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mt Mbn^fti pott t.t,wiMbgt 


Publith^d May tqrf 

• ' r 



Jabies Croswell left no mass of writings 
which is at all adequate to express what he was. 
His work was done with the living voice, not 
with the pen. The chief value of the letters 
and scraps of letters, and other writings of his» 
that are here gathered, is that there is in them 
the sound of his voice. In them he speaks, and 
people who loved to listen to him can listen 
once more. To catch the echo of his voice and 
the passing inflections of his mind is all that 
has been attempted in this memorial volume. 

To such writings of his own as his wife has 
been able to collect, have been added a few rec- 
ords of the impression he made on some men 
and women who knew him best. 

Edward S. Martin. 


James Greenlbaf Cbobwell was bora in 
Brunswick, Maine, August 29, 1852. His 
father, the Reverend Andrew Croswell, was 
rector of St. Paul's Church in Brunswick, and 
remained there until Easter, 185S. Then, or 
later, the family moved to Cambridge to be 
near Mrs. Croswell's parents. Judge and Mrs. 
Simon Greenleaf . 

The boyhood friends of James Croswell were 
LeBaron Briggs and Theodore and William 
Russell, the latter afterwards Governor of 

Croswell prepared for college in the Cam- 
bridge Latin School, entered Harvard, and 
graduated in 187S. The year after graduation 
he taught at St. Mark's School, Southborougfa. 
The year following that he became instructor 
in Greek at Harvard and remained in that em- 
ployment until he went to Germany in 1878. 
There he pdSssed three years as a student at 
Leipsic and Bonn. 

From Germany he returned to Harvard and 
was Assistant Professor of Greek from 1882 


until, in the spring of ISST, he came to the 
Brearley School. 

He married (May 10, 1888) Letitia Brace, 
daughter of Charles Loring Brace, of Dobbs 

He died on March 14, 1015. 

In response to the enquiry of the secretary of 
his Harvard class as to his proceedings during 
the first twenty years after graduation he made 
this reply: — 

27 WaTBBLT PliA.CE» 

New Yobk Cmr. 
After graduation I tau^t school one year at 
St. Mark's at Southborough. Upon leaving St. 
Mark's I returned to Harvard, where I was em- 
ployed by the college as a tutor in Greek for 
three years. I escaped soon from the awkward 
results of my incapacity by receiving, through 
the tireless bounty of our Alma Mater, a " Parker 
Pellowship," which permitted me three years 
of travel in Europe. I returned to the college 
as assistant professor in 1882 to repay this debt 
by instructing again in Greek and Latin. In 
1887, on the death of my collq^ friend, Sam- 
uel Brearley, of the class of 1871, I inherited 
the head-mastership of a school founded by 
him in New Yorlc Ever since that time I have 


been at work here, under varjring conditions, 
chiefly occupied in preparing for college the 
female descendants of Harvard, Yale, and 
Princeton graduates. These New York girls 
compose not the least interesting part of the 
population of that interesting and heterogene- 
ous city. Some of my pupils have become 
teachers; some are mothers of American citizens ; 
and some the wives of foreign nobles; two are 
trained nurses; one is an officer of the Salva- 
tion Army. These are. my short and simple an- 
nals, if the Secretary thinks my classmates may 
wish to hear them. I will not detail my literary 
works, at his wicked suggestion. They are all 
school-books, and may be found in the regular 
educational catalogues. They enjoy a forced 
circulation in some quarters. 


Jamis Gbxsnleaf Cbobwell. . FronHspiece 

From a portrait 6y W. Sargeani Kendall^ 191S 

'Frra Yeabs Old 4 

At Twenty-One 16 

Facsimile of a Letter to a Child .... 128 
Mr. Cbobwell's Hqube at Deer Isle, Maine . 882 





In his thirteenth year 

Jaffret, Auffutt 21, 1865. 

Dear A : — Tuesday we went up the 

mountain and I am going to tell you about it. 
We crowded into the big mountain wagon of 
Mr. Cutter's and rode a pretty long way till we 
came to the Halfway House, there got out and 
climbed along with our poles to a pretty little 
place by a nice spring where we ate our dinner. 
Then we set off to go to the top. We boys, 
Charlie,* Willie Famsworth, Si, and I, all went 
off together, and we lost the path; the conse- 
quence was we had a dreadful, hard, tough 
scramble over rocks and stones. One remarka- 
ble thing was we got down in half the time we 
came up. There are five bulls on the mountain, 
two of which we saw, and they nearly scared 
the young women to death. Good-bye. 

^ Charles Pomeroy Paricer, obiit 1917. 


P.S. Yesterday we made a picnic to a little 
brook near the park and we had a very nice 
time. When it began to rain we went into a 

Your affectionate Jim. 

To Mrs, James Greenleaf, sister of H. W. Longfellow^ 

the poet 

Cambridge, /tiZj^ 20 [1868]. 

Pear Aunt Mary: — I have so much to 
tell you that I don't know where to begin; so 
I will go back to last May, when you left 

I went back to school and studied pretty 
hard all June and came out first in my exami- 
nations, and then came our grand exhibition. 
Our class (namely the Second College) were 
ushers at the exercises, which were composi- 
tions, declamations, and an original English 
dialogue, and we had the special honor of being 
mentioned, as a body, for good scholarship, 
which is very seldom done. Then there was a 
ball in the evening, at which they danced the 
most unheard-of fancy dances, and then the 
Class of "1868" had graduated and given way 
to " 1869,'^ which is mine. 

Our Principal has sailed for Europe to pass 



the Long Vacation, so if you happen to see 
Mr. William J. Rolfe, A.M., in England; he's 
the man. 

It 's very xx>nvenient to have such a famous 
man as Professor Longfellow in your party, for 
we have your movements telegraphed to the 
Boston papers quite frequently. I look out on 
the map your movements as well as I can, 
though some places I can't find. I wish you 
could go to Rugby and write me about it, as 
that is the one place in England that I feel 
curious about. I was very much pleased with 
the little pictures you sent us, though the lake 
did not seem "^all my fancy painted it," but I 
suppose that an engraving could n't do it jus- 
tice as regards the colors. 

We were very much tickled by the story of the 
two young men who shook hands with Unde 
Sam for the poet, and I don't think they made 
such a bad shot after all. I wish you would tell 
Uncle Sam that I went to the Boylston Prize 
Speaking on Phi Beta Kappa Day, and that 
Greener, the colored man, of the Junior Class, 
and Grodfrey Morse, of the same dass, took 
the first prizes. I also heard William Everett's 
poem delivered before the Phi Beta Kappa 


On next Friday the Harvard Boat Club (long 
may it wave) will race at Worcester with the 
Yales. On Thursday we are going to race with 
the famous Ward brothers at Worcester be- 
sides various single races before. Last Fourth, 
Harvard raced the Wards and got beaten; but 
perhaps they will do better this time. Harvard 
played the Lowells last Fourth on Jarvis, and 
owing to Bob Shaw's absence got beaten by 
three tallies. Last Friday the Harvards went 
to Boston and played the Lowells, and beat 
them by 39 to 26, but because the Lowells had 
one or two men absent, the Harvards kindly 
refused to call it a match game, and they will 
play two more games. See the diflference be- 
tween the Harvards' gentlemanly conduct and 
i;he Lowells' I dont-know-what. Give my love 
to Aunt Anne, and believe me 

Your affectionate nephew, 

J. G. Croswell. 

P.S. Harvard played Lowell on Jarvis, and 
beat them by one tally on yesterday. 



Off Ragged Island, [Cabco Bat], 
Augutt 2S, 1868. 

Dear Aunt Mabt: — I am writing this on 
the trunk of the old schooner, looking out over 
the blue Atlantic and watching the sea-gulls 
circling round above my head, and screaming 
at us. Right abreast of us is a large flock of 
coots, swimming in the water, and the white 
breakers are dashing grandly up against the 
little black ledges all around us. 

''The billows are roaring. 
Are rolling and roaring." 

We are on our way from the New Meadows 
River to Portland. Si and I have enjoyed 
ourselves very much indeed (for three weeks on 
the Meredith is not to be despised) in boating, 
swimming, and fishing, and now we are trying 
to beat up to Highfield against a wind dead 
ahead. I am particular in describing all this 
because I know you know all the Bay so. well 
and will like to hear from it, even under the 
shade of the Swiss mountains. Old Mr. Bibber 
was telling me the other day (just as we were 
passing through it) about Unde James's nam- 
ing the Herring Gut, Herring Gutter, because 
it is so narrow, and to this day Mr. Bibber al- 


ways calls it "the Gutter." Perhaps you re- 
member it is the passage between Jaquish and 
Bailey's Island. 

IVe been reading a delicious book of sea- 
songs called "Thalatta," containing the pret- 
tiest gems of the poets and all of them about 
the sea. Perhaps my favorites are "Thalatta," 
from the German of Heine, and "Hampton 
Beach/* by Whittier, which I can say almost 
by heart IVe read it so often. 

IVe had a lovely vacation so far» and as I 
expect to go to Nahant on the Slst of August 
to stay a fortnight with Charlie Pitts, I intend 
to have a lovely vacation the rest of it. I have 
seen the Alice two or three times this year, and 
she looked very attractive. I declare I almost 
think that I should prefer to own a yacht like 
her, rather than to go to Europe five times over. 
Just now the salt breeze is so delicious that I 
don't want to go ashore at all. 

Our High School Committee have been cut- 
ting up such dreadful shines with the school, 
dismissing the Principal and altering the stud- 
ies, that I don't quite know what I Ve got to do 
next year, beyond the fact that by that blessed 
day when you get home I shall be ready for 
college, probably. I suppose that you, pos- 


sessing the Chronicle, are well posted up in these 
matters. I very much enjoyed Aunt Anne's let* 
ter to Bess about the Channel passage and so 
has everybody who has read it. Seasickness is 
the one difficulty in sailing on the briny: but 
everjrthing has its drawbacks in this world. 

When you write, tell me about the beautiful 
Rhine, and Ehrenbreitstein, and Rolandseck; 
and did you go to the Cathedral at Cologne? 
I think I am more familiar with the Rhine than 
any other part of Europe, not even England 
excepted, and at any rate would rather see it. 
By the time this letter gets to you I shall prob- 
ably be in my seventeenth year. Think how 
venerable I ami And still we go marching 
along. Aunt Mary, and the time gets nearer 
when you '11 return to 

Your affectionate nephew, 

J. G. Crosweui. 

Simon and I send our best love to Aunt Anne. 
I hope some day to get a letter written to her. 
Please accept our best thanks for those cun- 
ning little knives. 

CAMBBmoB, October 81, 1868. 

My dear Aunt: — I wrote you one letter 
on or about the 1st of this month, and I thought 


I mentioned in it that we were back at school 
again; but my thoughts were so full of the Sat* 
urday session (of which I wrote you) that per- 
haps I omitted it. Anyhow, we are not only at 
school now, but even half through the fall 
term. Mr. Rolfe was reinstated by a vote of 
six to five in the School Board, and immedi- 
ately resigned; and now Mr. Bradbury, an 
under-teacher, is Acting Master; but we have 
no Principal. I *m right sorry about Mr. Rolfe 
and I despise that School Committee. We have 
to go to school Satiu*days for three mortal 
hours, and when there to let off a stupid de- 

Ma and the St. James's Sewing Circle are in 
the full tide of preparation for a fair, and they 
meet once a week to get ready. It may come 
off on the 1st of December, but the time is not 

We got your letter, from Paris, of the 16th, 
to-day. Ma is unable to write now from stress 
of business, but sends love to you and will write 
soon. Only think of your writing to us that you 
sit in the famous Louvre. I tell you if I was 
there I'd sit there most all the time. Though 
I have n't the first idea of drawing myself, yet 
I enjoy nothing so much as a picture; but I 


have to take it out in Childs and Jenks, and 
Illustrated Newsea. Speaking of that, I ^^run 
over to Aunt Mary's" quite often to look at 
Audubon or Iconography and to prowl about 
the library, and it seems as if you might be 
upstairs or in the kitchen; for though I've 
learnt to imagine you gazing at Mont Blanc, 
etc., while I'm not actually in the house, yet 
when I am there I can't think you are so far 
off as that. 

Winter is coming here on the double-quick 
and we have had a snowstorm already, but it 
melted right off. However, it is not snow I 
want, but ice to skate on, and if that little 
puddle opposite the Craigie House is only as 
large and as smooth and slippery as it was on 
Washington's Birthday last winter, I shall be 
happy. Oh I what fim it is to go cut, cut, cut^ 
slide, tumble, on perfect ^ass such as that 
puddle was that morning I 

Baseball is getting out of season slowly, 
though we had a Harvard vs. Lowell game on 
the 17th of this month, and a Harvard vs. 
Tri-Mountain last Saturday. Harvard goes 
out of the season triumphant, having beaten 
both Lowells and Tri-Mounts badly. These 
two clubs are the only rivab of any account 


they have. We had a great Grant and Colfax 
turn-out in Boston on Wednesday night. There 
was a torchlight procession three miles long in 
Boston^consisting of dubs from all the country 
round and three hundred Harvard students 
marched in it. I believe papa sends you the 
Transcript with the accoimt of it, so I will not 
particularize. Washy's nephew is getting to be 
a great boy now, and he thinks everything of 
him. Much love to all, and tell Aimt A. L. P. 
I'm going to write to her when I get a chance 
and somewhat to say. 
Au revoir. 

J. G. C. 

P.S. Manmia says that her fair is to be post- 
poned till Easter. 

Ahotd 1869. 

Dbab Mother : — Your Simday night letter 
got here at nine o'clock Monday, and as this 
is the burden of the day, I can't stop long to 
write. AJl's well, I guess; but we do have too 
much milk. Puss has got so's not to touch it, 
and blanc-mange is a drug. I never want to 
eat any bread-and-milk again. 

I got my watch mended — fifty cents — and 
two oranges — eight cents. We have eaten 


some little of your strawberry preserve, and 
shall eat some more. Saturday night and Sun* 
day morning we got our own meals. Our leg of 
mutton is nearly eternal. We have eaten two 
herrings and half a shad. 

Tell pa I want those balmorals of his in the 
worst way; I*m going to play croquet Wednes- 
day afternoon and my shoes are b^inning to 
crack. Miss Daniell wants me to be usher at 
her wedding, but I can't, I think — I must cut 
to go, anyhow. Miss Russell left a card at our 
house, and her wedding cards are out this morn- 

Tell pa that I hope by next year to look well 
enough not to be mistaken for a Yale student 
even by a stranger. 

J. G. Croswell. 

To Mr. Samud Longfellow^ brother of the poet 

Saturday, August 12» 1871. 

Dear Uncle Sam: — Islesboro is still 
lively and much as you left it. We are quite 
well, all of us, including your little Walter, and 
are doing every day precisely what we have 
done while you were here. Dick and Walter 
and Willie are very much together, in the boats 
around the wharf or on the hotel piazza; the 


same croquet party still plays croquet; the 
same backgammon party still sits in the parlor; 
the waves still wash on White Rock beach when 
I go down to swim alone, — just as they did 
when we went together. So, since one day is so 
much like another, it is hard to write much 
news to you who know all about the place and 
the people. 

The first thing I thought of to tell you is that 
last night the crop of mushrooms did very well 
and they are very nice this morning. Don't you 
wish you had some? We had some that night 
we left you at Castine, on board the vessel for 
dinner. H. had his pears also, and was much 
gratified by the attention. He still proves a 
great aid to our evening. 

We had a very pleasant voyage home from 
Castine, hardly to be called a sail, for there was 
no wind and Wad and I rowed more than half- 
way. I hope you were as lucky in your voyage 
as regards smoothness of water. The fireworks 
were quite successful that evening, which was 
pretty quiet otherwise, for we were all tired. 
Yesterday Minnie and Bess and I walked down 
to that pretty Crow Cove where S. and I met 
your boat party that afternoon and whence you 
and I walked home. The girls are very good 


walkers when they want to be; quite as good as 
we boys, I think. In the afternoon Bessie and 
I went aboard the vessel to write chords; but 
she went to sleep and I went to row instead. 
We made it up by going to the stile to see the 
beautiful sunset last night, and this morning 
we are going to the Post-Office, which reminds 
me to end my letter. 

Very truly yours, 

J. G. Croswell. 

Written on the eve of darting for Souihboro^ where he 
had engaged to be a teacher at St. MarVa School 

CAMBBmoB, August 81, 1878. 

My deab Mothsb: — For the last time 
I date from Cambridge. The long-expected 
epoch has come, and with hope and cheerfid* 
ness and faith, not in myself, but in the Power 
on whose side I pray to try to be always found 
fighting, I leave my home and all that I know 
and love. I have had a pretty solemn time to- 
day. I feel not a bit melancholy nor unhappy; 
but a good deal of awe and a little mistrust. 
So many responsibilities; such great interests 
at stake; my own life thrown into my own keep- 
ing as it really never has been; and with it a 
certain amount of influence on other lives. And 


I have with the best intentions such an india- 
rubber backbone. I hope I shall not be weighed 
and found wanting. Oh, for a little real ob- 
stinacy and a little manly courage, to keep me 
from quailing in the hour of trial I I pray I may 
not be one of the children of Ephraim, but am 
dreadfully afraid I am. 

To Mr. Samuel Longfellow 

SouTHBOBO, October 14, 1873. 

My dear Uncle Sam: — I believe you are a 
man who likes boys enough to enjoy a letter 
about them. So I shall venture to write you the 
history of my life for the past six weeks, which 
really has been little but constant care and 
attention to thirty-six small boys. The small- 
est ones, of course, are the most interesting. 
They are boy, pure and simple, the genuine 
article. The first day I came, one of these little 
fellows quite won my heart by his oddities of 
appearance, his politeness, and his thorough 
boyishness. His name is Master L. His native 
town is Providence; his father is a wealthy 
gentleman of that city, and, as the son tells me 
with pride, a colonel in the late war. 

This little chap looks exactly and wonderfully 
like a monkey. His hair is cut short and bristly ; 


« • 


his face is all over freckles, or rather all one 
freckle; he has no forehead at all, and his eye- 
brows meet in a sage frown which rarely leaves 
his face. To all this add a very bright, restless 
pair of eyes and a more restless pair of hands. 
Perhaps you don't see why he should win a 
tutor's admiration, and are waiting to hear that 
he distinguishes himself by his recitations. On 
the contrary, he is one of the poorest scholars. 
In American history class he undertook, with 
the gravest face possible, to recite about the 
Whiskey "Resurrection," and in spelling he is 
something like Josh Billings. iVeeei^^ he always 
spells neaMey and the words to, too, two^ are al- 
together beyond his powers. His whole soul is 
devoted, like many other little fellows' here, to 
trapping rabbits, and his lessons are merely 
side issues, wapipya, to this pursuit. But in 
general information he is strong, and is a very 
entertaining talker at the table. He sits next to 
me on one side. On the other side sits a thor- 
ough contrast to him — T. T., a light blond, 
whose skin is so delicately fair that the veins on 
his forehead show bright blue. He has a very 
sweet temper and a good deal of talent for 
study — and yet, like L., he is a perfectly 
noisy, jolly boy and more of a trapper if pos- 


sible than he even. These two were so polite 
to me in my greenness, and are so happy and 
bright and funny at the table, that I cannot 
help, as I said to begin with, a good deal of af- 
fection for them, though I cannot precisely tell 
why. Is there not something wonderfully 
attractive in any opening bud, — fascinating 
by the promise of what may come, and of itself 
beautiful and pleasant? 

Another class of boys here may fairly be 
represented by Henry Chapin. He is older, 
wiser, quieter, is beginning to think about be- 
ing a monitor some day, and is rather on his 
good behavior; therefore, the pleasure I take 
in him is rather of a more reasonable kind, and 
it 's more for what he promises to be than what 
he is. Good-natured, steady, brave, bright; 
some day he wUl be a splendid man. 

The monitors and the "sixth " are, of coujrse, 
the cream of the school. Our captain, or dux^ 
or whatever you would call him is a young man 
called H. He is "one of a thousand." The 
tutors meet and treat him on terms of perfect 
equality except a little bit of etiquette once in 
a while. He is, like all the monitors, indeed, a 
very efficient ally in the school to us. And in 
personal character he reminds me most of H. S. 


White, \^Iiich is saying a great deal for him, is 
it not? I have not written much history have 
I? The fact is my life is made up of boys, and in 
writing of them I do write of myself. Many 
thanks for that very entertaining ^'Old and 
New." Yours affectionately, 

J. G, C. 

SouTHBOBO, February 14, 1874. 

My deab Uncle Sam: — Your letter came 
safely and by the next mail the pamphlet also, 
for both of which I am much obliged. I too have 
not forgotten our talk together. I wish it had 
been longer, for I asked and said but a small 
fragment of what was in my mind to ask and 
say. Such topics are intensely interesting to talk 
and think of, and you know how boundless is 
the field of investigation. 

As to the line of thought in which our con- 
versation ran, and which your sermon carries 
out, it is a favorite one of mine. Mr. Arnold 
(^ns it up a little, or rather it is the starting- 
point of his theology, though he does not de- 
velop it in such detail as you do. 

That God is a Spirit, and that our concep- 
tions of him grow unconsciously material and 
earthly and need careful watching, I know or 


I feel to be most surely true. Anything, either 
sermon or poem or ritual, even noble act or 
noble word, which may vivify and strengthen 
this spiritual consciousness in us of His Spirit, 
is most precious and welcome. And any dam- 
age or weakening of this God-consciousness 
certainly seems to be the worst calamity that 
can befall one, just as, having this, no calamity 
can be very great or painful. 

