One of our interesting experiences was 
 being taken by Moncure Conway to see Carlyle. He 
 received us in a dingy old grey dressing-gown and sat 
 humped up in front of the fire, and railed at almost 
 everything, especially America, where he had never 
 been and never wished to go. He was a fine, vigorous 
 old Scotchman, and not at all the rather sick-looking 
 individual painted by Whistler. 
 
 The pictures at the National Gallery interested me 
 very much, especially the Sir Joshuas and the Rom- 
 neys, also the Turners. I had heard much about, 
 but had never seen any of Turner's paintings, only 
 the drawings of the "Liber Studiorum," which I had 
 always admired, and of course engravings. I confess 
 his later manner was rather too imaginative for my 
 taste. It is said that a lady once said to Turner that 
 she had never seen any sunsets like the ones he 
 painted, to which he replied, "Don't you wish you 
 might.?" 
 
 London in late October Is not a very cheerful place, 
 and all the people we met had sympathized with the
 
 I04 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 South, and were vexed at having put their money 
 on the wrong horse. One gentleman, who had in- 
 vested largely in Confederate bonds, declared roundly 
 that it was an outrage that the North would not pay 
 him for them. So after a week we crossed to Havre. 
 
 I shall never forget my first landing in a country 
 where everybody spoke a strange language; even the 
 children seemed wonderfully clever to speak French 
 so well ! I found what little French I thought I knew 
 went nowhere, and I could not understand a word 
 that was said. Fortunately my uncle spoke French of 
 a sort. 
 
 At Rouen I had my first view of a Gothic cathedral, 
 and it remains an ever vivid memory. It was toward 
 dusk as we entered into the gloom of Saint-Ouen 
 lighted only by the jewelled windows, far up where 
 the columns seemed lost in a grey mist. How solemn 
 and inspiring! It has always seemed to me that the 
 Gothic is the only style for places of worship. It 
 seems to express the yearnings and aspirations of 
 the human soul reaching up to the Infinite. 
 
 Arrived in Paris, the first question was where to es- 
 tablish ourselves for the winter. My uncle thought 
 the large hotels much too expensive, so we started out 
 apartment-hunting. My uncle had an obsession for 
 having a view, which is not always easy in a city. I 
 have known him, if only passing a night in a place, to
 
 ART los 
 
 chase all over a hotel to get a room with a view, even 
 if we arrived after dark and were leaving early the 
 next morning; much to my disgust when I was tired 
 with a long journey and wished only to get to bed. 
 
 Finally he hit upon some rooms on the outside 
 shell, as it were, of the Chatelet Theatre. It was an 
 unfortunate choice, I think, because, although we 
 looked out on the river, with all its bridges, and the 
 Conciergerie directly opposite, certainly a beautiful 
 view, it proved to be very damp and cold from the 
 river for a winter sojourn. The river fogs were often 
 so thick we could not see the street below, much less 
 the beautiful view we had done so much to obtain. 
 However, it was cheap, which was something. We 
 had a small salon with a tiny bedroom on each side; 
 the usual parquet floor, which creaked whenever you 
 stepped on it; a few small rugs that slid away from 
 under you; a ridiculous little square hole called a fire- 
 place, which we soon found, no matter how extrava- 
 gant we were with our basket of wood, was quite 
 inadequate to increase the temperature of the rooms 
 when those terrible fogs arrived ; and no sun could be 
 depended upon. As a matter of fact, the sun is a rare 
 sight in a Paris winter. I have known a whole month 
 pass without its once putting in an appearance; this 
 is the more strange as it is often clear at night. 
 
 The concierge, who did our rooms and brought us
 
 io6 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 our morning coffee and petit paiuy lived with his wife 
 in a little cubby-hole halfway up the first flight of 
 stairs. Where they did their cooking I never found 
 out. I hardly ever saw the wife, except when I caught 
 a glimpse of a white cap when asking for the cordon to 
 let us out, or groping our way in late at night, after 
 the theatre, perhaps. We took our luncheons and 
 dinners out at near-by restaurants, mostly at the ex- 
 travagant price of two or two and a half francs for the 
 dinner, and less for lunch. It was a primitive and 
 simple life, but very delightful to look back upon. 
 Seldom did we go to any of the expensive restaurants 
 or penetrate to the Champs Elysees quarter. 
 
 Fortunately for me, my uncle was very enthusiastic 
 about music and art, and as he had been abroad be- 
 fore was invaluable as a cicerone. We took season 
 tickets for the Pasdeloup concerts at the Cirque 
 d'Hiver, but unfortunately, being late in getting 
 them, could get seats only behind the orchestra in too 
 close proximity to the kettle-drums to get the best ef- 
 fect. However, with my uncle as guide, I was able to 
 get acquainted with all the best music, and have al- 
 ways been glad that my taste was cultivated so early, 
 so that music has always been a great pleasure to me. 
 
 Of course, we spent many hours at the Louvre 
 studying the old masters, and here again I owe a 
 great deal to my uncle for his guidance and knowl-
 
 ART 107 
 
 edge in art; also at the Luxembourg, where the pic- 
 tures of the modern French school were shown in the 
 large gallery at the eastern end of the palace, not, as 
 now, in the Orangerie. However, the great question 
 was. How was I to begin my studies? I had not the 
 least idea; neither had my uncle. I did not think of 
 entering the Beaux-Arts, because I did not think I 
 knew enough, and I spoke so little French. 
 
 There were no Juliens then, and I knew no one to 
 advise me. Finally through a Boston artist, who was 
 passing through Paris, I got an introduction to a Mr. 
 May, an American artist living in Paris. He was very 
 kind, and not only advised me to enter the atelier of 
 Ernest Hebert, but took me there himself and intro- 
 duced me to the massier or painter at the head of the 
 atelier; also, as the etiquette required, to call on 
 Hebert at his own studio. 
 
 There was nothing commercial, like Julien's differ- 
 ent ateliers, about the atelier Hebert. It was more 
 like a club. You paid so much to enter and so much a 
 week for hire of models, rent, and so forth. Hebert 
 came twice a week to criticise without any pay, giv- 
 ing his services for the love of art, and that was his 
 only connection with the atelier. The atelier was in 
 the rue de Leval, just round the corner from the rue 
 Pigalle, in the Montmartre quarter. 
 
 I was very anxious to get to work, and the very
 
 io8 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 next day after being taken there, having in the mean- 
 time ordered an easel, a portfolio, and a dozen sheets 
 of charcoal paper, as well as sticks of charcoal and 
 some paper stumps, such as I had seen most of the 
 students using, I presented myself at an early hour. 
 
 The atelier consisted of a large room with almost 
 the entire side toward the north given up to a large 
 window, the panes of which, I should judge, had not 
 been washed since the flood. Opposite the door there 
 was a raised platform for the model, beside which 
 was a stove, and the whole place reeked with the smell 
 of paint, turpentine, and tobacco smoke. Of course, 
 being in France, there was no ventilation, and for the 
 sake of the model the temperature had to be in the 
 neighborhood of seventy degrees. 
 
 When I arrived, the place was crowded, and as a 
 late comer I had to take what place I could find to set 
 up my easel. It was one of the rules of the atelier that 
 on Monday mornings those coming first had first 
 choice as to places. Some preferred to squat close to 
 the model on low stools, others farther back sitting 
 down, while those at the rear had to stand up to see 
 well. About a third painted in oils, but the greater 
 number, not so advanced, were contented to make 
 charcoal drawings. 
 
 There was always more or less of a hubbub going 
 on, some singing snatches of popular songs, in which
 
 ART 109 
 
 occasionally almost the whole room would join, others 
 whistling, others talking, and others grunting when 
 things did not go right with their drawing. 
 
 As I entered, the noise ceased for a moment — Ah! 
 nouveau!' — and then it began again. I found my easel 
 and portfolio in a corner where it had been left when 
 sent from the color shop, and as quietly as possible 
 began my work. 
 
 The model that morning happened to be a woman, 
 and I must confess that to my Puritan mind, and rev- 
 erencing woman as I had been taught to do, it seemed 
 to me a dreadful desecration to put this poor naked 
 girl up for all those ribald youths to stare at. You 
 must remember that I had never drawn from the nude 
 before; but I soon learned, what few people under- 
 stand, that artists regard their models, at least when 
 they are drawing or painting from them, as so much 
 furniture. The question of sex does not come in. 
 
 At the end of the hour the model was given a rest of 
 five minutes, when cigarettes were lighted and general 
 conversation broke out. I understood not a word of 
 what was going on, but I suddenly found that all eyes 
 were turned on me, and every one calling out some- 
 thing for my benefit. I had awful visions of the haz- 
 ings that I had heard about, as the racket grew louder 
 and louder. There was not another American or Eng- 
 lishman in the place, but fortunately a very nice-
 
 no RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 looking Frenchman that sat near me explained In 
 fairly good English that, as a newcomer, I was ex- 
 pected to give all hands a treat. So I told him I 
 should be delighted, and if he would send out for what 
 they wanted, I would be pleased to pay for it. He ex- 
 plained the situation to the others, and the hubbub 
 ceased, and I became popular at once at the expense 
 of a few francs. 
 
 Ernest Hebert, the artist, who came twice a week 
 to criticise the work, was well known for his picture in 
 the Luxembourg called "Malaria," a picture charm- 
 ing in color and sentiment, and quite the best thing 
 he ever did. His later pictures had an unpleasant 
 greenish hue. He was a little dark man with melan- 
 choly expression, and he was not an inspiring teacher. 
 The highest praise that he ever gave was a " Pas mal. " 
 
 He took more interest naturally in the more ad- 
 vanced men, who were painting in oils, and rarely 
 took the trouble to pay much attention to the rest of 
 us, usually only glancing at our work, and either 
 giving a grunt of indifference to inferior work, or, as 
 I have said, a ^^ Pas maV* for anything that was really 
 good. Of course, he paid little attention to me, and 
 I doubt if he remembered ever to have seen me before. 
 
 Only on one occasion, after I had been there some 
 time, and had made, as I thought, a more than usually 
 good and careful drawing, he sat down in front of
 
 ART III 
 
 my work and, taking a piece of charcoal, without 
 saying a word, made two strokes across my drawing, 
 quite ruining it. I was very angry at the time, but 
 what he meant was that I had not put enough action 
 into the figure. I thought this unjust, because the 
 model had a difficult pose and had slumped toward the 
 end of the hour. Of course, I had begun the drawing 
 as the model had first taken the pose, and could not 
 very well alter it as the model slumped more and more. 
 
 However, I now see, what I did not understand at 
 the time, that just as an actor has to exaggerate a 
 little in order to get his effect across the footlights, 
 so an artist must exaggerate slightly to convey his 
 idea. The best drawing is not, therefore, the most 
 accurate, but style in drawing means deviating from 
 photographic exactness. This has been a hard lesson 
 for me to learn, as my tendency has always been to too 
 much accuracy, owing, I suppose, to my training as 
 an engineer. As Cantine once said to me, I did not 
 let myself go; or, as he expressed it, if I would only 
 get drunk, I would do much better. 
 
 The rule of the atelier was that we had male models 
 for three weeks of the month, and a female model for 
 the other week. At the beginning of the week, a vote 
 would be taken as to the pose, and the pose once 
 selected was the same for the whole week. Most of 
 the students made only one drawing or painting
 
 112 RANDOM IVIEMORIES 
 
 in the week, but as I am naturally a rapid worker, 
 I often made two. I did not care to make such a care- 
 ful drawing as most of the men, but thought I should 
 get more practice and knowledge of the figure by 
 changing my position and making two drawings. 
 
 Every one did just as he liked, in his method of 
 work, though most made smudgy drawings in char- 
 coal, using a paper stump or lingers. I was pleased 
 to find that, although new to this method of work, my 
 drawings were better than some. There were some 
 men of over thirty, who had been coming to the atelier 
 for years, who could never learn to draw, but still 
 kept at it, apparently pleased with their work. 
 
 As to the men who painted, some had already 
 "arrived," as the expression is; that is, had exhibited 
 at the Salon, but came back to keep their hands in, 
 in work from the life. There seemed to be absolutely no 
 system taught, but each one followed his own sweet 
 will. There was one I remember who never used any 
 brushes, but put the paint on with his fingers, and then 
 stirred it round, making an awful mess, and covering 
 himself with paint in the process. He was the dirtiest 
 painter I ever saw. Some of the best studies in oils 
 were hung up on the walls, as an example, and there 
 were among them some superb work done by former 
 students. 
 
 I had little to do with the other students, as I spoke
 
 ART 113 
 
 so little French, and picked it up very slowly. I have 
 no talent for languages, and it is impossible for me to 
 learn any. It is odd, because my father was an excel- 
 lent linguist, and spoke four languages perfectly be- 
 sides his own, and could turn from speaking one to 
 another with perfect ease. I have often heard for- 
 eigners remark with surprise how well he spoke their 
 language. 
 
 I must say all these Frenchmen, but few of whom 
 were gentlemen, treated me very well. There was 
 no hazing, or chaffing, and if there were unkind 
 things said, I did not know enough to comprehend 
 them. Considering I was the only man in the place 
 that was not a Frenchman, I think this remarkable. 
 I believe, however, there was one Swede, but he spoke 
 French. 
 
 Sometimes I would go out to lunch with some of the 
 men, and they were always very jolly and kind. We 
 usually went to some cremerie or establishment Duval, 
 where we got a bowl of milk and some bread for a few 
 sous. 
 
 If any one expects an account of wild doings in the 
 Latin Quarter, he will be disappointed, as I saw 
 nothing of these things. Indeed, I doubt if they ex- 
 ist, except in the imagination of men who like to look 
 knowing when the Quarter is mentioned, and want it 
 to be thought they were devils of fellows in their youth.
 
 114 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 I don't wish to be thought a prude; but I may have 
 been surrounded with sirens without knowing it. I 
 had come out for work, not frivoHty, and I generally 
 find that one sees only what one is looking for. I 
 don't even know whether there were Moulins Rouges or 
 Bals Boulliers in those days. The Jardin Mabille was 
 then in its glory, but I went there only once, at the 
 solicitation of a friend. It was a beautiful place with 
 its many lights and shrubberies, just off the Champs 
 Elysees, but the rather plain hired ladies, who kicked 
 off gentlemen's tall hats and displayed as much lin- 
 gerie as possible, soon palled upon me. 
 
 I have to confess that I have never enjoyed the 
 pleasures that please most men, and indeed have not 
 cared for men's society very much. Clubs bore me, 
 and worst of all are the large, men's dinners with 
 speeches. I get on very well with other artists or liter- 
 ary and musical people, but the general run of men 
 are tiresome. They want to talk only about their 
 own affairs; if they are golfers, about the wonderful 
 strokes they have made; if automobilists, about where 
 they have been, and the merits of their particular car. 
 
 I enjoy women's society immensely as a relaxation, 
 but only that of bright women of one's own class; not 
 that of aggressive women, or of those who wish to be 
 thought learned. I cannot imagine finding amusement 
 with brainless chorus girls or the usual demi-mondaines.
 
 ART 115 
 
 But to return to our "muttons." It may seem 
 strange, but I cannot remember whether we began 
 work at eight or nine o'clock in the morning, but I 
 think the latter, although I often on dark winter 
 mornings had to dress and have breakfast by candle- 
 light. It was quite a distance from the place du Chate- 
 let to the rue de Leval, a good half-hour's rapid walk, 
 and not much less by omnibus. There was an omnibus 
 that went from the Chatelet to the place Pigalle that 
 I took on rainy mornings, but I generally preferred to 
 walk if the mornings were at all fine. That early-morn- 
 ing walk was delightful; it led through the Halle 
 Centrale with the market carts just coming in, and all 
 the old women in their white caps bustling about, and 
 the trig-looking bonnes doing their marketing; then 
 on by Saint-Eustace, where we often went Sunday 
 afternoons to hear the beautiful music, up the long 
 narrow Boulevard Poissonniere. This was the real 
 old Paris. There were the rag-pickers about, with their 
 long hooks, searching the gutters and rubbish-heaps 
 for stray treasures. The shrill cries, almost a chant, of 
 the vendors with their little pushcarts filled the street, 
 and the freshness of the morning air made the heart 
 glad. 
 
 Then across the Boulevard Poissonniere, and by the 
 little church of Notre Dame de Lorette, which used 
 to be considered the centre of the soubrette quarter,
 
 1 16 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 I believe; but at that early hour there were no houris 
 about. Still on, breasting the hill that leads to 
 Montmartre, and by the rue Pigalle to the atelier. 
 Such was my morning walk, and how delightful to 
 look back upon and recall the familiar smells and 
 sounds! What a time is youth! 
 
 Not content with working in the morning, some of 
 us hired models to come in the afternoons; at other 
 times I went to the Louvre and drew from the statues 
 or copied some of the pictures. My favorite painters 
 were Titian and Rembrandt. I made several copies 
 from each. 
 
 Toward the beginning of the year, Mr. Mac 
 
 and his wife returned from their travels, and settled 
 down not far from us on the Boulevard Saint-Michel, 
 just across the river; after that we saw a good deal of 
 them, and Mr. M. and I took a studio together, where 
 I worked some of the time. He was a very versatile 
 person; full of enthusiasm for all sorts of things, but 
 wanting in stability, I thought. He would not go to an 
 atelier to learn to draw, but wanted to paint right off. 
 He had had some instruction from Page, the artist, 
 who at one time had quite a vogue. Page, though a 
 good draughtsman, had theories. He thought he had 
 discovered the secret of the Venetian coloring, and 
 indulged in glaze after glaze on his pictures to get that 
 rich amber tone. Unfortunately, so many oil glazes
 
 smoker: a portrait study 
 (Alexander Longfellow)
 
 ART 117 
 
 In time turned black, and all his portraits have been 
 ruined. Mr. M. had these theories from him, and 
 tried to convince me of their soundness, but after one 
 or two experiments I gave It up, and ever since have 
 fought shy of theories in art. 
 
 Mrs. M. confided to me that they had not really 
 come abroad to study art, when I suggested that her 
 husband did not seem very keen about his studies, 
 but to consume the time while they got a divorce. It 
 seems that they had taken a room for a year at In- 
 dianapolis, then the centre for divorces, and had left 
 a trunk there, to comply with the legal requirements, 
 while they travelled in Europe. The funny part of the 
 situation was that the lady who was travelling with 
 them was the lady whom Mr. M. was to marry after 
 the divorce was obtained. She was Mrs. M.'s most 
 intimate friend, but because Mrs. M. loved her hus- 
 band and also her friend so much, she wished them to 
 be happy, and, therefore, she was to retire and leave 
 them to be married and live happy ever after. Cer- 
 tainly a remarkable situation, brought about In a great 
 measure, I believe, by a book called, I think, "Coun- 
 terparts," which was then very popular, and which 
 advocated letting " affinities " take It Into their own 
 hands and go off together. Mr. M. did afterwards 
 marry the other lady, and his first wife, I believe, 
 also married again.
 
 1 1 8 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 In the middle of the winter, another American 
 turned up at the ateUer Hebert. Henry Marker had 
 been an artist for " Harper's Weekly " during the Civil 
 War, and had then gone to Munich to study. When 
 he came to Paris, therefore, he had already acquired 
 a good deal of the technique of painting. He made ex- 
 cellent studies in oils, mostly of the head, and had 
 great facility. He afterwards had much success with 
 Brittany subjects and was a well-known exhibitor 
 at the Salon, receiving, I believe, several medals. It 
 was a relief to have some one to talk to in my own 
 tongue. He was a pleasant fellow, and then un- 
 married ; years afterwards I met him with an invalid 
 son on a Mediterranean steamer, and we recalled 
 with pleasure our former comradeship. 
 
 I cannot pretend that the life at the atelier was 
 very agreeable to a sensitive and fastidious person, 
 and I also found the gloomy weather of the Paris 
 winter very trying and depressing, so that I welcomed 
 my uncle's suggestion that we should go to Italy in 
 March, and study the old masters there. Of course, 
 it would have been better to have stuck it out longer 
 at the atelier, but the prospect of sunshine in Italy 
 was too tempting. 
 
 Accordingly, we departed in the middle of March 
 by train to Nice, and then after a few days drove by 
 carriage along the Cornice Road to Genoa. There was
 
 ART 119 
 
 no railroad then, and what an enchanting three days 
 that was! Alfred Tennyson's poem of "The Daisy" 
 gives a far better description of that drive than I can, 
 and is worth recalling. 
 
 From Genoa, after studying the Van Dycks, we 
 took diligence to Spezzia, where again we could take 
 the train for Pisa. The railroad from Pisa to Rome 
 then extended only a little beyond Leghorn, where 
 we had to get into a diligence for a long night ride. 
 What a night that was ! We could not get a seat in the 
 coupe and were jammed into the interior with a lot 
 of Italians who smelled of garlic. They told us it was 
 quite likely we should be held up by brigands, as the 
 route we were obliged to travel was infested with them, 
 and they had fearful tales to tell of other diligences 
 being stopped, and the passengers robbed, if not car- 
 ried off for ransom. I remember several of the women 
 proceeded to hide their jewelry in their stockings and 
 inside their corsets, quite regardless of exposure of 
 legs and bosoms. Fortunately, the oil lamp gave little 
 light. 
 
 I shall never forget how my legs and back ached 
 from our cramped position, and that dreadful twitch- 
 ing of the former which comes when you are sleepy 
 and can't sleep. 
 
 Suddenly in the middle of the night, just as I had 
 begun to doze off, the diligence stopped, and we all felt
 
 120 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 sure our hour had come, and the brigands had arrived. 
 The guard informed us that the gentlemen must all 
 get out, so we expected to be stood up against a wall 
 and have our pockets emptied. It proved, however, 
 to be nothing worse than a bad and muddy road, in 
 which the diligence was stuck, on the slope of a rather 
 steep hill. So we all put our shoulders to the wheels, 
 and managed to get the ponderous vehicle to the 
 top. Nothing further happened till we reached Civlta 
 Vecchia, where we took the train for Rome. 
 
 The first glimpse of the dome of Saint Peter's must 
 send a thrill through any one not hardened by much 
 travel. Rome in those days was a medieval city. The 
 Pope still drove in state through the streets, while all 
 the people fell on their knees in the mud as he passed. 
 Cardinals were as thick as blackberries, and In their 
 scarlet robes gave a welcome bit of color as they 
 walked in the villas or on the Pinclo. The streets 
 were ill-paved and ill-lighted, and it was not con- 
 sidered safe to walk alone at night in any but the 
 most frequented thoroughfares. 
 
 The Coliseum was still draped in Its mantle of moss 
 and hanging vines, before the hand of archaeologists 
 had scraped and repaired Its crumbling walls, In what 
 they call preservation — Heaven save the mark! 
 
 The Forum was a resting-place for those magnificent 
 white oxen attached to the red-wheeled carts of the
 
 ART 121 
 
 Campagna, not as now a perfect rabbit warren, with 
 so many holes dug in it that it no longer resembles a 
 Forum — ^all to make a Roman holiday for the anti- 
 quaries! There were no new streets and brand-new 
 apartments, but crumbling walls, ruins, and decay, 
 much more picturesque and interesting than at 
 present. 
 
 William Story, the sculptor, was then at the zenith 
 of his fame, and was turning out his stiff, classical 
 statues of Cleopatra, Medea, etc., much to his own 
 satisfaction and that of the English public, who were 
 his chief patrons. Mr. Story was a most charming man, 
 but as a sculptor perhaps the less said the better. The 
 best thing he ever did was the memorial to his wife, 
 in the English cemetery in Rome. Henry James was 
 asked by the Story family to write a life of Mr. Story, 
 but when it was done it was so much more about Mr. 
 James than Mr. Story that I believe the family were 
 not at all pleased. I remember the Story boys — who 
 afterward became famous as artist and sculptor — 
 home on vacation in their Eton jackets. Mrs. Story 
 was very fond of English society, especially when 
 titled, and received in state on the top floor of the 
 Palazzo Barberini. 
 
 Tilton, another American, was a painter of some suc- 
 cess in Rome at that time. He was a Portland boy and 
 had been helped by my father when beginning his
 
 122 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 career. He was, therefore, very friendly. He was tre- 
 mendously conceited and people made much fun of him 
 on that account. He used to say, "How remarkable 
 it is that the names of most great painters begin 
 with T! — Titian, Tintoretto, Turner " ; and then he 
 would pause and everybody was expected to add 
 "Tilton." He was a follower, so he thought, of 
 Turner — a long way behind — and used to boast 
 that only his pictures and Turner's looked equally 
 well upside down. 
 
 We had lodgings near the Hotel d'Angleterre, and 
 I was much shocked when we were going away, and 
 had asked the proprietor to have our luggage taken 
 down, to have him calmly put the trunks on his wife's 
 head to take downstairs, while he sauntered down 
 with his hands in his pockets — having previously 
 put his hands into mine pretty deeply. 
 
 Of course we spent much time at the Vatican and 
 other galleries, and I learned a great deal from study- 
 ing the pictures and sculptures. I was not like an 
 American sculptress who was asked, after being two 
 years in Rome, if she did not get much inspiration 
 from the magnificent statues at the Vatican. She 
 replied that she had never been there, because she 
 did not wish to lose her originality. 
 
