In the Courts of Memory 1858-1875. | Page 3

that you think it extraordinary that all these fine teachers,
who are the best in Harvard College, should teach us; but the reason is,
that the Agassiz's have built a new house and find it difficult to pay for
it, so their friends have promised to help them to start this school, and
by lending their names they have put it on its legs, so to speak.
The other day I was awfully mortified. Mr. Longfellow, who teaches us
literature, explained all about rhythm, measures, and the feet used in
poetry. The idea of poetry having feet seemed so ridiculous that I
thought out a beautiful joke, which I expected would amuse the school
immensely; so when he said to me in the lesson, "Miss Greenough, can
you tell me what blank verse is?" I answered promptly and boldly,
"Blank verse is like a blank-book; there is nothing in it, not even feet,"
and looked around for admiration, but only saw disapproval written
everywhere, and Mr. Longfellow, looking very grave, passed on to the
next girl. I never felt so ashamed in my life.
Mr. Longfellow, on passing our house, told aunty that he was coming
in the afternoon, to speak to me; aunty was worried and so was I, but
when he came I happened to be singing Schubert's "Dein ist mein
Herz," one of aunty's songs, and he said, "Go on. Please don't stop."
When I had finished he said:
"I came to scold you for your flippancy this morning, but you have only
to sing to take the words out of my mouth, and to be forgiven."
"And I hope you will forget," I said, penitently.
"I have already forgotten," he answered, affectionately. "How can one
be angry with a dear little bird? But don't try again to be so witty."
"Never again, I promise you."
"That's the dear girl you are, and 'Dein ist mein Herz'!" He stooped
down and kissed me.
I burst into tears, and kissed his hand. This is to show you what a dear,
kind man Mr. Longfellow is.
[Illustration: THE FAY HOUSE, CAMBRIDGE,

MASSACHUSETTS]
CAMBRIDGE, _June, 1857._
If you were here, dear mama, I would sing, "Oh, Wake and Call Me
Early, Call Me Early, Mother Dear," for I am to dance the quadrille on
the "Green" on Class Day. To be asked by a Harvard graduate to be one
of the four girls to dance is a great compliment. All the college
windows are full of people gazing at you, and just think of the other
girls, who are filled with envy fuller than the windows!
Aunty is "pestered" (as she calls it) to death by people wanting me to
sing for their charities. Every one has a pet charity, which it seems
must be attended to just at this time, and they clamor for help from me,
and aunty has not the courage to say "no." Therefore, about once a
week I am dressed in the white muslin and the black shoes, which is
my gala get-up, and a carriage is sent for me. Then aunty and I are
driven to the Concert Hall, where, when my turn comes, I go on the
platform and sing, "Casta Diva," "Ah, non Credea," etc., and if I am
encored then I sing, "Coming Thro' the Rye."
I am sure every one says that it is a shame to make me sing, but they
make me sing, all the same. I enjoy the applause and the
excitement--who would not? What I do not enjoy is being obliged to
sing in church every Sunday. Dr. Hoppin has persuaded aunty to let me
help in the choir; that is, to sing the Anthem and the "Te Deum," but it
amounts to my doing about all the singing. Don't you think this is cruel?
However, there is one hymn I love to sing, and that is, "Shout the Glad
Tidings, Exultingly Sing." I put my whole heart and soul in this, and
soon find myself shouting the "glad tidings" all alone, my companions
having left me in the lurch.
We laughed very much at aunty's efforts in the Anti-slavery movement
(just now at its height), when all Massachusetts has risen up with a
bound in order to prove that the blacks are as good as the whites (if not
better), and should have all their privileges. She, wishing to
demonstrate this point, introduced Joshua Green, a little colored boy
(the washerwoman's son), into the Sunday-school class. The general
indignation among the white boys did not dismay her, as she hoped that
Joshua would come up to the mark. The answer to the first question in
the catechism (what is your name?), he knew, and answered boldly,
"Joshua Green." But the second question, "Who made you?" was