So I need not say any more of your pam- 
phlet than that it seemed to help me to that 
for which I am daily struggling, and earns my 
best gratitude. 

I think the fight will be a very long and hard 
one before I reach the perfect communion of 
thought and feeling and life between myself 
and Himself which I must find or die. People 
have said that it is not found in this world. I 
mean to try to get as near as I can, but am yet 
a long way ofif and seem to get on but slowly. 

I hope you are having a good winter. It is 
almost over now, so perhaps I will say instead 
I hope you will have a pleasant spring. I look 
back with more regret on the Cambridge spring 
than any other season. 

Au revoir, from 

Yours truly, J. G. C. 


CASTiNSt Mainb, Auffuti 18» 1874. 

My deab Uncle Sam: — I am gratified to 
discern signs in your letter of a longing for 
Castine. I should like to take you to our old 
cove where the birch tree waves and the clear 
transparent tide invites to the bath. 

''Es lllchelt der Strom 
Er ladet zum Bade/' 

After which very probably our intellects would 
be clear and cool, and I should find it possible 
to tell the opinions and ask the questions I have 
saved for this summer. 

I agree to what you said of Matthew [Ar- 
nold] : but still he did convey to me that very 
notion of God which may not have been in the 
Jehovah of Israel, but he has found somewhere 
and throws into the Bible words. I had a dif- 
ferent notion of God and the Bible when I fin- 
ished his book, and a truer one. This is to me 
the merit of the book. I am not theologian 
enough to decide whether he has given the God 
of Israel truly or colored the representation 
by some notion of his own, not derived from 
the Old Testament. 

To me the part treating of Christ and his 
work was more interesting. I have read "^Ecce 


Homo " down here and should like to talk that 
over with you also. 

You have probably heard of the change in 
my life. I am coming back to Cambridge and 
the living world next winter. What a relief this 
change is to me I did not know until it was fairly 
made and I could sit down and think it over. 
To go back to all my friends, to my college, and 
the society of thoughtful men and women, to 
books and study again will be indeed delight- 

Please come down and see us here and bring 
Aunt Mary. 

Yours affectionately, 

J. G. C. 

Before returning to Cambridge 

Castene, August 27, 1874. 

My dear Mother: — This is an extra letter, 
written because there is a boat to you to-day 
and because I hope to win a birthday letter 
thereby. Next Saturday you will perhaps rec- 
ollect, makes me two and twenty. What an 
age for me to have attained! I ought to begin 
to show if I can amount to anything I am sure. 
"Wasting no tears or vain regrets'* over that 
which is gone, still I do feel as if I might have 


done more, and hope to rise higher in my char- 
acter and works next year and in all successive 
years. I would not have you afraid to write 
your honest feelings to me. What's the use 
of me, if you can't tell me all you know? Some- 
times I like to tell you all my troubles just for 
the sake of "' dragging the pond " to see if there 
is or is not anything really there to be troubled 
about. If there is a bunch of anxieties worry- 
ing youy write them to me and never mind 
about the color of the letter. 

I have written you about the manifold vari- 
ety in uniformity of our days' occupations. The 
fun of all our Castine days is about the same 
at the bottom, the merriment of a dozen^are- 
less, light-hearted people living to enjoy them- 
selves. I am growing rather weary of it at 
times. But there is yet left enough sparkle in 
us to carry us through the week, I guess. And 
there will be sobriety enough next winter. 

Lettebs fbom Germany 

Leipzio, Saxont, July 28, 1878. 

Mt dear Mother: — I went yesterday to 
hear the German service in the Thomas-kirche. 
They hold one on Saturday noon, and have 


there a famous boy choir. Bach led it once 
himself » and it is traditionally a very fine one. 
They sang two motettes, without any organ. 
It is far beyond my power to tell you what a 
wonderful performance it was. The church is 
old, squalid, dusty, and dirty. The congr^a- 
tion, packed in, was equally dirty — mostly 
men that day — workmen apparently, shop- 
keepers, students, etc., stopping in to hear the 
music in their limch hour, and listening with 
the most rapt attention. And there away up in 
the gallery were grouped the bunch of boys 
around the conductor and next to the organ. 
And the sounds they uttered! For smoothness 
and sweetness and finish and perfection of 
shading and of time! I have heard a good deal 
of the orchestral music and of the band music 
already and do not think it so very far ahead of 
our best orchestral work. But the church music 
I have heard is perfectly enchanting. When 
their congregations all sing a choral or a chant, 
it is splendid. At the Pauliner-kirche this 
morning I stopped in on my way to our Eng- 
lish church. I stayed through the sermon and 
heard them sing a splendid Deus misereatur 
after the sermon. I understood most of the ser- 
mon. It was on the' text about being buried 


with Christ in baptism. The Lutheran service 
seems rather more ornate than our Congrega- 
tional form and there is much more music. 

Grermany seems to be like other countries in 
having people who don't go to church and peo- 
ple who do. The Sunday does not differ so very 
much from Sunday as it now appears in Bos- 
ton. Of course the restaurants being all open 
gives some streets a livelier appearance, as they 
are quite numerous. But unless you himt after 
these places, your Sunday is quiet enough. 
The street where I live is very still and there 
are many i>eople who go out to church. Whether 
the majority do or not I don't know. I suppose 
not. The concert rooms are all opened Sunday 
and they give their usual programmes I be- 
lieve. Your affectionate son, 

J. G. Cboswell. 

To Mrs. Oreenleaf 

Leipzig, August 99, 1878. 

My dear Aunt : — I received your letter on 
Tuesday and the Cambridge Press therewith. 
I am glad to learn of the wedding and thought 
John Owens wrote a very pretty poem. You 
have, allow me to say, perfectly acquired the 
art of writing a foreign letter; just exactly what 


I iwant to hear 9 and have no way of hearing — 
where people are, what they are doing, who is 
with you, and so on. Please write just as often 
as you can, and just as lovingly. There is "no 
one to love me" over here and I have to de- 
pend on my letters. My mother has done 
nobly, as a mother would. Where I should have 
been without her I don't know. But next to hers, 
I think most of yours — that is, if you will 
keep on like your last. 

I have moved my dwelling-place since I 
wrote. I have now a much cheaper and much 
better place and have no fears that I shall not 
save money enough for my necessary journeys. 
I only pay now thirty-five dollars a month for 
all my expenses, lodging, food, light, heat, serv- 
ice, and washing. Possibly I may have to pay 
a little more when the University opens. I am 
rather sorry I was entrapped into that other 
boarding-house last month. It was far from 
comfortable and cost me much more; for I 
really had to go out and get something to sup- 
port life beside their meals. However, one must 
pay for his ignorances, I suppose. 

You will see that this is my birthday to-day 
— my six and twentieth, quite an age, is it not? 
The next two or three years I suppose the most 


valuable and critical I shall ever pass; I have 
my fortune almost made; and have only to 
work right on hard to secure it. 

In talking with the students here, I find that 
our University (Harvard, I mean) has facili- 
ties even surpassing Leipzig for the study of 
Natural Science; I think it might be made the 
same in Greek and I should like to try my little 
best to do it. America is so much better a 
country than this in so many ways that I am 
envious of the German reputation of learning 
and would like very much to see our country 
excel. So with the noble ambition of robbing 
Leipzig of all the learning in the place I am 
going into the winter term of the Leipzig Uni- 
versity. I feel more disposed to study just now 
than to travel. I do want to get en rapporf with 
this German at once. I have been doing what 
you recommended, talking freely and badly» 
and find myself going ahead quite well. Soon 
I hope to understand things in general conver- 
sation. Just at present I understand about two 
thirds or three quarters of every sentence. The 
idioms make me much trouble, of course. 

As to my New England character, believe me, 
I hug it to my breast most fondly. There are 
fifty things I do every day which I prize most 


dearly just because they are our ways. I react 
very strongly from Germany, and don't feel 
in the least like becoming a German. I am an 
Israelite in Egypt, ajid am merely here to spoil 
the Egyptians of their jewels and to leave for 
America just as soon as my object is gained. 
You need not have one single suspicion of any 
Germanizing on my part. I am too old a dog, 
anyway, to learn new tricks now. Think of the 
twenty-six years ! 

It strikes me that I ought to write you some 
description of my surroundings, but when I sit 
down and think of home, why, home ideas run 
down the end of my pen, and I forget Leipzig. 
Have you not been here? It is a pretty city. 
The dwelling-houses and outer streets look to 
me as the new streets in Boston might after 
an hundred years of soft-coal smoke. The old, 
inner town is quite antique. The buildings have 
steep red roofs with several stories of little win- 
dows in them, and the streets are exceedingly 
narrow. Then one must notice the martial way 
in which the soldier policemen, firemen, and 
postmen do their various business. The streets 
are full of uniforms. Even the little boys going 
to school carry knapsacks and wear red and 
blue caps. It is a perpetual Fourth of July here. 


One notices also the women, pulling carts and 
carrying enormous baskets, and the dogs har- 
nessed in to help them. The market-places, 
with their booths filled with v^etables, fruit, 
fish, butter, and so on, are very picturesque 
and foreign. So are the chimney-sweeps — 
and the porters and the wagons and the liv- 
eried servants and the carriages. But you 
can imagine much, as an old traveller your- 

If you are near Aunt Anne, give her my best 
love, and take it yourself. From 

Your affectionate nephew, 

J. G. C. 

Leipzio, September 8, 1878. 

Mt dear Mother: — I went again to the 
Lutheran service to-day to hear one of the 
great German preachers — I find they use 
quite a ritual, differing slightly in different 
churches, but retaining quite oddly many very 
Popish practices; e.g., lighted candles and cru- 
cifixes. They have intoned versicles, repeated 
prayers, two lessons from the Bible (he read 
a chapter from Proverbs and one from St. 
Matthew, during which the congregation stood), 
and three or four chorals sung, from the hymn 


book, by the whole congregation led by a boy 
choir perched up in the organ loft, and by four 
trumpets. I cannot describe the magnificence 
of these chorals — waves and rollers of sound, 
sweeping one off his feet up into the air, as the 
breakers on a beach carry off irresistibly the 
chips and weeds. " The soimd of many waters " 
— that is it — it is described for me. And we 
had such a noble sermon — an hour long. The 
text was taken from the Venite — "O come, let 
us sing." He read down to ^^In his hands are 
all the comers of the earth." 

He began by saying that we had just done 
celebrating the festival of our national inde- 
pendence and went on to describe the rejoicing 
going on everywhere; then touched on the loss 
of those who had sacrificed their relatives or 
friends in the good cause, and then said how 
God and he alone had ordered all this great 
national movement, which made Germany one 
again, and put the crown on the Kaiser's brow. 
So for that the Germans owed to the King of 
Kings their thanks. Then he drew out the 
story: how for all joy and peace and plenty for 
all sorrow and pain even, we had Him only to 
thank and praise — how true gratitude must 
express itself outwardly, as the water gushes 


out of the ground irresistibly into brooks and 
rivers, clothing and making fair the earth; but 
how it must be first in the heart of hearts — 
how God's kingdom was within us, but must 
make itself felt without; and if I could only 
have understood more I believe it was one of 
the finest, most spirit-stirring sermons I ever 

Then he said the Lord's Prayer, which is 
very beautiful in Grerman — "Denn Dein ist 
das Reich, und die Kraft, und die Herrlichkeit 
in Ewigkeit. Amen/' 

And then the trumpets pealed and the organ 
rolled and the whole congregation broke out 
with "Nun danket alle Gott," which you can 
find and read in the Hynmal, No. SOS. 

I believe there are some noble souls in Ger- 
many fighting a good fight. I believe that the 
Empire itself is with all its faults an attempt at 
a praiseworthy object — to rescue the German- 
speaking people from its divisions and to make 
it as united and Christian and free as we in 
America would be. I believe that there is a 
deal of courage and patient endeavor among 
their statesmen, and not a little true piety and 
nobility of spirit among their ministers, and 
that the infidelity and carelessness of the many 


and the noisy may be more superficial and 
transient than we generally think. "God with 
us " is on all their coins and I think on many 
hearts. Certainly the churches are filled on 
Sundays with large and apparently devout 
congregations, although probably they don't 
represent the majority of the inhabitants — I 
read that in Berlin, only one person in seven 
goes to church. Still, all the nation does not 
go after Baal; and the strength of it must be in 
the pious few. The old Kaiser himself is a care- 
ful church-goer — and Bismarck is also a be- 

Our dear soldier-boys have just returned 
from their autumn camp, and brought back 
their beautiful bands, which I have missed ex- 
ceedingly. I went last night and took my sup- 
per again in the Bonorand — for the first time 
for a fortnight or more — and heard "William 
Tell," and "Tell's Serenade," and a Strauss 
WalzeTy and some Wagner. You can't imagine 
how well these men play — how sweet the tone 
of their instruments and how nicely balanced, 
and how perfect the time and tune. I shall be 
utterly spoiled for American music — hence- 
forth and forever. 

But I have not yet heard much of the great 


music. I heard the Conservatory orchestra do 
the Egmont music once, and also some Wagner 
and a bit of Rossini. But I am waiting quite im- 
patiently for next month when one can hear 
the big things done. My other artistic recrea- 
tion is in the shape of a season ticket to Del 
Vecchio's Art Exhibition, — a sort of Leip- 
zig Williams and Everett's, — where I enjoy 
myself exceedingly. I find it very pleasant to 
^^drop up'' there after dinner and sit awhile. 
Tell father his pictures are undoubtedly by 
Poussin, and are rather better than the aver- 
age old master — in my opinion. This season 
ticket for the year 1878 cost me fifty cents. 

Leipzig is the most delightfully soothing, 
drowsy place — I 'm almost afraid too lazy a 
place for me. I sleep from ten till seven every 
night, and often nap after dinner also, and don't 
like to work one bit. I ought to study my Ger- 
man harder, but having got where I can vaguely 
understand my neighbors and can, after a 
clumsy and ungrammatical fashion, make my- 
self intelligible, I am disposed to let things 
slide. However, I mean to pluck up this week 
and be good. 

Afternoons we have lovely rows on the river. 


beagDoddealG(BKHKT]]it^<stx. I 

I ksiT seen hndsomer people 

HieihTris usodhrfiDfid ^vidi xidiraloos fisli- 

c iiiiai MT& big P9» in their xd<mb11i&. 

I Jon going to drartli now umI most end i^u 
I win wxite agUA on Wednesday. 

Your loTing and dotifxd 

J. G- C 

Mt dehb ArxT: — I thank toq very mncii 
for yoiir aoooant of the wedding* which was told 
me Tery pleassntty also by AUred thitmi^ my 
mother* I will repeat also my thanks for the 
newspapers whidi yoo have sent me several 
times. Tliey aie v^oy welcome indeed. Iwoold 
letom the complinKnt, if I thought enough of 
the Gennan artide, but the German PH>crs 


are very inferior to ours in every point, and 
are extr^nely crabbed Grerman to read as 

My occupations now are quite as humdrum 
as ever they were at home. So, although my 
friends b^ for interesting letters, and you also 
furnish me with a model epistle of your own, I 
don't find it easy to write them. The small 
things of which life mostly consists go on as 
usual. I breakfast in my own room. This is a 
light meal here, so we students all lunch also 
at eleven off sandwich or bread and sausage. 
At one I dine in a restaurant with some 
friends I have made here. At this meal one 
gets his main subsistence. It consists regularly 
of soup. These soups are much more thinned 
with water and various v^etables than our 
home mhiage. Next we have some cut, off a 
joint, either roasted, which is rarely to be found, 
or what they call "cooked" {gekocht)^ which 
iqspears to be an operation combining roasting 
and boiling and to be very thorough. With this 
they give potato. Next comes a smaller piece 
of different meat, with which goes "compot" 
always. Lastly, pudding and cheese. This 
dinner, which I have described so at length, 
the model on which all dinners that 


I have seen are based. They vary merely in 
quality of food and cooking. 

What I do between meals is nearly as regular 
as my menu. I have regular lectures to hear 
at the University and I am very much inter- 
ested and helped by them. I learn more in a 
day here than in any ten I have ever studied at 
home. It is not merely in the things the pro- 
fessors say, but also in their way of saying 
them, and m the sources of information which 
are disclosed to us. I also try to walk a good 
deal, and am in very good physical trim there- 
from. My German makes haste slowly, and it 
is only by taking a long look backward that I 
can see progress. 

The church here has been going through the 
only too common performance of getting rid 
of the minister. At the request of everybody 
he has resigned. I liked his ministrations well 
enough; but he was accused of various things 
beside dulness; which I presume were all un- 
true. Just now we are "supplied." The gen- 
tleman who did so last Sunday took occasion 
to remark that he hoped we would be kind 
enough to pay merely for his tickets from 
England here, but that the collections were 
too small to do so at present. They are rather 


slender; average about five dollars a Sunday 
with congregations of fifty, seventy-five, or a 
hundred. I account for it by the force of habit 
making Americans put the silver ten groschen 
piece into the plate, because it looks like a ten- 
cent piece. It is really worth, however, only 
about three cents. 

The American Chapel — what the English 
people hare amuse me by calling ""the Dis- 
senters'* — has a social side as well as its serv- 
ice. It gives a little party Monday evening, 
where I have gone once or twice to hear the 
Yankee tongue spoken in its original purity. 
I find many Scotch people there, however, who 
are extremely pleasant, I think **kenny" and 
"canny**; are these the right words? 

I triumph greatly here over the defeat of 
Butler. It was much talked about both in Eng- 
land and Germany, and would have been a 
hard thing to accoimt for if he had won the 
governorship. But I feel that the United States 
have done very creditably in these relations 
and that we can look across the water with a 
good face upon our elder sisters in England, 
Scotland, and Germany still. 

Politics here consist in the main of '* England 
and Afghanistan.** The '"Social-Democrats," 


''Austria and Bosnia,** "the fate of Turkey, ** 
and ''Italia irredenta! ** It is all very interesting 

— a very critical period in the fate of all na- 
tions, and every one feels it here. At home you 
get such bits of telegrams that one can't realize 
how important and great things are impending 
and must occur before the close of the century 

— in modification of territory, of social struc- 
ture, and perhaps of religion, or at least of re- 
ligious arrangements among the nations. I am 
only too glad to feel that we in America are 
safe out of harm's way, except what we do to 

I do hope my friends at home will be half as 
glad to see :qQie again as I shall be to tread once 
more that land of promise. You must assure 
them all of my grateful remembrances, and 
write to me about them. As for yourself I 
need n't and can't say how ferociously loving 
I feel — you dear, kind aimt. There's nothing 
half as strong as family ties, as I wrote to 
mother one day — and I have discovered that 
myself by being so far so much alone. All other 
affections are quite slight affairs beside these. 
So I mean a good deal when I write myself. 
Your affectionate nephew, 

J. G. C* 


Lbpsio, December 99, 1878. 

Mt dsab Fathxb: — This is the last Sunday 
of the year. We had a good service and an ex- 
cellent sermon by our new minister. I took up 
the collection to-day without skipping any one 
— no small task in these irregular aisles and 

Yesterday we had another rainstorm, con- 
sequently the skating is over and done. I 
picked up such an amusing acquaintance last 
night. He sat at the table in a restaurant with 
me, and proved to be a German-American who, 
bom in Leipzig, had served in our war, had then 
gone to Australia for gold, had then gone to 
Cape of Good Hope for diamonds, and now was 
doing nothing for a change in Leipzig. He was 
more American than I, though evidently Ger- 
man, speaking very good English with the Ger- 
man idioms in it, and a very simple creature, 
as the Germans are — easily amused, honest, in- 
dustrious, and stupid I should say they all were. 

Dr. Morgan thinks that the Reformation 
has hurt Germany, whatever its general bene- 
fit to mankind. I might agree that the Germans 
are not very keen spiritually. I find their 
preaching is quite fine, but few go or care much 
about the other world — it seems to me. 


One of my professors, the great Curtius, is a 
"church- warden" in the Kttle Peters-kirche, 
and Professor Overbeck is also an officer of a 
church. My landlady asked me yesterday what 
your profession was. I told her you were a 
"Prediger/* on which she said — Oho! then 
you are of the " Geistlichen Stand " — and she 
seemed much excited over her discovery, and 
wants to get me to go to her church, some sort 
of "Pietists," I think. 

The "Irvingites" have a great church here 
with a wonderful equipment of officials on ranks 
and orders; from what I hear they outdo even 
the Catholics in ritual. 

I suppose you read in the papers of the polit- 
ical movements of this country. They are in- 
teresting to me on the ground and because the 
whole business of government differs from any- 
thing I know. The strain of all forces of the 
body politic is much more intense here. It is 
nearly impossible to feel the same careless 
security that we generally have at home. Three 
days* riding west would take me into the heart 
of France, and four east into that boiling mass 
of forces, Russia. Two days south, or perhaps 
a little more, gets you into Italy; and England 
really casts a shadow into Germany. Fancy 


what it 18 to have such contrary winds con- 
tracted into the little space of Europe. 