 We stayed in Rome over Easter to see the cere- 
 monies at Saint Peter's, which were very impressive,
 
 ART 123 
 
 especially when the Pope came out on the balcony to 
 bless the people. It was a wonderful sight to see that 
 whole vast piazza filled with kneeling people to re- 
 ceive the benediction of that sweet-faced old man in 
 white, far above them. Since 1870 that sight has never 
 been seen again. 
 
 It seems hard to believe now that Italy was then 
 divided up into separate states and that we had to 
 get our passports back from the police, who had taken 
 possession of them on our arrival, and have them 
 viseed for Naples. This is not a chronicle of travel, 
 but merely a hasty sketch of my early experiences. 
 Therefore I shall not say much about our stay in 
 Naples, nor have I attempted to expatiate on the 
 wonders of Rome. 
 
 We did the usual things at Naples and we explored 
 Pompeii, which I must say impresses one wonderfully 
 on a first visit, and I think was perhaps more in- 
 teresting when there was not so much uncovered, and 
 when the imagination had full play as to what still 
 remained a mystery in the life of this dead city. After 
 all it is not so much what one sees in their desolate 
 and rather monotonous streets of ruined houses, but 
 in the picture that is conjured up by the imagination. 
 
 We also visited Herculaneum, that mysterious city 
 entombed, clasped in the embrace of the deadly lava. 
 What a pity the Italian Government, dog-in-the-
 
 124 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 manger-like, will not permit others to explore these 
 hidden treasures when they are unable to do so them- 
 selves. 
 
 We went, of course, to Capri, that enchanted isle, 
 and to Sorrento and Amalfi. From Salerno, as there 
 was no railroad then, we went to Paestum by car- 
 riage. The district between Salerno and Paestum was 
 much frequented by bandits at that time, so the 
 Government insisted on our having an escort of cav- 
 alry. The year before, an Englishman had been 
 captured and a large ransom demanded; as the ran- 
 som was not forthcoming with sufficient promptness, 
 they cut off one of his ears and sent it to the family in 
 England, and followed it with the other ear to hurry 
 up matters. Three or four years later, in Rome, I 
 saw a man at a reception that had something pe- 
 culiar about his appearance. He had no ears, and that 
 was the very man, so I know the story was true. 
 You can't imagine how queer he looked ! As the ex- 
 pense of a carriage with mounted escort was consid- 
 erable, we combined with two Englishmen for the 
 trip. No brigands appeared, though we saw plenty of 
 villainous-looking peasants working in the fields, that 
 no doubt could have turned themselves into brigands 
 at a moment's notice if there had been no escort. 
 
 Paestum was much more desolate in those days 
 than it is to-day, and therefore much more impres-
 
 ART 125 
 
 sive. There was no railroad station or other build- 
 ings, and the land had not been drained. Nothing 
 but those solemn ruins in a wet and deserted plain. 
 It was said to be death to pass the night there owing 
 to malaria, and I can well believe it. 
 
 Of course, while at Naples I climbed Vesuvius with 
 some acquaintances, and a wonderful sight it was 
 looking down into that devils' cauldron of the crater, 
 with steam and poisonous vapors rising all around us. 
 
 It was then that I heard for the first time of the 
 Italian who, showing Vesuvius to an American, said, 
 "There! you have n't anything like that in America.'* 
 "Pooh! if we turned Niagara on that it would put it 
 out in a minute," said the American. This story has 
 been brought down to date by putting it into the 
 mouth of Mr. McAdoo on his visit to Naples during 
 the World War. 
 
 In the spring of 1 866, war was threatening in Europe, 
 so we did not linger in Rome on our return, but started 
 for Florence by way of Perugia almost immediately. 
 We could go only as far as Foligno by rail, as no rail- 
 road was finished then through to Florence. At Fo- 
 ligno we were transferred to a diligence, and when we 
 arrived at the steep hill leading to Perugia, they at- 
 tached two magnificent milk-white oxen to pull us up 
 the hill. Perugia still belonged, I think, to the Papal 
 States ; at all events, the fortress that stood where the
 
 126 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 parade ground is now was still there, and the only 
 hotel was outside the gates. It was in this hotel only 
 a few years before that the Papal soldiers, when they 
 retook the town, nearly murdered Mr. Edward Per- 
 kins and his wife, of Boston. The landlord told us 
 how he had hidden them in a closet, when his hotel 
 was ransacked and several people killed. It must 
 have been a frightful experience. 
 
 We enjoyed the Peruginos and Raphaels and the 
 quaint streets of this truly medieval city. None of 
 the old cities of Italy has kept its character better 
 than Perugia, and I always enjoy revisiting it, which 
 I have done many times. 
 
 I suppose we drove to Assisi, but I can't remember 
 now, I have been there so often since. On reaching 
 Florence, we devoted ourselves to the pictures and 
 churches, but although we were in a hurry to get to 
 Venice before the war broke out, we had time to study 
 the many galleries and works of art pretty thoroughly. 
 
 What a lovely city it is, with its wonderful setting 
 in the beautiful valley of the Arno! After the gloom 
 of Rome, amongst its crumbling ruins, how cheerful 
 and bright it seems ! One is never tired of standing on 
 the Ponte Vecchio and looking at the rushing river, 
 or wandering among the treasures of the Uffizi or 
 Pitti, or dreaming away a sunny afternoon in the 
 beautiful Boboli Gardens or the Caschini.
 
 ART 127 
 
 At last we tore ourselves away, and went to Bologna 
 — more pictures; and then on to Ravenna to see the 
 mosaics and Dante's tomb, and wandered in the 
 Pineta, which had not then been destroyed by fire. 
 
 Finally we reached Venice, then in Austrian hands. 
 Austrian soldiers were everywhere. Austrian bands 
 played in the Piazza, but to empty space; no Italian 
 would think of being seen there listening to the music; 
 only the pigeons flew about, and were indifferent to 
 the oppressors. We had the galleries and churches 
 almost to ourselves, as there were few or no tourists. 
 The beautiful palaces looked down on empty canals, 
 and there was a general air of expectancy like the 
 hush before a thunder-storm. 
 
 We were warned that the frontiers of Venice might 
 be closed any day, and no foreigners allowed to depart, 
 so we did our sight-seeing as rapidly as possible. I 
 shall never forget, however, my first impression of 
 those glowing canvases, and the Venetian school has 
 ever since been my favorite. We were fortunate in 
 seeing the wonderful picture of " Saint Peter Martyr," 
 by Titian, which was destroyed by fire the following 
 year, and of which only a memory now remains. 
 
 We left Venice just in time, for the following day 
 nobody was given permission to leave. A fellow- 
 countryman of ours who attempted to get away, and 
 had hired a boat to cross the Po from Mantua, was
 
 128 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 fired upon by Austrian sentries, although war had 
 not actually begun. Fortunately, he got safely across. 
 We then went to Como, which was full of Gari- 
 baldians in their red shirts, and we had the good for- 
 tune to see Garibaldi himself. We took the steamer up 
 the lake next day, meaning to stay at Bellaggio, but 
 at the wharf at Cadenabbia we were hailed by friends 
 from home, and induced to get off there. Cadenabbia 
 has ever since been our favorite spot on the lake, and 
 it was owing to this chance that my father went there 
 in 1868 and gave the world his well-known poem of 
 Cadenabbia beginning — 
 
 "No sound of wheels or hoof-beat breaks 
 The silence of the summer day." 
 
 In those days there was no way of getting to Cade- 
 nabbia save by boat or walking. Alas, now, even the 
 noisy automobile disturbs the quiet of the summer's 
 day, but the lake remains as lovely as ever. 
 
 One day, when we had made an expedition to the 
 head of the lake, my uncle, who had separated from 
 the rest of the party, was poking about the little 
 town and talking to the peasants, as was his wont, 
 when he was suddenly arrested as an Austrian spy. 
 He certainly had a German look with his reddish beard. 
 He was marched off to the guard-house, where for- 
 tunately he was able to produce his letter of credit on 
 Barings and to prove that he was an American.
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 ITALIAN ART 
 
 While we rest on the shores of this most beautiful of 
 lakes, an epitome of all that is most charming in 
 Italy, — color, atmosphere, picturesque villages, and 
 lofty mountains, — it is a good opportunity to cast an 
 eye backward on the art treasures of this wonderful 
 country that I had seen for the first time. I had now 
 had a chance to study with some care the paintings 
 and sculpture of Its many galleries and churches. 
 I had become familiar with the different schools and 
 the characteristics of the different artists. 
 
 It is a great trial to any one who has become famil- 
 iar with certain pictures that one has In one's mind as 
 indicating the style of an artist, to have some of these 
 later commentators, like Berenson, come along, and 
 attribute them to somebody else; especially if you 
 cannot agree with his method of attribution. Artists 
 do not always work from the same models, and make 
 noses or ears always alike; also different artists some- 
 times use the same model. I do not think any one who 
 has not painted himself can be so good a judge of the 
 technique of a picture or so surely detect the manner- 
 isms of an artist as one who has.
 
 130 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 There is no subject about which so much rubbish 
 has been written as art. Literary people sit themselves 
 down before a picture and let their imaginations run 
 wild. They see all sorts of things in the picture that 
 I am sure the artist never thought of. It is like the 
 commentators of Shakespeare, who twist and turn 
 the text, or find an imaginary cipher — like the 
 Baconians. Just as some people seem to think that 
 poetry, if easy to understand, cannot be poetry, so 
 others find dark and hidden mysteries in pictures; we 
 have even come to Cubists, with their unintelligible 
 jumble of parallelograms, which may be "a nude 
 descending the stairs," or anything else you like. 
 Great is the power of unbridled imagination! At least, 
 however, let us remain within the limits of nature. 
 Let art be sane, and not follow the evil imaginations 
 of degenerate minds. 
 
 I believe it is said that man cannot imagine any- 
 thing that he has not seen. Dragons and such other 
 wild beasts are only combinations of things seen. Look 
 at the grotesques of Leonardo da Vinci ; they are only 
 features of man or beast in unusual combination. So 
 as a rule I think pictures direct from nature are more 
 satisfactory in the long run than imaginary land- 
 scapes. I prefer, myself, Corot's pictures from nature 
 to his more imaginary works. I know this is not the 
 generally received opinion. I do not, however, think
 
 ITALIAN ART 131 
 
 the human mind can conceive of trees or clouds or 
 hills more beautiful than nature has given them to us. 
 The classical landscapes of Claude or Turner may be 
 full of light, of beautiful composition, of fantastic 
 ruins, but after all they leave you cold, compared to 
 the real thing; they are but translations or arrange- 
 ments, and do not give us as much pleasure as a 
 nearer transcript and more intimate view from nature 
 would do. 
 
 In studying the Greek and Roman statuary in 
 Rome and Naples, one cannot help noticing how close 
 to nature they are. Some of the busts in marble or 
 bronze might be of living people, so real are they. The 
 Greek statues are, of course, idealized. It does not 
 seem possible that such beautiful forms ever existed ; 
 they certainly do not now, except in very exceptional 
 circumstances. Only once in a model have I seen those 
 beautiful pointed breasts that you find in the old 
 statues of women and that have ever been the ideal 
 for artists. It is the same for the feet and hands; we 
 have to copy the feet of the old statues because in 
 these days we never see feet that have not been ruined 
 by shoes, or knocked out of shape by hard usage. 
 
 Of course, the Greeks had one advantage in treat- 
 ing the human form; they were much more familiar 
 with the nude in everyday life, and could watch the 
 play of the muscles in sunshine or shade, while we
 
 132 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 can study It only in the studio from indifferent models 
 and in an artificial light. Some artists have tried 
 posing models, mostly female, en plein air, but I 
 think the result is seldom satisfactory. The nude out 
 of doors is too realistic; you wish the lady would put 
 on her clothes. 
 
 The great difference between Greek art and that 
 of to-day is that they are never too realistic, and that 
 is the true secret why their art is never disagreeable. 
 They treat the human body in a broad and simple 
 way, and do not go too much into detail or dwell on 
 the defects of the model, but always have In mind that 
 beauty should be the one aim in art. 
 
 At the present moment there is a great vogue for 
 Rodin. I am taking my Hfe in my hands by criticising 
 him in any way ; but contrast his " The Age of Bronze " 
 with, say, "the man with the strigil," in the Vatican. 
 
 The back of Rodin's man is all cut up with muscles, 
 and he stands so Insecurely on his feet that he looks 
 as if he would topple over; the abdomen Is also over- 
 elaborated. The proud boast of the admirers of Rodin 
 is that when this figure was first exhibited, people 
 thought It must have been done from a cast of a living 
 man. Perhaps it was; but that is not art. Contrast 
 that with the beautiful broad muscles of the back of 
 the Greek statue, which stands so lightly on its feet, 
 it seems ready to move. Compare Rodin's "Thinker"
 
 ITALIAN ART 133 
 
 ^- great clumsy brute, who is all animal and had never 
 a thought above feeding, and looks as if he were con- 
 templating murder — with Michael Angelo's " II Pen- 
 seroso" in Florence. 
 
 We can admire a torso without arms or legs of some 
 old Greek statue, because that is all that is left to us, 
 alas; but deliberately to make such a mutilated ob- 
 ject is an affectation, if not an impertinence. Rodin 
 once actually exhibited at the Salon a pair of legs 
 walking off without any body. 
 
 It seems to me that of our American sculptors 
 French has more of the Greek than any other. Saint- 
 Gaudens is more akin to the Renaissance sculptors, 
 or the modern French school, in his work. MacMon- 
 nies treats his subjects too much as if they were 
 paintings. 
 
 To return to the sculpture of Italy; I suppose it is 
 an accepted fact that most of it is Roman reproduc- 
 tion of Greek work; or, as in the bronzes in the Museum 
 at Naples, done by Greek artists transported to Italy. 
 As in translations, so in reproductions, something is 
 lost — the personal final touch given by the artist him- 
 self. We must go to Greece, then, for the more per- 
 fect work, and, alas, how little is left there uninjured ! 
 Compared with Greek work in its perfect grace, how 
 clumsy and awkward Michael Angelo's "David" 
 appears! yet it is full of power. I much prefer his
 
 134 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 "Moses" or the Medici tombs; his "Pieta" shows 
 a more graceful side of his art, and is beautiful. 
 
 There are many, especially in these days, who pre- 
 fer strength to any other quality; the more strong 
 and brutal a thing is, the better they like it. They no 
 longer care for beauty or for any of the finer qualities 
 in a work of art. It seems to me this is a primitive 
 and savage taste; they, like the savage, like raw and 
 violent coloring and brutal and unrefined modelling. 
 Refinement of line and delicate shades of color have 
 given place to careless drawing, supposed to represent 
 freedom, and paintiness, instead of beauty of surface. 
 The impressionists, in the search for what they call 
 play of color, have substituted opaque paint for the 
 beautiful transparent shades that come from thin 
 films of color lightly laid on. The result is a chalky 
 effect which is added to by their endeavor to force the 
 key up, to get an effect of light. Monet, the great 
 exponent of light, used great blobs of paint to catch 
 the light, but I am convinced that in a few years they 
 will also catch the dirt, and in the end the pictures 
 will lose their brilliancy. In fact I think already many 
 of them have done so. This is one of the things art- 
 ists have to contend against; color settles down a tone 
 or two when it dries or gets old; it gathers tone, but 
 never is so brilliant as after the first painting. Shad- 
 ows of the earlier schools, especially the Munich, and
 
 ITALIAN ART 135 
 
 some of the Barbison painters, they prefer to see colors 
 in shadow which do not exist. They start off with an 
 assumption of purple shadows in near-by objects 
 which they do not see, and then, to prevent the pic- 
 ture being too cold in color, they have to put in a lot 
 of orange to counteract it, which also they do not see- 
 So the whole thing is false. But people are told to 
 applaud, and they do applaud. Alfred Stevens, the 
 Belgian painter, who is claimed by the impressionists, 
 although he is anything but an impressionist, said 
 that it was a curious fact that all the impressionists 
 had the same impression. 
 
 However, we have wandered a long way from the 
 art of Italy that I was talking about. Of course, in 
 these hasty sketches, which must seem necessarily 
 crude, I cannot go very deeply into the subject, but 
 can only skim the surface. Italian art from Giotto or 
 Cimabue to Tiepolo covers a wide range. It may be 
 divided roughly into three groups — the so-called 
 primitives, the draughtsmen, and the colorists. 
 
 The primitives, deficient in drawing and often stiff 
 and awkward in the poses of their figures, were im- 
 bued with a genuine religious fervor that seems to 
 add to, rather than to detract from, the charm of 
 many of their pictures. Our moderns are sadly mis- 
 taken who seem to think that by intentionally bad 
 drawing they are going to recapture this feeling, when
 
 136 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 it is all an affectation and they have no genuine feel- 
 ing in the matter. You cannot be naive and primitive 
 to order, because it is not the stiff and incorrect 
 drawing, but the utter sincerity that counts. 
 
 The Tuscan and Umbrian schools were deficient in 
 beautiful color, but relied upon drawing and design 
 for their effect. Raphael's pictures are many of them 
 very black in color, although the composition and 
 drawing cannot be surpassed. His earlier pictures under 
 the influence of Perugino were clear in coloring, but 
 when he came under the influence of Michael Angelo, 
 in his endeavor to reinstate the vigor of the latter, he 
 seems to have lost his eye for color. Michael Angelo, 
 in his grandiose if sometimes over-exaggerated draw- 
 ing, seemed to care little for color. Of course the "Last 
 Judgment" is so discolored by smoke that it is im- 
 possible to judge its original state. The ceiling of 
 the Sistine Chapel, however, is fairly well preserved. 
 In both these men, the design and drawing have pre- 
 occupied them, and also perhaps they have felt that 
 much color was out of place in decorative work. Of 
 course, work in fresco — that is, painting on fresh 
 plaster — does not lend itself to brilliant effects, but 
 rather to subdued tints. 
 
 It is a curious fact that while you would expect the 
 southern artists to revel in color, it is the artists from 
 northern Italy who have the more beautiful coloring;
 
 ITALIAN ART 137 
 
 undoubtedly the Venetian painters must have been 
 influenced by the relation of Venice to the Orient, and 
 perhaps they had some secret varnish or glaze ac- 
 quired from there that gave their pictures that mar- 
 vellous amber glow. We are so much accustomed to 
 dwell on the color of the Venetians that we are in- 
 clined to overlook the perfection of their composition 
 and drawing. Tintoretto drew with all the vigor of 
 Michael Angelo, and the drawing of Titian is so per- 
 fect that you take it for granted. The vigorous draw- 
 ing of the "Peter Martyr" could not be surpassed, nor 
 could that of the "Entombment," in the Louvre, 
 and many others of his canvases. Titian seems to 
 me to combine more perfections in his pictures than 
 any other artist. Even the bits of landscape intro- 
 duced as background and the superb setting of the 
 tragedy of the "Peter Martyr" are equalled by few 
 landscape painters. 
 
 Giorgione had equal color with Titian, but so few 
 pictures attributed to him are authentic that it is 
 hard to form an estimate of his standing. Even the 
 beautiful picture of "The Concert," so called, in the 
 Pitti, has now been taken away from him and given 
 to some one else. 
 
 Paul Veronese, Bonifazio, and Paris Bordone are 
 only a little behind the other three already mentioned, 
 but, as Browning writes, " the little more, and how
 
 138 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 much It is! " How true this is of many things besides 
 pictures! How many men fall just short of the high- 
 est achievement! "The little more, and how much it 
 is!" It makes often just the difference between suc- 
 cess and failure. It is the distinction between genius 
 and talent. 
 
 Of course there are many other artists worthy of 
 mention, and much more could be said if we were writ- 
 ing a thesis on Italian art. There are two things worth 
 noticing, however. One is the thorough training all 
 these men had in their profession, owing to the ap- 
 prentice system. They were taught their art from the 
 bottom up, even to grinding their masters' colors, and 
 then helping them in painting their pictures, especially 
 in the draperies or backgrounds. You do not find in 
 any of these men any show of technique for tech- 
 nique's sake; everything is carefully designed, care- 
 fully drawn, and conscientiously painted without 
 any effort to show off. It is quite natural that artists 
 should be interested in the way a picture is painted; 
 but I think we of late years lay too much stress on 
 clever technique. Cleverness, like other superficial 
 qualities, attracts one at first, but one soon gets tired 
 of it. Pictures that depend merely on clever handling 
 do not wear well. We admire them immensely at first, 
 but soon hardly look at them. Solid qualities always 
 tell in the long run.
 
 ITALIAN ART 139 
 
 Another thing in these old masters is their abiUty 
 to fill the space on their canvases agreeably, and com- 
 bine any number of figures in their compositions with- 
 out too much confusion of arms or legs. Any one who 
 has tried, knows how hard it is to dispose of many 
 limbs so that they will compose well. All this comes 
 in time to be governed in a sense by convention as in 
 the parallel diagonal lines of composition that the 
 Venetians were so fond of. There has been a great hue 
 and cry of late years against conventionality, but 
 people do not realize that conventions are merely the 
 result of many experiments that have failed. On the 
 whole those things remain that turn out to be the 
 most satisfactory in the long run. 
 
 It is well to try experiments within limits; but such 
 vagaries as Cubism and Vorticism can lead to nothing 
 but absurdities. Nobody can claim that there is any 
 beauty in them. Beauty should be the first law of art; 
 anything else is degrading to it. Some uninformed 
 people point to Japanese art as a departure from our 
 conventions of art. So it is in a measure, because the 
 Japanese do not consider perspective; but their art 
 is governed by their own most rigid conventions, as 
 any one who has studied the matter knows. All this 
 craze for originality leads to nothing but eccentricity. 
 Men are praised because their paintings are unlike 
 anything in heaven or earth. The mere fact that they
 
 I40 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 do things unlike any one else proclaims them as gen- 
 iuses, quite regardless of whether their drawing is bad 
 or their color disagreeable. 
 
 The dealers are in a great measure responsible for 
 this; they buy up canvases by unknown artists, at 
 small prices, and then, by proclaiming that the art- 
 ist who cannot draw or does not know how to paint 
 is a great genius, sell the pictures at absurd prices to 
 the confiding public. Taste in pictures changes from 
 year to year, and by clever manipulation the dealers 
 are able to create a taste, and thereby manufacture a 
 market. Also if they are loaded up with a number of 
 paintings by a particular artist, they see to it that the 
 prices of that artist are kept up at the auction sales. 
 
 All this is very disgusting to a lover of art; the only 
 consolation being that in the long run things adjust 
 themselves, and bad art eventually gets put away in 
 the attic or cellar, and the good artist comes into his 
 own — but alas! only too often when not in this world 
 and unable to profit by his final justification. 
 
 All these reflections were not, of course, made at 
 that time of the past that I have been dealing with. 
 I was then too young and my study of art too recent 
 for me to have formed any definite conclusions from 
 what I had seen in Italy; but it was a good foundation 
 to build upon, and I have always contended that the 
 study of the old masters is essential if an artist is to
 
 ITALIAN ART 141 
 
 amount to anything. It is the fashion nowadays to 
 despise the old masters; but just as in literature it is 
 essential to have read the classics, so in art we must 
 study those who have gone before, if we are to learn 
 the great principles of art, and not flounder around in a 
 sea of eccentricities.
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 A WALKING TOUR IN THE ALPS 
 
 After a delightful stay of some time at Cadenabbia, 
 my uncle and I departed for Geneva by way of Milan, 
 Turin, and the Mont Cenis. The Mont Cenis Tunnel 
 had not then been completed, and we were taken 
 over the mountain on some kind of improvised cog 
 railroad, the first of its kind, I believe, to be con- 
 structed. 
 
 I had agreed to meet a friend of my own age at 
 Geneva on July 4th for a walking and climbing tour 
 in Switzerland. This friend, Mr. Frederic Crownln- 
 shield, had been a great athlete at Harvard and the 
 stroke of the "varsity" crew; afterward he became an 
 artist like myself, and it is possible that my example 
 may have influenced him. At that time, however, I 
 do not think he had any idea of such a thing. 
 
 We started our tour by going part-way to Cham- 
 onix by diligence and then walking the last part when 
 it became interesting. I remember how we rejoiced, 
 as we walked up through the pine woods, at the deli- 
 cious scent of the pines, which reminded us of home, 
 the freshness of the mountain air, and the cool rush- 
 ing river tumbling down by the side of the road; then
 
 FREDERIC CROWNINSHIELD AND E. W. L. ON WALKING-TRIP
 
 A WALKING TOUR IN THE ALPS 143 
 
 that first glimpse of snowclad mountain-tops seen 
 through the trees, and finally that wonderful valley 
 of Chamonix surrounded with towering peaks, and 
 above all the great mass of Mont Blanc. 
 