Just this winter all other questions seem to 
be subordinate to the money questions. The 
German Empire is awfully behindhand in its 
expenses this year, and Prussia itself is worse 
off than Germany. Russia has had her at- 
tempts to borrow everywhere rejected. No 
Russian loan at any price, say the bankers. 
England, though in the bulk wealthy, seems to 
be having a hard time in certain districts. The 
articles in the Times are doleful enough. The 
manufacturers are all going to die, etc., etc. 
So all the papers are filled with money articles, 
and Bismarck, our paternal curator here, has 
got up a tax on tobacco. It was indignantly re- 
jected by the Prussian Parliament. Now he is 
trying to run over his adversaries as usual, but 
the pipe is dear to the German heart. 

I fed very much puzzled to see what my 
duties are about next year. It appears to me 
that they are now measured entirely by the 
question, "'What settlement in life can you 
get? ** If, then, I can really better my money 
value by staying another year and getting a 
degree, what would you do? If you don't ob- 
ject, I am thinking of applying again for the f el- 


lowship, and then if, when I come home in July, 
I don't want to go back, giving it up and getting 
a job of work with you. Only, perhaps if I ask 
now for a place in Cambridge next fall I might 
surely get it, while if I wait till July, Eliot might 
have made other arrangements. But I feel as 
if I were fizzling out rather to come back for 
good yet, and as if I might be of far higher 
value to you and my home by undergoing a 
very little more self-denial. 

I should n't have proposed it if I thought 
that it would add to your burdens without 
deducting more from them in the end. For I 
really have not one wish of my own, worldly or 
otherwise, except to be as strong a stay to you 
and my sisters as possible. If that can better 
be done by coming home now, — if you have 
not the power, financial or otherwise, to spare 
me a year, or rather to nm the risk of my pro- 
posing to go abroad again when I come home 
in June, — why, I don't care a bit and would 
personally much rather come home and stay. 

Your affectionate son, 

J« G. C. 


To Mrs. OreenleaS 

Bonn, March 9, 1879. 

DsAB Aunt Mart: — I am in excellent 
health and in the full tide of work. This year 
has been very different from last year as re- 
gards work. I have been better able to work, 
and have in Bonn a much more profitable field 
for labor. The subjects specially studied here 
are exactly mine. The professors here are very 
kind to me — as kind as the Cambridge pro- 
fessors used to be. 

I send you a list of the members of the Phil- 
ological Society of which I have been elected 
a member, an honor which brings after it labor 
also> as I have to write an essay on the Fif- 
teenth Idyll of Theocritus in the German 
tongue — and the audience is likely to be a 
very knowing one. 

I have been engaged for the past two months 
in examining some Greek vases also, and it came 
across me the other day that you have in your 
library the rare, and in the German eye very 
desirable, Museo Bourbonico — I shall have 
great pleasure in looking over it with you when 
we get home again, all of us. 

Nights on the Rhine are "perfectly lovely." 
You will remember that from Bonn the Lever 


MountamSy the Drachenfels, and the Tower of 
Roland are all in plain sight and easy distance 
to walk. With the warm spring and our present 
moonlit nights one can enjoy many beautiful 
views. I wish you were here to imderstand the 
full meaning of these words. I'm afraid our 
dear old Cambridge is not yet very far into 

Anna and Mary write me pleasant letters in 
which I perceive they have much to thank 
Aunt Mary for, as well as I. I wish I could find 
good words to tell you how much we feel your 
tender care for us all. I am sure you must know 
what my heart is about it all — without my 
saying — r- and I shall try to do a great deal with 
myself and my opportimities, for I know that 
will please you more than anything else. There 
— if that soimds like a little boy, I am, toward 
you, still and always quite a little boy, and it 
is just that which is the particular tie between 
us, and that which, as far as I am concerned, 
has no other likeness any more on this earth. 
You are the only person now to whom I am able 
to speak that way. I like to do it, — for I al- 
most suspect one is happiest in childhood, — 
and if I am twenty-seven or thirty or fifty, I 
like to feel myself somebody's "boy" with a 


boy's weaknesses and a boy's affections too. 
As to the rest of the world, however, I am get- 
ting grown up, no doubt. I can't realize some- 
times that it is I who am actually doing things 
at a German University which I have looked up 
to other people for doing, but which seem ordi- 
nary enough to me now. I have no doubt it 
wiU end in my taking the degree here, and that 
when that is done I shall still think it is all very 
ordinary, and sigh for fresh fields to conquer. 

Par exemplef I made a long speech in Ger- 
man at a business meeting the other evening. 
When I used to sit on your sofa (I don't know 
but it was on your lap!) and hear you repeat 
*'Kennst du das Land?" I can't say I ever ex- 
pected to make a speech to Germans in Ger- 
many. Did you expect it? 

I can't write yet in detail of when and where 
I shall sail for home. I have yet to hear from 
Eliot. I thought if he distinctly advised an- 
other year, perhaps I had better not hurt my- 
self in his eyes by coming home this summer 
against his wish and advice. But I rather hope 
things may turn out so as to bring me home 
next f alL 

There is one thing which may bring me 
home — something I am very sorry for. I 


think it not at all improbable that there may be 
a war between France and Russia and Germany 
and Austria, very soon. We have war-scares 
nearly every week, and the feeling about one is 
very heated and anxious. It all seems practically 
to depend on Bismarck, and he is acting very 
queerly, and making what are felt to be threat- 
ening preparations. The German army is to 
be greatly increased this year, the French army 
is already half as big again as the German, and 
the Russian is (numerically) twice as big. The 
students here seem to take wars as necessary 
evils, which, if Bismarck chooses to invoke, 
they can do nothing to prevent, and are con- 
sidering where they shall have to serve and 
when. It is all to the American mind horridly 
useless and cruel. I am very glad we have no 
neighbors in America with monstrous armies 
to torment us. 

Well, I must stop here — with my best love. 
I hope you will give my regards to inquiring 
friends — I have not forgotten any of my re- 
lations or friends, not even those to whom I 
never write. I can't write. I have, every hour 
in the day occupied. 

Your affectionate nephew, 

J. G. C. 


P. S. Thanks for the Tribunes. It is like see- 
ing a Cambridge horse-car in Bonn to read one 
of them. 

Letters written avter becgiono Head 
Master of the Brearlbt School 

To the mother of a pupil 

The Brearlet School, 
S East FoRTT-nrrH Street, 1889. 

Mt dear Mrs. B. : — I write merely to say 
that the questions of your daughter's studies 
are still a matter of consideration to me. 

It is very unusual for a teacher to be obliged 
to complain of the readiness of his pupil's work. 
I have never seen a more attractive field for 
culture than your daughter's mind and she feels 
it half consciously herself. Her feeling for that 
which is intellectually good is so prompt, her 
desire to be right and not wrong is so genuine, 
and her instincts so true and so like what I have 
been accustomed always to respect most in my 
own intellectual leaders and companions, that 
I should astonish you, and her, and any third 
person if I said just precisely what I thought, 
and have come to believe about her. 

But these very feelings and instincts may 
betray her into overwork. I am afraid of in- 


definite self-sacrifice on her part for the sake of 
her intellectual life. It is a maxim with me to 
keep back the sudden burst of youth into adult 
lif e, but to try to open the mind as fast as it will 
come open gradually. 

I will write you very soon what my own 
practical conclusion is. 

Very truly yours, 

J. G. Croswbll. 

From a letter to a Brearley graduate 

One thing I do believe. The existence of nice 
good people, fine people, wonderful God-bom 
people. And they all give out and care nought 
for getting. They give without stint and with- 
out reward. 

To a Brearley gradtuxte 
19 Ash Street, Cambbtoge, 1893. 

Dear M. : — The chief difficulty in my proc- 
ess of education for the girls springs up from a 
conviction of mine that the main object of cul- 
ture is not to be reached by any process of the 
scholastic type at all. 

Reflect with me, dear and sympathetic 
friend, upon the universe once more. How 


marvellous is the cosmos; but thrice marvellous 
is this fact in it» that it produces such varying 
effects upon the soul of man contemplating 
it. For instance, to some souls beauty of color 
and beauty of form bring no stimulus to speak 
of. Others suffer a blind and a mute sensation, 
rather agreeable, perhaps; nothing but a very 
dull, formless and lukewarm stirring of the 
nerves. But others react so greatly as to make 
it right to say that what they feel and what 
they do is more beautiful and greater than that 
outer nature itself, which has set them in mo- 
tion. Few of these there are; but there are some. 
There are some people who really get from na- 
ture so powerful and so enchanting a stimulus, 
and who react so strongly and so strangely upon 
nature, as to give me the feeling that they are 
greater in degree than nature herself • Such are 
the great artists. They are of the same source 
as nature, only greater children of the same 

Now, culture seems to emancipate, but never 
to produce such souls. This kind of greatness 
is not to be made. Poeta nasciiur. Now, you 
will laugh at me when I say that I cannot help 
loving the idea of making it. Ever yours, 

J. G. C 


September 8, 1893. 

Deab M.: — Apropos of "downward ca- 
reers " I will tell you a secret. All careers are 
downward — from the point of view of the 
careerer. But some people do accomplish a 
great deal in their "downward " path, of which 
they are not the best judges. You are most cer- 
tainly going to be one of the most eflfective. 
Nothing can prevent you. You will be to many 
what you are to me, for instance — a stimulus, 
an example, and a continual pleasure. 

But will you not enjoy life too? The joy of 
life is worth all its pain. It is victorious over 
its pain. Again and again I have seen people 
triuimph over the shortness, the incomplete- 
ness, the uncertainty, and the failures of their 
lives. And you can do it too. You are that kind 
of a person. Victory is in your accent and your 
looks. ... 

The joy of life! Do you know that since we 
have seen each other I have had the worst vi- 
sion of the pain of this world that I ever saw. • • • 

I don't know why I speak of it to you ex- 
cept that I feel somehow you are sacred with 
the same consecration of high-mindedness and 
self-devotion that these good women have, 
whom I see again and again and again in my 


life. Why have I seen so many? Do all men 
see such things as I do? It is not possible. 

Now, I b^ you to believe that the joy of life 
can vanquish its pain, and to trust in the small 
and large joys. Don't be scared by the vision 
of failure and sorrow. It is nothing. 

I don't know why I lecture you so» except 
because I am so fond of you. I truly am that. 

Yours affectionately, 

J. G. Cboswell. 

March 29, 1901. 

Mt dbab M. : — I have been at the Exhibi- 
tion to-night; and before I go to bed I want to 
have the great pleasure of telling you how we 
enjoyed it. 

But your husband has done the most won- 
derful thing. I am completely overwhelmed. 
It is in a class by itself. Such pictures are not 
painted once in ten years or twenty years 
either. I really look with awe for the next one. 
If he goes on like that, Heaven only knows 
what he will do for us. 

Curiously, too, it seemed to carry back to his 
earlier work. It explains somehow what that 
work intended. He is getting freer expression 
of his own qualities. 


I cursed the light, and I condemned the glass. 
I shall spend my pennies to see it by day. It is 
worth going miles for. Where will it go? 

Well, I fed better; but I can't tell you what 
a joyous tumult of spirit that beautiful, beauti- 
ful thing smites me with. And it certainly does 
point onward to the next. Do take care of that 
man. Yours rei^pectf ully, 

J. 6. Croswell. 

East Gloucesteb, June 22, 1894. 
Dear M: — Leta and I have been drifting 
along the North Shore, like a couple of ships 
that pass in the night, from one house to an- 
other. We have brought up at last in a hostelry 
at Gloucester. — The house is a small boarding- 
house — there are (say) fifteen people at table. 
After our visits with old friends we are now with 
new (and very raw) acquaintances. The new- 
ness of these new acquaintances is somewhat 
tempered by the extreme age of the stories they 
tell each other. Which would you rather have, 
an old friend with a new story, or a new friend 
with an old story? They are all of the female, 
non-voting population except me and another. 
For this reason they do not take any papers 
here, so that I have not seen a New York paper 


for two weeks. I imagine all sorts of wonder- 
ful events; and I rather like the irresponsible 
inactivity of this unfranchised world. 
Affectionately yours, 

J. G. Croswbll. 

Life is death. Death is life. What a maze of 
perplexities we live in. 

You have found a clue — you try to make 
others see it. No one can see your clue; but it 
may cheer up others to hear you talk, and they 
may see each his own, better for hearing you. 

I see my own better, because I have had little 
pupils who have grown up, before my eyes, into 
high-hearted women. 

The world which makes them and makes me 
to love them cannot be meaningless, in the end. 
The God who made you and your husband and 
your children cannot be a cheat. That would 
be too silly even for a madhouse. 

Your affectionate teacher, 

J. G. C. 

August SI, 1894. 

Dear M.: — For one thing you want to 
know how it feeb to be a man. Well, you know 


I have always said that men and women were 
far more alike than they like to believe. Some- 
how our differences interest us so much that it 
amuses and excites us to exaggerate them. It 
always pains me a little to see the fanciful pic- 
tures women and men inf atuatedly draw of each 
other, and especially see women speak of men 
as if they were something greater by divine 
right than themselves. It can't be right to 
imagine an ideal man and bow down to him. 
Some of your sex do; while at the same time 
they play with their idols in a half -humorous 
and superior fashion. Our sex does the same 
to yours. Can't we look forward (we of the 
twentieth century) to a little more comrade- 
ship and a good deal less of this idolizing busi- 

With this preface, I will tell you how a man 
feels. Just imagine the muscle, the digestive 
organs, the bones and the sinews, which you 
have, to be increased in bulk and power about 
one third, while the nervous and sensitive part 
of you is a little diminished in quantity, though 
not in quality. You would then be steadier and 
quieter, less impressionable, less aware of the 
universe in general, more stupid, more inclined 
to work at one thing at a time, and less in- 


terested in your surroimdings from moment to 

You would have fewer possible moods of 
mindy and be fonder of eating and drinking and 
deeping. Your eager and questioning spirit 
would be deadened somewhat — all your feel- 
ings would be deadened, by a sort of damper on 
the wires like a piano. What you did feel would 
probably take the form of action ; but you would 
not, perhaps, do better than you do now, in this 
way, for you have a great deal of creative force 
already. But I think your creative force might 
gain in momentum by having more ''beef " of 
the masculine sort under it. It is rather nerv- 
ous, and comes and goes. Men live on a dead 
level of nerves. 

As to the spiritual aspect of life which an- 
swers to these physical differences, I think a 
man does not feel his manhood much. Certainly 
he doesn't bother about his sovereignty of 
creation. Certainly men have no idea at all that 
they "represent the ultimate." A few Roman 
emperors thought so, and promptly went crazy 
— perhaps in the asylums you may find such 

Above sane men lie the blessed things they 
serve — their work, their country, the happi- 


ness of their wives and children, science, art, 
religion. One would be puzzled to enumerate 
all the things above every man. Let us call it 
**the ideal'* and let us rejoice that every man 
can find things so much better than his ^^ ac- 
tual '* to devote himself to. 

I am touched to the core by women's peti- 
tion to men to be the high priests of the imi- 
verse, to show them something or rather some- 
body to believe in and work for. But why must 
it be so? Is n't it just the same mistake as the 
old blimder of anthropomorphism in religion — 
must a man be the deity of this infinite uni- 

First in childhood we need authority above 
us — then in youth we need affection, worship 
— hero-worship if you will — to stimulate us 
to live happily for some person's sake, or the 
sake of some group of persons. But in adult life 
we come to love persons only for what they rep- 
resent in the world. We old people are so full of 
shortcomings that we can't play hero, or believe 
much in other heroes. 

Dear M., you certainly have the rights of 
youth. You shall have all the heroes you can 
find — God forbid that I should deprive you of 
one, even if it were the figure of myself drawn 


by a too affectionate artist. (How well you do 
draw — and how clever you are in dozens of 
ways.) But time will surely, surely rob you of 
every illusion that rests on any man's qualities. 
Why may I not try to rest your happiness on 
your own power to stand alone and look up to 
the things above us all which no man fully rep- 
resents or exhausts? You feel that you are 
weak; you want to rest on strength greater 
than your own; I want you to know now that 
each of these stronger persons is also weak; 
and that the proper support to your weakness 
is the same support which helps them, the feel- 
ing that you have done what you could do un- 
der the common doom of us all to individual 
failure. Cheerful resignation can defy this 
doom. If you have not yet got it, the only rea- 
son is that you are too full of turbulent youth 
as yet to feel the true answer to your great 
problem — resignation and calm. 

Well, if you are young, that is very nice. If 
you want to be "forced" into the right way, 
that is very nice too. It would be very nice to 
force you. You appeal to every drop of school- 
master's blood in me. You are luring me into 
I know not what lecture, by taking that docile 


Only, you see, the very first thing I want to 
tell you is that you must n't act to win any- 
body's approval, not even mine. You must n't 
have so much passion to stand as anybody 
else's thoughts approve. Your pretence of will- 
ingness to go back to girlhood in order to escape 
the growing-pains of womanhood is just sheer 
naughtiness. You can't be yoimger than you 
are — and I won't ask you to be older than you 
are. Who am I to be helping you? "A miser- 
able sinner," says my church — "There is no 
health in us." 

Shall I try to tell you what men's diflEiculties 
are? They are to keep out of jail, to pay their 
debts, not to make asses of themselves (an- 
ointed jackasses) in their professions, to avoid 
bores, to tell the truth, to get ahead of their 
rivals, to understand the continual riddle of life 
enough to avoid getting eaten by the Sphinx — 
and I suppose at last to die, like men, if possi- 
ble. Blessed are those who are young enough to 
be unhappy about themselves without cause. 

Here is just a comer to end with my love 
and hopes that I may be something to help you, 
both now and always. 

Yours ever, 

J. G. Croswell. 


Lake Placid, 
EasEZ CouNTT, Nbw Yobk, 

September 22, 1894. 

Dear M.: — My r^lution for myself is 
taken : (A) To dismiss the consideration of sex 
almost absolutely in planning for the Brearley 
work, and to leave such considerations as may 
be necessary in dealing with the girlish mind, 
to the teachers who share my tasks with me; 
(B) to plan and work for a more extensive 
co-partnership in "the world's work" between 
men and women; but (C) never to force the 
issue of sex in discussing the world's work — 
and lastly, (D) never to discuss the female sex 
again — with any one whose good opinion I 
value at all — man or woman. 

These are pious resolutions — shall I keep 
them? It depends on you — who have scared 
me into them — and on my own sense, which 
all along has felt that I was floundering horri- 
bly. And it is so dreadful to say untrue things 
about women. 

But I swear again I never meant to accuse 
you of making men "high priests" — I was 
only trying to prevent you from hero-worship 
of men, or women either — quite a diflferent 
idea, but easily coalescing with the other. But 


I am so afraid of hero-worship — it runs so 
easily into calamitous partisanship, or heart- 
break, over one's idols, at last when they are 
foimd out. 
• •••••••• 

I love your letters — and I love them be- 
cause they always bring to my mind that most 
delightful proposition: ^*I am I and you are 
you/' I can't analyze this statement into any- 
thing more worthy of oflfering on friendship's 
altar. It is, however, to my deepest mind one of 
the most delightful facts in the universe. Long 
may it be true I It seems a pretty solid fact, and 
to grow more solid as the years go on to make 
you more and more yourself. Of course I don't 
always have the pleasure of remembering it 
consciously. The cares of the world, and the 
weakness and insufficiency of myself to meet 
these cares, the "row-de-dow" of my thinker, 
which keeps ticking away in my head, like one 
of those horrid telegraph instruments in a rail- 
road station, all sorts of everyday rubbish, and 
the ebb and flow of the tides of life and feeling 
that slip gently in and out of my **ego" all the 
year roimd, are all-confusing and thwarting to 
any view of anything however solid and sure. 
But it is funny, is n't it? that when I guess what 


will be the thing which, on the whole, will make 
up for all this tunnofl, care, and distraction, to 
my mind there always rises the simple propo- 
sition — "I was I and they were they/' This 
joy does n't seem to me a sentiment or even a 
feeling of affection — though I call it so some- 
times. It is an experience — the experience of 
all others. 

I see no objection, however, to adding that 
I do feel inner affection to you in addition, and 
I am Yours truly, 

J. G. Croswell. 

17 West Fobtt-pourth Street. 
Deab M. : — I think my letters are " cheap*' 
— I don't call it cynicism; I call it just cheap 
talk. Hence I tear them up, a good deal. But 
sometimes I send one through to a friend, sim- 
ply to preserve the acquaintance, — to keep 
the line open, — just as they send all sorts of 
stuff through the ^* stock-tickers" in the brok- 
ers' offices merely to "test" the wire. Once in 
a while it is important to have a "quotation." 
Then it is very important. How do you like 
this parable? Please consider my last letter, or 
any letter that you don't like, as just words, and 
wait for a better one. 


About myself, I should think this fact one of 
the very most characteristic traits. Somehow 
I have developed the speech-motor centres in 
my head so that I talk all the time, sleeping and 
waking, instead of seeing, smelling, tasting, 
feeling, or imagining. I cannot ** visualize'' 
anything or remember anything. I am always 
either in a dialogue or a monologue, for often 
the other person, the Non-Ego, fades away 
from my mind, in all my waking moments. 

To state a thing in words does duty in my as- 
piration for feeling it or writing it or believing 
it or seeing it. I am a talker from birth; and 
I have dealt with words — reading at four, and 
writing at six, and never caring for any other 

Why do I not talk better? I can't guess. But 
I fancy that the quality of one's mental activ- 
ity in any kind depends on the tough fibres of 
your brain somehow; though the kind itself de- 
pends on the accidents of heredity and develop- 
ment. At any rate, my talk is cheap enough; I 
have many words, but not very good ones — 
I mean they don't mean much even to me. It 
is like some one whittling shavings all the time, 
rather than carving wood. 