 I will not weary the reader with descriptions of all 
 that we did and saw. To begin with, we had to get 
 into training after our long stay in cities, so we did 
 the usual excursions to limber up our muscles. Our 
 most ambitious excursion was to the "Jardin" far 
 up on the Mer-de-Glace — a fatiguing, but not dan- 
 gerous trip. It was our first experience of glacier- 
 climbing, and most interesting, and the crossing of 
 crevasses and climbing among seracs was sometimes 
 exciting. We had the ambition, when we got into con- 
 dition, of making the ascent of Mont Blanc, but found 
 the expense of guides and porters beyond our slender 
 means, and I think it as well we did not attempt it, 
 with our slight experience. 
 
 The valley of Chamonix is, I think, rather disap- 
 pointing from a pictorial point of view. It is too nar- 
 row and the sides too steep to get a good view of the 
 mountains on either side. The top of Mont Blanc can 
 scarcely be seen or its height judged. Not till you 
 view it from the opposite side of the valley, from the 
 Brevant, does its true majesty appear. That was our 
 first stiff climb, and we were rather proud of it. I 
 have been there since and do not think now that it
 
 144 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 was much to be proud of; but we were young and It 
 was our first real mountain. 
 
 We had sent our heavy luggage from Geneva to 
 Vevey, and I carried only a satchel over my shoulder, 
 containing toilet articles, a pair of slippers, a change 
 of underclothes, and extra socks; no overcoat or 
 umbrella, only an alpenstock. Mr. Crowninshield 
 had a knapsack with much the same contents. So 
 equipped, we went one afternoon from Chamonix 
 to Armentieres to pass the night, and the next day 
 walked to Martigny by way of the Tete-Noire, arriv- 
 ing in time for lunch. 
 
 Mr. Crowninshield, who was always for pushing 
 on, was not contented with this, but insisted on get- 
 ting for the night to Chambery, up a little valley off 
 the Rhone valley at the foot of the Dent du Midi, 
 which he had designs upon for the following morning. 
 It was rather too long a trip, and we reached Cham- 
 bery quite exhausted. However, after a night's rest, 
 we were off for the mountain at an early hour, none 
 the worse. It Is rather a stiff climb, and we ran Into 
 a snowstorm at the top, so we got no view, but we 
 did it In record time, which seemed the main thing 
 with my friend. Unfortunately, Mr. C. sprained his 
 ankle coming down, so we had to go to Vevey, where 
 his mother and other friends were, till he got well 
 enough to start off again. It was not a bad sprain, so
 
 A WALKING TOUR IN THE ALPS 14S 
 
 in a week we took a carriage with my uncle, who had 
 joined us again, and drove up the Rhone valley to 
 Visp. It was a very hot and dusty drive and unin- 
 teresting, and we did well not to walk it. 
 
 From Visp by starting early we were able to walk 
 up to Zermatt in one day. There was no railroad then, 
 and only a bridle-path. Most people went on mules, 
 but it was a rather precarious path in those days and 
 several accidents occurred. I shall never forget that 
 first view of the Matterhom, peeping over the shoul- 
 der of the mountain ; how it cheered our flagging spir- 
 its and gave new vigor to our tired limbs. There is no 
 mountain that affects the imagination like the Mat- 
 terhorn; it is so grand standing up alone to defy the 
 elements, and so many lives have been lost in scaling 
 its frowning precipices. Only the year before, in 1865, 
 I think, had it first been conquered by Whymper and 
 his party, and had taken its revenge in the loss on the 
 way down of most of them. It has now been made 
 much easier of ascent by ropes and irons in places; 
 but still it exacts its toll of lives occasionally. We 
 looked at it longingly, but had no notion of attempt- 
 ing so dangerous an experiment. Indeed, I think just 
 then it would have been difficult to get guides who 
 would go, as after the terrible accident of the year 
 before they seemed to have a superstitious dread 
 of it.
 
 146 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 From Zermatt we climbed up to the RifFel Inn, in- 
 tending to stay there several days and make excur- 
 sions from there, having secured two reliable guides 
 for that purpose. We did not count going up to the 
 Corner Grat as any sort of excursion, but enjoyed that 
 wonderful view all the same. You seem there to be 
 right in the heart of the mountains, and it would be 
 hard to find any view in Switzerland to equal it that 
 can be reached so easily. 
 
 Our first real excursion was to the Cima di Jazzi, 
 a rather long walk over the Corner Clacier to a moun- 
 tain where you can look down into Italy, thousands 
 of feet below, and where if you are not careful you 
 might fall equally far, if you went too near the edge, 
 where the snow forms a cornice at the top of the 
 precipice on the Italian side. This was a sort of 
 breather. 
 
 The next morning we started before sunrise to make 
 the ascent of Monte Rosa. I confess to disliking very 
 much to be called in the dark at three in the morning, 
 when your courage is at the lowest, and you say to 
 yourself what a fool you are to have agreed to any such 
 idiotic performance. You shiver in your thin clothes 
 in the cold dining-room, where you are served with 
 a hunk of tough bread and bad coffee by candlelight, 
 and you don't care whether school keeps or not. You 
 stumble up the first slopes, by the uncertain light of
 
 A WALKING TOUR IN THE ALPS 147 
 
 a lantern held by the guide, who seems to be in an 
 unnecessary hurry. You feel so tired, and your feet so 
 heavy from the climb of the day before, that it Is 
 folly to think you can ever hold out to get up any sort 
 of a mountain, much less one of fifteen thousand feet 
 or more. Then suddenly — "Oh, grand and glorious 
 feeling" — you see the guide put down the lantern, and 
 you see the daylight gradually spread, and one peak 
 after another touched with rose; and then over the 
 brow of the rise ahead suddenly pops the sun, and all 
 your woes are forgotten, your legs seem to regain 
 strength, and you feel like shouting aloud in your joy, 
 only you want all your breath to keep up with the 
 guide who is stalking ahead. 
 
 The reason for starting so early is to get on the snow 
 or the glacier before the rays of the sun begin to melt 
 it. The sun is surprisingly hot in the rarefied atmos- 
 phere of those heights, and it is necessary to wear 
 goggles to protect the eyes from the glare of the snow, 
 w'hich, as you climb, is brought nearer to the eyes 
 than in ordinary winter walks over snowfields. On 
 this particular morning we had quite a climb up to 
 the shoulder overlooking the Corner Glacier and then 
 down to the glacier itself; so far it was the same route 
 we had followed in going to the Cima di Jazzi. We 
 now were roped before crossing the glacier, which, 
 though quite level and easy to travel, has treacherous
 
 148 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 crevasses filled with snow, where by an incautious 
 step one might fall through. Climbers are roped so 
 that if one or two should fall into a crevasse, the others 
 can pull them out. First goes the principal guide, 
 who shows the way and cuts steps in the steep slopes 
 or pinnacles of ice on the glaciers; these steps are not 
 very deep, just enough to give you toe-hold, as step- 
 cutting is very fatiguing work; then at the distance of 
 about fifteen feet comes the second man, attached to 
 the first by the rope and holding it by his left hand, so 
 as to be ready to give a pull if necessary; then at the 
 same distance behind comes usually the second guide; 
 and so on according to the size of the party. It will be 
 seen by this that if any one falls, the others are in- 
 stantly ready to pull him up. It is obvious that it is 
 very dangerous for a party of less than three to climb 
 because one man is usually not strong enough un- 
 aided to pull another out of a crevasse. 
 
 After crossing the glacier, we stopped for a little at 
 the rocks at the foot of Monte Rosa for some re- 
 freshment, and then began the toilsome ascent over 
 snowfields toward the summit. It was a beautiful 
 clear morning and our spirits were high, but already, 
 to one with an observant eye, could be seen little 
 feathers of cloud collecting on the two peaks of Monte 
 Rosa and on the summit of the Lyskamm. Probably 
 the guides knew from these signs that a south wind
 
 A WALKING TOUR IN THE ALPS 149 
 
 was blowing up there, and that we should never reach 
 the top of the mountain, but they did not wish to 
 lose their fee for making the ascent, which they could 
 hardly claim if we turned back thus early. 
 
 More and more the clouds gathered, and when we 
 were still an hour from the summit it became evident 
 that it was useless to go on, as it was beginning to 
 snow and the view was obscured, so reluctantly we 
 turned back and raced for our lives down the moun- 
 tain, as the snow soon became so thick that we could 
 see only a few yards ahead, and without a clever guide 
 we should have easily lost our way, and probably 
 have perished as so many others have done in similar 
 circumstances. The snow had obliterated our tracks 
 coming up, and we plunged in places nearly up to our 
 waists in the softened snow. Still we raced on; at one 
 point Mr. Crowninshield disappeared up to his arm- 
 pits in a crevasse, but was jerked out, as you would 
 jerk a fish from the water, with hardly a pause. At 
 last we got below the storm and safely back to the 
 hotel, where we went to bed while our clothes were 
 being dried. 
 
 The next morning it was very cold and the ground 
 around the hotel was covered with snow, so we de- 
 cided to descend to Zermatt and, as the weather seemed 
 so bad, to go the next day down the valley to Visp. 
 That night, however, it cleared off, and we were
 
 I50 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 waked at an early hour by the guide, who said it would 
 be a good day to ascend the Breithorn, which we had 
 hoped to do, but had given up. People going up the 
 Breithorn usually sleep at the Theodule hut, to save 
 the long climb up from Zermatt; but as we had not 
 done so, we had to take that tedious climb first, and 
 were glad when we reached the hut to rest a moment, 
 and refresh ourselves with some mulled wine that the 
 woman there made for us. Some Germans had slept 
 at the hut, and on that account we were glad we had 
 not, as it might have been crowded and unpleasant. 
 
 The Germans had already started when we got 
 there, but were going slowly and we passed them be- 
 fore long, as my companion was always anxious to see 
 how quickly we could do a thing and was bent on 
 making a record every time; which seemed to me un- 
 necessary, but I was not to be outdone. 
 
 We got to the top long before the Germans and sat 
 on the rounded summit enjoying that wonderful view. 
 The day was perfect and very clear after the storm, 
 and we were surrounded by those towering peaks 
 clothed in fresh-fallen snow, dazzling in its bright- 
 ness — Monte Rosa, the Lyskamm, the Moins, and 
 close at hand the Matterhorn raising its great bulk 
 into the blue heavens. A little farther oif were the 
 Dent Blanche, the beautiful Weisshom, and other 
 peaks, and far down at the end of the valley rose the
 
 A WALKING TOUR IN THE ALPS 151 
 
 Bernese Oberland, with the Jungfrau Hfting Itself 
 above the rest. Then far to the south we could just 
 see Mont Blanc slightly yellow in the haze. We sat 
 there a long time entranced; till the Germans' arrival 
 drove us away. Two very happy but tired young men 
 reached Zermatt again in the afternoon and felt they 
 had made up for the disappointment of Monte Rosa. 
 
 The next day we went down the valley to Visp, and 
 on following days to the Rhone Glacier, doing the 
 Eggeshorn on the way. My father has described the 
 Rhone Glacier as "a gauntlet of ice, which centuries 
 ago. Winter, the King of these mountains, threw down 
 In defiance to the Sun." In those days it did resem- 
 ble a giant's glove, lying with the palm down, and 
 reaching almost down to where the hotel stood. The 
 cold breath of the giant seemed to fill the valley and 
 freeze one's bones. It was about the coldest place in 
 Switzerland. Now the giant hand has been with- 
 drawn and gradually the sun, which took up the chal- 
 lenge, has conquered ; and like other glaciers in Swit- 
 zerland it has shrunk to half its size, and has become 
 a withered hand impotent to do evil. 
 
 The next morning bright and early we scaled the 
 heights to the Grimsel Pass, and, passing the Hospice, 
 above its gloomy lake, wended our way down the 
 beautiful Hash Thai, stopping for lunch at the Han- 
 degg Falls, where two falls join, reminding one some-
 
 152 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 what of when French waiters pour your cafe-au-lait 
 from two pots at once, making a delicious foam in 
 your cup. We reached Meiringen late in the after- 
 noon, making a very long day, but when you are young 
 you recuperate quickly, and by the next morning we 
 started quite fresh for Interlaken over the Great 
 Scheidegg, by way of Grindelwald. It is a good thirty 
 miles, with a stiff climb up to the Scheidegg, but we 
 were in splendid condition by that time and came 
 into Interlaken at a rattling pace. We were two rather 
 disreputable-looking youngsters and hardly thought 
 the lordly porter at the Victoria would admit us, 
 but they are used to that sort of thing in Switzerland 
 and very grateful did we find a good bed and bath 
 after our long tramp. 
 
 The next day we joined Mr. Crowninshield's mother 
 at a pension near by, where my uncle also came. 
 
 My uncle and I took much pleasure in hunting up 
 the places in Interlaken mentioned in "Hyperion": 
 the Hotel des Alpes where the Ashburtons were 
 stopping, the cloister where Paul Flemming had his 
 quarters, and the ruined castle of Unspunnen where 
 heunsuccessfullyplied his suit to Mary Ashburton. As a 
 
 is well known,the heroine of "Hyperion," the romance 
 written by my father before his second marriage, was 
 supposed to be his future wife, and he may have writ- 
 ten the book hoping thereby to forward his courtship. 
 
 I
 
 A WALKING TOUR IN THE ALPS 153 
 
 The beauty of Switzerland is in its lovely lakes and 
 charming valleys, but above all, in the contrast be- 
 tween the luxuriousness of its vegetation and the 
 wonderful snow mountains lifting their white purity 
 into the blue sky. The Yosemite is grander and its 
 vegetation wilder than the valley of Lauterbrunnen; 
 but it does not have the beautiful Jungf rau, the Monch, 
 and the Eiger rising up above its towering cliffs ; if it 
 had it would be the most wonderful place in the world. 
 
 It is always the snow mountains of Switzerland that 
 give the added touch to all its loveliness, and stim- 
 ulate the imagination. As you approach by way of 
 Berne, there in the distance is that mysterious line 
 of silver crests, and you instantly feel that you must 
 get nearer to them. At Thun, across the beautiful 
 lake with its translucent green water, they rise still 
 nearer; and at Interlaken it seems as if the mountains 
 had been kept by some gigantic hand to form a frame- 
 work for the Jungfrau, so perfectly is it placed in the 
 picture. Interlaken, with its surrounding lakes, val- 
 leys, and snow mountains, is certainly the beauty 
 spot of Switzerland. 
 
 We lingered there several weeks, staying at Miirren 
 above Lauterbrunnen a long time. There it seems as 
 if you could almost touch the opposite mountams 
 across the narrow valley. There is no place where the 
 afterglow on those snowclad heights can be seen to
 
 154 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 better advantage: that wonderful pink glow that 
 comes after the sun has set, and that gradually fades 
 till a grey hue, as of death, overspreads their glowing 
 foreheads and leaves them cold and lifeless. 
 
 We climbed the Schilthom, Mr. Crowninshield and 
 I ; we crossed the Wengemalp ; we went up the Faul- 
 hom, but got no view; we visited glaciers; in short, 
 we did almost all the things we ought to do, and, being 
 young, we had a glorious time. We wound up by 
 walking to Lucerne, where we parted. So came to an 
 end our walking tour. 
 
 My uncle and I took carriage up to Andermatt and 
 then, by the Vorder Rhein and the Spliigen, descended 
 into Italy again, only to leave it by Stelvio Pass ; or 
 rather we tried to cross the pass, but at the top we 
 found Italian and Austrian sentinels pacing to and fro 
 within a few feet of each other. The war was over; 
 but the peace had not yet been signed, so they would 
 not let us pass. A very polite Italian officer told us, 
 if we would go back a little way, there was a path 
 leading into a comer of Switzerland and from there 
 we could cross into the Tyrol without any trouble. 
 This seemed an ingenious way of whipping the devil 
 around the stump, so with the help of a man to carry 
 our luggage, we got into Austria in that way. 
 
 We arrived at \Ieran without further difficulty and 
 found the grape cure in full swing. It was amusing to
 
 A WALKING TOUR IN THE ALPS 155 
 
 see the amount of grapes those fat Germans would 
 tuck away. What the cure is for, I have forgotten, or 
 if it still goes on there. 
 
 From ]Meran we drove by way of Landeck to Inns- 
 bruck and Munich and so to Salzburg and the Salz- 
 kammergut and then to Vienna. 
 
 The war that was won by Germany in one battle 
 was now over and peace signed, and Vienna was as 
 gay and apparently as unconcerned as if she had not 
 been terribly humiliated. Italy, which had never been 
 able to stand up against the Austrians unassisted, 
 had been handed Venezia by Germany for her rather 
 inglorious participation in the war. 
 
 I was somewhat disappointed in the galleries in 
 Vienna; there were few pictures of the first class, it 
 seemed to me. 
 
 We then went to Prague, that picturesque city with 
 its beautiful bridge, and so on to Dresden, where we 
 revelled in that wonderful gallery, certainly one of the 
 finest in Europe. 
 
 The Sistine Madonna in its room to itself cannot 
 but impress one profoundly. As a rule I do not care 
 much for Raphael's Madonnas; they seem to me too 
 sweet and sentimental; but the Sistine Madonna is 
 different; there is a mysterious look in her eyes as if 
 she were looking into the future and saw what was 
 before the rather farouche infant in her arms.
 
 156 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 While at Dresden we saw one day a wonderful sight; 
 that was the Grenadiers of the German Guard, in 
 their silver helmets with the golden eagle on top and 
 their shining breastplates, crossing the bridge on their 
 return from the war. Some of their breastplates bore 
 the marks of conflict and they certainly made a 
 magnificent picture. 
 
 We then went to Holland to study the Dutch 
 school, and the wonderful Rembrandts confirmed the 
 admiration for that painter which I had formed in 
 Paris. 
 
 The smaller Dutch masters of the genre school 
 never interested me very much, with the exception of 
 Vermeer, and the much-vaunted Paul Potter's bull 
 not at all. It seems to me a sign of a small mind, to 
 find delight in the depicting of flies on a cow's back. 
 
 My uncle was now going back to America, and I 
 had to make up my mind whether I should accom- 
 pany him. It had been my intention to stay abroad 
 another year or perhaps two, either in Rome or in 
 Paris, to continue my studies, as I felt that I needed 
 a great deal more work in the technique of my profes- 
 sion and that I had hardly begun to paint at all. It 
 was a great mistake on my part that I did not do so, 
 but I was rather homesick at the idea of being de- 
 serted by my travelling companion. My father was 
 writing for me to come home, and most potent of all
 
 A WALKING TOUR IN THE ALPS 157 
 
 was the desire to see again a certain person of the 
 opposite sex. So, very foolishly, I gave way to my 
 weakness, and after a short stay in Paris we sailed 
 from Brest in a French steamer for home some time 
 in October. So ended, much too soon, my study of 
 art abroad. 
 
 Judge not thy friend, until thou standest in his place."
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD 
 
 Perhaps it was fitting that I returned in time for my 
 twenty-first birthday, but as I was not a prodigal, no 
 fatted calf was slaughtered for my benefit. I don't 
 care much for veal anyway. 
 
 There are two kinds of people in this world, those 
 that are naturally saving and those that are prodigal. 
 The latter have much the best of it, for not only do 
 they enjoy the things they have spent their money for, 
 but they usually end by spending the other fellow's 
 money also. 
 
 It used to be considered a virtue to work hard and 
 save money for one's children so that they might be 
 better off if possible. Now to exercise thrift and save 
 money is held to be a crime, for as soon as you have 
 money in the bank you become that hated thing, a 
 capitalist, with every man's hand against you. They 
 have reversed the Biblical saying, "He that hath, to 
 him shall be given," and now say that what little he 
 hath shall be taken away from him. Instead of being 
 allowed to leave his hard-earned savings to his wife 
 and children, the State steps in and claims a generous 
 share, on the ground apparently that those who are
 
 LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD 159 
 
 incompetent or too lazy to work should be supported 
 by the Industrious. 
 
 When our forefathers came to this country, they 
 found it a wilderness ; by the sweat of their brows, and 
 at the risk of their lives in many cases, they reclaimed 
 the land, and it is right that their descendants should 
 enjoy the fruits thereof. Now come a horde of for- 
 eigners who have not been able to make a living in 
 their own country, and say calmly that the land be- 
 longs to them equally and it should be divided up 
 amongst them. Was ever anything so preposterous? 
 
 There is some excuse abroad, where land has been 
 monopolized by the few, and given in olden times in 
 large tracts to some favorite of a king, or divided up 
 by a conquerer among his followers; but in this coun- 
 try, where every man has worked for what he owns, or 
 at least his ancestors have, the socialists, so it seems 
 to me, have not a leg to stand on. There should be no 
 ground for socialism in this country. Almost every 
 millionaire that you can think of began as a poor boy. 
 If every lazy or incompetent man had had their brains, 
 he might have done the same. In a country where a 
 boot-black or a newsboy may become a multimil- 
 lionaire, there is no excuse to talk about the oppres- 
 sion of labor by capital. 
 
 Our legislators are so weak, and so anxious for 
 votes, that they truckle to the lowest elements. All
 
 i6o RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 these inheritance and income taxes are just so much 
 discouragement to thrift. Why should any one save, 
 if it is to be taken away from him? Hence this riot of 
 extravagance. 
 
 During the Civil War our merchant marine was 
 destroyed, with the gleeful assistance of England. It 
 is true she had to pay a matter of fifteen millions for 
 the privilege; but what was that, in spite of the row 
 they made about it, in comparison to getting rid of 
 a dangerous rival f After the war capital was earning 
 so much in other enterprises that it did not pay to 
 put it into reviving shipping, unless with a liberal sub- 
 sidy from the Government; this the legislators from 
 the South and West refused to give. The South had 
 been built up after the war with Eastern capital, and 
 although the West had been developed by subsidies in 
 the form of land grants to the railroads, which had 
 been built with Eastern money, the Congressmen from 
 these regions held up their hands in horror at the 
 word subsidy for the Eastern shipping interests. The 
 short-sightedness of this policy became apparent when 
 the World War came and we had no ships. The 
 farmers and planters were perfectly indifferent as to 
 who carried their produce abroad as long as it was 
 done cheaply; but when the war came, they set up 
 a howl because, owing to their own folly, there were 
 no ships to carry their goods.
 
 LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD i6i 
 
 For some reason I have been unable to fathom, 
 legislators have a peculiar weakness for farmers. Al- 
 though the unparalleled prosperity of the West re- 
 sulted from the capital lent by the East or from its 
 development, in the way of railroads and liberal loans, 
 the Western farmers have had a constant desire to re- 
 pudiate these debts. This manifested itself first in 
 the greenback craze, then in the silver craze under the 
 leadership of Bryan, whereby they hoped to have to 
 pay only forty cents on the dollar, but afterwards in 
 their unrelenting attacks on the railroads to which 
 they really owed their existence. For years before 
 the World War we have seen Congress and State 
 legislators passing laws starving the railroads. The 
 farmers and shippers seem to think that their produce 
 ought to be carried for nothing, forgetting that cap- 
 ital will not be invested without some return. All 
 this seems self-evident, but books like the "Octopus" 
 helped to inflame their minds, and an orgy of muck- 
 raking was carried on in the press and magazines, 
 the result being that when we needed transportation 
 the most, when the war came, we found many of 
 the railroads in receivers' hands, and the others 
 handicapped by poor equipment, owing to want of 
 funds. The Government then took over the rail- 
 roads, as we know, and proceeded to do exactly 
 what it had forbidden them to do before, that is,
 
 1 62 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 to consolidate competing lines. The New York, New 
 Haven & Hartford had been hounded to death be- 
 cause its directors had wished to bring all New Eng- 
 land into one system, and now the Government 
 found they had to do just that one thing. What 
 fools we mortals be! 
 
 All this seems to have little connection with what I 
 have been writing about; but in the autumn of 1866 
 I came of age and received my portion of my mother's 
 fortune, and therefore became a capitalist in a small 
 way. The money that came to my mother had been 
 earned by hard work by my grandfather, who came 
 to Boston a poor boy, and it seems to me only just 
 that it should be passed on to his descendants. 
 
 A capitalist is not a wicked person; he does not lock 
 up his gains, but, like a bank, he lends it to different 
 enterprises to pay wages of workers, or to buy the 
 things that others make, thereby supporting people 
 who otherwise would starve for want of a market. 
 When will the laboring people learn that they cannot 
 get on without capital f Some employers undoubtedly 
 do treat their workers unjustly, also some workers 
 equally make unjust demands, which the business 
 cannot grant and pay any return. The trouble is that 
 labor, while demanding its share of the profits, is not 
 willing to bear its share of the losses. Instead of put- 
 ting its shoulder to the wheel and helping, labor is too
 
 LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD 163 
 
 apt to put a drag on, by demanding shorter hours and 
 less production, and at the same time more pay. How 
 can any business be carried on under those circum- 
 stances? It seems impossible to get it into the heads 
 of the workers that the capital that makes their work 
 possible cannot be had without some return to the 
 capitalist. 
 
 Enough of this — perhaps too much ! In the autumn 
 of 1866, 1 took a studio in the Studio Building on Tre- 
 mont Street. There I had as neighbors Appleton 
 Brown, the charming landscape painter, a pupil of 
 Lambinet; Porter, the portrait-painter; Innes, and 
 others. Innes, whose pictures now bring such huge 
 prices, could hardly sell his productions, but a man 
 named Williams, who brought home some quite un- 
 important figure subjects from Rome, sold his like 
 hot cakes; such is the want of knowledge or taste on 
 the part of the public. 
 
 It will be noticed that I had had very little real In- 
 struction In drawing, and none at all in painting. I 
 therefore set myself to learn to paint with such hints 
 as I could get from other artists. I had many hours of 
 discouragement and despair, when paint or brushes 
 would not behave themselves and frightful daubs re- 
 sulted. 
 
 I tried to get Mr. Hunt to help me, but he declined 
 to interest himself in my work, and Indeed never even
 
 i64 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 came to my studio all the time I painted In Boston, 
 except once when he came to my door to ask the ad- 
 dress of another artist. 
 
 Gradually I began to master my materials, and If 
 by some happy chance a picture turned out well, I 
 was encouraged. That Is an artist's life, between ex- 
 hilaration at success and despair at failure, and never 
 quite satisfied. It is so hard to judge of one's own 
 work. 
 
 I went much into society in that winter, and was 
 one of the good dancers at a time when dancing 
 reached a perfection In Boston that It never has since. 
 The grace and smoothness of the waltz evolved at 
 that time has never been equalled elsewhere; the fee- 
 ble imitation known as the "Boston" was carried 
 far and wide, but seldom came up to the original. The 
 present one-step, or walk, or wiggle. Is the negation 
 of all grace or beauty. 
 
 In the spring I became engaged to be married, and 
 in the summer I devoted myself to landscape painting 
 without any more instruction than a close study of 
 nature could afford. In that summer I had my first 
 order for a painting, from John Taylor Johnston, who 
 had at that time one of the finest collections In New 
 York. I felt much honored, but I knew, of course, 
 that it was out of the kindness of his heart and to en- 
 courage a young painter, rather than through any
 
 LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD 165 
 
 merit in the painting, which was of the willow road at 
 Nahant and poor enough. 
 
 Of course, at that time, like all beginners, I sacri- 
 ficed all the members of my family in the way of por- 
 traits or attempted portraits, generally failures; for 
 one's relations have to take the place of the proverbial 
 dog on which things are tried. 
 
 I worked hard all the following winter, and in May 
 I was married, and, with my father, my two sisters, 
 two aunts, and two uncles, we sailed for Europe in 
 June, 1868. Such a large party found it hard always 
 to find accommodations, so that my wife and I often 
 went off on little jaunts by ourselves. I remember at 
 the Peacock Inn at Rowsley our party so completely 
 filled the little place that nobody else could get in, 
 much to the disgust of some English people, who 
 loudly proclaimed their contempt for American tour- 
 ists. 
 
 My father received much attention and hospitality 
 in different parts of England and often went with my 
 two sisters to visit, where the rest of us were naturally 
 not expected. He received degrees from both Cam- 
 bridge and Oxford; at the latter, however, in the year 
 following, when he advanced in the red robe pre- 
 scribed, to receive his degree of LL.D., the under- 
 graduates, who are no respecters of persons, called 
 out, "Three cheers for the red man of the West."
 
 i66 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 Queen Victoria sent for my father, and he went 
 with Lady Stanley, the wife of Dean Stanley, to the 
 Palace. They waited in a hall till the Queen came 
 in ; my father was presented and they had a pleasant 
 chat, then the Queen withdrew. It was not like some 
 of the weird tales imaginative writers have conjured 
 up. 
 
 When we were in the Isle of Wight, we all went to 
 see Tennyson. Some of us lunched with him, his wife, 
 and his two boys. I do not remember quite who were 
 of the party; but I do remember that my oldest sister, 
 while the older people were apparently occupied In 
 talking to Tennyson, took the opportunity of looking 
 up a verse In a volume of my father's poems, rather 
 ostentatiously displayed on a side table. There had 
 been some discussion In the party as to Its exact word- 
 ing. My father could not remember any better than 
 the rest of us, and strange to say nobody had a copy 
 of my father's poems with him. While my sister was 
 looking up the passage, suddenly a gruif voice behind 
 her said, "Don't you have enough of that at home.?" 
 — and there stood Tennyson towering over her. He 
 had probably put the volume there, and therefore 
 knew what she was looking at. My poor sister was 
 overcome with mortification, thinking Tennyson so 
 absorbed that he could not have noticed what she 
 was about. I also remember that Tennyson was very
 
 LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD 167 
 
 rough to his boys at lunch for some fancied misde- 
 meanor, and Mrs. Tennyson had that subdued air 
 that comes of living with a bear. 
 
 After lunch he took us to the flat roof of his house 
 to see the view; while there he saw in a distant field a 
 woman and a child running; I think myself they were 
 running to avoid a cow in the field, but Tennyson 
 would have it that they were running to get a glimpse 
 of him, and dragged us down off the roof. He was 
 quite morbid on the subject of sight-seers. Later he 
 took us all out on the downs to the Needles. 
 
 There is a narrow neck only about three feet wide 
 and perhaps ten feet long that you can go out on, and 
 look down upon the restless sea surging about the 
 pointed rocks called the Needles. It was the only 
 place where I ever felt dizzy, owing to the movement 
 of the water below; I have been on the edge of preci-- 
 pices In Switzerland and walked on the narrow walls 
 of Egyptian temples, but never again have I felt 
 what I felt then. I can appreciate how people get 
 dizzy on only moderate heights, and others who can- 
 not look down from a height without wishing to 
 jump; but none of these things ever affected me. 
 
 Tennyson also read to us from his poem of "Maud " 
 in a curious sing-song voice that perhaps emphasized 
 the rhythm, but was rather nasal and disagreeable. 
 
 My father went there to dine, I think, and alto-
 
 N. 
 
 i68 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 gether I fancy Tennyson was uncommonly affable for 
 him; it seemed to be part of his pose to be rather for- 
 ward to strangers and went with his Spanish cloak 
 and black slouch hat. 
 
 The whole party stayed at the Hotel Langham, 
 which was then new, while in London. 
 
 Bierstadt, the artist, had one of the salons as his 
 studio, and gave a large dinner to my father, asking 
 many celebrities whom he did not even know. It 
 was a great advertisement for him. 
 
 My wife and I did not stay long at the Langham, 
 but took lodging in Half Moon Street, where we could 
 be by ourselves and enjoy a little domestic privacy. In 
 so doing, however, we missed seeing many interesting 
 people who came to see my father. There was one 
 M.P. who used to come to see him at one in the morn- 
 ing, having sent word from the House that he was 
 coming so that my poor father had to sit up to receive 
 him. My father at home always went to bed at ten, 
 and it was hard for him to get used to the late Eng- 
 lish hours. I don't suppose the M.P. thought it was 
 anything unusual to call upon a person at that early 
 — or late — -hour. 
 
 My father and sisters went to Gad's Hill for a 
 week-end with Dickens, and enjoyed their visit very 
 much. 
 
 After several weeks in London, my wife and I 
 
 \
 
 LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD 169 
 
 crossed to France by way of Havre so as to enjoy the 
 cathedral at Rouen, and to see friends in Paris. Then 
 we went to Brussels and Antwerp, and through Hol- 
 land, joining the rest of the party at Cologne, and all 
 going up the Rhine together to Switzerland. There 
 we spent the rest of the summer, returning to Paris 
 in September. 
 
 I took the opportunity while in Paris to go for a 
 month for work in my old atelier in the rue de Leval, 
 which was now under Bonnar. When I appeared, some 
 of the men demanded that I be treated as a new man 
 and pay an entrance fee, but to my surprise the 
 massier declared that he remembered me perfectly 
 and that I was an ancien and should pay nothing. I 
 thought this very nice of him, as I could not remem- 
 ber him at all, and it did not seem to me that there 
 were any of the old crowd. There were several Ameri- 
 cans there then, but I am not sure of their names now. 
 
 I did not attempt to do anything but draw, as I 
 did not feel expert enough in painting the figure be- 
 fore all these cleverer men. I also while in Paris did 
 some copying in the Louvre, and during our journey- 
 ing I had made a good many water-color sketches, so 
 that I had not been neglectful of my art. 
 
 In November the whole party went to the Riviera 
 and stayed for some weeks at Mentone, where I made 
 many water-colors in company with my friend Mr.
 
 I70 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 Crownlnshield, who was there with his wife, mother, 
 and baby. We all took that lovely drive to Genoa, 
 which was not then partially spoiled by the many 
 railroad tunnels. When at Genoa we read in the 
 paper of a wonderful eruption of Vesuvius that was 
 taking place, so my wife and I and Mr. Appleton 
 took a steamer directly down to Naples to see it. 
 Alas, when we got there it was over. 
 
 We all settled down in Rome, in the same house 
 with the Frank Lees, of Boston, on the Capo le Case, 
 where we had plenty of sun, an important considera- 
 tion in Rome, where fire-wood is dear. There we 
 passed a very happy winter, enjoying to the full all 
 the ceremonials and services for Christmas, as also 
 much gaiety among the English and American colony. 
 One amusing incident occurred to my father and 
 Mr. Appleton on one of these occasions. They were 
 bidden to a reception at Mr. Hazeltine's. As they 
 ascended the grand staircase of the place where he 
 lived, they saw a number of people going into a door, 
 and took it for granted it was Mr. Hazeltine's apart- 
 ment, and so they entered with other guests. After 
 leaving their coats and hats, they were ushered into a 
 grand salon where a strange lady advanced to receive 
 them. Perceiving strangers, she said in a very 
 haughty and disagreeable manner, "I think you have 
 made a mistake"; to which Mr. Appleton replied
 
 LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD 171 
 
 with meaning, "We evidently have." Whereupon 
 they withdrew and proceeded to the floor above, 
 where Mr. Hazeltine lived. After they had gone, a 
 gentleman who was there said to the irate hostess, 
 "Do you know who that was you turned away.^* That 
 was the poet Longfellow." Whereupon the lady threw 
 up her hands in despair, and said, "Oh, dear! and I 
 have been trying to meet him all winter." Which 
 shows that it is as well to be polite since you may en- 
 tertain angels unawares. 
 
 I took a small studio for the winter opposite the 
 side door of the Capuchin Monastery, where every 
 day the poor used to stand to receive their daily 
 dole. It was quite interesting to watch them, and I 
 made a small sketch of the doorway and the beggars 
 grouped about. 
 
 There were always plenty of models in their pic- 
 turesque costumes to be had, and I made quite a suc- 
 cess with a quaint little fellow playing bowls, which is 
 such a favorite game in Italy. A Mr. Lorlmer Gra- 
 ham liked the picture so much that he got me to paint 
 his little boy in the same Italian costume, sitting on 
 some steps. I also had an order from Mr. Brimmer, of 
 Boston, for a water-color of the Tritone Fountain, so 
 that I felt fairly launched as a professional artist. 
 
 I think that was about the last year of the Carni- 
 val, and we took a balcony on the Corso for the three
 
 172 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 days It lasted. It was very gay and noisy, but I could 
 not see much fun in throwing confetti made of lime in 
 other people's faces, so that they had to wear masks 
 to protect their eyes. Also the flowers which were 
 thrown soon degenerated into bunches of sticks, cov- 
 ered with mud from falling into the street. The 
 horse-race also seemed to me poor sport. The horses 
 were without riders and were goaded on by having 
 thorns put under their harness, and by the shouts and 
 blows of the bystanders. They were miserable speci- 
 mens of horseflesh, anyway, and one poor brute fell 
 in front of our balcony and was beaten and pummelled 
 till he staggered up and on. 
 
 There was a grand masked ball at the opera house 
 to close the festivities and we had a box to look on. 
 Two American girls that we knew went rather too far 
 in their flirtation with an Italian prince, and I had to 
 go down and rescue them just as they, as a lark, were 
 going off for a ride with him. They did not know Ital- 
 ian princes and I dread to think what might have 
 happened to them. 
 
 Liszt was in Rome that winter living in a convent 
 at the side of the Forum. My father was taken to see 
 him by Mr. Healy, the artist, who was a Catholic. 
 They arrived at dusk, and Liszt opened the door him- 
 self and stood at the head of the stairs, with a lighted 
 candle held above his head. He made such a wonder-
 
 LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD 173 
 
 ful picture with his tall figure and black soutane, 
 that my father got Mr. Healy to paint a picture of 
 him, which we have in the Craigie house. A few days 
 later a number of us, at Liszt's invitation, went to 
 hear him play. As he sat at the piano with his iron- 
 grey hair brushed back and a rapt expression on his 
 face, he was a striking object. His wonderful long 
 fingers seemed to be able to produce any effect he 
 wished with slight effort. I do not remember what he 
 played, but I think it was mostly improvisation, and 
 wonderful tones he produced, now low, now crashing 
 chords, and again noble harmonies. He seemed very 
 proud of his piano, which was a Chickering grand 
 that had been presented to him. Suddenly he ended 
 with a bang and, turning to the ladies, said, "Now, I 
 will play something for the ladies," as if he thought 
 they could not appreciate his magnificent perform- 
 ance. He then played something trivial, which was 
 not after all a great compliment to them. 
 
 Besides the picture of Liszt, Healy painted, as 
 I have mentioned before, a life-size portrait of my 
 father and my sister Edith, and a small picture with 
 them both standing beneath the Arch of Titus. 
 
 When the rest of the party left Rome for Florence, 
 my wife and I stayed behind in order to help Mr. 
 Crowninshield get away, who with his family had also 
 been passing the winter in Rome; he had been very
 
 174 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 sick with Roman fever. He was so weak that when 
 we got him on the train he cried Hke a baby from ex- 
 haustion. 
 
 It was a rather disastrous delay, because when we 
 reached Florence I myself was taken with the same 
 fever, and was sick there for a month. Finally, in 
 spite of the English doctor's wishes, we, with the 
 whole party, went to Venice and later to Cadenab- 
 bla, where I finally got back my strength. 
 
 After another trip through Switzerland and Ger- 
 many with some members of my wife's family, we re- 
 turned to America late in the fall of 1869. 
 
 I then took a studio in Boston and set about build- 
 ing a house nearly opposite my father's, my wife and 
 I in the meantime staying with him. I worked at my 
 profession steadily until 1876, with the exception of 
 a few months' absence in the summer of 1872, when 
 I made a sketching trip to Switzerland, the Italian 
 lakes, and the Tyrol. I painted some portraits, but 
 mostly figure pieces and landscapes. 
 
 In the winter of 1876 I felt the need of more in- 
 struction in the figure and determined to go abroad 
 and study with Couture, whose work I greatly ad- 
 mired. Before going I had an exhibition and sale of 
 over a hundred pictures I had painted In the preced- 
 ing years. The sale was very successful and I reali2ied 
 nearly eight thousand dollars.
 
 LIFE AT HOME AND ABROAD 175 
 
 I had painted a large picture of Priscilla and John 
 Alden walking on the beach against a sunset sky, 
 which was much praised, but was not admitted to the 
 Centennial Exhibition at Philadelphia of that year, 
 because, as I was aware, the figures were not as good 
 as they should have been. However, at the instance 
 of some friends it was sent on to Philadelphia and 
 hung In the Massachusetts Building, where many 
 people saw it. One artist of eminence later told me 
 that he used to go often to look at It, and it in- 
 spired him to become an artist himself, so the pic- 
 ture was not painted In vain. But a realization of 
 the weakness of the figure-painting in it Induced me 
 to go again abroad to try and do better. I after- 
 wards destroyed the picture, I was so dissatisfied 
 with It. 
 
 A picture of mine of an old mill at Manchester, 
 Massachusetts, was, however, accepted for the Ex- 
 hibition and hung on the line, so I was in a measure 
 consoled. This picture also I destroyed, I now think 
 foolishly. It seemed to me on my return from Europe 
 too dark. 
 
 In that spring, before leaving for Europe, I painted 
 a portrait of my father which the family think the 
 best portrait of him ever taken. It now stands on 
 an easel in his study. I am not very pleased with It 
 myself, and think the one I painted on a commis-
 
 176 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 sion for Bowdoin College after studying with Couture 
 better. 
 
 After spending some time at the Exhibition In 
 Philadelphia, my wife and I and a cousin sailed for 
 France to devote myself to work with Couture.
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 REMINISCENCES OF THOMAS COUTURE 
 
 It was a beautiful day in the middle of July, 1876, 
 when we glided out of the Gare du Nord, in Paris, on 
 our way to see Thomas Couture, at the little village 
 where for many years he passed the summer months 
 in the seclusion of the country. 
 
 We descended, after about half an hour's ride, 
 at the little station of Villiers-le-Bel, which seemed 
 stranded in the open fields, as no village was in sight. 
 We began to fear that we too were stranded, and had 
 perhaps been left at the wrong station. However, fol- 
 lowing the few people who, like ourselves, had been 
 spilled, as it were, by the now fast-vanishing train, we 
 passed through the station, and found, drawn up in 
 the shade, an old dusty omnibus, with two sturdy 
 Normandy horses attached. We were assured by a 
 worthy in a blouse, and with a very thick and almost 
 unintelligible patois, that this would conduct us to our 
 destination, the village of Villiers-le-Bel itself, and 
 that he would have the honor to drive us. 
 
 With a great cracking of the whip we were soon off 
 at a good pace, over a well-macadamized road which 
 led straight out into the country, and the little station
 
 178 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 was left deserted and quiet till the arrival of the next 
 train. 
 
 Before us stretched the broad, dusty road, and on 
 either hand, with no fence between, were spread the 
 fields of fast-ripening grain, waving and rippling in 
 the breeze; the great red poppies blazed in the sun, 
 and the whole air was musical with the larks soaring 
 far up in the blue sky. How strange it all seemed, and 
 yet how familiar! At every step one was reminded 
 of pictures by Lambinet and Rousseau, Troyon and 
 Daubigny, but Lambinet more than the others; for 
 he it is who has made this part of France peculiarly 
 his own, as Rousseau the Forest of Fontainebleau aTid 
 Daubigny the river Oise. When, at one point, we 
 passed some peasants at their noonday meal under 
 the shadow of their cart, which was tipped up with its 
 shafts in the air, while the good horse, with harness 
 off, browsed hard by, "Ah," I involuntarily thought, 
 "what a perfect Millet!" So it is that the familiarity 
 bom of books and pictures gives an added charm to 
 travel. 
 
 Aside from this, the landscape in Normandy has a 
 special grace of its own. The gently flowing lines of 
 the hills, and the wide stretch of level plain, without 
 fence or bound to break the view, the little hamlets 
 scattered here and there, and the groups of graceful 
 trees, which from the custom of trimming the lower
 
 THOMAS COUTURE 179 
 
 branches for firewood lift themselves against the soft 
 skies with peculiar character in their silhouettes, all 
 lend themselves ready-made to the artist's hand. In 
 the atmosphere full of moisture from the English 
 Channel, the distance melts away in a soft haze, and 
 there is never that knock-down aspect of things, near 
 or remote, with which we are so familiar in New Eng- 
 land. 
 
 After a twenty minutes' drive across the level 
 plain, we reached the outskirts of the village, nestled 
 among its trees at the foot, and running up the slope, 
 of the hill of Ecouen. As we rattled up its little nar- 
 row paved street, amid a salvo from the driver's 
 whip, which echoed and reechoed from the grey 
 houses on either hand like a very successful Fourth- 
 of-July celebration, loungers came out from doors, 
 and fresh faces, framed in white caps, peeped at us 
 from upper windows, to give and receive voluble sal- 
 lies from our blue-bloused driver, who was evidently 
 in high favor with his townsfolk. At length we 
 reached the little square in the middle of the village 
 and drew up in front of the Bureau de Poste. Here 
 we alighted and looked about us. 
 
 On one side of the square rose the little Gothic 
 church, with its spire terminating in a ridge. The in- 
 side, unhappily, has been spoiled by a thick coat of 
 whitewash, but the outside is quite picturesque, and,
 
 i8o RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 dominating as it does the little hamlet, is an attractive 
 object from many points in the surrounding country, 
 and has often figured in pictures by French and Amer- 
 ican artists. With the assistance of an old gentleman 
 with a wheelbarrow, on which were deposited our few 
 impedimenta, we set out for the inn, along one of the 
 streets leading from the square. The streets of Vil- 
 liers, as in other French country towns, are all paved 
 with large square blocks of stone; the houses abut 
 directly on the street, and the sidewalk, where there 
 is any, is also paved, and so narrow that in places it 
 is quite lost, where some obtrusive house elbows its 
 way out of the general line. The gutter is often in 
 the middle of the street and answers for a drain as 
 well. Being open to the air, gases have no chance to 
 accumulate; and although you are sometimes greeted 
 by unpleasant odors, no fevers are the result. 
 
 The inn proved to be also a pastry cook's. The 
 landlord was the cook, and was rarely seen out of his 
 well-ordered kitchen, while his wife sat all day in the 
 shop, with her knitting, and demanding exorbitant 
 prices for the very sweet but generally flavorless con- 
 fitures in which the French delight. No well-regulated 
 French household ever makes its own puddings or 
 pies, but sends for them to the patisserie, which there- 
 fore exercises an important function. 
 
 In the meantime the hotel part of the establish-
 
 THOMAS COUTURE i8i 
 
 ment was expected to run itself, with such help as it 
 could get from the much-put-upon man-of-all-work, 
 who did everything, from making the beds to wash- 
 ing out the courtyard. The natural result was that 
 between overwork and Madame's temper, which was 
 none of the best, the poor gar^on generally left at the 
 end of his first month, to be succeeded by another un- 
 fortunate. He in turn would be summoned from his 
 bed-making by the shrill voice of Madame in the 
 courtyard below, to attend to some newly arrived 
 guest, only to be scolded back again because his 
 rooms were not done. 
 
 We entered the inn through the large green doors 
 of the paved courtyard, and after paying our aged 
 conductor waited patiently for the clanging of the 
 great bell, which he had set ringing, to subside. We 
 decided to postpone the inspection of rooms for the 
 more pressing demands of hunger; and so expressed 
 ourselves to the for once smiling landlady. At her 
 suggestion, a table was spread for us in what was 
 called by the somewhat misleading name of bosquet, 
 a sort of arbor running along one side of the courtyard, 
 and composed of straggling vines on espaliers, and 
 sickly creepers running up the high wall that enclosed 
 the court on that side. The other three sides were oc- 
 cupied by the house, under which, in one part, was 
 the stable. We felt that now we were indeed in Bo-
 
 1 82 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 hernia, and our al fresco repast was none the less en- 
 joyable from the fact that the beefsteak was tough 
 and the vin ordinaire very ordinaire. 
 
 Omelettes and bread are always good in France, 
 and we found no exception here, while later we 
 learned that our landlord had a very good vintage of 
 Beaune, if we chose to pay for it. 
 
 Our meal was shared by a cat and a dog, the former, 
 however, only in imagination, as she dared not de- 
 scend from her vantage-ground on the high wall. The 
 dog was a large setter in the hobble-de-hoy stage of 
 puppyhood, and had been christened "Stop" by an 
 Italian artist at the hotel, with, I fear, rather vague 
 ideas of English : something as the Japanese supposed 
 '■ Come here" to be the English for dog, because their 
 masters used that phrase in calling to them. 
 
 Stop, this particular dog certainly never did, but 
 went tumbling over everything; getting between the 
 waiter's legs, and causing no end of mischief, but all 
 in such a good-natured way that the vituperations 
 with which he was greeted usually ended in caresses. 
 
 After lunch, while the ladies installed themselves in 
 such rooms as we were able to make up our minds to 
 accept, I determined to take the bull by the horns and 
 pay my visit to Couture, to get his consent to give me 
 some instruction. I had often heard him described as 
 a man with a very bad temper and brusque manners,
 
 THOMAS COUTURE 183 
 
 and I feared my imperfect command of the French 
 language might lead me to say something to rouse his 
 ire, as what may be quite polite in one language is 
 very often rude in another. Besides, he had for many 
 years refused to take pupils, properly so called, and 
 had only recently made exception in favor of some 
 American ladies. Whether he would take a male into 
 his harem seemed quite doubtful, and indeed he re- 
 fused, while I was there, to take some Frenchmen as 
 pupils, though after my advent admitting other Amer- 
 icans and an Italian. 
 