Hence, you see, I don't respect my talk 


enough to write much of it in good faith. For 
example, you and I used to exchange pleasant 
letters (and I hope we always shall) carrying 
no matters of deeper import than our little 
dialogues about your girlish education and girl- 
ish philosophies. Such things are nice» but not 
too heavy for my powers. But when I feel how 
much further along you are now, I have not 
the vocabulary to deal with these matters of 
weight. I can only talk of surface things in your 
present life; in good faith — I can't talk of your 
experiences; I can only guess them; and my 
tongue hesitates or gallops away. 

Of myself this thing is more true. When I 
first came to New York I had a huge hoard of 
unspeakable things in my heart. The simniest 
part of my life was the S. • . • house, where I 
talked fast enough, I dare say, but never of 
these heavy things, which grown-up people 
think of. The little boys and the little girl, too, 
were just what children always are — innocent 
of all things which heat or chill one's speech. I 
told you once your house was like springtime. 
It is still, for that matter, to me. I know your 
people have just such weights to carry on their 
backs and hearts as I do. But I have never 
talked of these things even to your mother 


when I wanted to help her because I do de- 
spise my own talk in the face of "realities/* 

Hence all this paradox that I write you less 
and I see you less and in a way I love you all 
more than I did then. But you understand 
that yourself. 

Perhaps in our old age which you seem to 
think has dawned already (can old age dawn?) 
the events of our lives will grow trivial enough 
to be expressed by my senile garrulity again. 

The main thing, however, is — please don't 
ever be oflfended with the imperfection or in- 
adequacy of my talking activities. I cannot 
express, even to myself, the extent of my per- 
sonal sympathy and interest in you and your 
race and tribe. 

Your affectionate teacher, 

J. G. Croswell. 

Magnolia, Massachusetts, 
May 14, 1895. 

Dear Mother-in-law: — Please believe 
that there is no dearer name than this; and do 
not think it savors of official relations. The fact 
that I am your son-in-law is the dearest of my 
possessions. I take my pen in hand to inform 
you that I am well and I hope this will find you 


the same. I believe in my last letter to you, 
I accepted your kind invitation of May 1, 
1887, to visit you at Chesknoll. Since then I 
have married your younger daughter, and we 
have lived happily ever after. We never were 
happier than we are this summer, never! We 
have both been more benefited than usual by 
our seashore visit. 

Well, it is funny to think of Europe, so near 
as it seems with you and Emma in it. I thought 
I had said good-bye to that hemisphere. But 
now I believe we had better go over once in a 
while all our lives. You shame us with your 
successful voyages, and I can't pretend I am 
too old to go yet. 

We suppose you must be in San Moritz soon 
if not now.^ I think of you much; I hope you 
will not be tried beyond your strength there. 
You have been so good that it would be just 
impertinent in me to say anything more to you 
than to tell you not to forget the living love 
which is going to be yours forever and forever, 
in which all your children bear a part. I hope 
almost that you will stay but a short time at 

^ Mrs. CT08wdl*8 Cather, Mr. Charies Loring Bnioe» died and 
was buried in 1S90 at St. Moritz and Mrs. Brace returned to 
visit the grave in 1895. 


these sad places where you must suffer so much 
in memory. Please for our sakes do the best for 
your own health. It is not good to linger over 
the tomb of the body. 

I don't know why I say these things. For- 
give me if they are not right. 

Yours very affectionately, 

James Croswell-Brace. 

Letters to Mildred Minium ScoU ^ 

*'The soutli winds are quick-witted. 
The schools are sad and slow. 
The masters quite omitted 
The lore we ought to know." (EioatsoN.) 

March 1, 1896. 

Dear Mildred: — I am greatly interested 
in the problem of your degree; and also in the 
wider problems opening out beyond that de- 
gree. The degree question itself looks to me 
simple enough. Of course you will try to take 
it now. You will enjoy the process, on the 
whole, in spite of the examinations. Then, too, 
I think the degree will,' on the whole, be of 
value to you in performing one of your mis- 
sions in the world. 

We shall want your advice and opinion very 

^ .One of ten Brearley girls who entered Bryn Mawr in 1898. 


soon in directing the education of children who 
are coming along after you. Your opinion will 
have weighty especially if unfavorable to any 
of the educational processes of the present day, 
because you have yourself experienced what 
you speak of, and have yourself the voucher 
of the Bryn Mawr degree, that you have sat- 
isfied the requisitions of the modem college 
in fuU, both for good and for evil. 

I do not think the Latin matter insuperable. 
Even if I did in your case ''omit the lore you 
ought to know'' in Latin, it will not be a great 
matter to make it up. If I am of any service 
in choosing books, correcting exercises, or 
setting examinations, please employ me. 

But there is also impending a wider problem 
(I don't know if it is in your thoughts or not) ; 
what the relation of knowledge and degrees 
is to one's living? People sometimes speak as 
if men never had reason to doubt the utility 
of study for their lives, whereas women are 
supposed to doubt it all the time; or rather to 
be perfectly certain that study has no meaning 
at all in a woman's life. A studious woman is 
supposed to be an eccentric woman, to be can- 
did, a somewhat unamiable woman. 

Now, I assure you men have the same prob- 


lems as women. There is a real danger to men 
in the student's life, both from within and 
from without. From without, the dangers fol- 
lowing on a withdrawal from the normal occu- 
pation of man, which is, I suppose, the en- 
deavor to work over the world, in the sweat 
of the brow to produce and to exchange, — 
yes, and to consume joyously and vigorously. 
There are many external dangers. But if one 
withdraws from these things and devotes one's 
self to science, and to knowledge, danger comes 
from without and also from within, either in 
the atrophy of a part of the human spirit and 
force, or in violent reaction against study, 
such as Faust depicts, and such as Emerson 
warns agamst. 

Dear Mildred, I don't want you to be a 
specialized, scientific woman, not even a 
school-teacher. I know what you can do; you 
can do something better than either. You can 
bring a freight of joy to the "sad and slow" 
schools, and not lose any of the south wind 
out of your sails either. 

This is rather oracular, is it not? Well, 
whenever you want to ask, I will tell you what 
I think there is for you to do, in plainer Eng- 
lish. All I want to say now is that I don't 


think you ought to look to further college 
residence or to graduate work; and even if 
you were prevented from taking the degree, 
I should not be much disturbed in the light of 
the wider landscape I see prophetically before 
your feet. 

I wish we might some day have a short talk. 
With love to you and to all the girls. 

Yours faithfully, 

J. G. Cboswell. 

January 11, 1897. 

Dbab Mildred: — I don't know that it is 
at all true that you are likely to overdo physi- 
caUy this winter and spring; but the last bit 
of college life is apt to be stirring to one's 
nerves, and force a dangerous pace on one's 
powers, at least for men. 

You will forgive me if I beg you, now, to 
take all your college ambitions easily. I hope 
I may stand to represent those who are go- 
ing to be in your society in the future, and I 
assure you that there is no caU on our part 
for violent attacks on college prizes on yours. 
Even the loss of an A.B. would not be noticed 
in your other manifest equipments for the 
world's work. But ill-health will be noticeable. 


Don't give yourself the jim-jams, dear lady 
(if you will pardon your anxious schoolmaster 
such an unprofessional expression), in compet- 
ing with anybody for anything, in these last 

You sign yourself my pupil still — so I ven- 
ture this piece of advice. You are my pupil — 
the pupil of an eye could not be more anxiously 
guarded — and I will not endure to see you 
overworked, getting European fellowships, or 
anything else. To what end would you do it? 
Please think lightly of the college I The next 
ten years will be far more important, and 
we want you for that, as fresh as you can be. 
Don't get tired. 

I have so much pleasure in the kind and af- 
fectionate tone of your notes. The thought of 
you happy, and the knowledge of your coming 
into our world again, has been a cheerful re- 
flection this Christmas and New York's sea- 
son, darkened by a great sorrow at home in 
Boston. Indeed, I really value all your happi- 
ness, for my own sake; and I do not wish to see 
it diminished. 

Faithfully yours, 

J. G. Cboswell. 


June, 1896 (England). 

Dear Mildred: — In Oxford last week, as 
I was walking about with one of the Balliol 
tutors, he stopped me before a cross and an old 
well. "Here/' said he, "was Saint Mildred V 

I have not the legend of that Saint; perhaps 
you know it better than I do. I imagine she 
took a First-Class in Political Economy, and 
was martyred by the Saxon Populists, who were 
doubtless numerous in the barbarian centur- 
ies preceding the foundation of Lady Mar- 
garet Hall, Somerville College, and the other 
centres of light at which I have been gaping. 

Would n't you, her namesake, like to retire 
from the frontier settlements like New York 
and Philadelphia (where even now I hear the 
barbarians preparing, not to massacre, but to 
outvote and outtalk your faith 1) and study 
under Saint Mildred's guardianship in that 
peaceful and clever town? How you would 
enjoy the nice Oxford people and how they 
would enjoy youl America won't be fit to live 
in, for three or four years to come, till this silly 
outburst is over. 

But the disadvantage of writing over so 
many miles is that I don't know to whom I am 
writing I You may be full of other interests. 


I don't know what your interests are at all. 
Perhaps you are quite out of conceit with study 
under any auspices. The English schools and 
colleges full of big girls are very interesting to 
me. I am always making comparisons; gen- 
erally rather to the advantage of the English 
arrangements, though never to the disad- 
vantage of the American girls. It will not be 
a surprise to you that I estimate the American 
product highly. I think them the flower of 
creation. This paragraph is making me too 
sentimental. I feel the mcd du pays attacking 
me. I want to be back in the Brearley School 
again. Pray allow me to change the subject at 

When you gave me your benediction last 
May I recollect you were good enough to wish 
us a good time in England. Well, we have had 
a very good time, indeed. I think they do some 
things mighty well in England, don't you? But 
they have n't got any girls who are the flower 
(here the writer breaks down). 

Ever affectionately yours, 

J. G. Croswell. 

P.S. Won't you write me a note to say you 
are well and not studying too hard? 


Sunset, Mains, Ju^ 17, 1898. 

Dear Mildred : — Your last page shall have 
the first acknowledgment; then I will proceed 
backward answering you in detail. 

You know very well whether I do or do not 
remember my little scholar. I certainly did love 
her most devotedly. The remembrance of the 
years of your early girlhood, halfway back to 
my own youth, will be always wonderful. It 
would take your Pater to describe the curious 
beauty of that quaint experience of mine. I 
have never been able to do any justice to it 
myself. I cannot but hope, however, that our 
early relation must always remain a strong in- 
terest for both of us, much more than a delight- 
ful reminiscence. Such ties are rarely made in 
later life and deserve cherishing. May ours in- 
crease forever. 

But I am sure you are hardly justified, in one 
sense, in attributing to me as an individual the 
*'help and defence'' which may perhaps be 
found for you in my friendship and neighbor- 
hood. Let me be plain about this. I think what 
help you get comes more from something I 
represent, which is much bigger than anything 
I can say. Because I love you, I represent the 
call of the human race, which loves you and 


wants you for its various needs. I am going to 
speak especially for the young, younger than 
you, but I could tell you how much that is also 
true of the old. We all want you, I speak for 
the young, I feel for them very much; but I feel 
for the old, who like your society always and 
need you also. 

Is n't this loving call the real source of the 
help I may give? Such a call, the feeling of 
being wanted and needed, has to me a very 
tonic effect; it feels like a "rock and shield." 

Only let one be wanted and needed enough 
and one can go up against anything, even 
Spanish guns. 

Please let my behavior, even more than my 
words, bring you some small idea of how much 
you are wanted everywhere. You won't need 
any other shield in time of trouble than that 
faith. There is no ** defence " equal to a courage 
to attack for those who need you. Specijfically 
the young need you. Come on and fight for 
them. For your own race and nation and so- 
cial order 1 They need you even more than 
other heathen do. Whether you actually qual- 
ify among the regulars, and enlist in the ranks 
of professional workers for the young, or 
whether you take the harder task of those who 


quietly plan, meditate, design, and criticise for 
the young, the young need you. The best you 
can do is not too good. 

Now, I intend, by offering you work in the 
Brearley School, simply to bring you, for a 
short time perhaps, in contact with one side 
of the life of the young. I want you to see that 
school again, with the eyes of a college gradu- 
ate, that school which you have seen as a pu- 
pil. I had not imagined that you could enlist 
as a permanent teacher. I did not depend much 
upon your work, quantitatively considered. 
Next year I thought I should simply ask you to 
take the college preparatory girls in English, 
both Literature and Composition and Rhetoric. 
They are not many. 

I want chiefly to bring your mind to bear 
upon unsettled problems in this new school 
subject. How perplexing the problem is, you 
can guess if I tell you that your own mind is 
probably not more uncertain than everybody 
else's is. — Here I must stop for the moment I 
I will write again in a day or two. 

Ever your affectionate 

J. G. Cboswell. 


July 23, 1898. 

Dear Mildred : — This letter must be full 
of abstract propositions. I don't know that 
abstract propositions are of much value to any 
one but the proposer; but in order to free my 
mindy so that I may be able to work it easily 
for your benefit, I must get off it, sometime, a 
certain amount, rather weight, of philosophi- 
cal reflection about this task of teaching Eng- 
lish, Then I will write a more practical letter 
or two about you and your work. 

Here is my Credo^ in the abstract, about 
"English." I believe that no man ever means 
the same thing in two consecutive sentences of 
educational discussion by the word "English"; 
and that no two people ever mean the same 
thing, at one moment, by that term "Eng- 
lish." It is a most elusive word. But I believe 
that the most usual reference of this word is 
to "English Composition," conceived as a me- 
chanical art, which may be learned like plain 
sewing, brick-laying, handwriting, or such mat- 
ters. In most people's usage "English" con- 
notes a variety of intellectual and ethical 
virtues also. He who can write "English" of 
the above type, well-spelled, rightly punctu- 
ated, "clear" and "good" "EngUsh," ranks 


with good citizens. Some fools do think that 
if they had only been taught ** correct English '* 
in school, they would have been as wise as their 
neighbors in all things in after life. We all 
think we have much to say, if we could find 
words. Also, / believe that another common 
usage of this word in educational discussions 
refers to a totally different matter; that half- 
taught people often group their emotional and 
aesthetic experiences, which have been stirred 
in them, by the magic of ^^ literature," as well 
as by other arts, or by life itself, and vaguely 
define them as '^English"; expecting and hop- 
ing to deepen by ^^ English'' the shallows in 
their own souls and the souls of their progeny, 
not by a patient waiting upon time and the 
hour, but by a hurried ^'Course in English lit- 
erature" or ** French Literature" or what not. 
Of such are the ** Lenten Lecture " — audiences. 
They err by the conmion American error, of 
haste, confusing the outside surfaces of mortal 
experience with the inside; that outer garment 
of phraseology, with which we clothe our life, 
with the inner reality of life itself. Hence the 
wild idea that "culture" may be purchased of 
private tutors in "Art and Literature" as you 
buy gowns of dressmakers before you ** come 


out/' and put them on as if they grew there 
for your first ball. 

I need not expatiate on these things. You 
know New York. But it will interest you to no- 
tice how much this community underestimates 
the time and effort required to learn ^'English 
Composition '' or to do any possible portion of 
"English Literature" in any real way. 

And it will interest you also to note the in- 
cessant confusion on these two different defi- 
nitions of "English'' as a study in schools in 
all educational talk. 

Now, I believey lastly, that the colleges, not 
intentionally, are playing into the hands of the 
Philistines. I want you to note this carefully. 
You seem to me to be on the track in your re- 
mark about Miss — ; . Conceive that Miss 

has a real hold upon the subject, is a 

student by nature and training, has a high ideal 
of the work possible and results attainable in 
studying our great massive English literary 
inheritance. She cannot set other than a 
high standard of work for herself and others. 
Whether she asks for much or little, the point 
of view she takes must be that of a scholar. 

God forbid she should do otherwise. Now, 
let us suppose that she sets this standard for 


work to girls who have had no emotional life 
to speak of » and little of even the scholar's ex- 
perience. What can happen but that they will 
do her work in a false fashion. Hypocrisy, 
affectation, imitative and formal writing, and 
delusive smartness must result. 

I fed very eloquent on this subject. Do, 
dear Mildred, think about it too. What do you 
think must happen to a girl of eighteen who is 
asked to ''state Burke's idea of conciliatory 
concession''? She has never ** conceded" any- 
thing or ''conciliated" anybody, herself 1 In 
her own natural reading, Burke would be put 
aside for other days. 

Or why ask a child to analyze the "Sources 
of Interest" in the Merchant of Venice. It 
would be an abnormal child, who was given to 
translating the sentiments into the form of ab- 
stract propositions. 

It is a vicious habit; I have it myself; but it 
is not good for me. The affectation of it would 
be worse. To tell the truth, I think it likely to 
do more harm than good, to ask children in 
secondary schools to study English Literature 
formally at all; that is, in any form worthy 
of a college test at entrance. Ask your Miss 
Donolly if she has no such dread, as I have, of 


making a rather priggish girl in the process 
of teaching. More anon I Forgive this poor 
weak eflfort. 

Your anxious colleague, 

J. G. Croswell. 

Sunset, Maine, Augtud 7, 1898. 

Dear Mildred : — While you are still con- 
sidering, please let me send you the third letter 
I intended to write before I offered you any- 
thing in the teaching line. 'T is the last! I 
wanted to write a third letter explaining what 
I personally did expect, if you felt that you 
could afford to teach English in the Brearley 

You will have gathered that I expect and 
desire that you should teach a definite thing 
which we will at present call "Rhetoric." This 
ought to cover grammar, spelling, punctuation, 
and certain obvious topics of discussion and 
"rules, '* about the structure of sentences and 
paragraphs, which are almost as much conven- 
tionalities, and consequently almost as teach- 
able, as table-manners are in the nursery. You 
have only to try your girls a little to find plenty 
of room for this kind of teaching in the Brearley 


But I do hope for more, in having you in con- 
tact with the school again. You will have gath- 
ered, if you have read my letters, that I feel 
that ''English Literature'' should not be made 
a subject for study in school. But my objec- 
tion applies only to conscious and formal study 
of classic authors. I see no objection; I see great 
advantages, in a suitable course of reading, with 
you to lead it, provided that it be not overdone. 
By ^'overdone" I mean, if the authors read are 
too difficult; and if there is too much under- 
taken in the way of critical analysis, or too much 
biographical and historical matter added to the 
reading; in short, if it be not too ^^collogiate" 
and academic. 

I would have you help the Brearley toward 
the college standard; but I would have you help 
the colleges toward a just conception of the 
schools, and to an improved standard for them. 

Lastly, I hope for certain unofficial relations 
between you and the children, or rather, some 
of the children. There will be girls in the school 
that you can do little for, except the most 
formal and official task-work. There will be 
others who will catch sight of good things, once 
in a while, through you. These will be the ma- 
jority. Some of them wUl perchance be girls 


of the same type as yourself. They may have 
your vivacious sensibility, and beginnings of 
delicate taste. As far as your own momentum 
carries you toward the good» the beautiful, and 
the true, you will carry them after you. And 
this is an exceedingly great thing to do. 

I have said very little about the question of 
teaching, from your side of the problem. I have 
not the right to discuss that. I represent simply 
an invitation to you to go to work, regardless 
of your own best interests, perhaps. I shall have 
to leave you to settle personal questions. But I 
should perhaps add to what I wrote in my last 
letter that, although the beginning, next year 
offered to you, is rather small in hours and 
salary ($2 X 5 X 80 - $300), yet it is very possi- 
ble that, if you began that way, you might rise 
as far as you cared to devote yourself. But you 
are yet young, and I cannot wholly believe 
that your special work in life is to be school- 

Your affectionate friend, 

J. G. Croswell. 

Sunset, Maine, August 24, 1898. 
Dear Mildred : — It strikes me that I have 
said to you a very large number of farewells in 


the years since 180S when you went off to col- 
lege I A friendship composed exdusively of 
*' Good-byes" is a very remarkable kind of 
friendship. It may be esteemed, perhaps, a 
unique friendship. But then, you and I are 
not commonplace people at alll Are we? And 
one of us is unique. The fact is that I am get- 
ting so inured to this relation with you that 
this one *' Good-bye" I can bear also. In fact, 
this one happens to be full of cheerful aspects. 
What luck for youl Also what luck for Mr. 
and Mrs. Scrymser, and the Mikado alsol 

Do you know your Buddha? The first prin- 
ciple of Buddhism is, I believe, the metaphys- 
ical "Identity of the Self with the World-AU." 
So do not forget, dear, thrice-dear American, 
when you see that "so charming and beauti- 
ful, fairy country," that, in the words of Asoka 
the King to his pupils, that art thou, as good 
as any Japan that ever existed. 

I protest I have said "Good-bye" often 
enough to you. 'T is too forlorn a word. You 
can't make a friendship out of farewells any 
more than one can make sjonphonies go on 
church-bells. And if "Good-bye" is supposed 
to mean separation, nothing could be more 
untrue for us. You will not be really separated 


from us, your friends, countrymen, and lovers, 
not if you do cast half the longitude of the globe 
between us. So I wish you, in the name espe- 
cially of Mr., Mrs., and Master J. G. Croswell, 
a happy journey, and a good time, and a safe 
return to port. But I shall not say " Good-bye " 
for such a trifle as this, from any of us. 

You will not fail to notice that I wrote my 
last letter, and mailed it, two hours before I 
got your telegram. But I have nothing to alter 
in it. I shall merely postpone the matter, for a 
year's reflection, about "English** and "Lit- 

Will you pardon one more venturesome word, 
however? As I think of what I said to you, I 
believe I said one must not "settle** before 
thirty. There is one godlike experience which 
knows no date. Do not ever let me appear to 
include that in my homilies about life to young 

Ever your loving 

J. G. Cboswell. 


To Mrs. Oreenleaf 

Bbown's, Thbes Tunb Hotel, 
DxTBHAM, Augtut 4, 1896.^ 

Dear Aunt Mary : — The recollections of 
our days in Durham are so vivid, as I go about 
here now, that I ought to write you something 
from this spot. Leta and I went to church in 
the cathedral to a beautifully sung service and 
litany this Wednesday morning at 10 o'clock. 
I took her over the choir and eastern chapel and 
the *' Galilee" chapel after service, and then 
we strolled along the river-bank, looking up at 
the great church through the trees. 

This is the only cathedral we have visited. 
All of our time in England in July was spent 
in the country. We visited in Surrey and in 
Somerset and Devon, in Nottingham and in 
Oxford. At the latter place we were staying 
with the Dyers. We had a fine time in Oxford. 
The old and the new are both seen there, to 
great perfection in the old buildings and the 
very young students. Louis Dyer and I re- 
vived our ancient friendships, as we stalked 
about the colleges together. I think him in 
great luck there. He has a delightful house, 

' In 1896 Mr. and Mn. CrosweD made a sommer visit to 
England and Ireland. 


and much congenial society among the pro- 

Of our country visits I think we liked Som- 
ersetshire the best; though our visit at a great 
mansion in Sherwood Forest among the oaks 
was very entrancing. I think these huge Nor- 
man piers and columns of Durham Cathedral 
are like oaks. Don't you remember them? 
How I did go about with you that sunmier; and 
what a lot of cathedrals we got into. 

Well, Durham is just where it was, and where 
it will be for nin^ hundred years more, I dare 
say, and it is, I think, in its rocky majesty the 
most awful of church-buildings. It certamly 
appeals to Americans very deeply. Perhaps we 
are just about where the Normans were in our 

To-night we are going to Bamborough, a 
seaside village on the borders ,of Scotland. 
We expect to linger in this part of the world, 
journeying home through Scotland to Glasgow 
and so to New York. 

I hope you are all well this summer. Leta 
and I send our good wishes to the party at the 

Your affectionate nephew, 

J. G. Croswell. 


To a young friend 

Dbeb Jblm, Jvly 26» 1901. 

Our summer here has been blissful as usual. 
The weather is divine. Day after day simple 
perfection. We hear of heat and moisture; 
we don't half believe. We lie like the Gods of 
Epicurus, on our clouds reclined^ and careless 
of mankind, especially of New Yorkers. 

J. G. C. 

Nxw YoBX» SepUmber 19, 1901. 
Dbab Leta : — This is four o'clock Thursday. 
It is a strange day. It is like Sunday; nothing 
going on in the city, which is covered with 
emblems of mourning. I walked up Broadway 
this morning, to see the curious and historic 
sight. But the most obvious sign of mourn- 
ing was the complete stoppage of life in the 
street. Idle and still men and women, and few 
or no wagons. It all culminated at half-past 
three, when all the cars stopped, and every- 
body stood still, many taking off their hats. 
All sounds ceased. It was an awful silence 
broken only by — what do you think? Chil- 
dren's voices. Out of all that sudden silence of 
all other noise the chatter of children came like 
a baby talking in church. I have never been so 


moved by anything in sublime music as by that 
sudden silence. It gave me creeps. You don't 
know what New York is like when all noise 
stops. What a great tribute to take to the 
silent land with you, McKinley has received. 

I went to Percy Grant's church this morn- 
ing and we heard a very sweet and dignified 
sermon from him and much sweet music. 

I really am almost glad you are not here. It 
is too sad a day for you. I'm sure you could 
not have heard the singing without crying 
hard. Many people were crying to the great, 
rolling sound of the McKinley Hymn as it has 
become our National Hymn to-day. 

Last night the armory band played hymns 
all the evening, ending with the drums and 
fifes and bugles playing "Taps" — the signal 
for the camp to go to sleep. — I wonder if you 
know that weird music. 

Chopin's, Beethoven's, Mendelssohn's Fun- 
eral Marches one hears all the time. 

But there was nothing like that silence after 
all. The bottom fell out of this world. It was 
the Dies Itcb. 


To kis n8ter4nrlaw 

May 80, 1902. 

My deab Emma: — As to the birthday and 
its rites. 

Fifty years is soon over. That's all I feel 
myself. Other people feel various other things 
(as they say) about me. I 'm sure you are also 
very good. I smile and bow, apologetically. 

Whether you have any right to call your 
brother a "landmark** or a "star/* I don*t 
know. If I am a landmark-in-Iaw, I'm rather 
sorry for my family. A "star** would also be 
rather awkward in the house. 

Won*t somebody call me something which 
sounds more like? The Greeks would have 
thought it very unlucky to get so many flatter- 
ing epithets. But I hope the obvious inap- 
plicability of most of my compliments will 
divert ruin for us in time. 

Thanks again for your book. Many thanks 
to you and Mammie for all your love and 

Yours ever, J. G. C. 

Dear Emma : — There are three hallucina- 
tions in this world (at least 8) : — 
. (1) " That somewhere some one is living a life 


that escapes the trivial, the banal, the senseless 
fretting that the rest of us call living." 

(2) "The lovely desert island/' 

(3) '"The delightful distinguished brother- 

Of course, if it is necessary to your existence 
to believe that there is a pot of gold at the foot 
of the rainbow, go on and believe it. 

But don't say I never told you. I feel too 
fond of you to keep still about these dangerous 
illusions, especially the third. 

Yours sincerely, J. G. C. 

To a young friend 

New Yobk, December, 19(M^. 

Dear Ethel: — It is very hard for men to 
convey their affection even when they feel it. 
It is very hard for us to tell each other any- 
thing about feelings. There is a man I love 
and admire. He is a writer. I read every word 
he writes. I love to see his face and his eyes. 
I would do anything for him. And I can't say 
one word to him. He sent me a book of his the 
other day. I wrote him a note. Then I' saw 
him at the Club. He thanked me for it. I 
said, "Not at all." He said, "Don't mention 
it." By that time we felt as if we had lost each 
other forever. We were quite savage. 


No sooner had I sent you that last letter, the 
next day almost, the armory burned up next 
door to us, in the middle of the night. Do you 
remember the armory ? Our house took fire and 
we all had to scamper half-dressed across the 
street. There was a severe snow-storm going 
on at the time; a blessing in disguise, for it 
saved our house. This has not been the only 
disaster, but it may stand for the rest. Day 
before yesterday, for example, the timnd 
caved in, through which our new '^ Rapid 
Transit" cars are going to run under all the 
principal streets in New York. 

I was going by just in time to avoid a whole 
house which fell on the sidewalk where I passed. 
I turned back and saw a cloud of dust and 
brickbats. L. and I are really a pair of luck- 
children ; but " I knock on wood " when I say it. 
New York is full of traps for her children. I do 
not know how long we shall escape. 

And now Denbigh Hall is burned up this 
week. The insurance is sufficient to rebuild. 
But no one can recover the theses which were 
burned. One very valuable thesis was rescued 
by two faculty members at peril of their lives. 

One thing strikes me in all these tragedies, — 
how very inexpressive our American habits of 


speech are; or even habits of feeling. We do not 
feel or think or speak adequately; except in 
moments of dull routine. Let but a very little 
greater situation arise, and we are so timid or 
so dumb as to suggest idiocy. 

What shall become of the higher life if 
America cannot live it? But I don't see any 
help. We never drill for great emergencies 
except a drill in keeping cool and repressing 
emotion. What should you say to the reverse? 
Suppose I drill the Brearley School how to feel 
and speak in the higher levels. Will they do it? 

As thus: — 

9.10-9.80 A.M. Fire drill : how to express warm 
feelings. Hatred as felt by Italians and Irish. 

9.30-10 A.M. How to say good-bye in Ho- 
boken. Farewell gestures. Laughter as an ex- 
pression of sorrow in America. The handker- 
chief as an eiqpression of emotion. 

Sunset, Mainb, AuguH 23, 1903. 

Dear Ethel: — Is n't it curious that litera- 
ture nowhere contains the fabric of a girl's 
dreams. Every other sort of human experience 
pretty much is in the books. 

Old gentlemen, like Horace, young warriors 
and sailors like Homer, have their dreams pre- 


senred. But the young girl, as she comes into 
literature, comes in only as the heroine of some 
man's love-tale, and is treated conventionally 
enough at that. None have written of her, in 
her more self-possessed stages, with truth. No 
one has drawn a girl's soul, poised like a strong- 
winged bird amid the cross-breezes of youth, 
soaring as in sleep over this various, busy world. 
There is a sacredness about youth. As I 
listen to the faint, distant music of my own 
youth, as I listen gratefully to yours, I don't 
see how any one could print and ^^ publish" it. 
Listening to that, I don't want even to hear 
about literature. 

Yours affectionately, 

J. G. Croswell. 

Apnl 24, 1904. 

Dear Ethel: — I should have written you 
at least once this month, but I had German 
measles: to the great delight of New York! I 
don't see the joke myself, but every one else 
does, so I suppose it is funny. 

As to the intellectual life, I am thinking of 
writing a paper on ^^Institutional Teaching of 
the Intellectual Life." Every philosopher, from 
Plato down, has always dreamed of institutions 


to embody on earth the ideals of the upper air. 
Plato proposes, as you remember, perhaps, a 
great reorganization of human society, wherein 
"philosophers" are to govern in the interest 
of the intellect and rearrange the life of man 
from the cradle to the grave. And Plato's 
" Republic " is one of many schemes f or a " City 
of God" on earth. Even the "Church" is, 
strictly speaking, another attempt to embody 
some abstractions of the mind in human living. 
Nowadays we are all planning, not republics 
or churches, but schools, colleges, imiversities, 
to embody in tabular views and curriculums, 
in classes, in laboratories and dormitories 
(dormitories more than laboratories), the ex* 
periences of the intellectual life. We are all 
inventing institutions to contain the best ex- 
periences of hiunanity and to exclude the in- 
ferior intellects. Doubtless it is true that such 
institutions must be. Consider the public in- 
stitution of marriage, for example. Where 
would the human race be without that great 
fortress of the soul to protect some of our best 
possessions? Consider the Church especially 
of the Middle Ages. Consider the States of 
modem Europe. Consider our own Republic. 
All are outward embodiments of Ideas. 


Deab Ethel: — I consider "Culture and 
Anarchy ** the most entertaining book in Eng- 
lish. The smooth style, with the neat malice, and 
the delectable arrogance of threatening the 
whole population of the British Isles with ep- 
ithets, as if they were all books to be reviewed 
by Matthew Arnold, always charmed me. There 
is something to it all, of course. But the best 
thing Arnold taught me, in this and other books, 
seems to me, after all, not to be this critical 
attitude, this devotion to standards of perfec- 
tion, in books and men, so much as the endur- 
ing recollection that I must take all people for 
what they are worth, each in his own degree. 
This cured my youthful severity. Boys are 
so severe. I learned, therefore, to take even 
Matthew Arnold only for what he is worth, 
with a gentler affection rather than with an 
exacting hero-worship — or critical hostility. 

You express the idea yourself in your stric- 
tures upon Matthew A. I plead for him by 
saying that he includes your doctrine of human 
sympathy in his doctrine that everybody has a 
fatal weakness somewhere. 

No poet, no hero, no saint ever knew his own 
meaning. No artist ever gets a view of himself. 
How funny artists and poets are. Sometimes 


they behave like idiots even when they are 
great. The conscious self, trained to conscious 
thought, is, I am told, still but a parvenu in the 
universe, uneasy, arrogant, ill-mannered, and 
exacting, as all parvenus are. It is only a few 
million years since there has been any conscious 
soul on earth at all. It is a novelty. 

But the unconscious self is as old as eternity, 
and as well-poised and sure of its ^^ meaning'' 
as an old nobleman of the most ancien regime. 

Now all "education," "culture," "literary 
work," and much of our philosophizing belongs 
to the conscious self. 

December 25» 1908. 

Dear Ethel: — ^Your gift arrived Christ- 
mas Day while I was at church. I have a 
superstition about Communion — Christmas. 
You know the " Sursum Corda " : " lift up your 
hearts." That is the oldest thing in any church 
service anywhere. Do you remember Pater's 
"Marius the Epicurean"? Do you remember 
the Christians therein? When we reach that 
place, I always lift up my heart in annual 
thanksgiving to my Maker, not for making me, 
but for making those I love. A beautiful troop 
they have been — enough to reconcile one to 


any hardships of life. Some are alive and some 
are not; but I see them all there, svb specie 
aternUaiiSy in the light of Eternity. 

This is a secret of mine, but I suppose it hap- 
pens to many other people. 

Meanwhile, I send you my love, as mortab 
may; and many happy New Years before 
Eternity begins, to you and yours. 
Your affectionate friend, 

J. 6. Cboswell. 

To Margaret Hobart 

Deeb Isle, Maine, June SO, 1906. 

Dear Margabet: — I want to write you a 
word of special praise for your record at Bryn 
Mawr. Of course such things are not the only 
thing one works for. But such recognition of 
one's work is very pleasant too. 

The school is much obliged for the laurels 
you have won us. 

Your affectionate teacher, 

J. G. Croswell. 

Deeb Isle, Maine, June 22, 1907. 
Dear Margaret: — I have your marks and 
I congratulate you very much. Let me give 
you a farewell word of approval for your good 


work in the school. I hope you will enjoy the 
oolite and will profit from all that happens to 
you there. I still think, though there is a good 
deal too much said about the greatness of col- 
lege, there is no other experience so profitable 
to the higher life of men and women at your age. 
So I give you my blessing and I put you in 
my prayers. Your affectionate teacher, 

J. G. Croswell. 

Deer Isle, Maine, September S, 1907. 

Dear Margaret: — I don't think I ever 
told you how much obliged I was for that long 
letter about your work. It was capital and it 
will help me very much. I think it goes to show 
that the preparation for college is somewhat too 
onerous. The "margin of safety" is too small 
as they say of bridges. 

I blush to be certifying the moral character 
of any Brearley girl. The idea of Miss Thomas's 
asking and me professing to vouch for you, we 
whose characters need redemption ourselves. 
I feel like Dean Colet when he looked at the 
boys of his St. Paul's School, "lift up your 
little hands for me, O Brearley girls." 
Your affectionate teacher, 

J. G. Croswell. 


WriUm after the deaUi of Rosanumd Hobart^ on 

July 16, 1908 

July 19, 1906. 

Mt dear, dear Margaret: — My heart 
is deeply grieved — not for Rosamond, who is 
safe, but for you. O may God help you all. It 
is not for me to touch the hem of her garment. 
I hardly dare to speak of the deep and sweet 
thing that has happened to her. But you judge 
well when you say I loved her. That she should 
suffer pain, and be taken away in this sudden 
darkness from our eyes, b to me, as it is to you, 
a lifelong sorrow. How deep is this sorrow! 
! May she rest in peace, and be as she has been, 
a token of God's love in our lives. Perhaps that 
will help you to bear your sorrow. I have had 
all kinds of losses in this life. My life has been 
full of horrible grief . The thing that has helped 
me to live most of all was the love of children 
— my love for them and the hope of their love 
for me. So I can share with you in the sense of 
loss when this dear child is no longer here. None 
of all my flock were sweeter and dearer than 
she. I looked forward to the nearer intimacy 
with her I expected next year. It will make 
a great difference to us all — a great differ- 


God bless and strengthen you, dear Mar- 
garet. I can send no message to your mother 
and father. But you will be good to them and 
help each other. Thank you, dear, for writing 
to me. Your affectionate teacher, 

J. 6. Cboswell. 

Deer IsiiB, Maine, August 7, 1908. 

Dear Mabgaret: — Our private grief will 
not yield. Beautiful is her life, and beautiful 
is her death, with the rays of morning on her I 
But indeed, dear, I know how little that all 
helps the sense of loss. That sense of loss! 
It will not go. It seems incurable and intol- 
erable. I can only tell you that all human be- 
ings have it to bear. We all know cM these 
feelings. Some of us will share even this sense 
of loss, not so heavily as you, but as surely, 
when we look for her in vain. 

Think of your mother and father and your 
brother. Think, as you are thinking most 
justly, of the swift passage of life which will 
bring restoration of even this loss. Think of 
work and duty. Think of love triumphant over 
all things, before whom even Death cowers. 

I do not have to tell you of the mystical 
channels of strength which you have foimd 


before this. They are more real than this 
apparent loss. Bear it and rejoice with her. 

Her and your affectionate and grieving 
teacher, J. 6. Croswell. 

To Miss Rhoades 

17 West Fobtt-fourth Strbbt^ 
Augusi 13, 1909. 

Dear Katherine: — It is dear of you, the 
artist, to write to me, in the midst of the 
business. Please ask Marion to let me see her 
handwriting also sometime. 

I think your remarks about Biddef ord most 
just, and it delights my soul to have Maine so 
understood. You ought to see the eastward 
Maine also. Casco Bay, the Kennebec and 
Sheepscot Rivers, and the Penobscot coimtry, 
with Bar Harbor and Mount Desert, would 
make a nice country to paint. If it is i>ossible 
for you to go East this summer, let us know and 
we will steer you, and if you condescend we 
will delightfully entertain you while here in the 

I shall be so glad to see your ^'results'' in 
New York — and so will Leta. There is great 
charm for me in your work; I trust it is an 
'^educative taste " of mine, that the whole world 


will share soon. But the slopes of Parnassus 
are long and steep; and may be you will have 
to paint unrecognized for many months yet. 

Some day the Biddeford people will i>oint 
you out as you go by, "There she goes I** Per- 
haps the papers will put you into the Simday 
Edition, among the Brearley CoimtessesI 
With much love, your admiring 

"Mb. Croswell." 

September 7, 1909. 

Dear Katherine: — Here is the answer to 
your charming note. I would n't lecture to the 
whole world on Psychology: not on my life. 
But if you and Marion, or Marion and you, or 
you without Marion, or Marion without you, 
or Marion and you, or you and Marion, with 
any other two or three Brearley girls you hap- 
pened to know, would invite me to talk in- 
formaUy^ to superintend your study, or to do 
anything spontaneous about Psychology next 
winter, I'd love to do that. By spontaneoiiSy 
I mean without any sort of schedule or adver- 
tising or promise to any one else. 

My first remark would be that Psychology, 
if it means anything, merely means to take a 
scientific gaze at the inner spiritual world. But 


I don't care to do that with all comers. For 
though science is open to all corners^ yet I am 
not scientific; and though the world of the 
spirit is doubtless open to all Spirits (or 
Psyches) 9 yet it also doses, as violently as the 
gates of Paradise, to unworthy steps, even if 
they be scientific. Now my only claim to step 
into that world, much less to discuss its ge- 
ography, seems to me to be my personal rela- 
tions to you two and such as you. 

Your affectionate teacher, 

J. 6. Cboswell. 

To a young friend: not a Brearley girl 

FAfuary 6» 1910. 

Deab Ethel: — As to your own gay occu- 
pations, pray do not forget that there is a brief 
time in all lives which seems to be devoted by 
Heaven simply to embroidering and conferring 
on spectators the brightness of what is called 
"good times." 

How sad a world it would be without the 
good times of such as have good times. Figure 
it. No dawn to days, no spring to years, no 
buds to flowers, no brooks to rivers, no morning 
glory to anything. It were wicked of you to 
say anything disrespectful of your happy girl's 


winter. I am so pleased with your tone. You 
must not even say it is a "self-centred" life. 
The very first condition of the pleasure any 
spectator takes, in any work of art, is that it 
should be a self-centred whole, inaccessible to 
outside interruption and leading to nothing 
" higher.'* Hence the frame to pictures, and the 
footlights to operas, and the bars to music, and 
the gates to temples. 

Don't think that your friends, relatives, ac- 
quaintances, and all the rest, are not affec- 
tionately devoted, because for a few years now 
you are left to be "self-centred" and a little 
alone. We are spectators of one of the most 
beautiful spectacles on earth. I am, dear Miss 

, for myself and all mine, an admiring 

spectator. Faithfully yours, 

J. G. Cbosweuli. 

To a Brearley girl 

The Brearley Schooi^ 

17 West Forty-fourth Street, 

April 21, 1910. 

Dear E. : — I enclose an official note from 
the Directors trying to tell you of their feelings 
of regret and gratitude. As to my own feelings 
I will not try. like a father, I have always 


thought you a most remarkable child I I have 
gained in watching your growth and your de- 
pendence on me just what fathers gain of their 
children, courage and strength to go on with 
life. That is what children give their elders. 
That I certainly owed you again and again. 
What else you have given, though it is much, 
does not equal that. And that I can never lose. 
It is part of my life's unalterable good. 