 It was therefore with trembling that I sought the 
 abode of the great man. I was directed to a neighbor- 
 ing street, where in a long, high wall, overhung by 
 beautiful old trees, I found the large gate of his cha- 
 teau as it was called. Beside this gate was a smaller 
 one, with a grating in it about six inches square. I 
 pulled the iron bell-rod that hung on one side, and 
 immediately, as if both bell and dog had been at- 
 tached to the same cord, there ensued a great jangling 
 and barking. Inside I heard the clack, clack, of 
 wooden shoes coming across a paved court; the slide 
 behind the little grating was pushed back, and an old 
 woman in a Bretonne cap peered out at me. The dog, 
 meanwhile, having been partially suppressed, kept up 
 a muttered protest. "Dear me," I said to myself, 
 "this is indeed a Blue Beard's castle"; and the dog,
 
 1 84 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 who was still invisible, assumed to my imagination 
 gigantic proportions. In response to my inquiry if 
 M. Couture was at home, — my outward appearance 
 being, I suppose, satisfactory, — I was greeted with a 
 smiling ^'' Entrez, monsieur y"* and the drawing back of 
 bolts and opening of the little gate. Somewhat reas- 
 sured by the smiles of the old lady, and finding that 
 the dog, although of evil countenance, was not so very 
 large, I entered, and followed the Bretonne cap and 
 wooden shoes across the court, that had once been 
 laid out with some care, with flower-beds, and a foun- 
 tain in the middle, but was now all in disorder, with a 
 general tangle of weeds and grasses growing up be- 
 tween the paving-stones. Bringing up the rear came 
 the dog, a sort of mongrel mastiff, sniffing unpleas- 
 antly near to my trouser-legs. Had I but known, as I 
 very soon learned, that both dog and master were the 
 most good-natured of creatures, instead of the bug- 
 bears my imagination had painted them, I should 
 not have felt so like a man going to his execution. Al- 
 though I still marched on, my French, if not my cour- 
 age, basely deserted me, and left me to stumble 
 through the ensuing interv^iew as best I could, and 
 then taunted me when safely back at the hotel with 
 what I might have said, but did not. The Chateau 
 Couture, more properly a maison de campagne, was 
 a long, two-storied stuccoed building, without much
 
 THOMAS COUTURE 185 
 
 architectural pretence, like many another country- 
 house in the suburbs of Paris. It rested so low on the 
 ground that one step carried you into its front door, 
 or through its long French windows. I was ushered 
 into a room on the left of the entrance, used, I after- 
 wards learned, as the dining-room; catching on the 
 way, through the door opposite, a glimpse of the 
 kitchen, with its large, old-fashioned fireplace and 
 bright array of copper saucepans, evidently the pride 
 of the Bretonne cap. Knowing that mine host had a 
 weakness for Americans as more liberal patrons of art 
 than his own countrymen had proved to be, to him 
 at least, I took care to impress on the good dame that 
 it was an American who wished to see monsieur. It 
 was an even chance whether the disappointment of 
 finding that I was not a rich American amateur 
 would not counterbalance the supposed advantage 
 of my nationality; but I hoped for an amiable recep- 
 tion before he found that out. 
 
 Nor was I mistaken. Clack, clack, went the 
 wooden shoes up the stone stairs, and clack, clack, 
 they soon returned, to say that monsieur would im- 
 mediately descend. 
 
 The dog, all the while, had followed close at my 
 heels, and stood guard to see that I did not run off 
 with the family spoons. He had a bloodshot look in 
 his eyes that boded no good to any such attempt, and
 
 1 86 RANDOM IVlEMORIES 
 
 fearing he might mistake my Western freedom for re- 
 pubHcan Hcense, I sat as still as I could on the edge of 
 mv chair. 
 
 Presently, clack, clack, clack, another pair of 
 wooden shoes came down the stairs, and there entered 
 a short, stout man, in a broad-brimmed Panama hat, 
 dressed in a crumpled suit of grey linen, and with 
 black sabots on his feet. I rose as he entered, and the 
 dog, after several violent blows with his tail against 
 the table-leg that happened to be in the way of this 
 customary salutation, laid himself down in the sun 
 with a great flop and sigh of relief that his duties as 
 policeman were over for the present. 
 
 Couture — for it was he — extended to me a soft, 
 pulpy, but small and white hand, and welcomed me 
 .with much empressement. 
 
 "Always charmed to see Americans. Had many 
 American amateurs, who had bought his pictures," 
 etc. Ah, I said to myself, I feared as much ! How shall 
 I ever dare to undeceive him.^ 
 
 Seeing my evident embarrassment in trjang to tj.- 
 press myself intelligibly, with great tact he suggested 
 that we should go for a walk in the park, as he called it. 
 
 He rightly divined that a stroll round the grounds 
 would be less formal than sitting up on chairs, and 
 that I should be more at my ease in the open air. This 
 eye to the main chance and extreme sensitiveness to
 
 THO^/IAS COUTURE 187 
 
 the feelings and motives of others, as well as to any 
 supposed slight upon himself, I found to be among 
 his strongest characteristics. 
 
 His sharp little eyes read with wonderful insight 
 the characters of his pupils; and although he under- 
 stood not a word of English, we were often startled to 
 find how quick he was to interpret some passing re- 
 mark from one to another, v/hen we thought ourselves 
 safe behind our foreign tongue, and his abrupt ^^ Com- 
 ment?^'' would speedily bring us back to our good 
 manners. 
 
 Leading the way into the next room, Couture 
 called my attention to some writing in charcoal on one 
 of the panels of the white wainscoting that reached to 
 the ceiling. At the time of the siege of Paris he had 
 written here an appeal to the Prussians to spare his 
 house and pictures, as the home of an artist well known 
 in Europe, and some of whose paintings graced the 
 walls of the galleries of Berlin. I wish I could remem- 
 ber the exact words, they were so naive in their ego- 
 tism, of which his having preser\'ed them to this day 
 was another touch. 
 
 This room, which was the principal salon, must 
 have been nearly thirty feet long, and reached from 
 side to side of the house, with long French windows 
 on either hand, through one of which we passed to a 
 terrace overlooking the park. The grounds had once
 
 1 88 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 been laid out with much skill, but Couture's dislike to 
 spending money had allowed them to become over- 
 grown and out of repair. 
 
 A broad vista of fine trees led down to where the 
 paved chaussee from Paris to Ecouen terminated the 
 estate. By skilful planting, and the substitution of an 
 iron paling for the high wall that elsewhere bordered 
 the road, this was quite overlooked, and the eye was 
 led on over smiling fields to the hills of Montmorency, 
 four miles away. Thus the name of "park" did not 
 seem altogether undeserved, although there could not 
 have been over six acres in the whole place. 
 
 As we wandered about among the trees and shrub- 
 beries, I found little need of talking; my companion, 
 it seemed, liked nothing better than to hold forth. 
 With his arm drawn through mine, a favorite habit of 
 his when walking with any one, he stumped along in 
 his wooden shoes, and was the picture of good nature 
 and bonhomie. A short and thick man, as I have said, 
 with a great shock of iron-grey hair protruding from 
 under his old straw hat; small but very bright eyes, 
 set in a rather heavy and puffy face, of a pale and sal- 
 low hue; nose large, with open and very sensitive nos- 
 trils; clean-shaved, save for a heavy, drooping grey 
 mustache, which concealed a large, sensuous mouth; 
 finally, a receding chin, almost lost in a thick neck, 
 suggestive of apoplexy, — not a handsome man, cer-
 
 THOMAS COUTURE
 
 THOMAS COUTURE 189 
 
 tainly. At the same time, despite his small stature, 
 he gave you a sense of power that was unmistakable; 
 there was a flash in his eyes that revealed the sacred 
 fire, and you felt that he was no common man, as his 
 outward aspect might lead you at first to imagine. 
 He was ungraceful, but with a certain old-fashioned 
 courtesy, especially with ladies, that made up for the 
 want of polish that could hardly be expected from his 
 origin. 
 
 He often made fun of his awkwardness, and told 
 amusing stories of going to receptions at the Tuileries 
 in the days when he was in high favor with Napoleon ; 
 of putting his feet through great ladies' trains, and 
 committing other gaucheries, to the disgust of the 
 more accomplished courtiers. 
 
 I found him anything but the bear he had been de- 
 picted, and, with the exception of extreme sensitive- 
 ness to any imagined slight, the most good-natured of 
 men ; very fond of telling stories, and quite willing to 
 laugh at himself, but unwilling to be laughed at; very 
 sure that he was the greatest painter living, and that 
 all others were mere daubers, and very sore at the 
 ill-treatment he fancied he had received at the hands 
 of the French Government and artists ; in a word, a 
 childlike nature within a rough exterior, but very lov- 
 able. Driven into voluntary exile by the jealousy of 
 other artists and intrigues in high places, for ten years
 
 I90 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 he did not touch a brush. Living on the reputation 
 made in his younger days, he could not consent to 
 enter the arena a second time, and notwithstanding 
 his love of money he was content to remain idle, un- 
 less spurred on to do something by the importunity 
 of buyers seeking him out. I never succeeded in get- 
 ting at the rights of the case in his quarrel with the 
 world. 
 
 The ill-treatment, the slights cast upon him by 
 other artists, and his breaking with the Government 
 when in the midst of large commissions, because, as 
 he alleged, he would not give a present to the Min- 
 ister of Fine Arts for procuring him these orders, may 
 have been in great part due to his oversensitive im- 
 agination. To crown all, he rashly wrote a book. "Oh, 
 that mine enemy had written a book!" All the art- 
 world of Paris set up a howl, and its echoes still linger 
 in the ateliers on either bank of the Seine. He retired 
 to nurse his wrongs at Villiers-le-Bel, and so entirely 
 did he become a thing of the past that most lovers 
 of art, if they thought about him at all, thought of 
 him as dead, and wondered why his great painting of 
 "Les Romains de la Decadence" was not removed to 
 the Louvre, as is the custom with works owned by the 
 State after the artist has been dead ten years. What 
 had the poor man done.'' He had written a slight 
 sketch of his life, given an account of his method of
 
 THOMAS COUTURE 191 
 
 painting, and dared to criticise, but perhaps without 
 sufficient prudence, the works of other painters. If 
 he had had more worldly wisdom he would have held 
 his tongue. 
 
 The methode Couture has been a byword in the ate- 
 liers of Paris ever since. Not that It was not a good- 
 enough system in its way and as employed by him; 
 but yet it was a difficult method to copy, especially 
 when learned only from his book, and like a written 
 constitution, the too exact formulation of ideas gave 
 a chance for cavillers to find fault. To many, to paint 
 by rule, and not by inspiration, seemed absurd. His 
 system was either misunderstood or misapplied, and 
 certainly has never been successfully held to by any 
 of his pupils. Pupils of other men have been allowed 
 to follow in the footsteps of their masters without dis- 
 credit, but those of Couture have been pursued relent- 
 lessly as long as any trace of the master's method has 
 remained. 
 
 Why this should be I cannot say. Why bitumen 
 used by Couture is any more sinful than when used 
 by others I do not know, but so it is. His great aim 
 was freshness and purity of color, which he sought 
 to get by mixing or stirring the colors together as little 
 as possible, and by placing on the canvas the exact 
 tint as nearly as he could hit it, and not disturbing it 
 afterwards. Rather than disturb it, he preferred either
 
 192 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 to remove an unlucky touch with the palette knife 
 and bread, or leave it till dry, and then repaint it. 
 
 His great maxim was to make haste slowly. He 
 used to say, "Give three minutes to looking at a 
 thing, and one to painting it." "Make up your mind 
 exactly what ought to be done, and then do it with 
 rapidity and decision, as if it were the easiest thing in 
 the world." "If a thing does not come right at first, 
 do not fuss over it, but go to something else ; and, if 
 necessary, come back to it later, when you will often 
 find that it is not so bad, or at least is so unimportant 
 in the general result as to be hardly worth doing 
 over," — all of which maxims are most difficult to 
 beginners. 
 
 The great trouble with the mkhode Couture was 
 that, like the battle-axe of Cceur de Lion, only the 
 master could wield it. To get additional brilliancy, 
 he liked to employ very long brushes that took up a 
 great quantity of paint. This he applied in a single 
 decisive touch with a peculiar movement of the hand, 
 which none of us were ever able to imitate, and 
 which left the paint all bristling and sparkling, like 
 grass with the morning dew fresh upon it. He con- 
 tended that when put on in this way and varnished, 
 it would remain fresh forever, whereas the painting 
 over and over resulted only in deadening the paint 
 and turning it dark in time. Nevertheless, he was al-
 
 THOMAS COUTURE 193 
 
 ways ready, if a thing did not please him, either to 
 scrape it out, or, when dry, to glaze it down and re- 
 paint it, but always trying as far as possible to retain 
 the brilliant qualities of a first painting. 
 
 By this process of glazing and repainting he was 
 able, contrary to the generally received opinion, to 
 obtain, when he chose, the most minute finish. Many 
 of his smaller pictures will bear witness to this, and it 
 was only in his larger canvases that he left things in 
 what might seem an incomplete state. 
 
 He did not invariably work in the same way; but 
 his usual method was to put in the shadows with a 
 very little bitumen and light red mixed with a drying 
 medium, then load the lights, and by the time the 
 shadows had become a little sticky from drying, drag 
 the proper colors into them, which gave a more trans- 
 parent quality than painting them in more solidly 
 would have done. 
 
 In his drawing he insisted on style: every line 
 should express character, and every line he ever drew 
 was full of it. His careful study of the antique had 
 made him an idealist; he could not be a servile copy- 
 ist. With a few telling strokes he would express the 
 whole essence of an object distilled through the alem- 
 bic of his imagination. He was one of the last of the 
 classical school, and had no sympathy with the grow- 
 ing realism of the age, nor it with him.
 
 194 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 Alas for the man who is bom too late, or who out- 
 lives his proper period ! He who is ahead of his time 
 may come to be revered as a prophet, but he who is 
 behind has no one so poor to do him reverence. The 
 whirligig of time alone may bring him adequate rec- 
 ognition. Among modern painters, Couture is pre- 
 eminent for nobleness of conception and design; but 
 in cleverness of technique he has been much surpassed. 
 His faults were a certain dryness in execution, from 
 the roughness of his paint, and a want of unity in his 
 larger compositions, arising in part from his habit 
 of studying each figure separately, and in part from 
 a lack of feeling for the just relation of values. 
 
 His fondness for subjects of a satirical nature 
 worked him harm. It is a doubtful point how far art 
 should be used as a moral agent, except as it elevates 
 the mind. The satirist has his place, but it is not the 
 highest place, and the noblest art is degraded if used 
 to point a moral too openly. In such pictures as 
 "The Realist" (a student seated upon the bust of 
 the Venus of Milo, engaged in drawing a pig's head), 
 "The Love of Gold," "The Courtesan," and similar 
 subjects, he squandered the talent that ought to have 
 been devoted to higher aims. It was, I think, a per- 
 version of the intellectual quality in art. In "Les 
 Romains de la Decadence," his best-known picture, 
 and the one which made his reputation, we have,
 
 THOMAS COUTURE 195 
 
 however, a lesson of the debauchery of luxury and 
 vice which is very powerfully told. The utter weari- 
 ness and satiety of over-indulgence is admirably indi- 
 cated in the attitudes and expression of the figures. 
 The fair cease to charm and the wine to cheer, and 
 the moral is not too obtrusively drawn in the despair 
 of the poet on the one hand, and the scorn of the 
 philosophers on the other. 
 
 As a portrait-painter he was not very successful. 
 He idealized the likeness out of his sitters, and left 
 only what he thought they ought to be. We prefer 
 ourselves as our looking-glass shows us, and not as 
 others see us, in spite of the old saying. 
 
 Before parting with Couture, on that first visit, I 
 secured his consent to my becoming a pupil. He 
 seemed much less averse to my project than I had an- 
 ticipated, but confessed that he had intended never 
 to take another scholar, although willing to criticise 
 works brought to him by artists. He had broken his 
 resolution because an American girl had come to him 
 and said, "/^ ^^^^ prendre des lemons y'^ instead of 
 "/^ desire,''^ which so amused him with its maidenly 
 imperiousness that he yielded. Having once given 
 way (and, I suspect, seeing a chance for a little money, 
 though he did not mention that), he thought he would 
 try a few pupils for one summer. I was to return the 
 next morning with my paints and such sketches as
 
 196 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 I had with me, that he might see how proficient I 
 was. 
 
 I shall never forget that morning. It was very hot. 
 After a repetition of the formalities of the day before 
 at the gate, only with broader smiles on the part of 
 the good dame, and this time with appropriate recog- 
 nition on that of the dog that I was henceforth a priv- 
 ileged person, I was shown up to the room used for 
 a studio. Couture, with the inevitable straw hat, 
 received me warmly, and after rummaging about 
 among a lot of old canvases, at which I longed to get 
 a better look, produced a superb study of a man nude 
 to the waist, which he had made years ago for the 
 picture "L'Amour de I'Or." This he set me to copy. 
 To put me a little at my ease, he took up a book and 
 pretended to read, but I felt all the time that he was 
 looking with those sharp little eyes at every stroke I 
 made. Although the perspiration started at every pore, 
 there was nothing for it but to go on. Oh, how hot it 
 was! The flies buzzed on the window-panes, or lit 
 on my nose; there was no other sound save an occa- 
 sional grunt from my tormentor, whether of approval 
 or disgust I could not tell. After a painful struggle, my 
 task was finished. I felt that I had done myself scant 
 justice; but perhaps it was just as well, as the im- 
 provement thereafter would be all the more marked, 
 and that would please the teacher. With a "Not so
 
 THOMAS COUTURE 197 
 
 bad," he informed me that "we should soon change 
 all that," and that the next day I could regularly begin. 
 As other pupils arrived soon after, he arranged a class, 
 which met at his house during the first week of every 
 month. He would either give us something of his own 
 to copy, or, painting himself from a model in the morn- 
 ing, make us do the same in the afternoon. In this way 
 we learned how he attacked a subject, and his method 
 of treating it; also gathered many useful hints from 
 his criticism of our own and others' sketches. The 
 rest of the month we worked by ourselves from models, 
 or sketched in the fields, carrying the results to him 
 for correction. 
 
 He liked to have us come to his house on Sunday 
 afternoons, when he held a sort of levee, seated under 
 the trees in the park. Barbedienne, the celebrated 
 dealer in bronzes, who was his most intimate friend, 
 often came from Paris to pass his Sunday, and other 
 artists from the neighboring Ecouen, a great centre 
 for genre painters, were frequent visitors on those 
 pleasant afternoons. Surrounded by his family, with 
 a clean white linen suit on, his best Panama on his 
 head, and the ribbon of the Legion of Honor in his 
 buttonhole, he poured forth by the hour together a 
 stream of racy anecdotes and amusing conceits. 
 
 The family consisted of his wife and two daughters 
 and the dog Didi, a very important member. When
 
 198 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 the Prussians were approaching Paris, the Couture 
 family fled, Hke so many others ; leaving the writing 
 on the wall that I have before mentioned, to mollify 
 the conquerors. But alas, on reaching Paris Didi the 
 cherished was missing! He had been left behind, and 
 the Prussians would surely get him. So, in face of the 
 whole advancing host. Couture sallied forth to rescue 
 the dog. He passed the French lines, and advanced into 
 the now deserted country; he reached Villlers-le-Bel in 
 safety, to find it silent and almost uninhabited, but he 
 found the dog. As yet no Prussians were In sight, and 
 he was about to return, when suddenly, over the hill 
 from Ecouen, two Uhlans appeared; they came to a 
 halt; then two more appeared from another direction; 
 then, silently, stealthily, like the coming-in of the 
 tide, from all sides, by every alley and street, came the 
 spiked helmets. The village was surrounded and 
 occupied, and Couture a prisoner. The officers, how- 
 ever, were very kind and polite, and allowed him to 
 return to his family In Paris in triumph, with the dog. 
 History does not relate how Didi escaped being 
 eaten during the siege, but he would have been a tough 
 morsel, and that fact probably saved him. 
 
 Couture's youngest daughter, Jeanne, was his fa- 
 vorite. She was at that time a very sweet girl of about 
 sixteen, and acted as her father's rapin, that Is, helper 
 In the studio. She kept his palette beautifully clean,
 
 THOMAS COUTURE 199 
 
 washed his brushes, and always had a fresh rag or 
 paint-tube ready to his hand in time of need. She 
 spoke a Httie EngHsh, which she had learned at school, 
 but was very shy of her accomplishment. Painting a 
 little herself, she took a great interest in the work 
 going on, and with her dark olive skin and the bright 
 ribbon in her hair was always a charming picture, be- 
 side her rugged old father. 
 
 We passed two summers at Villiers-le-Bel, working in 
 the manner described; the class varying from two to 
 nearly a dozen, mostly of the fair sex. One day in the 
 second summer there came near being an end to the 
 whole thing through our touching the master on his 
 sensitive spot. We had been having a model whom we 
 all disliked, except Couture, who found in her beauties 
 lost on our duller perceptions. I suppose we regarded 
 her from too realistic a standpoint. Her good points 
 were all rudimentary, and it needed the master to add 
 what nature had denied her. He used to say that he 
 preferred a thin to a stout model, because you could 
 study the structure, and could add as much as you 
 liked ; whereas in the other case, the flesh hid every- 
 thing from view, and you did not know how much to 
 take off. Be that as it may, in this case we got very 
 tired of her and her want of beauty, and without any 
 special concert it so happened that one fine morning 
 all the class stayed away, save one faithful mortal. I
 
 200 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 had taken the day to go up to Paris on necessary busi- 
 ness, and the others had similarly found something 
 else to do. Of course the faithful one reported that 
 there was a rod in pickle for us. 
 
 The next morning we went to Couture's prepared 
 for an outburst, and sure enough it came. 
 
 When we assembled in the room used for a studio. 
 Couture had not yet come down, and he kept us wait- 
 ing some time, which was an ominous sign. Presently 
 we heard his wooden shoes stumping along through 
 the room leading to ours. He entered with great cere- 
 mony, making a low bow to us all, and not with his 
 usual jovial salutation. He was carefully dressed in 
 his best, freshly shaved (a rather rare occurrence, by 
 the way), with his hat in his hand instead of on his 
 head, and the ribbon of the Legion of Honor in his 
 buttonhole, — altogether en grande tenue. Addressing 
 me as the oldest pupil, he made an oration on the dis- 
 respect of our conduct, when he gave us lessons only 
 as a great favor, and wound up by saying that this 
 rebellion had very much wounded his feelings, and 
 that he should give us no more instruction. Feeling 
 that I was called upon to speak for the others, I ex- 
 pressed my extreme regret at what had happened; 
 explained that no disrespect was intended, that I had 
 been obliged to go to town on business, and that it 
 was a mere accident that the others stayed away at
 
 THOMAS COUTURE 201 
 
 the same time. Remembering that the French are 
 more easily influenced by an epigram than a sound 
 reason, I wound up by saying that what he had 
 thought a revolution was nothing at most but an 
 emeute^ and should not be regarded seriously. This 
 had the desired effect: the clouds cleared away, he 
 burst out laughing, and we all set to work, and I 
 never knew him more good-natured than he was for 
 the rest of the day. And so the lessons went on. 
 
 The last time I saw Couture was in Paris, in the 
 autumn of 1878. We were about leaving for Egypt, 
 and invited him and his daughter Jeanne to come and 
 lunch with us at our hotel in the Latin Quarter. He 
 was in a ver)^ hilarious mood, and, like a schoolboy 
 out for a holiday, bent on enjoying himself. After 
 our repast we proposed that we should all go to the 
 Exposition and look at the pictures; thinking his 
 criticism would be both instructive and amusing. But 
 no; he said he was tired of the Exposition; he was a 
 provincial up from the country, and preferred to 
 flaner in the streets of the great city. So off we set; 
 Couture in front with my wife on his arm, and I be- 
 hind with mademoiselle. 
 
 We must have made a queer group, and I am afraid 
 the good people at home would have been much 
 scandalized at our behavior. Couture acted out to the 
 letter the part of countryman; insisting on looking
 
 202 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 in all the shop windows, as if he had never before 
 been in Paris; caUing loudly to Jeanne to come and 
 admire some object; rushing wildly across the street, 
 to his own and my wife's imminent peril, his hat usu- 
 ally flying off in the passage, which we behind were 
 obliged to rescue from under the feet of the horses or 
 wheels of passing cabs. 
 
 Even in Paris, where people are used to eccentric 
 behavior, such actions and actors attracted a good 
 deal of notice, and I was glad to get him into Goupil's 
 on pretence of showing him one of his own pictures 
 which I had seen there several days before. The young 
 man who conducted us to the gallery upstairs seemed 
 at first inclined to treat with much coldness such an 
 unpromising set of visitors, and with reluctance pro- 
 duced the head I asked for. No sooner was it placed 
 on the easel than Couture burst out in derisive laugh- 
 ter, abused it roundly, and, although it was an un- 
 doubted Couture, saw fit to ridicule the whole thing. 
 The showman was naturally much incensed, and pro- 
 ceeded to point out to us the excellences of the paint- 
 ing; but Couture would not listen to him, and con- 
 tinued to call it all sorts of names, saying that 
 they used to make omelettes on it, and kicked it about 
 generally in the atelier. The man now looked puz- 
 zled, as if he were dealing with a madman; suddenly 
 a gleam of intelligence shot across his face, as he be-
 
 THOMAS COUTURE 203 
 
 gan to realize that this eccentric must be Couture 
 himself. Never was there a greater change: he ran- 
 sacked the whole shop for pictures that would in- 
 terest us, and finally bowed us out with all the obse- 
 quiousness he could muster. 
 