You don't know this; and you need not. 
What people do of good in this world is so 
woven with their own natures that they seldom 
can see it in any detached and contemplative 
fashion. So perhaps I had best leave all this 
unsaid because my thought borders on the im- 
speakable things that cannot pass from one 
generation to another. Certainly I should be 
very sorry to give you the feeling that I was 
''making a speech" on the occasion of your 
resignation. One position you can never resign. 
I decline to state what that position is; but it 
enables me to sign myself 

Your affectionate teacher, 

J. G. Croswell. 


To Miss Rhoades 
DsEB Isle, Maine, Attgust 8, 1010. 

Dear Kathebine: — Your two pleasant let- 
ters are here, and I am very grateful, though 
you may not think it of me. It is one of the 
pleasantest thoughts I have, the recollections of 
Katherine. Anybody would like to get a letter 
of hers, I am sure. Then I loved Venice greatly 
in my time too. I like to hear of it. I can't 
speak of Wiesbaden, not having reached as yet 
the Wiesbaden chapters of my life. Perhaps 
next simimer. 

I shall approve of your stay in Europe, as I 
suppose all of us must approve if we have to. 
Certainly I do wish you to go forward with your 
painting, even at the cost of your absence. 

French also is handy to have in the house; 
you can't have too much. And I think talking 
and writing French is good for one's English. 
Wriie me a French post-^ard. I, too, have al- 
wajrs wanted to talk French. Did n't I ever 
tell you my three secret wishes? (1) To write 
one good sonnet. (2) To talk, one houvy French 
with a perfect style and accent. (3) To be an 
Opera Tenor, right in the limelight, for one 
evening only. I could n't stand more than one 
of each. But I should like to try one, by way of 


vacation from the artless and clumsy. '* Don't 
you think it is a splendid idea?" 

Is Italy the land of everything tremendous 
still? It used to be, but I am told that in fifty 
years more the Italians will all be over here, in 
search of an American livelihood. Wouldn't 
it be a joke if Italy were always full of Ameri- 
cans on vacations, all supported there by the 
labor of Italians in America? 

Indeed, you are not "dumb** or "jwwer- 
less," young lady. I don't think many of us 
make any more effect, in a room full of hu- 
mans, or in a quiet comer, either.. What would 
you have? 

You girls are intricate enough for any pur- 
I>ose; and yet simple enough to make the larger 
effects which are, after all, what count most. 
Why do you want to get ink on your fingers? 
I would n't have you a "writer." 

Speaking of effects, why do our countrymen 
like small, spotty variety and variegation in 
art, so much? Is this taste for variety connected 
with our love of speedy motion? It is not good 
taste. Not even the Star Spangledest Yankee 
could prove that. The greatest lesson I got 
from Europe was the other experience of mass 
and simplicity and repose and composition. 


which old and mediseval Europe had. Perhaps 
modem Europe is losing it now. 

I hope your foot is well; and your head and 
heart are in good order, as usual, too. I do not 
speak of your cunning artist's hand again, 
though that has my prayers, even more, for its 

Maine and Mrs. Croswell never were better. 
We are all well and happy. 

I thank you again for your nice letters. 
Please give Mrs. Rhoades my kindest remem- 
brances. Yours affectionately, 

J. G. Cboswell. 

To his sister-in-lawy Mrs. Donaldson 

September 6, 1910. 

DeabEmma: — No joy lever had on my 
birthday made me so happy as this! It is 
most sisterly; also brotherly, to think of it. I 
never dreamed of possessing a Max. and Min. 
Copper Thermometer all my own I Alas I If I 
could only live fifty years longer I 

Tell Harry from me that this thermometer 
is living a double life, however, at present, giv- 
ing a different report at each end of it of the 
state of the weather. Is this a gentle satire on 
human opinions? The Optimist reports maxi- 


mum; the Pessimist minimum temperature. 
Even so — but why pursue the personality? 

I will tell you something you know already. 
Harry is alone worth all the rest of us put to- 
gether — all your family and mine! I am sure 
of this. It is a calm, scientific statement, based 
upon careful observations, checked off by maxi- 
mum and minimum temperature reports. 
Your affectionate brother, 

J. 6. C. 

To Judge Robert OrarU 

The Bbearlet School, 

17 West Fobtt-foubth Street, 

May 9, 1911. 

Deab Robert: — I hope I told you how 
much pleasure and profit I derived from your 
kindness; and I trust I did not bore you too 
much with my own affairs. 

It always is a singular joy I derive from your 
conversation; and it is not too much to say 
that you mean a great deal more to me than 
most men, in memory, in imagination, and in 
a fond, delusive hope that I too may do some- 
thing for you some day. 

I 'm sure you would tell me if I could. 

Boston is full of nice people. I appreciate 


all they are, deeply. Perhaps I do all the more 
because I am so thoroughly exiled and trans- 
planted now. 

If you ever come> please let me know when 
you are in New York. 

Your affectionate classmate, 

J. 6. Cboswell. 

17 West Fortt-fourth Street, 
May 30, 1911. 

Deab Katherine: — This is just a word to 
tell you: — 

(1) That I got your French letter with ex- 
treme joy. " Quel bonheur igstrame pour moy," 
as James Yellowplush, Esq., remarks. But I 
think I had best not correspond with any 
Parisienne in that language for fear of conse- 

(2) That I thank you deeply also for your 
nice letter of April 27, Which I have kept on 
my desk to look at and now to answer. 

As to the flights which the Brearley may take, 
nobody can guess what she may not do. But 
we will all try to love the new Brearley. How 
New York does love novelty I Everybody keeps 
congratulating me as if it was a piece of ex- 
quisite good fortune to be obliged to move out 


of our house. Is it? Do you know I really be- 
lieve, if a comet appeared in the sky bearing 
a sign, ** This Universe is to he under New Man- 
agementl** that the New York people would all 
be delighted, and proceed to get front seats 
at the new show. We are all moving, all the 
time, churches, schools, banks, theatres, hotels, 
houses, everybody. 

How are all my Parisian Brearley? Is Marion 
getting on? I hear of her now and then. I wish 
I could see your ** chiefs of work." Have you 
done a lot? I admire your work. 

Come back some time to Mr. Croswell and 
the Brearley. 

Your affectionate teacher, 

J. 6. CrosweIiL. 

To John Jay Chapman 
Deer Islb, Maike, September 6, 1011. 

Mt deab Chapman: — You set the music 
going in me always, though I am no more than 
a Victor phonograph, which merely returns the 
melody photographed upon it beforehand. I 
think you are my favorite author nowadays; 
I can't criticise you I 

D ^n C.I It makes me mad to have you 

praise him. He is n't in the class with you at 


all. Anybody can do that! You play the real 
lyre few can touch. 

Your grateful listener, 

J. G. Croswell. 

December 31, 1911. 

Dear Dr. Slattbry: — This is from two 
parishioners to wish you a Happy New Year. 
We love Grace Chiu-ch: we loved Dr. Hunting- 
ton: we have been ready to love him who so 
gallantly picks up the work and goes on with 
it and with us. 

But to-day we have more to say. You 
walked into the heart of the congregation to- 
day yourself with your straight talk about the 
ministry. We all heard a man*s voice, and we 
shall not forget. 

I am a school-teacher, as I dare say you 
know; so I know something of the diflBculty of 
supporting the inner life with outward means. 
A school is an attempt to give culture, an inner 
experience of the soul, the help of institutional 
support in the outer world. But if that job is 
hard, what a great task is yours! 

Please let us say we thank you for com- 
ing to Grace Church, and we thank you for 
telling us and showing us what a ^^minister'' 


is, which you translate so effectively deed for 

Your friends and parishioners, 
James Cboswell and Leta^ Cboswell. 

Gracb Chubch Rbctobt, 

804 Broadway, New York, 

January 1, 1012. 

Dear Dr. and Mrs. Croswell: — Your 
letter was a beautiful New Year's greeting, and 
I thank you for it more than I can tell you. 
I was afraid the sermon might have been too 
personal, and your words are a great comfort. 

You can hardly know what a help you have 
both been to me. As I have looked towards 
your pew each Simday I have felt the security 
of your imderstanding and sympathy. That is 
the sort of help which makes the ministry the 
glad thing it is. 

Besides, I have known you years and years 
before you ever heard of me. It was one of my 
college regrets that you had gone from Har- 
vard when I reached Cambridge. Then one 
summer I began to know Mrs. Brace. And al- 
ways I seem to have heard glowing accoimts 
from your pupils. So when I came to New York 
and found you to be part of Grace Church, I 


was very glad. And ever since, in various ways 
which you little suspect, yoiur kindness has 
stayed me. 

And now comes this crowning act of your 
goodness — this generous letter. I should 
value it in itself, but its chief value is that it 
comes from both of you. I shall keep it by me, 
and read it over time and again, — and bless 
you every time I 

I long ago gave you my affection; that I now 
have yours is a very solid happiness to me. 

I do thank you; and I am 

Your grateful friend and parson, 

Chables Lewis Slattebt. 

The Brearlet School, 

17 West Forty-fourth Street, 

May 9, 191S. 

Deab Chapman: — My piece satisfied me 
very little. I felt as if I were patronizing my 
betters all the time. And the misprints, due 
to my bad handwriting and hasty work, make 
pretty queer English of it. Some day I may 
send you a correct version? It was better before 
it got printed. 

But all's well that ends well; so if you un- 
derstand a little better what sort of a creature 


you really are, I am glad to be able to tell you, 
and such other people as will listen, as well as 
I can, the truth about you. 

I am never mistaken! When I feel in my 
bones certain feelings, I am as good as the Del- 
phic Oracle. And I do feel in my bones that 
you are going to receive a great gift from the 
Muses before you finish your career. May I 
be there to see it! 

Yours faithfully, 

J. 6. Croswell. 

Thb Bbeablet School* 

17 West Fobtt-foubth Street, 

WhUsunday, May 26, 10112. 

Deab Chapman: — I sent back to Barry- 
town, May 17th, all the manuscripts you let me 
have to read. 

Well! There are those of us who love your 
way of saying things. I'm not sure that you 
are not absolutely my ''favorite author'' at 

But there is much more I could say than that. 
The drift of your thinking along in the twilight 
of political and other philosophies of our time, 
so anxious to us all, excites me. You seem to me 
to be sailing where the deep tides run; fishing 


in the deepest water. Sometimes you get a 
fish; sometimes he gets off again; but they are 
great fish always, even if you only get them up 
to the top, and not quite into the boat. I feel 
like a disciple on shore watching Peter making 
miraculous draughts. The Lord be with you I 
I wish I could talk with you about that Phi 
Beta thing. It's very good, though I don't be- 
lieve much in the oppression of the Classics 
by the Modernists. I think the Classics have 
been sold out by their own possessors and pro- 
fessors. Ever yours gratefully, 

J. G. Croswell. 

To Mr. Chapman 

Thb Breablet School, 

eO East Sixtt-fibst Street, 

November 27, 1912. 

Dear Monitor: — Not even if you are a 
child of light yourself, do you yet guess the 
truth about my children of the Brearley illumi- 
nation. Come up in the morning and see them. 
You will see not only the instruments then> but 
also the tortures — and you will see that the 
children tread securely on the lion and the 
adder, and suffer none at all of the things you 
would suffer in their place. 


Don't you know that a young virgin can 
tame the fiercest beasts — even a school- 
teacherl We fawn upon them. 

Yours always, 

J. 6. Cboswell. 

Ths Brearlet School, 
60 East Sixtt-fibst Sthebt, 
OnrcE OF THE Head Master, 
December 22, 1912. 

Dear Chapbian: — The Eliot piece is great. 
It is too big to launch in any shallow water. 
Make it a " Dreadnaught '' and keep it building 
a while. 

I wept as I read the Dyer part. That alone is 
a precious jewel. Don*t lose it I 

I must say again, you are truly my favorite 
author, of all men alive. I watch you, like 
a boy with his mouth open watching a ship- 
builder. Golly! How the chips do fly! I fed 
a warm and happy glow, as I lay down the man- 
uscript to return to Martin, the joy of seeing a 
master-workman working. It's glorious. 

Yours ever, 

J. 6. Cbosweui. 


Thb BREABiiinr School, 
dO East Sixtt-fibst Stbeet» 
AprU 28, 1913. 

Dear Chapbian : — Your criticism of Eng- 
lish (British) translation work is very just. 
Translation is a cursed treachery to original 
work, always. I hate translations; they are all 
alike, except King Jameses Bible. I have always 
ieltW^eymimg&Historyqf English Translation 
from Greeky tracing for example Plutarch*s 
various adventures in English from Thomas 
North to Professor Goodwin. 

The British do use phrases from King James's 
Bible to give a British meaning to Plato — to 
get some ^"life" into it. It is a sin, I know. But 
is this a worse sin than their use of cold, pallid, 
eighteenth-century English prose, full of the 
Sam Johnson dassicality, like the English of 
the American Pulpit, to translate Plato? AU of 
Bohn's Translations are just like plaster casts; 
not marble at all. I prefer the other error if we 
must choose. It is awfully funny to compare 
Plato and Jowett. Yoiurs, 

J. G. C. 

Deer Isle, Maine, August 26, 1913. 
Deab Chapman: — Yes, I received your 
Garrison (to my mind, your high-water mark. 


80 far) ; ako your Greek animadversions. Now 
your friendly note comes to reproach me! All 
this makes me ashamed of my silence. But 
it is the silence of appreciation and respect for 
yoiur work. I don't like to break it, such a 
silence, with mere laudations of your work, but 
I should like to have a chattering hour with 
you to talk of your doings and feelings about 
Greek. We mean to come over, but it is just 
too far to be easy. We have had already two 
drownings while visiting you. A third seems 
dangerous. Perhaps you have a more powerful 
car than ours to skim the waves with. I'm sure 
Poseidon would lend you one 1 1 I seem to see 
you in full swing: — 

B^ S^ikdav ifjl kv/uit^ 
draXke Be K'qre vrr* airrov 

Not only the porpoises and jelly fish would 
exult beneath you, but also the Croswells' 
wharf and dock and kelps, if you came. In- 
deed I rejoice at yoiur doings with Greek. I 
don't care how many translations you read. 
You are always right on the scent of the Greek 
original. I feel sure that Aristophanes would 
have loved you (and put you into a play, prob- 
ably); I feel sure that he would have laughed 


at you and loved you. But he would not have 
laughed at me and others. He would n't have 
thought about us at all by name. He would 
have described us in the Parabasis of a play 
called "The Fishes"; "How they go in 
schools"; or some such thing. He, too, dis- 
liked the long, windy misery of Euripides as 
you do; the "feeble side of Greek culture" he 
called it. The speeches and the talkee-talkee he 
disliked. But I always used to wonder why he 
did n't enjoy the good part of Euripides. I sup- 
pose, being a Greek of Athens, he felt the deadly 
error of Euripides* rhetorical self-indulgences, 
as an artist does (as you do), but with more 
sorrow and alarm. So Aristophanes could n't 
stop to talk about Euripides' virtues, he was 
always shouting, **Fire — Athens is on fire.** 
Bad taste was worse than fire in Athens. It 
finally destroyed her. Aristophanes believed 
it. But though Aristophanes might call Eu- 
ripides "bad poet," I never felt that 7 could. 
Euripides is so big in this great part; so true 
to his Art; so prophetic of later drama, that 
you and I may well be awe-stricken and "shut 
up," as you say, all criticism. There is (of 
course) no one like Aristophanes. Where do 
these people come from? What divine voice 


is there somewhere to explain such echoes as 
these? — of Euripides and Aristophanes? Aris- 
tophanes is the bigger Poet. He is n't half ap- 
preciated. The trouble is plainly that he canH 
be Tpvt into "" English Translations.'' So there 
you are. Euripides can be translated pretty 

I had a good laugh over your Theseus, danm- 
ing the fool-son. Let me tell you Channing's 
immortal remark, **The thing which makes the 
world move forward, is the fact that fathers 
cannot make their sons do what they want 
them to." 

But dear me! How lovely that Greek danm- 
ing is, how gracious and how cutting I Do send 
me your essay — I am not at all opposed to 
yoiur idea. An English translation is, perhaps, 
never anything better than a"Conmientary" 
on the Greek text. But one can use them. You 
know what a conmientary is. Alas I We need 
lots of comment books in the dead tongues. I 
use translations all the time. I'm not at all 
above them. God forbid I should say such a 
thing. The Greek books are like Merlin's 
Magic Book. 

'None can read the text, not even I, 

And none can read the comment but myself.' 


They need a wizard to manage them. I don't 
know if this is a wise or a foolish note. It is 
meant for grateful acknowledgment of your 
trusting your ideas to me. 

Yours always, 

J. G. Cboswell. 

The Bbeabust School, 

eO East Sixtt-fibst Strset, 

October 4, 1913. 

Dear Chapbian: — "Good English" is a 
vague and indefinite term, I think. As we gen- 
erally use it, we really mean the sum total of a 
man's ctdture. If I say, " I admire his English," 
I mean I admire the sum total of a man's fac- 
ulty, his reason, his imagination, his experi- 
ence, his acquaintance with the Cosmos as it 
has been seen in English. Therefore^ no book 
of Rhetoric can teach "Good English." One 
must live it. But — of course there is always 
a qualification to any general maxims of edu- 
cation — but there are such things as conven- 
tionalities or table maimers, even at the ban- 
quet of the gods on Olympus. And these must 
be taught, albeit no "Book on Manners" will 
make a gentleman. Theref cnre I decline to admit 
that no rhetoric or grammar work is valuable. 


Doubtless manners are best learned uncon- 
sciously and from people, not from books of 
Etiquette. The transfer of life from the living 
to the living, a sacramental office, that is edu- 
cation. Yet the printed word is miraculous 
even in a granmiarl 

Yours ever, 

J. 6. Croswell. 

Deeb Isle, MAms, August 25, 1012. 

Dear Cornelia : — I have your nice letter. 
Indeed I value it very much. It is a pile of 
wisdom; and wise questions; and also full of 
humor and fancy. Of course, college is a bridge. 
Bridges, of course, are meant to lead some- 
where. A bridge which is simply a jumping-off 
place, on which th^e is no traffic, is not much \ 

of a bridge. Even if the view is pretty and the 
air is fresh out there, it would not get a great 
many passengers. Of course, one might say, 
"I want to go up there and enjoy the view and 
the other girls.'' But I can imagine that the 
family would say, *^Be sure and don't go too 
far; and be sure and come back on our side 
again." So the question really is, ^' Where does 
that bridge lead?" 

I think that collie does lead somewhere. 


Just now, it does n't seem well for me to argue. 
I will only say that I do not accept the proposi- 
tion that college is of no use to teachers, or to 
writers. But, of course, you can go to college 
any time in the next two or three years. Get 
yoiur records carefully made up and wait for 
light. I won't argue now. 

It is never wrong for a girl of eighteen to live in 
and toUh her family . I agree with you that yoiu* 
family is mighty nice. We can all talk over 
your distant futiure. I shall always be very 
much interested to do so. 

Thank you very much for your letter. I had 
to laugh; you meant I should but I respect it 

Your affectionate ex-teacher, 

J. G. CrosweiiL. 

To a Brearley girl 


Deab LittiiE Friend: — I write to say that 

I am not unmindful of the day which brings 

you a recollection of grief. I shall think of you 

to-morrow. Words say very little; letters say 

very little; but I do not suppose you need to 

be told very much. But it cannot be wrong to 

write you at least a word to say that you have 


in your old teacher a loving friend who is sorry 
for your losses and who is glad for all your 
memories of happiness and fatherly love, now 
safe from all loss forever. May I say that? 

You have a family still, and very unusual 
experiences of family affection. You have 
many loving friends. And you have the sup- 
port of knowing that you are eagerly anxious, 
even if we poor mortals do make blimders, al- 
ways to do right. That is the best of all. I, 
too, know all these things and I know they all 
coimt, especially the last. It is the only thing 
that nothing can take away. 

Well, we all make many blimders in going 
through life. But, if in your heart there is that 
consciousness of loyal service to duty, that is 
the best of all consolers from the beginning to 
the end. Ever your affectionate 

J. 6. Cboswell. 

To E. S. Martin 

Deeb Isus, Maine, July 10, 1018. 

Deab Mabtin : — It pleases me that you are 

really going to Europe for a while. You will 

profit thereby; and so will she who takes you 

there. It is time. It is time for me to go too. 


I begin to count pennies and hours to see how 
soon I can get there. Bon voyage I Thank you 

for 's Encomium Nortoni. Golly 1 I'm 

sure I couldn't have &)und Athens on that 
road! The piece sounds to me like a piece writ- 
ten by the last literary Roman gent just before 
the vandals burnt his farm. They are not sOy 
these things he says, about cultiu^ and about 
Athens and about Norton and about himself. 
It is all a piece of confectionery, and might have 
been written by Reginald Bunthome. I should 

like *s languid praise much less than 

Jack Chapman's hearty contempt, if I have to 
be eulogized. I think Norton himself might 

prefer Chapman to , as an In Memo- 

riam, after all is said. That's a bully letter of 
Chapman's. I return it with thanks. 

I miss you. Do you know how? I don't like 
the human race as much in summer as in win- 
ter. One reason is that I don't see you. If you 
understand this, you will see this is not a light 
phrase I make to please myself. It is biography. 
Another reason is that I don't see my girls. 
Give my love to Lois. What an industrious 
soul she is. She will be somebody, I bet a 
year's pay. Bless yourself for your children! 

My vegetables are all choked with weeds. 


I got here too late this year. Moreover, this 
year there is an insect pest destroying all the 
spruce trees. But I rejoice in these idle hours 
and this heavenly climate, and in the thouj^ts 
of my friends. 

Your affectionate 

J. G. Croswell. 

To Betty Brace, hie niece 

Dkeb Isle, 1918. 

August 8 a picnic to Great Spruce Head. 
Very calm going out. Fog settled on us at 
lunch. Eleanor and I made the course, how- 
ever, and sailed home in a fresh breeze (south 
by east). We did n't see land for three quarters 
of an hour, and toe hit exactly on her mooring 
so that we only had to get in the jib and luff. 

Auntie Leta was tickled to death with that 
trip. So was I. We did it fine. Steering by 
Eleanor. All oiur sailing is done by Eleanor. 
Eleanor is a dandy. I would go anywhere with 
her steering. She is very wise and very clever 
with the boat; and brings out all the boat's 
good qualities — and mine too. Tell yoiur 
mother so. My nieces are certainly fine. They 
ought to have better uncles and aunts. How 
is my Brearley niece? Are you having a nice 


rest? Are you sleeping like a top? Are you 
eating a lot? Are you thinking of nothing at 
all? That's a good Brearley girl. Are you get- 
ting fat ? I want you to be very corpulent when 
I see you next. Fat protects one against 
teachers and college preparation, just as little 
bears get fat in the sununer so as to go through 
the winter. Auntie Leta sends her love to you 
all. She and Eleanor sleep out in tents. They 
never get up in the mommg. Eleanor comes 
silently brushing in about 9, like a great moth 
caught by daylight. 

To the same 

Deeb Isle, August, 1918. 

This token I send you is said to be ^^Hand- 
painted.'* Please remember in Europe to in- 
quire at the Louvre and the Uffizi Gallery if the 
pictures are "hand-painted" or not I One can't 
be too careful of swindlers in Europe. This well- 
known scene has a Spanish motto which is from 
Don Quixote. Did you ever hear of Don Quixote f 
It is a great favorite of mine. These are the last 
words of the Eoiight. The sentence means, "In 
the nests of other years there are no birds this 
. The Knight's words are meant, I think, to 





C CvVvo V"; 




, wivi c^v ''v<rw ro II s 

cvwct Tf^o 1 1 & avvt^ vo 1 1 s Ucti4HU/vi 


X 1 1^ W^fej^ 

5 E^I-CjCLiuy 

"XVxA v»v<wU«.^ Vwivx f^cdL b-^iA.^ — (. 

drivvk VvoH'er. Sov»>jt cAri^wi^^ 

0»vvl<l«, toXk foo yux^cA^. k 


OY vvwc»k. 'P«>oV BvKk(«-. 

X* I H"l«c boys 'Tlwwv s h c k s aJ~ fie 
C? ivo»-t.k ! Qti^^ck ( Croc 

c/] tkc&-4, oWcks . Aivwl- CrcsvvcU 

|f~.^^ytT X'MisL Lkox/C «$ovv*. c-lo/wxjuo -' 

So cAu€o <^ rC«A-<X. WvC^ ^ 

Eve/ V««V c^p(«/Wow^^ ^TNKLE 


amuse and encourage us with the thought of 
life. I want you to remember always to look 
forward to your happy days. There will be al- 
ways new nests for your birds. Poor old Don 
Quixote was a lonely, romantic soul who clung 
to the past too much. His adventures show the 
comic result of trying to translate the present 
into the beloved past. But simrise is lovelier 
than sunset. Youth is going forward always 
to new delight. So there will be for B. always 
new and beautiful things, each better than the 

Speaking of sunrise, can you see the dawn 
where you are? I was up at foiur this morning 
and I think I never saw such a beautiful sky. 
That morning star! That half -moon in Orion. 
That flood of clear, cool daylight, colorless and 
clean, slowly, slowly turning rose and red I It 
was lovely! I made this verse: — 

The Dawn Goddesi 

The quickening color flies before her presence 

Like music heard afar; 
And on her pathway shines in splendor crescent 

The bright and morning star! 
Hark! from the forest swept by sea-winged breeases 

Comes what sweet sudden stir; 
The smallest minstrel of the dullest thicket 

Must sing, for Her! 


It's rather pretty — but I don't think one 
ought to make verses about the Dawn God- 
dess, Aurora, the silent one. Do you? 

To the same 

Deeb Isle, August 19. 

I think you are a good deal of a dreamer. 
Aren't you? Well, you have a right to be. 
Those lovely years, sixteen to twenty-six, which 
you live in now, are full of dreams. Go ahead, 
and have a lot of dreams. I will keep as still 
as a mouse; and keep everybody else still, if I 

I dream myself sometimes, and I know how 
nice it is for little girls to dream. 

To the same 

New Yobk, December, 1913. 

One reason why I don't write more is that I 
don't yet believe any of my letters get to you. 
It is not encouraging to write at great length 
when I may be writing, not to you, but to the 
Chief of Police or the Pope or whoever reads the 
lost letters in Italy. Or perhaps the American 
Express will read them. 

I am coming to Rome to see antiquities: as 
follows : — 


(1) The (xeese who saved the Capitol; or any 
other geese. 

(2) The hole which Curtius jumped into and 
pulled after him. 

(S) The False Teeth of Curius Dentatus. 
(I always wanted to see them.) 

(4) The Place and Scene where Catiline 
**Exceededy evaded, and erupted,** after abusing 
our patience how long? (What a moving pic- 
ture that would make I) 

(5) The Seven Different Places where Caesar 
was assassinated all at once, exclaiming, '"Et 
tu, Brute/' which is of course the Latin for 
"Here is another one, Brutus." 

To Miss Dodge 

Thb Bbbablet School, 
60 East SxxTr-nBST Stbbkf, 
November ftSt, 1918. 

Dear Elizabeth: — I cannot have your 
enterprise go on without being in itj^yselfl 
I have just written an article on Private 
Schools, for which I am promised $50.00. This 
seems to me just the thing to give now to the 
Y.W.C.A. As soon as I get paid, you vnil 
have it; at any rate, at the dates specified. 

Good luck and God bless you. 


I believe in your origins and destiny even 
more than in the origin and destiny of the 
Y. W.C.A. I wish I was a richer man and had 
fewer calls on me. 

Your affectionate 

J. G. Croswell. 

To MidB Hand 

Breablet School, 

60 East Sixtt-fibst Street* 

February 19, 1914. 

Dear Serena: — I have been so sorry for 
your illness, but you will be all the better when 
it is over. You will have a nice rest and grow 
well and young and quite hig before I see you 
again. I am going off to Europe next Tuesday, 
over to Naples in the Franconia. I send you 
lots of love. Don't think about lessons or worry 
about your place in school. We will take care of 
you and excuse everything and put you back 
in your class next year all right when I come 
back. Your loving teacher, 

J. G. Croswell. 

B.M.S. Franconia, MarcKl^ 1914. 
Dear Miss Dunn: — This is written in the 
afternoon as we go floating along the coast of 
Algeria. It is a warm, blue day, like July, but 


a gentle haze lies over the sea, which is just 
the color of this paper. The shore is all red hills, 
networked with ravines and waterfalls most 

Presently I expect to see a little ship with a 
sail on a yard like this [sketch]; and I shall hail it 
in Greek, for I know this is the country of the 
Lotus-eaters; and Odysseus cannot be far away. 

Yesterday we spent in Algeciras; to-morrow 
in Algiers. But I am asleep and dreaming, I 
know. I have lost all reckoning of place and 
time. I should not be at all surprised to be told 
I was not alive at all in the twentieth century 
and that this was 800 B.C. 

But I shall not believe that I have really 
eaten the Lotus, for I have not "forgotten my 
native country " like the Lotus-eaters. On the 
contrary. I can say "Brearley School" quite 
plainly still, and, like Odysseus, I am longing 
for the days of my return to Ithaca, New York. 

Will you thank the dear girls of the School 
for their letters; and tell them though I saw 
the Straits of Gibraltar and the Moors yester- 
day, I was more pleased with their letters than 
with anything I have seen or shall see in 
Europe? Yours gratefully, 

J. G. Cboswell. 



Man^ 7, 1914. 

Deab Miss Dunn: — I expect that a letter 
from Algiers will get to you faster than from 
Gibraltar. So I have waited till to-day to 
thank you for yoiur note and kind farewell. 
Your medicine was most eflfective and your 
thought so kind. 

We have had on the whole a smooth pas- 
sage. One storm only. I have not missed any 
meals at the table. But I never do. Seasick- 
ness seems very queer and unreasonable to me» 
especially on these big boats. The approach to 
Gibraltar was very beautiful; we arrived Fri- 
day morning last before breakfast. We had a 
very amusing day ashore. Also at Algeciras. 
To-morrow we expect to spend a day at Algiers, 
to which I look forward much. I have always 
wanted to see the Moors and the Arabs alive. 

I think daily of the School. You must be 
having lots of problems. But when there are 
so many people at the wheel, perhaps the Cap- 
tain can stay ashore a while I You people have 
spoiled me a good deal, Mrs. Croswell thinks. 
I shall come back wiser, better, and very grate- 
ful. Yours faithfully, 

J. G. Cboswelii. 


To his niece in Rome 

Sunday, March 15, 1914. 

Dear Dorothy : — Your post-card of wel- 
come to Europe was the first we had after our 
long voyage. I suppose Aunt Leta wrote you 
her thanks or will write them; but I want to 
thank you too. 

We spent yesterday in Pompeii and to-day, 
in a heavy fog and rain, are in Capri. 

If Tiberius, in a Roman toga sitting on a 
marble chair, had such weather as this, I don't 
wonder he got cross and executed a few slaves. 
I'd like to. 

We are all well and having a high old time. 
We think the Italians are a pretty bad lot! 
Miss Caldwell keeps ahead of them. So does 
Aunt Leta. Her plan is simply to denounce 
everybody and refuse to pay anything. She 
scares them blue. But I am away behind. I 
pay double for everything and tip everybody 
in sight. Yesterday I gave a man, who was 
singing in a restaurant at Pompeii, two soldi 
and (by mistake) my return ticket to Naples 
by way of a macaroni tip. Aunt had a fit. It 
cost her 1 Fr. 60c. II 

I need at least, three keepers to go with 
me everywhere.^ Don't you want the job? 


Can you talk back to a crowd of baggage 

We sent all our baggage to Rome yesterday 
totheH6teldltaKe. Will it ever get there? Do 
grab it if you see it and hold on to it till we 
come. I want some shirts I 

We are going back to the mainland to-mor- 
row to Sorrento, next day to Amalfi. But I 
have had enough travelling. I want to get to 
Rome, I do. 

Do you suppose we shall ever see New York 
again? Please give my love to your family, as 
many as are with you. 

Yoiur grateful uncle, 

J. G. C. 

To Betty Brace 

Sorrento, March, 1914. 
Perhaps the weirdest thing we did in Naples 
was this. Leta and I went to dinner together 
with the A.'s, and tried to get home at mid- 
night. Our favorite tram did not come along, 
so we walked and got lost. Then a cab ap- 
peared and besought us to get in. I heard him 
say "half a lire,'* so Leta let us get in. We drove 
about one hundred miles in the darkest streets. 
Then he stopped; and turned around : and made 


one of the most eloquent Italian speeches I 
ever heard — of which I understood not one 
syllable. I expected to be miudered for a half 
franc. But Leta, who knows no fear, calmly 
said in English, ^ Drive to the steps and we will 
walk up"; whereupon he made a longer speech. 
Leta responded in English. So, for about six 
speeches. Finally he gave up and drove on. 
Leta, quite calm; I, scared blue. At last we 
seemed to be passing a street we knew. So I 
stopped him. Leta and I got out. Leta gravely 
tendered 60 centimes. He took them and said, 
"Good-night" in Italian. Now, what do you 
think of that! 

To-day Leta made me go down a street with 
her and make a call on a family whose sister 
married her green-grocer on Third Avenue. 
Mr. V. We had the greatest fun. The family 
were making cheeses, Maman about seventy 
years old, P. iJ., his wife, the bambino, and a 
whole detachment of neighbors* children, con- 
stantly increasing as we talked. P. was a beau- 
tiful young man; and his manners most de- 

No one understood a word of English, but we 
made out to inquire all round and to give each 
other the news. We walked out into the orange 


garden and picked oranges. He gave us flowers. 
He gave us a photograph of the family to take 
to Mr. V. in America. Leta is simply indescrib- 
able in Italy. No one except Grandma Brace 
could equal her in sang-froid. I have always 
admired my wife, but never more than on this 

You see, when people or situations are pre- 
posterous she masters them by being more pre- 
posterous herself, and puzzling everybody who 
is trying to deal with us. 

Miss Caldwell knows some Italian, and 
knows enough not to be cheated without know- 
ing it. Now, Leta does n't know any. But 
she has a firm conviction that everybody is 
cheating. So she stands by, while Miss Cald- 
well is defending herself in Italian, and con- 
tributes general negatives, "No! No! We don't 
want any! We don't want to ride! We are not 
going to Amalfi! We don't want any rooms. 
We will carry our baggage ourselves!" Yes- 
terday she got the idea that one of the 
"Johnny Darms," as I call the gendarmerie, 
was trying to make L. stand in the sun. He 
wasn't. He was explaining something about 
the place where the cab would take us in on 
the sidewalk. So Leta harangued. "No! We 


don't want to stand there in the sun. We want 
to stand ^id' in the shade. We will stand 

The two of them, Miss Caldwell and Leta» 
are just like two dogs. When one of them gets 
barking the other joins right in without know- 
ing what it is about. But they are great travel- 
lers. We are perfectly well. We have had all 
we wanted to eat and drink. We have seen 
Naples, Pompeii, Capri, and Sorrento. We 
have been comfortably lodged. We have had 
a glorious, roaring good time — all the time. 
And we have only spent $5 a day apiece: just 
half what people allow, and about one quarter 
of what I said we should have to pay to be 
happy while travelling. 

There is nothing equal to the Irish. Don't 
you feel the Irish in your veins sometimes? 
Even you like a fight; and even you have the 
Irish ardor about Uving. 

How can I write about all we see. It is 
entrancing, heavenly! Everything is funny. 
Naples was f imnier than a flock of goats. Capri 
was beyond its reputation. The simny morn- 
ing yesterday gave us a glimpse of heaven and 
the sea took on the blue which belongs to it. 


But up to that day, Sunday, March IS, we 
have had no real fair weather except on Friday 
at Pompeii. Pompeii gave me great pleasure. 
I know the place well from my studies. And 
yet everything m it was full of surprises. And 
so many questions answer themselves at once 
when you really see things, not in a flat book, 
but in the round of nature. How the hills 
watch! How they have watched over the grave 
of the town! How they watched it in its little 
life ! The town is much more graceful and win- 
ning than I thought. Those idiotic wall pic- 
tures are too much talked about, — I got a 
false impression/ And np one can guess at the 
distinction and beauty of the site, from any 
pictiwe I have ever seen. It is a very beautiful 
town, even now. But it is a town of devils. The 
bronzes in the Museum, the statues, the wall 
pictures are all uncanny. The lovely "Narcis- 
sus" is n't all right. He is just going to move! 
He's a wicked one. I can see it, can't you.^ 
They are all wicked little things like snakes ; the 
town is a town of snakes. I crept about care- 
fully, and I'm glad I leave them behind, for- 
ever. As to Capri, I don't feel that way there. 
Though I suppose "Timberio" (lovely name) 
was a devil, too. But the utter beauty of the 


island disarmed me a good deal. And I have 
always felt a sneaking respect for Tiberius's 
contempt for the human race and for the 
^^ social uplift" of his time. He got hard 

I have horrible pangs of homesickness for the 
School. What in Pompeii am I doing here! 

I saw a pitcher of pottery in Capri marked 
**Bevi Zio.^* I wish I could! Is there any water 
to drink in Rome? — or milk? 

Your happy, thirsty 


A postal to Betty 

Naflbb» March, 1914. 
Took letters of introduction to the fish in the 
Aquarium from A. Sculpin and P. Haddock of 
Maine. Pleasant visit. 

J. 6. C. 

BoHB, April 4, 1914. 

Dear Miss Dean: — Yesterday I spent in 
a Montessori school with E. T. These Montes- 
sori students are crazy about their "method," 
but I admire the school almost without reserva- 
tion. I have n*t yet made out how the children 
are selected; or how they "discipline" them: 


e.g., when a child turns out unequal to the task, 
whether that child is dropped from the school 
or what. 

Please tell my Primary School that Mr. Cros- 
well went to see the Italian school, and tell 
them about "Otello" as follows: — 

Otello is a fat Italian boy about four years 
old. The room of his school was empty when I 
came in, except that there were sixteen little 
chairs and tables like our least little chairs, 
only not so pretty. There were sixty ladies sit- 
ting round the edge of the room to watch the 
sixteen children. 

If sixty ladies are needed to watch sixteen 
children, ask Miss I. to tell the School how 
many visitors would be needed to watch the 
Brearley School. 

When I came in I heard a great chattering 
of children outside the door; and I thought of 
prayers at the Brearley. But when I asked my 
guide if they were saying their prayers she said, 
"No; they were blacking their boots." They 
do this every morning. Some of them were 
bemg measured and weighed also, and some 
being washed. Presently the door opened and 
in walked Otello, all alone. He just reached to 
my pockets. But he stared calmly at me and 


then reached out his hand and gravely shook 
mme. After a few more handshakes, he went 
gravely to the piano, climbed on a stool, and 
performed a few original scales. 

The other fifteen children following Otello 
strolled in like grown people into a tea-party. 
They were mostly girb. 

The youngest was an American girl of about 
three years old. I observed that she was very 
popular with the Italian children. In fact too 
popular. The only rule I heard the teacher 
give out to the school was that, ** Dorothy must 
not be kissedJ* 

One little Italian girl, who sat near her friend 
Dorothy, forgot and kissed her. Whereupon 
Dorothy gave her a fearful frown and slapped 
her, a little American slap. 

The only other disorderly thing I saw was 
this: A little Italian boy, about five, and a very 
pretty boy, left his chair and table to change 
his work and tools. While he was gone, a little 
girl took possession. So when he came back 
there was an argument. 

First they both tried to sit in one chair. The 
girl beat him at this game. Then another girl 
came and helped him. Then the teacher came. 
Then they all whispered together. Then the 


little boy got up and went away and got him- 
self another chair and table. Then the little girl 
went back to her own table! I Now, what do you 
think of that! ! ! But these children kept very 
nice school. They were very orderly and busy 
for two hours. Otello was always walking 
around; but he did a great deal of work too, 
with the exact expression of an opera tenor on the 
stage. First, as I told you, he shook hands all 
round. Then he played some scales. Then he 
got a little tool and measured some sticks. Then 
he gravely got some colored blocks, red, grey, 
and blue, and green, of many different shades, 
and matched them so that the shades followed 
each other exactly. Then a great idea struck 
Otello. "Why not build a tower with these 
blocks," using the different colors in order? So 
he proceeded to build himself a tower like the 
Emperor Hadrian. But this tower-building was 
apparently illegal in school (like kissing Doro- 
thy). At any rate, the teacher stopped it, and 
Otello had to do something else. 

I was wondering how Montessori taught the 
children to keep still. But the teacher whis- 
pered and Otello went to the little blackboard 
and wrote: — 



— just like that. Just think of a little boy less 
than five wriiing words on the blackboard! 

Just as soon as the children saw it, they all 
stopped talking and stopped working — dead 
still. Stiller and stiller grew the room. Some of 
them put their little fat hands over their eyes. 
Stiller and stiller and stiller, you could hear the 
trolley cars all over Rome, roaring, as they do 
all day. I never saw children so still. You could 
hear the sixty visitors breathing! 

Then the teacher began to whisper Christian 
names across the room — "Maria," "Otello," 
etc., etc. And as each name was whispered, 
the owner got up and ran over to the teacher 
like chickens to their mother. 

Finally they were all gathered together. 
Then they began to run on tiptoe in a line 
roundabout through the chairs and tables, 
not making any noise at all! Not a bit!! Then 
they sat down again. 

Then Otello went off and got himself about 
a bushel of pieces of letter-paper from a closet, 
folded about half the size of this page. I took 
up one and I saw that each one had an Italian 
word written on it. Otello was having his read- 
ing. He gravely opened each and read the word 
and dropped the papers in a heap on his desk. 


Finally he had trouble. One word was strange 
and queer ! So he went over to the teacher with 
it. She did n't tell him, he had to think it out. 
Soon he got it and proudly returned it to his 
heap of papers. The most interesting thing 
about these little children is that they are 
so busy. Work and play are the same. They 
work when they play; they play when they 
work. They are as busy as bees. All you have 
to make sure is that the work is within their 
power: especially that it has a plenty of seeing, 
hearing, touching, smelling, tasting, and mov- 
ing about, and any children wifl work harder 
than ants at it. But these little Romans are 
workers. I wish we grown-ups were half as 
eager as little Otello. 

I said, "Good-bye, Otello. You will be a 
great man some day." He looked gravely at 
me, but he could n*t imagine what my queer 
short English words meant. The children in 
Italy all seem to have sweet voices. A whole 
row of little girls met me, when I got out of the 
train at Tivoli; calling out, **Tivoli^ Tivol% 
Tivoliy^ like little birds, like the wild canary 
birds I saw at Madeira: like little thrushes or 
robins at home. 