 It was now time for Couture and his daughter to 
 leave us, to take the train for Viliiers-le-Bel, and the 
 flourish of the large Panama hat from a cab window 
 was the last I ever saw of my worthy master.
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 WINTER IN SIENA 
 
 After two summers spent at Villlers-le-Bel with Cou- 
 ture, a winter with friends in a villa outside of Siena, 
 one in Paris, and another in Egypt followed by a spring 
 in Spain, in all which time I made many sketches and 
 finished pictures, we returned to America in August 
 of 1879. If variety is the spice of life, the two winters, 
 one in Siena, and one in Egypt certainly presented 
 contrast enough. 
 
 After my first summer with Couture, and a sketch- 
 ing tour through Normandy, we went by way of the 
 Riviera down into Italy to Siena, where we shared a 
 villa with an artist friend and his family. This villa 
 was a rather unpretentious, square-looking building, 
 without any architectural features. The lower floor 
 was given up to storerooms. On the piano nohile, 
 or second floor as we should call it, were the dining- 
 room and salons and my friend's studio and sleeping- 
 quarters. My wife and I had a bedroom on the north- 
 eastern corner of the floor above, with a view over the 
 hills to Siena ; also a large room with north light that 
 I used as a studio. 
 
 Siena has a climate in winter that is not unlike that
 
 WINTER IN SIENA 205 
 
 of New England, only not so cold; it is much dryer 
 than Rome, with cold, frosty mornings and more snow 
 and ice. There was no way of heating the villa ex- 
 cept with one or two stoves and scaldini, and I must 
 say it was pretty cold. I had chilblains for the first 
 time since I was a child, and had to sleep and dress in 
 an unheated room. Besides, in Italy those oiled and 
 polished floors of cement, slippery as glass, keep your 
 feet perfectly frozen. I remember Mark Twain, who 
 had a villa outside of Florence, called the large cen- 
 tral hall, with its slippery floor, his skating-rink. 
 
 The villa was surrounded with fields, with olive 
 trees and vines. There was a fattore, or farmer, who 
 had charge of the farm and looked after the crops and 
 the people, men and women, who worked in the fields, 
 and was responsible to the owner of the villa, not to us. 
 The male cook did the marketing and settled his ac- 
 counts every evening with my friend, often with much 
 wrangling. My wife and I paid our share of the ex- 
 penses, and were glad to be free of any of the troubles 
 of housekeeping. 
 
 The villa was about three miles outside the north 
 gate of Siena, and by walking three quarters of a mile 
 to the main road one could get a public conveyance 
 to the centre of the city. One could also have a 
 carriage sent out if necessary. 
 
 The country around Siena is a beautiful hilly country
 
 2o6 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 with olive groves and cypresses, and those villas 
 and small towns perched on the top of hills so char- 
 acteristic of Tuscany. The olive trees, in that part 
 of the country, are cut off at the top, I suppose to in- 
 crease their bearing qualities. Their silvery almost 
 smoke-like color, with the dark green of the umbrella 
 pines and cypresses, make a beautiful contrast to the 
 reddish soil, which has given its name to burnt and raw 
 siena. The olive trees are planted in rows, and be- 
 tween them grow the wheat and the vines; thus three 
 crops mature side by side. 
 
 We went often at first to do the sights of Siena, but 
 the narrow streets where the sun rarely penetrates 
 are very cold and draughty in winter. There are no 
 sidewalks, and everybody walks in the middle of the 
 street, as is the custom in Italy, with the risk of being 
 run over; but nobody ever is. I suppose this custom 
 arose from its being safer in the middle of the street 
 in the days when you might be stabbed in the back 
 if you were too near the wall. 
 
 In the afternoons the nobility of Siena drive round 
 and round the public garden, as they do the Pincio 
 at Rome. However poor they may be, if they can 
 possibly afford a carriage they must put in an appear- 
 ance with a man in livery on the box. They are mostly 
 very poor, and while they will sit at home in the morn- 
 ings, in their cold palaces, shivering over a scaldino, in
 
 WINTER IN SIENA 207 
 
 the afternoon they promenade or drive where the 
 world can see them; even, as sometimes happens, two 
 families will own a carriage between them, hiring the 
 horses and having their own livery on the coachman 
 and appearing on alternate days; everything to keep 
 up appearances, which deceive nobody. Such shabby 
 liveries and worn-out horses and carriages it would be 
 hard to match. 
 
 Siena is as medieval In all respects as It was three 
 hundred years ago, and is therefore one of the most 
 interesting cities in Italy. Its gloomy streets and for- 
 bidding palaces, built more for defence than comfort, 
 with iron rings to which horses can be hitched and 
 sconces in which torches can be placed, still remain; 
 and also its beautiful striped cathedral of black-and- 
 white marble, and above all its wonderful tower, one 
 of the most beautiful in Italy, that dominates the 
 semicircular piazza in which the market Is held and 
 where, on certain days, horse-races take place. Even 
 the art of Siena is of the most medieval kind. Its 
 primitives are almost more primitive than elsewhere. 
 Sodoma, its greatest painter, alone seems Imbued with 
 a more modern spirit. Some people like this stiff 
 and curiously awkward school, but I confess It does 
 not appeal to me. 
 
 I love the silhouettes of old towns on the hilltops of 
 Tuscany, and never tired of the view of Siena from
 
 2o8 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 our windows, especially in the early mornings when 
 its blue outline so distinguished floated in the rosy 
 mist of dawn. One morning, being very energetic, I 
 arose at five, and walked a mile or more to make a 
 sketch of the town in the morning light with a better 
 foreground than could be had from my window. 
 
 I found charming models among the peasant girls, 
 with their picturesque, flapping, wide-brimmed leghorn 
 hats; also a dear little maid who stood bashfully at a 
 doorway. I got the parish priest to sit for me, and 
 through him a Capuchin monk. I had asked for one of 
 the brothers; but to my surprise the head of the mon- 
 astery came himself, and seemed much interested. I re- 
 member he took a hand-glass and compared himself in 
 the glass with the portrait, as if he did not really know 
 how he looked; and perhaps they do not have any- 
 thing so frivolous as a looking-glass. I also painted 
 a portrait of my friend's wife and little boy, besides 
 working up some of the sketches I had made on the 
 Riviera. Altogether I had a very busy winter. 
 
 I found at the villa a rather interesting situation. 
 My friend had been there over two years, and was en- 
 gaged on a large and important picture: that is. Im- 
 portant to him, as he expected to make his reputation 
 by it, and in the meantime was living on his principal, 
 because he felt sure that he would make his fortune 
 when the picture was done, and more than make up
 
 WINTER IN SIENA 209 
 
 what he was spending while the picture was in the 
 making. Certainly a gamble. 
 
 In order that this great work should last to the end 
 of time, he had spent much time experimenting with 
 colors, to see which were the most permanent in all 
 conditions of light and weather, even exposing them 
 on the outside of the villa walls. I, who am of a scep- 
 tical disposition, could not help asking myself what 
 was the good of all this, if the picture should turn out 
 a failure; then, instead of wishing it to last forever, 
 you would not care if it perished. 
 
 However, my friend was very confident of his own 
 powers, and had determined to shut himself away from 
 outside influence in this villa for three years, so as to 
 produce a very original and unique work. Sometimes 
 this system works, but as a rule it is better for an 
 artist to associate constantly with other artists and 
 compare their work with his own. If an artist is sur- 
 rounded only by his own work, it gets to seem to him 
 very good, as he has nothing else by which to judge it. 
 
 Of course, in the two years my friend had been work- 
 ing on his picture, he had made many studies and ex- 
 periments, and I had expected to find the picture 
 nearly done. It was two or three weeks, however, 
 before he would let us see it. It was surrounded with 
 much mystery, and I could see that he was very sen- 
 sitive to criticism, and dreaded to show it to us. How-
 
 210 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 ever, after much persuasion and with a great deal 
 of ceremony, we were finally permitted to enter the 
 sacred precincts of the studio. 
 
 The picture, about six feet by eight, was as yet only 
 In outline, yet there were but three figures in It, life- 
 size; two women and a child. It was a beautiful out- 
 line, however, and had some of the qualities of the old 
 masters. Whether the influence of the pictures In Si- 
 ena had anything to do with it, I cannot say; but the 
 drawing was stiff and naive, quite in the style of the 
 primitives; there was also a landscape background 
 that reminded one of the backgrounds of early Italian 
 art. 
 
 My friend had evidently spent much time over the 
 drawing, and I could imagine that he had sat before it 
 many hours In contemplation, before he could make 
 up his mind to begin putting on the color. I know 
 well that feeling; you have to wait till you are in the 
 right mood to begin work that may spoil what you 
 have already attained. It is so hard to hold on to the 
 first conception of your picture; paint is a stubborn 
 medium to work in, and will not always obey your 
 will. 
 
 Sometimes when the gods are kind, a picture seems 
 almost to paint itself, but more often there are three 
 stages in a painting : when you first lay it in, and you 
 think everything promises well; then from some per-
 
 WINTER IN SIENA ' 211 
 
 verslty you spoil it; and the rest of the time you spend 
 in trying to get it back to your first conception. The 
 result is, you are never satisfied, and are apt to make 
 bad worse by puttering over it. So I could well under- 
 stand my friend's reluctance to begin painting, and 
 perhaps spoiling his beautiful outline. However, 
 stimulated, it may be, by the amount of work that I 
 was accomplishing, he soon started in to put on the 
 color. He seldom let us see the picture after that, and 
 he had not got very far with it when we left, about 
 the beginning of March. 
 
 A year later, the picture was finished, and with the 
 help of a friend at court, and much influence brought 
 to bear on the jury, it was admitted to the Salon and 
 well hung. When I first saw it in the Salon of that 
 year, I was horribly disappointed. All the charm of 
 the outline had vanished. The color was too hot and 
 the handHng heavy. If my friend had carried out the 
 picture in the delicate colors of the primitives, he 
 might have retained some of its naive quality; as it 
 was, the picture was a total failure, and I felt keenly 
 for my friend, who had staked so much on Its success. 
 
 He came up to Paris with his whole family to en- 
 joy his supposed triumph, and I engaged rooms for 
 them In a small hotel in the Latin Quarter. I also met 
 them at the station, but I could not find it In my heart 
 to say anything about his picture, although I saw he
 
 212 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 was dying to know what I thought of it. I was told 
 afterward that he complained of my unsympathetic 
 attitude, and I suppose thought I was jealous. But 
 what could I do .? I could not praise it, and I could not 
 tell him how bad it was. 
 
 The next day he set off with his mother to see his 
 picture in the Salon and came home a crushed and 
 disillusioned man. When he saw his picture sur- 
 rounded by the works of others, he realized his failure, 
 and never went near it again. It is bad enough to 
 have your picture rejected at the Salon; but worse to 
 have it accepted and then turn out a failure. One of 
 my cousins, an architect, was once talking with the 
 wife of a doctor, who was lamenting that her hus- 
 band had just lost an important patient by death, 
 when my cousin said, "When your husband makes a 
 failure, it is buried out of sight; but when I make one, 
 I have to look at it the rest of my days." So it is not 
 always the artist who has his work rejected or badly 
 hung that is the worse off, for his failure is not seen 
 by the public. 
 
 I once heard a story of an artist at an exhibition 
 who spent his time hovering about his picture to hear 
 what people would say about it. Alas, nobody paid 
 the least attention to it for a long time ; at last an old 
 gentleman planted himself in front of it and gazed at 
 it for a long time. Just as the artist was approaching
 
 WINTER IN SIENA 213 
 
 to hear it praised, the old gentleman, with a snap 
 of his fingers, and a contemptuous "Poof," walked 
 disgustedly away. 
 
 When you think of those three years my friend had 
 spent on that picture, and the high hopes he had of 
 making a reputation for himself through that one 
 magnum opus, it was a tragedy. My friend, however, 
 was not the kind to be easily discouraged, and al- 
 though he had the picture on which he had spent so 
 many hours destroyed, he girded up his loins and 
 later became a successful artist. 
 
 I was once telling this story at a dinner party in 
 Paris, when Henry James, who was present, asked if 
 he could not have it to work up into one of his tales. I 
 said no, because it would be too obvious who the art- 
 ist was, and, as he was then alive, it might hurt his 
 feelings. Now that he has passed away, I see no harm 
 in telling it, as an example of the disappointments and 
 trials of artists. I am sorry now that Henry James 
 could not have made it into one of his wonderful psy- 
 chological studies, as he would so beautifully have 
 done, and made so much more of a story of it than I, 
 who am not a story-teller. 
 
 The following winter we spent in Paris, where, after 
 searching in vain for a suitable furnished apartment, 
 we took a large studio with small unfurnished rooms 
 in the house of Francois, the landscape-painter, on the
 
 214 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 Boulevard du Montparnasse. We bought a small 
 amount of furniture and a hatterie de cuisine, and be- 
 gan housekeeping with a worthy honne whose sole re- 
 quirements for recreation were satisfied by sitting out 
 on the sidewalk gossiping with the neighbors. 
 
 I shared the studio with Mr. Edward Boit, who was 
 living in the country that winter, and who came In 
 every day to work. 
 
 I had the ambition to paint a large painting, more 
 for the practice than with any expectation of great 
 success. As I had a tendency to too finicky a style, I 
 thought a large canvas would broaden my execution 
 and give me greater freedom. Accordingly I attacked 
 a canvas eight feet by ten with a composition "repre- 
 senting " the choice of youth, " with five life-size fig- 
 ures and a child. It was rather beyond my powers, 
 and I found the grouping of the figures difficult; but I 
 thought it better to aim high than to go on with 
 merely easy subjects. The overcoming of difficulties 
 Is one of the joys of life. 
 
 I worked hard at this work, rarely getting out till 
 after dark, except on Sundays. It is one of the disad- 
 vantages of having a studio In the house where one 
 lives that one is tempted to go to work right after 
 breakfast, without having a walk in the fresh air first, 
 and to work all day as long as the light lasts, with 
 only a few moments snatched for lunch.
 
 WINTER IN SIENA 215 
 
 I had good models and had made a good start when 
 unfortunately I had a bad fall from a scaffolding which 
 brought on a serious illness. Gradually the vigor with 
 which I had begun the picture faded out with illness, 
 and finally the doctor ordered me to Biarritz, leaving 
 the picture unfinished. As it turned out, he could not 
 have ordered me to a worse place for the nervous dis- 
 order brought on by my fall. I always think of the 
 story of a French doctor who told a friend he was go- 
 ing away for a rest. The friend asked where he was 
 going, and he replied, "Trouville." "Oh," said the 
 friend, " I thought you always sent your patients to 
 Biarritz." "Oh, those were my patients," said the doc- 
 tor; Biarritz being rather dull and Trouville quite 
 the contrary. 
 
 I returned in April, not much the better for the va- 
 cation, and tried to finish the picture; but my vigor 
 was gone, and I was so little satisfied with the result 
 that I was not surprised, though of course disap- 
 pointed, that it was refused at the Salon the following 
 spring. Couture had come to see it, and praised it, es- 
 pecially the landscape background and the draperies. 
 He was anxious for me to let him touch it up in places, 
 as so many masters do touch up their pupils' work, 
 but I was too proud to let him. Some of the heads 
 were much praised by others, but on the whole the 
 work was not up to so ambitious an attempt, and
 
 2i6 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 could not be considered a success. However, I 
 thought it had been a good lesson, and taught me to 
 paint more from the shoulder. 
 
 We went that summer to Switzerland, where the 
 dry and bracing air of the High Alps cured my trouble. 
 If doctors would study the climatic influences more, 
 they would not make so many mistakes. We did a 
 good deal of climbing at Chamonix, my wife going 
 mostly on muleback, and finally made the tour of 
 Mont Blanc, coming out at Courmayeur — a wonder- 
 ful trip. From there we went by the Val d'Aosta over 
 the Theodule Pass to Zermatt. After some time passed 
 at the Riffel climbing and sketching, we went down 
 the valley, and climbed up to the Bel-Alp, on the op- 
 posite side of the Rhone Valley. There we made the 
 acquaintance of Tyndall and his charming wife, who 
 had a cottage near the hotel. Tyndall, who reminded 
 me of a New England farmer in his appearance, was 
 very kind, and on one occasion took me, with others, 
 out on the Aletsch Glacier, and gave us a most inter- 
 esting lecture on glacial formations. Unfortunately, 
 the weather turned very bad and the cold and damp 
 of the hotel, which was not properly heated, brought 
 on a rheumatic fever which caused my wife much 
 suiferlng. 
 
 Mrs. Tyndall, a charming woman, was very kind 
 to my wife in her illness, as was also Mr. Tyndall's
 
 WINTER IN SIENA 217 
 
 mother, Lady Hamilton, who was staying with them. 
 One cannot help recalling the tragedy of Tyndall's 
 death, when his devoted wife gave him poison in mis- 
 take for another medicine. What a frightful moment 
 for her! 
 
 With great difficulty I got my wife down to Vevey, 
 where I was able to get a good doctor, as there was 
 none at Bel-Alp; only a fellow-traveller who was a 
 doctor, and had some morphine tablets with which he 
 was able to relieve her pain a little. 
 
 It was In a great measure owing to this illness that 
 we decided to pass the next winter In Egypt, in the hope 
 of getting the rheumatism out of her system. After a 
 short stay in Paris, and after getting the address of a 
 good dragoman from Mr. John Field, of Philadelphia, 
 who with his wife happened to be In Paris, and had, a 
 short time before, been up the Nile, we were able to 
 make arrangements with some friends from Boston, 
 who were in London, to join us for the winter. 
 
 Mr. John Field was rather a character, a friend of 
 my father's, and had been often at our house in Cam- 
 bridge. He was a great and interesting talker, very 
 fond of society, and especially loved visiting In Eng- 
 lish country-houses and hobnobbing with the nobil- 
 ity. His wife I had never met before, but she was a 
 dear, unselfish woman, who, not being strong, was 
 content to remain in the shade, so that her John
 
 2i8 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 could enjoy himself; well knowing that Invalid wives 
 are not so welcome at country-houses as are unat- 
 tached husbands. 
 
 We sailed from Marseilles for the Piraeus In a 
 French steamer, stopping at Naples on the way. I do 
 not remember passing the Straits of Messina or the 
 beautiful view of ^tna that you get farther on, which 
 I have seen so often since ; but I do remember the won- 
 derful color of the mountains of Greece as we coasted 
 its southern shore. 
 
 We spent a week or so at Athens, as we found 
 friends there, and I made several sketches of the Acrop- 
 olis and temples. We were especially fortunate in 
 being in Athens during a full moon, and I shall never 
 forget how wonderful the Parthenon looked in its sil- 
 very light. All its scars seemed to vanish, and it 
 seemed almost ethereal in its beauty. Modern Athens 
 is a rather stupid city, but its pepper-tree-lined streets 
 and its fantastic Greeks with their ballet-like skirts 
 amused us. 
 
 From Athens we took ship to Constantinople, that 
 wonderful city. One of the great sights of the world is 
 Constantinople from the Bosphorus. But when you 
 land, the illusion is somewhat dissipated — dirty peo- 
 ple, and dirty streets, a perfect Babel of sound, and 
 people; horses, carriages, and palanquins, jostling 
 each other in fearful confusion. This is surely the
 
 WINTER IN SIENA 219 
 
 East. We engaged a dragoman to see us through the 
 custom-house and do the sights, and had our first 
 glimpse of the corrupt practices of the East in the 
 amount of baksheesh we were expected to hand over 
 to expedite matters. 
 
 I could not help hoping, as we stood in Saint So- 
 phia, that the Christians might soon again return to 
 that noble temple which is desecrated by the presence 
 of the Turk and the huge inscriptions from the Koran 
 that disfigure the walls. 
 
 The bazaars interested us very much, and I tried 
 to make a sketch in the arms bazaar; but the light was 
 bad, and the crowd pressed too close. Indeed, in my 
 efforts to sketch in the town the interest of the popu- 
 lace was so great as to make it almost impossible. 
 On one occasion, I had collected such a crowd that 
 the dragoman thought it unsafe for Mrs. Longfellow 
 to remain with me, as the Turks are no respecters of 
 women, and he took her back to the hotel. I had to 
 take my sketch through a long lane of people, with 
 diflniculty kept from closing in entirely. I really did 
 not know whether I should escape alive, but on the 
 whole they were good-natured enough; but smelly, 
 oh, my! 
 
 We made several excursions on the Bosphorus, that 
 wonderful strait with its white villas and palaces 
 gleaming amongst the green of its shores.
 
 220 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 We had one rather exciting experience. We had 
 made a visit to Roberts College by caique, and were 
 so hospitably received that it was rather late when 
 we returned. We had that day a new dragoman, a 
 brother, so he said, of the one we had engaged — a fa- 
 vorite trick in the East — and when we reached the 
 pier at Constantinople the two villainous-looking boat- 
 men who had taken us refused to be satisfied with the 
 money that had been agreed upon for the trip. It was 
 by this time quite dark, and there we were at the 
 mercy of these cut-throats at the end of a long pier, 
 and they could easily have robbed us and chucked us 
 into the Bosphorus and nobody would have been the 
 wiser. They got into a tussle with the dragoman, and 
 got him down and threatened to murder him, unless 
 we paid what they demanded. I felt sure it was a 
 put-up game between him and them; but I saw no 
 way out but to pay, and pay I did, and was thankful 
 to escape with a whole skin. 
 
 From Constantinople we took a steamer to Alexan- 
 dria, touching at Smyrna on the way. The passengers 
 were most interesting: a great many Turks with their 
 whole families, on the way to Mecca. The women 
 and children camped out on the decks, while their 
 lords and masters had comfortable staterooms.
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 EGYPT 
 
 The approach to Egypt is always interesting. The 
 first thing you see is the tall Pharos of Alexandria 
 rising out of the sea; then the long, low line of the 
 sandy shore, and the wonderful color of the water on 
 the bar, like the colors on a peacock's breast. 
 
 In those early days, before the English occupation, 
 there was little restraint over the natives, and the 
 steamer was quickly surrounded by hundreds of 
 boats, with howling, yelling pirates, who as soon as 
 the steamer anchored came tumbling over the side in 
 true piratical style, seizing on any pieces of baggage 
 they could lay their hands on, and fighting and strug- 
 gling with the owners and among themselves for its 
 possession. It was a frightful scene, and we were 
 fortunate in having been asked by the captain up on 
 the bridge to escape the melee. 
 
 Through the struggling mass we presently per- 
 ceived a gorgeously dressed individual forcing his 
 way, who turned out to be the dragoman we had writ- 
 ten to from Paris. He had only one eye, like the one- 
 eyed Calender, but kissed our hands with the grace 
 of a courtier, and with much yelling and cuffing extri-
 
 222 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 cated us from the pandemonium and got us into a boat, 
 and, with liberal supply of baksheesh, through the cus- 
 tom-house and into a carriage, and so to the hotel. 
 We had truly entered a new world. That first intro- 
 duction to the true East is wonderful. The kaleido- 
 scopic effect of the streets, with their hurrying crowds 
 in all sorts of costumes, the constantly recurring 
 groups of people that might have come out of the 
 New Testament or the Arabian Nights, cannot help 
 but delight an artist, and why more pictures of the 
 East are not satisfactory is hard to understand. 
 
 The ride to Cairo by train the next day was full of 
 interest and excitement; it was all so new and differ- 
 ent. The people working in the fields, the little mud 
 villages, and especially the camels, slow-moving in 
 long strings, as they had been for ages, and would con- 
 tinue for other ages, gave you somehow the feeling of 
 how little time counted in this old, old world. Then 
 the glimpse of the Nile as we crossed it, with its pic- 
 turesque boats with pointed sails, like the wings of 
 birds; altogether it was a scene to be remembered. 
 
 We reached Cairo after dark, and I shall never for- 
 get that drive through mysterious streets, after we 
 had been extricated from the usual bedlam at the sta- 
 tion. We had selected a hotel more in the centre of 
 the town than the tourist-ridden Shepheard's, as we 
 wished to get if possible more of the local color of the
 
 EGYPT 223 
 
 East, and not be surrounded with hordes of cockneys. 
 
 The Muski was in those days much more pic- 
 turesque than it is now — there were few European 
 shops in it, and it was covered over with awnings to 
 keep out the sun, and with its husthng crowds it had a 
 mystery and centuries-old look that it has now in a 
 great measure lost. As we drove through it, at night, 
 it was especially weird, with the queer cries of the 
 coachman demanding right of way, and mysterious 
 figures just escaping being run over; grunting camels 
 looming out of the darkness, and passing on with 
 the indifferent and cynical expression that belongs to 
 them. 
 
 At last we stopped at the mouth of a dark alley and 
 were requested to. descend. It was a bad-smelling and 
 uninviting alley, and I was afraid we had made a mis- 
 take; it seemed like tempting fate to plunge down it. 
 However, Ibrahim, the dragoman, said, in his queer 
 English, that it was all right, and we ventured. Sud- 
 denly, at a turn of the alley there burst on our view 
 a gate, and, beyond, a fairy garden lighted by lanterns, 
 truly a scene from the Arabian Nights, and this was 
 the Hotel du Nile, our destination. The hotel was 
 only two stories high, and extended on three sides of 
 the garden, the other being enclosed by a high wall, 
 over which was a view of another garden with native 
 houses and palms and a minaret. What could one ask
 
 224 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 more ? The hotel Is now no more, I am sorry to say. 
 A gallery ran round the garden, on which the bed- 
 rooms gave ; it was covered with trailing vines, purple 
 bougainvlllea and others, and the garden below was 
 gay with hibiscus and other strange flowers. 
 
 As we came out on the balcony, in the morning, to 
 summon the waiter for our breakfast by clapping our 
 hands in Oriental style, as we had been told to do, we 
 were greeted by the delicious cool fresh air of the early 
 morning in Egypt, like one of our October mornings, 
 only spiced with the mysterious perfumes of the East. 
 Our clapping was answered by a gentleman in a tar- 
 boosh, a nightgown, and a pair of slippers, — and 
 that seemed to be all, — who was both chambermaid 
 and waiter. There were no women in the hotel; and 
 all the waiters wore the same style of nightgowns, 
 white or pale blue, which Is so becoming to their dark 
 skins. Thank goodness, there were no swallowtails 
 as there are now, to modernize all the hotels. 
 
 The air In Egypt is of a crystalline purity and vi- 
 brates with light. The sky, though intensely blue, is 
 soft, and not of that steely blue of the North. Owing 
 to the reflection from the yellow sands of the desert, it 
 takes on a greenish hue toward the horizon, and the 
 undersides of clouds also reflect the warm tone. It is 
 a mistake to think that the colors in the East are vio- 
 lent as so many artists paint them; on the contrary,
 
 EGYPT 225 
 
 the hues are soft and opaline, and even the wonderful 
 sunsets are softer and less crude than ours. 
 
 While waiting for our friends to join us, we spent 
 our time visiting the mosques and the bazaars. The 
 bazaars were much more interesting in those days 
 than now, and did not have so many Oriental goods 
 made in Birmingham. They were of unending de- 
 light and interest. The quaint little cubby-holes 
 called shops, in which sat, crosslegged, the owners, 
 ready like spiders to pounce on any poor fly of a tour- 
 ist passing by, the dim light that filtered through the 
 awnings, overhead, and the constant crowds, in all 
 sorts of picturesque costumes, that pushed and jostled 
 each other, made constant pictures to delight the ar- 
 tistic eye. 
 
 After the crowd in the bazaars and the dust and 
 hubbub of the Muski, it seemed like a haven of rest 
 to plunge down our narrow alley and emerge into the 
 quiet of the hotel garden, with nothing but the cries 
 of the kites flying overhead, and the occasional voice 
 of the muezzin, calling the faithful to prayer, which 
 came floating down from the minaret of a near-by 
 mosque. It always reminded me of the voice of a lark 
 quavering far up in the blue. 
 
 One day we went to inspect the dahabiyeh that Ib- 
 rahim thought would do for our party. It belonged to 
 an Englishman, who took us in his own carriage with
 
 226 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 a fine pair of Arab horses to see It, at Bulak, a sub- 
 urb of Cairo. I was disgusted by the way the coach- 
 man lashed with his whip the people that did not get 
 out of our way quickly enough; especially when he 
 struck over the head a native woman holding an in- 
 fant. I could not help remonstrating to the owner of 
 the carriage over such brutality, but he only laughed 
 and said that was the only way to treat the natives — 
 "dirty niggers," he called them — if they did not get 
 out of the way. It is such callousness on the part of 
 Englishmen in the East that endears them to the sub- 
 ject peoples! 
 
 As every one knows, a dahabiyeh is nothing but a 
 house-boat, with a large lateen sail, and a small jigger 
 behind to help steer it, a deck in front, where the crew 
 lives, and arrangements for rowing by taking up part 
 of the deck when necessary. The cooking galley is 
 away up forward in front of the mast, and it is in- 
 credible what delicious meals can be prepared in such' 
 an exposed position. 
 
 The crew consists, according to the size of the boat, 
 of about twelve or fourteen sailors, a captain or reisj 
 and an assistant rets or steersman. These are all in- 
 cluded in the price of the boat, and they furnish their 
 own meals, consisting mostly of sour black bread and 
 beans. The dahabiyehs were at that time all gathered 
 in a long line at Bulak. Now they are mostly moored
 
 EGYPT 227 
 
 along the bank at the Gesireh Island, just below the 
 bridge. 
 
 Our Englishman owned two or three boats which 
 he let for the winter at prices a little lower than Cook, 
 so we selected one that we liked as to the arrangement 
 of cabins, etc., and agreed to sign a contract as soon 
 as our friends arrived and could look at the boat. 
 In a day or two they came, and we inspected the boat 
 with them again and arranged as to cabins, and signed 
 a contract for three months for one hundred and 
 twenty pounds a month, before the American Consul; 
 also another contract with the dragoman at a pound 
 a day apiece for our own food, he providing a good 
 cook and two waiters to serve us. This made for our 
 party of six a little less than two pounds apiece a day, 
 for all our expenses, including donkeys and donkey 
 boys for the excursions, all of which were furnished by 
 the dragoman. This did not include, of course, any 
 baksheesh that we chose to give during the trip or at 
 the end. 
 
 It took about a week for the dragoman to lay in 
 provisions, after submitting a list for our approval. 
 The wine we ordered we were to pay for ourselves; 
 any that was left over to be returned to the merchant. 
 We found, as a matter of fact, that owing to the dry- 
 ness of the climate we did not care much for wine, and 
 returned the greater part of it.
 
 228 RANDOM MEMORIES '^ 
 
 At last came the day when all was ready and we 
 were to start. We discovered later that, as we were to 
 pay extra for each day over the three months of the 
 contract, it was to the interest of the owner of the 
 boat, and of the dragoman, to make our voyage last 
 as long as possible, and all sorts of expedients for delay 
 were invented. It became a constant battle between 
 us, we urging the reis to push on, they holding back 
 on any pretence. 
 
 So it was at the start; we should have started above 
 the bridge, and so saved a day, but we had not yet 
 learned our lesson. We could pass the bridge only at 
 a certain hour, along with a lot of native boats, when 
 the draw was opened. When that happened, all the 
 boats tried to go through at once and there was a 
 great jam, accompanied by much yelling and howl- 
 ing. Our big boat seemed to get stuck for a moment 
 in the draw, and to our astonishment one of our sail- 
 ors stripped off his clothing and plunged into the 
 river, stark naked, to carry a rope. We thought that 
 a little strong with ladies looking on, and remonstrated 
 with Ibrahim. He said that we must buy drawers for 
 the men then, and there was another day's delay to 
 do that. I discovered later that they all had them, and 
 that it was another excuse for delay and to furnish a 
 little baksheesh. Such are the ways of the Egyptians; 
 it is not they always that are despoiled.
 
 EGYPT 229 
 
 The prevailing winds In the winter on the Nile are 
 from the north ; otherwise it would be difficult, indeed, 
 to make headway against the current, which runs 
 nearly three miles an hour. This wind will last a 
 week or ten days at a time, and then die down and a 
 calm ensue, or a light wind come from the south, 
 against which it is impossible to proceed without 
 "tracking," which means sending all the crew on 
 shore with a rope to tow the boat. This naturally is 
 very hard work, and cannot be done if the south 
 wind is at all strong. At best only a few miles a day 
 can be made, whereas with a strong north wind you 
 can sail as much as twenty or thirty miles in the day. 
 As the wind usually dies down at sunset, it is cus- 
 tomary to tie up to the bank at that time. Sometimes 
 when the moon is full and gives plenty of light, and 
 the wind holds, one can sail well into the night, but 
 the men hate to do it, as it shortens the voyage, and 
 in some places is dangerous owing to sudden squalls 
 coming down off the high cliffs. The year before we 
 were there a dahablyeh had been upset and two 
 young ladies drowned while passing a dangerous bit 
 of the river, because they with their brother were 
 hurrying to overtake another boat, and were sailing 
 at night. The brother, who was on deck, and the 
 crew were saved. 
 
 Finally in spite of delays we got off. The great sail
 
 230 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 was loosened, and slowly and majestically we pointed 
 our bow up the river. Nothing can be more delicious 
 than that smooth movement in calm waters, gliding 
 between banks lined with palm trees, with an occa- 
 sional mud village, and the constant interest of the life 
 on shore; men working in the fields or trotting along 
 the raised bank, or donkeys or camels rhythmically 
 swaying as they follow each other in long lines ; but 
 above all, the blue-clad women with their earthen 
 jars poised on their heads, coming down to the river 
 to get water. Clad in their long straight garments 
 showing their slender forms, the Egyptian women are 
 wonderfully graceful, and the carrying of heavy jars 
 of water on their heads, even from childhood, gives 
 them a superb carriage. The management of the boat, 
 so different from deep-sea sailing, was full of interest. 
 At first all the sailors looked alike to us, like "Ceesar 
 and Pompey, very much alike, especially Pompey," 
 but in a few days we began to differentiate them and 
 soon knew them by name and had our favorites. 
 
 The Nile is a very muddy, shallow stream full of 
 sandbars, and requires very skilful navigation. The 
 captain, or reis, always sat at the top of the stairs 
 leading from the lower deck to the one above, over 
 our cabins. From this vantage-ground, he conned the 
 boat, giving directions to the steersman who wielded 
 the long tiller at the stern.
 
 EGYPT 231 
 
 In going up the river, it Is necessary to keep out of 
 the strongest current and to take advantage of any 
 back eddies, and keep, therefore, in the shallow water, 
 being careful, however, not to run aground on any of 
 the shoals. It will be seen that this is not an easy job, 
 as the captain has nothing to guide him except a 
 knowledge of the river and the surface Indications or 
 ripples on the water. As the sandbars are constantly 
 changing, it is quite marvellous how he does it. The 
 dahabiyehs draw only about three or three and a half 
 feet of water, in spite of which, with all care, espe- 
 cially if the river is low, they often do run aground. 
 Then comes the great task of finding the proper chan- 
 nel and getting the boat off. Most of the men have to 
 get overboard and, putting their shoulders under her 
 sides, with many grunts and heaves work her free. 
 Going up the river the current helps to get the boat 
 off, but coming down, it only pushes her on harder. I 
 have known the steamboats to remain stuck for a 
 week. The only way then is to get out an anchor and 
 pull her off by main force. 
 
 Our first day, as we started late owing to last things 
 that were conveniently forgotten by the dragoman, 
 we only reached Bedrashen, where one starts for the 
 expedition to Sakkara. It is important always to 
 stop near a village at night, so as to get fresh milk, 
 eggs, etc., and also to get a guard, generally two men
 
 232 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 with sticks, who squat on the bank all night to 
 keep off thieves. 
 
 As we draw up to the bank, the great sail is furled 
 by the men swarming up the tall yard. With their 
 arms and kicking feet they gather the sail to the yard 
 and by an ingenious knot fasten it, so that with one 
 pull of a long guiding rope the whole sail is loosened 
 at once when they wish to unfurl it. The men always 
 chant a weird song as they take the sail in, and it is 
 one of the picturesque events of the day. 
 
 We generally drew up to the bank to have a walk 
 on shore before dark, and then sat on deck to enjoy 
 the wonderful sunsets and afterglow, and still more 
 the moonlight nights or the stars, which seem 
 brighter in this clear atmosphere than farther north. 
 
 After the second day from Cairo the wind fell flat, 
 and the men had to go on shore and pull the boat with 
 a long rope or "track," as it is called: a tedious proc- 
 ess for all concerned. Without the wind the after- 
 noons are very hot, and the flies, the greatest plague 
 in Egypt, have a fine opportunity to make themselves 
 a nuisance. The Egyptian fly is an unmitigated devil; 
 he is most persistent and sticky and makes a spe- 
 cialty of getting in your eyes or up your nose. He is 
 the spreader of ophthalmia, which afflicts so many of 
 the people, and is really dangerous on that account. 
 The natives have a superstition against brushing
 
 EGYPT 235 
 
 them off, and you see the children's eyes especially 
 black with clusters of them; no wonder there are so 
 many blind people in Egypt. 
 
 The river for many miles above Cairo is rather flat 
 and uninteresting. With the desert on one side and 
 cultivated fields on the other, this part of the river is 
 apt to have little wind, so that it is really better to 
 begin the voyage farther up, at Minieh. We did not 
 know this, and had ten days of weary tracking, mak- 
 ing little progress each day. Finally the north wind 
 came again, and joyfully the great sail filled, and we 
 swept along at a great rate. Beyond Minieh begin the 
 beautiful limestone cliffs which add so much to the 
 pleasure and excitement of the voyage. 
 
 At some places you have to sail close under these 
 cliffs and here it is dangerous at night, as wandering 
 gusts of wind are apt to come rushing down with- 
 out showing at all on the surface of the water. The 
 sheet of the great sail must never be fastened, but held 
 by a man with a turn round a bitt, so as to let it run 
 if the boat should tip too much, because, being so 
 flat-bottomed and shallow, the boat is easily over- 
 turned, especially as the current runs very strong 
 under these cliffs and may easily help to upset her. 
 
 There are also many native boats that get in the 
 way, and therefore there is much yelling and swear- 
 ing and many exciting episodes. Altogether the life
 
 234 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 on a dahabiyeh Is full of interest, and seldom dull ex- 
 cept when tracking, and even then there is the life 
 on shore passing like a panorama constantly before 
 you. What can be pleasanter than to sit and do noth- 
 ing and at the same time have constant change of 
 scene? Those beautiful cliffs on the Nile, with their 
 changing colors, reaching to bright crimson some- 
 times, in the setting sun, are a never-ending delight. 
 They are flat on top forming a tableland, through 
 which the Nile in countless ages has cut its bed. The 
 limestone is full of fossil shells, and this immense de- 
 posit of limestone, several hundred feet in thickness, 
 must once have formed the bottom of a sea whose myr- 
 iads of shells have formed layer on layer by slow ac- 
 cumulation this wonderful product of nature. 
 
 Truly man is but a small speck on this marvellous 
 world, and his brief life is nothing to the ages that 
 have gone to the making of it. In Egypt one is more 
 impressed with the antiquity of the world than in any 
 other country. We have here the ancient temples and 
 other vestiges of a civilization that flourished many 
 thousands of years ago. And must our own boasted 
 civilization pass in the same way? Who knows? At 
 least it seems probable, and some later antiquarian 
 will easily prove that the inhabitants of New York 
 lived underground, else why these deep excavations 
 and mysterious tunnels running everywhere?
 
 EGYPT 235 
 
 On one of those limestone cliffs is perched a Coptic 
 monastery, and as we passed, one of the monks swam 
 out to our boat for alms. As he was quite naked, he 
 had to be given some clothes before he could present 
 himself before the ladies. The Copts are the direct 
 descendants of the early Christians and their form 
 of Christianity probably more closely resembles the 
 teaching of Christ than any other. Our sailors, all 
 Mahometans, treated this poor Copt with much scorn. 
 
 A little farther along we came to a very small island 
 or sandbar, on which sat an old man with nothing on 
 but a loincloth. "Him very holy man," the dragoman 
 said, and food was sent to him by boat. It appeared 
 that he had sat there for years, and depended on pass- 
 ing boats to feed him. So it only depends on the point 
 of view, which is worthy, and which is not. To be- 
 come a holy man, all that is necessary in the East is to 
 take off your clothes, be very dirty, do nothing, and 
 expect others to feed you. I must confess my rever- 
 ence for the prophets was greatly shaken by coming 
 in contact with the modern article. I wonder if Eli- 
 jah, when he was fed by ravens, was as old and dirty 
 as the gentleman on the sandbank. 
 
 It took us three weeks, sailing and tracking, to 
 reach Luxor; stopping for a day at Dendera to visit 
 our first temple. The temple smelled of bats, and be- 
 ing partly buried In sand was not as impressive as I
 
 236 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 had expected, though the colors on the. columns were 
 wonderfully preserved. 
 
 At Luxor we spent a couple of weeks, visiting Kar- 
 nak and the temples on the other side of the river. 
 From Luxor the view of the hills opposite is one of 
 surpassing beauty. The ever-changing colors of those 
 limestone mountains, from early morning, when 
 they seem to float in a pearly mist, to the late after- 
 noon, when they become almost crimson in the rays 
 of the setting sun, are a constant delight. 
 
 Kamak with its mighty columns we found most 
 impressive, especially by moonlight, when it seemed 
 like wandering through some gigantic forest. In after 
 years, coming from the sky-scrapers of New York, I 
 was surprised to find how values had changed, and 
 these columns no longer seemed so wonderful in their 
 height. 
 
 At the time of our visit the temple of Luxor had not 
 been excavated and was buried deep in sand, with 
 mud houses built above it. We were fortunate in 
 reaching Luxor just in time for Christmas, and our 
 dragoman had the dahablyeh decorated with palm 
 branches for the occasion. A neighboring dragoman 
 had procured some branches of orange trees with 
 oranges on them, which distressed our dragoman, to 
 think that he had been outdone, till he had the happy 
 thought of tying oranges on his palm branches.
 
 EGYPT 237 
 
 when he was happy again. We had a wonderful 
 Christmas dinner with all sorts of marvellous dishes, 
 showing oif the capabilities of our cook, who, so he 
 said, had once been cook to the Shah of Persia. 
 
 The climate of Luxor is the best in Egypt. At Cairo 
 and for some distance above, the nights in December 
 are quite cold, owing to the rapid evaporation, some- 
 times as low as 40° F., but at Luxor the difference be- 
 tween night and day is not so excessive. In February, 
 however, it begins to be too warm. Assuan, which 
 some people like, is excessively dry; being surrounded 
 by desert, it is also very hot. Doctors think it is good 
 — if you don't die, one might add. 
 
 In those early days, Assuan had no big hotels or 
 nervous patients, but was quite a primitive village 
 with interesting bazaars where one could buy things 
 from London and "Madam Nubias," a girdle or 
 apron of leather strips and beads, the sole garment 
 of the ladies of the Upper Nile. I might add also that 
 they wear a coating of castor oil that would keep most 
 people at a safe distance, and that enables you to 
 smell a village a mile off. 
 
 At Assuan, you are at the foot of the First Cata- 
 ract, and get your first sight of the orange sand of Nu- 
 bia, flowing down over its black basalt rocks. Here 
 also came the excitement of being pulled up the cata- 
 ract by hundreds of white-clad natives, led by a chief
 
 238 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 who reminded me of a cheer leader in college games. 
 
 There was no dam then and boats had to be pulled 
 up the rapids in the side eddies to avoid the full force 
 of the current. It- took us three days to make the as- 
 cent, because, after two or three hours of pulling and 
 hauling with many ropes out, and much excitement 
 and yelling, the crowd would quit for the day, and de- 
 mand more baksheesh if they were to go on again the 
 next. 
 
 These natives of the Cataract are a fine-looking 
 race, with regular features, almost black skins, and 
 slender, athletic figures. Some of the chiefs were su- 
 perbly handsome in their white flowing garments. All 
 the men are wonderful swimmers and play about in 
 the rapids like frogs. For a consideration a dozen of 
 them, with a short log under their chests, went down 
 the grand rapid for our benefit. It is really a danger- 
 ous sport, and Englishmen who thought they were 
 good swimmers have lost their lives in attempting it. 
 
 At last we were pulled out into the smooth water 
 above the falls, and wendcjd our way, amid huge 
 rounded polished rocks, to the beautiful island of 
 Philse, with its palms and temples; not as now buried 
 half the year up to its waist, so to speak, with all its 
 palms dead and its beauty gone — • all to make a few 
 pounds for speculators in the Nile delta, but of that 
 later.
 
 SKETCHES MADE ON THE NILE
 
 EGYPT 239 
 
 After a few days enjoying the temple and making 
 sketches, we hurried on to Abu Simbel, as there is lit- 
 tle to see above Philse, and the scenery is not so inter- 
 esting as below. Abu Simbel Is a rock-cut temple 
 with four gigantic statues guarding its entrance. It is 
 worth coming far to see. I was struck by the almost 
 exact likeness of these statues to one of our sailors, 
 showing how the type had survived. There is a great 
 slope of orange sand outside the temple, leading to the 
 desert above, where my wife used to bury herself in 
 the hot sand, which quite finished her cure of the 
 rheumatism. On the top, the desert stretched away 
 for miles of undulating surface, broken with ledges of 
 rock and here and there conical mounds or tumuli that 
 reminded one of the pyramids on the lower part of 
 the river, and I wondered if the much-discussed origin 
 of the pyramids was not here solved, and if the in- 
 habitants of these parts on descending the river might 
 not have set up, in lands that were flat, the pyramids 
 as a reminder of these home mounds. 
 
 We remained at Abu Simbel several days rather than 
 spend the time going up to Wady Haifa, where our 
 course would be barred by the Second Cataract. The 
 time was occupied by the crew in getting the daha- 
 biyeh ready for the descent of the river; that is, taking 
 down the great yard with its sail and stretching it 
 lengthwise above our heads, and putting the small
 
 240 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 after sail or jigger on the mast in its stead. This is be- 
 cause it is impossible to sail down the river with the 
 big sail, as, with all the view shut, it would be impos- 
 sible, running with the current, to steer the boat; and 
 all the windows have to be shut tight, and the grit 
 gets into your mouth and food, and makes you think 
 life not worth living. In spite of all these thorns, in- 
 cluding the flies, a winter on the Nile is the most won- 
 derful experience; that is, if you are not in a hurry. 
 People who are always in a hurry hate it, also those 
 who live solely for society. We met one party who 
 were thus disappointed; they had been told you met 
 such charming people on the Nile, and they had met 
 nobody and were evidently tired to death of each 
 other. You have to be very sure of your companions, 
 shut up as you are for two or three months in a small 
 boat, with perhaps divergent views as to what to do, 
 or what excursions to make. Many people quarrel 
 under these conditions; they don't speak to each 
 other, and almost invariably go to different hotels 
 when they get back to Cairo. I am happy to say this 
 did not happen to us, though there were moments 
 when friction threatened, and people were surprised 
 to find us as fond of each other as ever, and staying 
 again at the same hotel. 
 
 Finding we were going to have plenty of time, we 
 stayed two weeks at Philse, on the way down, and
 
 EGYPT 241 
 
 thoroughly enjoyed it. There were some dear little 
 children, a boy and girl about six or seven, who used 
 to swim out to the island from the mainland every 
 day quite naked, with their clothes in a bundle on 
 their heads, and they would then attach themselves 
 to us as we sketched, and partake of our lunch. 
 They were friendly little beggars, and we got quite 
 fond of them. 
 
 On the way down to Luxor, we visited some of the 
 temples, like Kom Ombo and Edfu, that we had passed 
 with longing eyes on the way up. Edfu especially 
 charmed us, it being more complete than most of the 
 others, and we passed one never-to-be-forgotten eve- 
 ning there, with a glorious full moon. I leave the de- 
 scription of these wonderful ruins to the many books 
 on the Nile. To me it was the whole life that was so 
 charming, the wonderful sunsets, the mysterious after- 
 glow, the stars at night so bright and palpitating, and 
 the ever-changing life on the river. The Duke of Ar- 
 gyll, whom I met once at Cairo, said he did not enjoy 
 it, it was all tombs, which made his wife, Princess 
 Louise, laugh delightedly. 
 
 We spent several days again at Luxor, visiting 
 again Karnak and the temples on the other side of the 
 river, and made a very hot and tiring journey on don- 
 keys to the valley of the tombs of the kings. I may 
 say that in those days all the excursions were made on
 
 242 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 donkeys; now you drive out to Karnak and even to 
 the tombs of the kings in carriages. The tombs, ■ 
 even, are lighted by electricity, and, you are almost 
 tempted to add, have all the comforts of home. 
 
 Gradually we worked our way down to Cairo, and 
 our wonderful three months were over ! Never have I 
 enjoyed a winter so much. We had kept the pyra- 
 mids for our return to Cairo, because, that year 
 there was an unusually high Nile, and the plain was 
 still flooded right up to the pyramids, and part of 
 the causeway leading to them had been carried away, 
 so that it was impossible to drive there; even in 
 March we had to be ferried across the gap on a flat- 
 boat. There was no Mena House there then, so we 
 carried our own lunch. Of course, we thought it 
 necessary to climb the pyramid. I, being in good 
 training, from the previous summer in Switzerland, 
 disdained the help of the Arabs, much to their 
 disgust, and even carried a sun umbrella over my 
 head to keep off the sun. Arabs who remained below 
 with my wife assured her that the last person who at- 
 tempted the ascent with an umbrella had been blown 
 off, in spite of which evil prophecy and the size of the 
 blocks of stone, which are about the height of a table, 
 I reached the top in twenty minutes. There I en- 
 countered a gentleman who said he was Mark Twain's 
 Arab, and offered for a certain sum, which I have for-
 
 EGYPT 243 
 
 gotten, to descend the pyramid, cross the space to 
 the pointed pyramid, and reach the top of that in 
 twelve minutes. So I held the watch on him while he 
 made his reckless descent, jumping from stone to 
 stone in his wild flight. Why he was not killed or 
 tripped up by his flying garments, I do not under- 
 stand, but he reached his goal with a minute to spare, 
 and was rewarded to his satisfaction on his return. 
 We then visited the Sphinx, some of us on foot and 
 some on donkeys. 
 
 Why the Sphinx has been given the feminine gen- 
 der I cannot understand ; the head is obviously that of 
 a man, and an Ethiopian at that. It was probably 
 suggested by some cumulus projecting above the sand 
 that looked like a man's head. The cheeks still retain 
 some of the red coloring, as also the headdress with 
 blue and red stripes on it. The headdress was that of 
 a king. The tall part of the headdress, which was set 
 into a depression in the top of the Sphinx as it is now, 
 was recently discovered, buried in the sand, not far 
 distant. 
 
 To make it more like a Sphinx paws were con- 
 structed out of stone, reaching out in front of the 
 figure. Between these paws was situated a temple or 
 shrine. The paws, by the way, are quite out of scale 
 with the size of the head. When we saw it at that time 
 the Sphinx was buried in the sand up to the neck.
 
 244 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 The sand Is always drifting, and has to be continually 
 dug out. A curious effect of this drifting sand is that 
 it has cut away the neck till it is much smaller than it 
 was originally. 
 
 I failed to see any of the mysterious smile so much 
 talked about, but in the evening, by moonlight, when 
 all the defects are hidden, the massive head gazing 
 out over the valley of the Nile is tremendously im- 
 pressive. Unfortunately, the hordes of laughing, 
 chattering tourists generally arrive to spoil the ro- 
 mance. 
 
 A thing that interested me very much In Egypt 
 was the Mohammedan religion. It seemed to enter 
 so much more into the life of the people than the 
 Christian religion does with us. How much more 
 beautiful the call to prayer by the muezzin from his 
 lofty minaret, his quavering voice floating over the 
 busy city, than the harsh clangor of some persistent 
 bell that too often summons the Christian to his de- 
 votions. 
 
 Our sailors said their prayers regularly morning 
 and night, and sometimes between, without any 
 shame at doing it in public, but as a matter of course, 
 taking the greatest care to face in the supposed di- 
 rection of Mecca. We had one sailor who was not 
 really a sailor, but lured from a cafe to do the singing 
 for the crew. He sung In a high nasal quaver, and at
 
 EGYPT 245 
 
 the end of each stanza all the crew would come In as a 
 chorus with a long-drawn Ah! I asked what his songs 
 were about, and was told by the dragoman that they 
 were love songs and not proper to be translated. I 
 mention him particularly because he was always say- 
 ing his prayers at all sorts of odd moments, perhaps 
 to make up for his scandalous songs. 
 
 He especially became very devout when there was 
 need of all hands to pull a rope or shove us off a sand- 
 bank, but nobody took any notice of him or cursed 
 him for shirking as would have happened in any 
 Christian land. Nobody must ever interfere with a 
 Mussulman's prayers ; or even pass in front of him, or 
 cast his shadow upon him, when he is engaged in his 
 devotions. 
 
 Of course there is a good deal of fanaticism in their 
 religion, but perhaps not more than used to be dis- 
 played in Christian countries. I remember being made 
 very angry, when we visited the mosque of El Azar, 
 or University, at two of the students turning round 
 and spitting in the direction of the ladies of our party. 
 Of course it would not have been safe to take any no- 
 tice of such a thing, but it was not pleasant. 
 
 We were fortunate in seeing in Cairo the Doce, the 
 semi-religious, semi-barbaric festival, when a sheik 
 on horseback rides over the prostrate bodies of fanati- 
 cal dervishes. The ceremony took place in a vacant
 
 246 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 lot, on two sides of which were booths of a sort of a 
 fair, where, besides things to sell, the howling and 
 whirling dervishes performed to attract crowds. We 
 had very good seats on top of one of these booths, 
 well out of reach of the motley throng that surged 
 below. 
 
 A hundred or more dervishes lay face down In a 
 long line, head to foot, and as close together as pos- 
 sible, as, if the horse should step between them, they 
 might have their ribs broken. It was intensely hot 
 and the friends of the dervishes in many instances 
 stood at their heads with fans to keep them from faint- 
 ing and to encourage them. Presently at the other 
 end of the line we saw the sheik all in white mounted 
 on a beautiful full-blooded white Arab. The sheik 
 was very fat and evidently under the influence of 
 hashish, as he reeled in his saddle and had to be sup- 
 ported by a dervish on each side while another led the 
 horse. The horse had had his shoes removed and I 
 noticed was very reluctant to tread on the prostrate 
 forms before him. Some of the dervishes got up and 
 walked off unconcernedly after the horse and his rider 
 had passed over them, showing they were none the 
 worse; others had to be helped up by their friends, as 
 if they were in a trance ; while still others rose up 
 writhing and throwing their arms about, as if in si:rf- 
 fering, but I really think it was more religious frenzy
 
 EGYPT 247 
 
 than anything else. Some may have been really hurt, 
 but all were able to walk away, if not alone, with the 
 help of friends. This festival was supposed to be so 
 cruel that it was suppressed two years later. I am 
 sure more men are hurt in a football scrimmage than 
 occurred when we saw it. 
 
 The Assuan dam does not properly come into this 
 narrative, as it was not built till many years later, but 
 I cannot help saying a few words about it, as 1 was 
 much interested in its construction from an engineer's 
 point of view. I have been in Egypt many times since 
 this first visit in 1878-79, perhaps twelve or fourteen 
 times, and have seen the dam while under construction 
 and several times since its completion. 
 
 Knowing the Nile as I do, I could not see, taking 
 Into account the width and depth of the channel, how 
 any amount of water let out gradually from the dam 
 in the spring and summer could benefit the land above 
 Cairo. It is only in the delta, where like all deltas the 
 land on either side of the river is apt to be lower than 
 the bed of the river, that side canals could develop 
 new land and utilize the held-back water. Indeed, I 
 think this was proved by the necessity of building a 
 supplementary dam at Assiut to furnish water to a 
 canal leading off to the west, but which I noticed had 
 hardly any water in it by the first of March. How 
 much good it did later I do not know.
 
 . 248 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 On one of my visits to the great dam I noticed that 
 there was an excessive seepage at the western end. 
 This is always a danger signal, and I learned that in the 
 rush of water from the sluices the rather soft stone on 
 which the dam was built had been gullied out and the 
 dam at this point had gone out several inches. They 
 were obliged to build what is called an "apron" dam, 
 below the big dam, to correct this. 
 
 I have seen it stated in print that the actual cost 
 of the dam has never been made public, much less the 
 balance sheet as to whether it has ever paid interest 
 on the cost. That it has not been perfectly successful 
 is proven by their finding it necessary to raise the 
 dam nine feet, to get enough water to extend the ir- 
 rigated land in the delta. It is impossible to get in- 
 formation from English officials; they shut up like 
 clams when any outsider tries to find out anything. 
 Everything Englishmen do must be perfect in their 
 eyes, and always with the most philanthropic ob- 
 ject. The English always remind me of little "Jack 
 Homer," who 
 
 " sat in a corner 
 
 Eating a Christmas pie. 
 
 He put in his thumb and pulled out a plum, 
 
 And said, ' What a good boy am L' " 
 
 It is a rather significant fact that the man who 
 furnished the money to build the dam, — Sir Ernest
 
 EGYPT 249 
 
 Cassel, — doubtless at a good rate of interest, was 
 also the man who in connection with a Cairo capital- 
 ist, also, I believe, a Jew, bought up all the Govern- 
 ment land in the delta before the dam was built, and 
 when the dam was finished, sold it at more than three 
 times what they paid for it. How much of the land 
 in the delta is owned by Englishmen or other exploit- 
 ers I do not know. It is now chiefly used to raise cot- 
 ton, which during the war was extremely profitable. 
 A good deal of wheat land has, I fancy, been sacrificed 
 to cotton. 
 
 Egypt used to export large quantities of grain; now 
 I believe it has to import. Why is this.? 
 
 In 1879 when I made the long and delightful donkey 
 ride across the whole width of the cultivated land to 
 the Temple of Abydos, which is on the edge of the 
 desert, I noticed that the crops in the middle of Feb- 
 ruary were already nearly breast high. Not many 
 years ago, since the dam was built, at exactly the 
 same season of the year, they were not more than a foot 
 high. This set me to thinking. The first year we were 
 on the Nile the water was of a dark chocolate color, 
 and the water, if left standing in your tub overnight, 
 would show quite a thick deposit of mud in the bottom 
 of the tub. Now it is of a cafe-au-lait color and leaves 
 much less of a deposit. 
 
 Every one knows that the wonderful fertility of
 
 250 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 Egypt in the olden time was owdng to the yearly floods, 
 which spread over the land and deposited a layer of 
 mud that acted as a fertilizer; also the water that was 
 pumped up by artificial means for irrigation, after the 
 flood had subsided, left its deposit. Now it stands to 
 reason that the vast lake impounded by the dam, about 
 the size of the Lake of Geneva, is constantly depositing 
 on its bottom the mud held in solution, which like that 
 in your bathtub must amount day by day to an enor- 
 mous quantity lost to the enriching of the soil in the 
 Nile Valley. As a matter of fact the water that is 
 let out of the sluices in the bottom of the dam is 
 pale in color, but is also intensely cold so that I 
 have seen quite a number of fish floating dead from 
 this cause. 
 
 The dam ought, I think, to be spelled with an w, be- 
 cause, owing to the vast body of water constantly 
 evaporating in the hot sun, it has quite changed 
 the climate of Assuan, so that there is rain where it 
 never rained before, and the north wind blowing up 
 the river over the cold water is sometimes very dis- 
 agreeable, to say nothing of ruining the temple of 
 the beautiful island of Philse, and turning out of their 
 homes the Cataract people, the finest tribe on the 
 Nile, and scattering them nobody knows where. 
 
 I offer these observations for what they are worth. 
 I may be entirely wrong; but there are others who
 
 EGYPT 251 
 
 think as I do, that the dam was a gigantic speculation 
 to put money into somebody's pocket, and not, as 
 pretended, to benefit the Egyptians. 
 
 I ought to have mentioned in this connection the 
 primitive methods of raising water to irrigate the 
 fields. People have asked why they do not use steam 
 pumps; there are two reasons, the people are poor and 
 could not afford the expense of the pump and of the 
 coal, which is very dear in Egypt, and also, where it 
 has been tried, the river when in flood cuts in around 
 the foundations and destroys the whole thing. Some 
 of the sugar factories have them, but they are obliged 
 to revet the bank with stone for a long distance and 
 at great expense. 
 
 So the natives stick to the old ways ; the shadoof, 
 where the water is lifted from one level to another by 
 hand, with leather buckets on a sweep with a coun- 
 terweight of clay, very much like an old New England 
 well-sweep. The men who work these shadoofs are 
 wonderfully picturesque, with only a loincloth about 
 them and their brown skins glistening like bronze. It 
 is very fatiguing work, however, and is done in relays. 
 
 The sakieh is worked by oxen, or sometimes by a 
 camel and a donkey, blindfolded so as not to get 
 dizzy and going round and round attached to two 
 cog-wheels that hoist an endless string of buckets from 
 a well. These are mostly used back from the river.
 
 252 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 They give forth a most dismal creaking, and, if 
 worked all night, are most undesirable neighbors. 
 
 As I was anxious to see the Suez Canal, we caught 
 a P. & O. steamer at Suez and traversed the whole 
 canal. It was hardly worth while, however, as it 
 proved a very stupid trip; nothing but a ditch with 
 desert on either hand. We stopped at Port Said to 
 coal, which recalls to me that a few years later we 
 were also there for coaling when an Italian troop-ship 
 came In crammed with soldiers on their way to fight 
 the Abysslnlans. A number of oflficers came ashore in 
 immaculate uniforms with white helmets and each 
 carrying a small fan. The Idea of going to fight the 
 Abysslnlans with fans struck me as very comical. 
 Poor devils, very few of them ever returned to Italy 
 after the massacre of Massowah, but perhaps the 
 Abyssinian belles rejoiced In the fans. 
 
 On the steamer was an English woman, returning 
 from India all alone. In a dying condition. She had 
 relatives at Malta waiting for her, but unfortunately 
 she died the day before we reached there, and was Im- 
 mediately burled at sea. It seemed to me very brutal 
 that her body could not have been kept a few hours, 
 and delivered to her relatives, to be given a Chris- 
 tian burial on land, but the captain explained that 
 if he arrived in port with a dead body there might
 
 EGYPT 253 
 
 be complications, and he might be detained a day 
 or so. 
 
 We had a few hours on shore at Malta, another 
 of England's plums, but thought it a rather dreary 
 place, though with a magnificent harbor. From there 
 we went on to Gibraltar, a very large English plum, 
 where we landed to go up through Spain. We stayed 
 there several days, seeing a review and sham battle of 
 the " Black Watch " and visiting the celebrated gal- 
 leries cut in the rock and now of no use for defensive 
 purposes. 
 
 We were very much tempted to join two English- 
 men in a trip to Ronda on horseback; but concluded 
 wisely that it would be too hard an excursion with bad 
 roads and bad inns. We had been told that Ronda 
 was a wonderfully picturesque town situated in a 
 ravine. A number of years later we went there by rail, 
 and found that the ravine was in the town and not the 
 town in the ravine. The town was not very interest- 
 ing, situated on a plateau, with the ravine dividing it 
 in two, with a splendid arch of a bridge connecting 
 the two parts. 
 
 We found that in order to get to Seville we should 
 have to go to Cadiz, either by diligence from Alge- 
 ciras, or by a small coasting steamer. We chose the 
 latter as the lesser of the two evils, but it was pretty 
 bad.
 
 254 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 Cadiz is a wonderfully bright and clean-looking 
 city, with its shining whitewashed walls, its gay har- 
 bor, and its inviting patios. 
 
 We went to Seville by rail in time for Easter week 
 and the church processions. We arrived there late in 
 the evening only to find the hotel we had written to 
 could not take us in, but sent us forth with a man to 
 find lodgings outside. The streets were dark and badly 
 lighted, and rather forbidding. We were shown first a 
 room beneath the sidewalk, which we promptly refused. 
 Then we were taken to the house of a dressmaker, who 
 kindly gave up her own nicely furnished room on the 
 first floor. I think the woman had already retired to 
 bed, as she appeared after some delay in a dressing- 
 gown, and we had to wait some time for the bed to 
 be made up afresh. 
 
 The next morning, when we went forth to get our 
 breakfast at the hotel, we found the hallway filled 
 with a half-dozen smiling and quite pretty sewing 
 girls, hard at work, each with a flower behind her ear 
 and her hair elaborately arranged. They made a 
 pretty sight, and I was glad that we could not get into 
 the hotel except for meals, as their smiling faces 
 greeted us as we passed in and out. With the help of 
 a valet-de-place we got very good seats for the proces- 
 sions which took up the whole of Holy Week. They 
 were very interesting; but after a time tedious, as the
 
 EGYPT 2SS 
 
 images on platforms from the different churches are 
 carried on the backs of men whose plebeian trousers 
 and shabby shoes, protruding from beneath the dra- 
 peries, do not harmonize very well with the gorgeous 
 images of saints, and who have to stop and rest every 
 hundred yards or so, as some of the images must be 
 very heavy. 
 
 We also saw the rending of the veil in the cathedral 
 on Easter morning with much noise of exploding gun- 
 powder. The cathedral at Seville has a vast, dimly 
 lighted interior, and is very impressive, but the exte- 
 rior is disappointing. Of course the gem of Seville is 
 the Giralda Tower, with its beautiful fretwork, feebly 
 imitated in the Madison Square Garden Tower. I 
 suppose the expense prevented an exact copy. 
 
 On Easter afternoon with all the world we went to 
 the bull-fight, which is a great affair as being the first 
 after Lent. The pageant of the bull-fighters' entry 
 into the ring, and the demand of the matador for the 
 key to the bull-pens were very medieval and fine. The 
 brilliant costumes of the bull-fighters, the bright sun- 
 shine, the gay crowds, which included many women, 
 made a scene never to be forgotten, but when the 
 first bull was let out and the slaughter of the horses 
 began, I was filled with disgust. These poor brutes, 
 only ready for the knackers, some of which could 
 hardly stand up, were blindfolded and literally stood
 
 256 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 up broadside to the bull, who did not seem over- 
 anxious to charge them, recognizing, it seemed, that 
 it was poor sport to rip up a helpless fellow-animal. 
 There was one poor white horse, whose entrails were 
 hanging out, that was taken out, sewed up, and 
 brought in twice again. 
 
 I imagine that in the olden time, when the picadors 
 were mounted on good horses and were expected to 
 hold off the bull with their lances, there might have 
 been some sport in It. Now the picadors are so band- 
 aged about the legs, to escape injury, that they have 
 to be lifted on their horses. 
 
 We saw three bulls killed, and then left. I wish 
 never to see another bull-fight unless the odds are 
 more even. Our sympathies were entirely with the 
 bull, which seemed to have absolutely no chance. I 
 should have liked to see some of his persecutors 
 chucked over the barriers, where they constantly took 
 shelter, like rabbits running to their burrows. 
 
 After visiting the annual fair on the river-bank on 
 the following day, where all the swells of Seville have 
 tents in which they receive their friends and dance, 
 all dressed in their old national costumes, the common 
 people walking up and down and looking at them, we 
 were glad to leave the noise and heat of Seville for the 
 cool shades of the Alhambra with the perpetual sound 
 of plashing or running water in our ears.
 
 EGYPT 257 
 
 What an enchanting spot! We had arranged to 
 spend three days there, and stayed three weeks; we 
 simply could not get away. There was much to 
 sketch and I was busy morning and afternoon. The 
 pink walls of the old fortress in contrast to the fresh 
 spring green of the foliage and the beautiful color of 
 the diiferent courts of the Alhambra itself, with all 
 the delicate tracery of Arab art, was too much for an 
 artist to resist. 
 
 Then there was the picturesque figure of the King 
 of the Gipsies, who insisted he was Fortuny's model, 
 that had to be painted. I began a picture of him in a 
 gorgeous costume, when to my horror he appeared the 
 next day in a shabby old suit, and said he had sold 
 the previous costume to a Russian artist. Whether 
 he had or not, I was not going to be treated in that 
 way a second time, so I told him to go down into 
 Granada and buy for me the best costume he could 
 find. He returned next day with a beautiful costume, 
 a leather jacket with red and blue cloth let in in 
 places, a rather shabby pair of blue knee breeches 
 with silver buttons down the side, a bright red sash, 
 and, best of all, a pair of finely stamped Cordovan 
 leather leggings, not to mention a broad-brimmed 
 Spanish hat and a handkerchief tied round his head, 
 and all, if I remember right, for twenty-five francs, 
 or its equivalent.
 
 258 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 Some of the best sketches I ever made I made In 
 the Alhambra, but I am sorry to say that, going back 
 there in the spring of 19 14, 1 found much of the glam- 
 our gone. The restorer had been at work and fixed 
 it up with new work that did not harmonize with the 
 old, and had scraped oif many of the vines and lichens 
 that give charm to old ruins. 
 
 From Granada we went to Madrid, stopping at 
 Cordova on the way, to see the old mosque with its 
 myriad columns, and the fine Roman bridge. Madrid 
 we did not like much; it is a dreary city, either too 
 cold and rainy or too hot and dusty, and always too 
 windy. 
 
 We went to Toledo for a day and night. Toledo is 
 gloomy, but very interesting and very picturesquely 
 situated, with its magnificent bridge. On the way back 
 to Madrid, the train was three hours late, and we spent 
 the time on the station platform, cold and hungry, as 
 there was nothing to eat and we had expected to get 
 back in time for dinner. On our way to France, we 
 had intended stopping at Burgos, but found that we 
 should arrive at two in the morning and could not 
 leave till two the next morning. I could stand one 
 morning getting up at that unearthly hour, but two 
 was too much, so we went directly through to Biarritz 
 and then to Paris. After closing up our afi'airs there, 
 packing my pictures left in the studio, and selling the
 
 EGYPT 259 
 
 things we did not want to take to America, we crossed 
 to England. We made one or two visits to friends in 
 the country and then took a trip through Scotland. 
 It happened to be a very cold and wet summer and 
 Scotland was too cold for much enjoyment. I was 
 disappointed in the Trossachs. There are plenty of 
 equally beautiful spots In New England, but no Scott 
 to write about them. Edinburgh is very picturesque, 
 and all the romance of Mary Queen of Scots adds 
 so much to one's Interest. It is these romances of the 
 Old World that Americans enjoy so much. 
 
 I think we liked Stirling Castle best of all, and I had 
 the energy to get up at an early hour to make a sketch 
 of it before our train left at eleven. On the way to 
 Oban we had to go part-way by stage-coach. It was 
 raining hard and we could get seatsonly with the guard, 
 behind. There we sat with our umbrellas up and a 
 tarpaulin across our laps. In which every once in a 
 while the rain made such a lake that the water had 
 to be shaken out. Our luggage In the meantime rested 
 on the top of the coach without anything over it. 
 I remonstrated, but the guard said they never covered 
 the luggage, and this in a land where it rains most of 
 the time! The thick English leather portmanteaus 
 may be able to stand it, but American trunks cannot, 
 and we found our clothes quite wet when we reached 
 Oban. When It did not rain, we made an excursion to
 
 26o RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 the islands so associated with Black's novels and up 
 the Caledonian Canal and back. We needed all our 
 winter clothes at Oban, and were glad when the time 
 came to take our departure by boat to Glasgow, 
 and so to Liverpool and home.
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 PROFESSIONAL FORTUNES 
 
 On my return from Europe I at last began to feel that 
 I was getting a firm grasp on my technique, which I 
 knew was my weak point. In spite of this, when I had 
 an exhibition of some of my work, it was not a success. 
 I got no credit for some of the best heads, as people 
 seemed to assume that they were only copies of Cou- 
 ture or too much in his style. 
 
 When Duveneck had brought home his wonderfully 
 cleverwork from Munich, — 'in 1865,! think, — every- 
 body went into raptures over it, and not without rea- 
 son, and did not lay it to its being a mere copy of his 
 master's style; perhaps partly because people were 
 not so familiar with the Munich school. A pupil neces- 
 sarily reflects many of the mannerisms of his master 
 till he has worked out his own style. 
 
 I may say that Duveneck, when he changed his 
 style to one more in the French manner, and not so 
 brown and bituminous, was not so successful. He 
 seemed to fall between two stools. Some of Paris Bor- 
 done's pictures look like Titian's, but nobody thinks 
 the less of them on that account. 
 
 However, in the next two or three years I found I
 
 262 RANDOM MEMORIES 
 
 had increased my reputation considerably; my pic- 
 tures were accepted, and well hung in exhibitions in 
 Boston and New York. I was elected Vice-President 
 of the Boston Art Club, and had charge of the exhi- 
 bitions held there, thereby, of course, acquiring the 
 enmity of several artists who thought they had not 
 been treated as well as they deserved. Such is the re- 
 sult of well-doing! 
 
 I began to feel that success was in sight. An elderly 
 Frenchman who had seen some of my pictures said to 
 my father, just before his death, that " I had a future," 
 to which my father replied, "How fortunate to have 
 a future! you and I are too old to have a future." 
 
 Alas! there was no future; the Fates decided other- 
 wise. 
 
 In justice to myself I must add that when I parted 
 with Couture in Paris, he expressed himself as so much 
 pleased with my work that he wanted me to establish 
 a school in America to carry out his ideas of what he 
 called the "grand manner," and to send the advanced 
 pupils out to him to be finished. Unfortunately, he 
 died shortly afterwards, and I found that the artistic 
 taste of America, which formerly admired his work, 
 had changed, and Americans had become followers of 
 Sargent or the Impressionists. 
 
 My association with Couture was very close, and I 
 may fairly say that I was his favorite pupil in the last
 
 ERNEST W. LONGFELLOW
 
 PROFESSIONAL FORTUNES 263 
 
 days of his life. Manet, although a former pupil of 
 his, he did not admire; he had none of his style in 
 drawing, and his vulgarity and realism repelled him. 
 
 Manet, it seems to me, is largely responsible for 
 the vulgarity and coarseness of modern art. He started 
 the cult of the ugly. Compare his vulgar "Olym- 
 pia," so much admired by artists of the present day, 
 with Titian's Venus: the one only an unidealized rep- 
 resentation of a common courtesan, cold in color, but 
 strong If you like; the other the idealization of a beau- 
 tiful nude woman, the flesh palpitating with life, and 
 wonderful In color. And see Manet's treatment of a 
 subject similar to one treated byGIorglone — "The 
 Pastoral" — of two men and a nude woman sitting 
 together out of doors : Glorgione's so beautiful In color 
 and so charming that the nude does not seem Incon- 
 gruous, while Manet's "Le Dejeuner sur I'Herbe," 
 with the men In modern costume and the vulgar 
 nude, is simply repulsive. 
 
 On March 24, 1882, my father died and a great 
 light seemed to have gone out of my life. For years 
 I could not enter his study without a pang — the 
 gentle presence had passed away, the affectionate 
 greeting was no longer to be mine. 
 
 THE END
 
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