I have been so sorry to hear of all the snow 


and rain in New York. Probably you don't 
think so much of March as I told you to, in the 
Brearley, do you? Well, when you get this 
little letter it will be April. April half gone 
and school nearly over, and I am getting my 
passage home already. And if God will let 
me stay in the Brearley School, I do not 
think I shall ever leave it again, in term time 
at least. 

My love to School and teachers, and espe- 
cially to the Primary Class upstairs. 

Yours faithfully, 

J. G. Cboswell. 


Boms, March 24, 1914. 

Dbab Miss Pfeiffeb: — Your kind note of 
March S is here in Rome. I need not say it is 
welcome. Sometimes it seems as if I could not 
bear to be away from the Brearley another 
day. I go and look over the lists of sailings from 
Europe and pine to return. But away with such 
craven thoughts. 

I am filled with joyous thoughts too. Yes- 
terday I saw St. Peter's for the first time. It 
was a lovely day and the scene was wholly in- 
describable from the cupola where we were. 


My head is full of Latin and my soul is Roman. 
It is a great experience. 

I cannot help thinking I shall be improved 
by it. I am learning Italian for one thing. And 
I am realizing more and more how the girls 
and teachers of the School and the graduates 
and directors have spoiled me. I am siu'e I 
shall improve in this regard, if I ever get home. 
We have seen and loved: — 

Madeira (most of all) 

Algiers (queerest of all) 

Gibraltar for the English' sake 

Monaco for a glass of milk 

Naples for the Famese Hera 

Capri for the blue water 

Psestum for the dead glory 

Sorrento for the oranges 

Rome for the end of the journey. 

We are both half dead with travel. The 
self -filling fountain pen is busted. Pray excuse 

Leta is better, I think. She greatly enjoys 
the travel, and she has no pangs of conscience, 
as I have, to keep her awake nights. If she gets 
better, then I shall think I did right to go. 

Do write me once a week. We shall be at 


this hotel till May 1. Write to me here until 
April 20. After that to Brown, Shipley & Co. 
I beg you to give my best love to all my 
friends and teachers. 

Yours gratefully, 

J. G. Cboswell. 

H6tel d*Itali]!» 
Boms, April 8, 1914. 

Dbab Embia.: — We are very well, and full 
to the brim of Italy. I hardly like to begin an 
account of our doings. 

Yesterday we all went to the Colosseum and 
after climbing up to the top we scrambled down 
and all went to the Baths of Caracalla. . . . 
Loring and Eleanor lectured on the ruins. Lor- 
ing knows about everything there is to know in 
Rome now. But what gigantic buildings these 
heathens did put together! The things I see 
here, though I knew them all by name, are so 
much bigger and heavier than I expected that 
I feel as if I had known nothing about Romans 
hitherto. Their resolute courage in conceiving, 
and their power and patience in building, are 
far beyond my expectation. But I don't yet 
admire a city whose best buildings are baths 
and circuses. Do you? 


Then we walked out five miles to the Ap- 
pian Way. We picnicked under Cecilia Me- 
tella's tomb, and walked on beyond it. It was 
lovely, sunny spring all the way. The sky- 
larks sang in dozens above us. I felt more 
friendly to the Romans. But not to the nobles, 
yet, who "drove in fast and furious guise along 
the Appian Way." Judging by the pavement 
they must have jounced hard over the stones if 
they rode, as Matthew Arnold says, " in char- 
iots." Never mind — I like the Alban Hills and 
the friendly Campagna well enough to forgive 
the nobles; especially since they are dead and 
entombed there. But I do rejoice that they 
are dead; and I hear little voices around, from 
the skylarks, perhaps, singing, "lift up your 
hearts: We lift them up unto the Lord, Let us 
give thanks. It is meet and right so to do." 

With many thanks to you and love to all of 
the f amily» Yours gratefully, 

J. G. Croswell. 

Easter Day, 1914 [April 12]. 

Dear Miss Ppeifper: — Buona Pasquel 
No! I have n't been to the Protestant Ceme- 
tery, though I have been here since March 22. 
But Betty and I are going to-morrow. The 


trouble is that I am too many kinds of a man. 
Rome brings out that fact painfully. I have, of 
course, my Roman origins to look up. Then 
one must also pay his respects to our ancestral 
Christianity. Then I have to get drunk with 
spring — a most intoxicating draught in Italy, 
a very pagan joy indeed — in the Campagna. 
Then I have a great deal of social occupation. 
This is strange in a foreign land; but we are 
beset with invitations from Americans. Then 
I have to do a deal of mere "rubbering" with- 
out purpose or end — one always does in a 
foreign land. And Eccol Eccot seems to be the 
principal Italian expression even in their own 
land. There is certainly good cause for it in 
Rome. There is literally no end to the things 
to stare at, from Cardinal Merry del Val (can 
you say it right? "Merrrrrry del Val!") on his 
throne to the b^gar on the steps. As to beg- 
gars in Italy. They are just like fishes and ducks 
in the pond in the Villa Borghese. They say, 
"Soldi, Soldi," and the ducks say, "Quack, 
Quack," and they both mean no harm. I never 
have any soldi or any bread to give them, and 
so they swim away and everybody is happy. 
Is n't it nice? 
Listen ! Saturday, April 4, 1 lunched with an 


Italian lady of the nobility in a palace. The 
cooking transcended my whole lifers experi- 
ence. The artichoke was beyond description. 
"They ate the honey-sweet fruit of the arti- 
choke and forgot their native land." No, I 
didn't; although there were three American 
princesses at the table who had forgotten their 
days of school. One said to me, "I came here 
to stay three weeks — I have stayed thirty 
years." I was introduced to a small boy called 

"Principe Guglielmo R ." He is half 

American and half Italian. I heard him speak 
the language of his native land. He first spoke 
in Italian, asking who was ringing the tele- 
phone; then, not being answered by the butler, 
he said, "Who is that guy ringing the bell?" 

The Italians are very interesting; a strong 
race both in Naples and in Rome as well as in 
New York. Dramatic to the last degree; and 
therefore still acting the part of "Modem 
Italy." I wonder what their real function in 
the Modem World will prove to be. I do not 
feel as if their present clothes, the clothes that 
Cavour cut on the English pattern so very well, 
really fitted them. They may take to togas 

Palm Sunday we spent at St. Peter's among 


the processions and blessed palms. That day 
ended, however, by going to "guard-mount- 
ing" at the Quirinal. Neither crowd seemed 
very enthusiastic to me. I wonder! 

Speaking of politics, Leta and I are a good 
deal interested in Belfast, where our cousins 
are all drilling to resist the English Army. We 
don't think Ulster is worth wrecking the Eng- 
lish Constitution for. Do you? Ulster isn't 
so awful much! What ails the Conservatives! 

Monday we picnicked on the Appian Way 
under the shadow of the tomb of Cecilia Me- 
tella. It was a lovely day and the skylarks al- 
most shouted at us. I hope they will last to 
Assisi. "lift up your hearts*' they sing quite 
plainly. I want to hear them in Assisi singing 
to St. Francis like my girls in Class V. 

Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday we kept 
going to church. At High Mass at St. John 
Lateran on Saturday I had my pocket picked 
right in front of the Altar as I was kneeling and 
praying in Latin. Can you beat that? Would 
you have thought it? I went to Santa Frasside 
for Holy Thursday. A darling church — much 
bewitched in my expectation by Browning's 
Bishop. It is not at all suggestive to my mind 
of any such person, however. It is a simple 


little church of the early time when you and 
I were Catholics too. I loved it. Also Santa 
Maria in Cosmedin. Also Quattro Coronata. 
Good Friday evening we spent in the Colos- 
seum. The flood of moonlight was enchanting 
and the ruin looked its best. But so great is the 
power of art that our party talked of Daisy 
Miller, not of Vestal Virgins or Christians. The 
place was crowded with tourists. N.B. There 
are three kinds of Americans who come abroad: 

(1) Rubber necks. 

(2) People not wanted at home. 

(3) Students and artists. 

All other kinds are so few as to be lost in the 
swarm. Perhaps I should add "bridal couples." 
But they are generally Germans. A German 
bride in the Sistine Chapel gave me a phrase 
which I now use on all occasions when I am 
called upon for admiration. "Ach! Wie wun- 
derschoen mit dem Baumen ! " "Ah, how won- 
drous fair with the Trees." She applied it to 
Raphael's tapestry, but it applies to nearly 
every picture I see and defies critics. I do not 
care for Roman pictures much. "Just wait, my 
soul," I say, "till we get to Venice." We shall 
be there in June. 


I wish I could thank my School, teachers 
and girls, for going along without my official 
presence. My other, my astral presence, you 
have. " My body is in Italy, my soul is in New 
York." But I have to thank you for giving me 
this splendid holiday of body and mind. I am 
going to live ten years longer for it. 

I wish you would give my love to every one. 
It would sound like a litany if I rehearsed it all. 
''Miss Arnold, Miss Fowler, Miss Dunn, Miss 
Allington, All The Samts; Class Vm, Class 
Vn, AU the little lambs." 

Tell Miss Allington I am living just oppo- 
site the Scotch College and I see the good red 
heads emerging from their Roman cassocks as 
they walk abroad daily. I went in and said a 
Pater Noster in their church of St. Andrea de 
Scozzesi on Thursday. I felt as if I were one of 
Mary Stuart's men. Is n't that a lovely name 
for a church? Always your grateful 

J. G. Cboswell. 

To Betty 

RoME» April, 1914. 

We did go to Ostia Monday. Never did 
Uncle and Aimt get such a jogging. ''Rattle 
his bones over the stones, he is only a pauper 


whom nobody owns." And the dust in clouds. 
Then the cramps. Also many Germans in the 
vehicle to oppress Miss Caldwell. I never had 
such a ride before. 

But the Tevere ran side by side, — and it is 
a lovely river, — out of the city, a gentle wind- 
ing river, in grassy meadows and sandy banks. 

Ostia is a very interesting sight. There are 
paved streets and large, grassy squares not 
yet explored. There are tombs full of vases 
of ashes of the old dead. There are beautiful 
statues, one of Victory with wings, very lofty 
and very beautiful. (Whose victory over what?) 
There is a fine forum. Also barracks of soldiers 
round a big palaestra place full of inscriptions, 
generally about emperors. It is impossible to 
escape from Septimus Severus. That eminent 
nigger follows us everywhere. 

There is a lovely, high-set temple. I climbed 
up to the platform of it and enjoyed a long look 
at the Alban Hills and Monte Cavo. There is 
a cellar full of earthen casks made for wine. 
There are many streets roimd it full of little 
houses. There is a beautiful little theatre just 
like Pompeii. Ostia must have been lovely with 
the river and sea washing it. 

n you were here I should take you to see 


the Pinturicchio Frescoes in the Borgia Apart- 
ments in the Vatican. 

Auntie took me there this morning and I was 
in raptures. Did you get to them? If not, just 
keep your eyeaopen for Pinturicchio hereafter. 
I never heard of him until to-day and he is now 
my favorite painter. Mr. Storer took me yes- 
terday to see an abbot who is also a professor. 
He is revising the Latin Bible and he lives in a 
cloister next to Santa Maria in Trastevere. We 
got on very well together; and I am almost of 
the opinion I shall join his order. 

But — I learned that no women are allowed 
in his study. That wouldn't do for the 
Brearley School^ and I shall never desert the 
Brearley. So like Siegfried in the opera, when 
invited to go to Walhalla, I said, *^ Gruas mir, 
WaUtaU''; ''Goodrbye, Abbott 

X * • • • • • • • • 

Last Sunday I spent in the Accademia Gal- 
lery. What lovely pictures! Those Bellini 
Madonnas I They beat the Florentine Ma- 
donnas out of sight. 

What do you think! — there I met Miss 
Du Bois, Brearley teacher, who had sailed 
from New York the day after school closed. 
She told me all about the girls and their Last 


Day. I had also a letter from Miss Dean. She is 
a perfect darling, she will be to you, as she is 
to Uncle, one of the best friends, the highest 
minded counsellors, the most valuable teachers 
you ever had or ever will have. Love from us 
all. Your affectionate imcle, 

J. G. C. 

HdTEL d'Itaub, 
Rome, April 19, 1914. 

Dear Miss Pfeiffer: — Since I wrote you, 
April 4, we have lived a Roman life. Sun- 
day we went to the Blessing of Palms at St. 
Peter's, a celebrated service and procession 
of bishops and cardinals and clergy. I stood 
quite near St. Peter's statue and watched the 
kissing of his toe. Little boys shinned up the 
pedestal like boys at home shinning up apple 
trees; little girls boosted up other little girls 
and baby sisters; of course the kneeling nuns 
looked most definitely religious, but every- 
body kissed it, and everybody liked it. We 
were much impressed by the Chief Priest, 
Cardinal del Val. He looked magnificent, in- 
deed; dark and sombre and regal. Is he what 
he looks? I hear unending gossip in the hotels 
from American ladies who profess, to say. 


''Cardinal del Val said to me, 'Rest assured/ 
etc., etc." How people do go on in this town! 
Everybody knows everything here; and they 
tell such lies about the Vatican. 

Betty and I like the guard-mounting at the 
King's palace, every evening, when the band 
plays. We see only Italians in that crowd; and 
such lovely soldier men as any little girl may 
like to see. The regiment marches away at 
full speed and she and I run after them all the 
way home. 

Betty and I walk on the Pindan Hill also; 
and we feed the ducks in the Borghese ponds; 
and we walk in the Medici gardens. We are 
greatly taken with Italian gardening; and we 
have not attended so faithfully either on the 
church services or the antiquities as we have 
on the villas, the hills, and the Campagna. 

Good Friday night we all went to the Co- 
losseum by moonlight. It was very bright, and 
the walls looked very ghostly and romantic. 
But there were about forty thousand tourists 
of all nations under heaven roosting in arches 
and chattering like jackdaws. 

The unexpected always happens. The "an- 
tiquities" are always crowded; all full of mod- 
em people. The Forum, the Palatine, and the 


Colosseum sound and resound with English 
instead of Latin voices. 

So again the church services. They seem 
not half so churchlike as the Pennsylvania 
Station does. In fact» I had my pocket picked 
right in front of the High Altar of St. John 
Lateran in the midst of High Mass — which 
never happened to me in the Pennsylvania 
Station at all — it seemed so secular. 

We have seen something of Roman society 
at dinner and lunch: I mean the Italians them- 
selveSy with the great names. But the ladies 
are generally very modem and are very often 
Americans. And some are Brearley girls. 

I don't think I have any of the affection for 
Rome which Betty has. She hates to leave 
to-morrow. But I love the North of Italy; 
and I love Switzerland; and I love France; and 
I am absolutely at home in Germany; so I shall 
be ready enough to start April 30, for Florence, 
and Assisi and Perugia, and turn my back on 

Give my love to every one. I know you 
people have had lots of troubles. Why don't 
you tell me them? 

Yours faithfully, 

J. G. Cboswell. 


To Edward 8. Martin 

SiKSA, May 9, 1914. 

Dear Martin : — My conscience would prick 
me that I left you without a letter except that 
I have had neither calm nor indeed sufficient 
materials for writing hitherto. To-day I have 

I got your benediction from Sherry and we 
drank your health every morning in good stout 

We had a fine voyage; no bad weather and 
pleasant people. It was a Church party. Three 
archbishops^ one bishop, and many priests kept 
us interested. We had also Hon. Bellamy and 
Maria Storer. I have not yet joined their 
churchy but I found them all agreeable people, 
in the boat and in Rome. 

At Naples, Sorrento, Capri, Amalfi, Salerno, 
the weather was perfect and the landscape 

I got rid of my rags of Massachusetts tastes 
and habits, and gave myself up to the Italian 
language and to South Italian feelings. Per- 
haps the two things I remember most deeply 
are the lemon trees on the hillsides, mixed with 
olives and oranges, and the Naples Museum. 
There is a lady in that museum — the Famese 


Hera they call her — who can tell you all 
about the Olympian calm, the arapa^ia of the 
gods, if you will sit down or kneel down» as 
you like, for an hour before her and say noth- 

It is a very unearthly museum. The pres- 
ence of the bronzes, little devils from Hercu- 
laneiun, with a distinctly supernatural but 
not a virtuous nature, makes me feel now as 
if I had been with the Irish fairies or perhaps 
with Tannhfiuser for the hours I was in that 
museum. The only safe person to associate 
with, among the ten thousand creatures in that 
gallery, is the good young Roman Balbus, 
sitting like a moimted policeman on a noble 
horse and watching the crew of rake-hells 
around him. Still, I got away. Then we spent 
six weeks in Rome. Just think of me teaching 
Latin ever since 1874 and never having seen 
Rome face to face. That cannot happen ever 
again, for modem Latin teachers all go abroad 
to Italy, not to Germany alone, as I did. 

I thought of you again and again, and when 
I went to Horace's Farm, which locality is 
vouched for by the School of Archaeology and 
by my own careful study, with Horace him- 
self in my pocket as a Baedeker, I picked three 


little sprigs of fern for you from the fons Ban* 
dutiw splendidior vitro. Here are two still sur- 
viving. Stick them in your Horace. Can I 
tell you otherwise how I felt that day? 

The valley rang with nightingales, the clouds 
ran by, the sunlight came and went over the 
hills; and the little brooks filled with new 
showers ran down the hills to water the olive 
roots and the grassy meadows below; and I 
sat all day imder the trees and read my Horace 
again, for the first time for thirty years, I guess. 
Then we had bread and wine from the hills; 
and we wandered over the little villa, identify- 
ing the rooms, the garden, the fish-pond, the 
portico, and the ^^ field which gives me back to 
myself" of Horace. 

But this is all a recollecticm now. I have not 
been in Rome for a month. Now we are in 
Siena, quite a different air. 

I have spent two weeks in Assisi, Perugia, 
Orvieto, and Siena, and other smaller places 
in Umbria. My worship is now devoted to 
Italian Primitives, to twelfth- and thirteenth- 
and fourteenth-century Saints and altars. Do 
you know about that eminent Suffragette 
Catherine of Siena? Read her letters. 
' I hear faintly the radket of 1914 in America 


from the Italian papers which are very refresh- 
ing because the little they do say about the 
U.S.A.9 being couched in choice Italian, seems 
to have happened long ago. 

The story of "Rockefella il Juniore," as I 
read it this morning, seemed to have happened 
among the Republics of Guelph and Ghibel- 
line times. It does n't move me at all. 

I read your pretty inece for the Youth's Com- 
panion in the Church of St. Francis in Assisi, 
and I thought it read very well there. So 
thought Francis himself. All the good men 
who have looked around on this funny planet 
we are roosting on for a few years or days have 
thought the same. 

I think the same; at least the best part of 
me thinks as you do in this piece. 

You always say what the best part of me 
thinks — except about that suffrage question ! 

Give my love to your family, Lois included, 
and especially mentioned. 

Your affectionate 

J. G. Cboswell. 

Siena, May 7, 1914. 

Dear Miss Ppeipper: — I have seen since 
I wrote you Rome, Assisi, Perugia, Orvieto, and 


Siena. As each of these places woiild drive me 
plumb-crazy alone, what do you suppose the 
total effect is? I can't write about it; but I 
shall talk everlastingly next winter. 

If you want to make me happy, send me one 
ot the little paper letter files I like, made of 
brown paper with pockets lettered; they are 
about as big as a large envelope. The thing 
would go by Parcel Post and make me much 
happier than you can imagine. Send it to 
Venice. I keep losing all my letters all the 
time for want of a file. 

I got away from Rome without being con- 
verted, though there is a Cardinal I loved, he 
was such a scholar and gentle person. He is 
an Englishman and a great man. 

I saw Merry del Val, the great Cardinal. 
But Rome is so full of Americans I didn't 
really care for that I lay low and avoided the 
social whirl as well as the ecclesiastical. 

Please give Miss Frances Arnold a special 
message. I want to show her Orvieto Cathe- 
dral and the frescoes of the Last Judgment in 
particular. That is my church! ! And if the 
Judgment Day is going to be as pretty as that, 
it really beats the Last Day at the Brearley. 
There is one angel that has just her expression 


on the last day of School. Sheathing his sword 
— "Good job done." 

My love to you all. 

J. G. C. 

Siena, May 7, 1914. 

Deab Miss Chapin: — Will you accept this 
token of remembrance from Horace* a Sabine 
Farm? I picked it myself. 

The locality of the "field that returns me to 
myself" really seems to be discovered at last. 
The new excavations are proceeding and every 
moment makes it more certain that we have 
got it, the villa» the garden, and all. I always 
thought you resembled Horace in his Curiosa 

May you have more and more felicity and 
less and less care. 

Yours most faithfully, 

J. G. Cboswell. 

StmA, May 10, 1914. 

Dear Mother-in-law: — As this is my 
wedding-day, twenty-six years ago, I take the 
opportunity to write to thank you for all your 
kind affection to me for all my happy mar- 
ried life. 


Certainly I never expected to find myself 
keeping this holy day in Siena. Oddly enough 
it is a festival here» in honor of their great Saint 
Catherine. We were wakened by all the church 
bells ringing together, and the gay costumes 
and lively streets and music have seemed 
quite apiNTopriate. I call it Saint Leta's day. 

Leta and I have greatly enjoyed our tour, 
and have been very well. We have seen many 
pretty places and much beautiful art. But 
you know Italy so well you can guess what we 
have seen. I myself feel most at home in three 
places. Can you guess what? (1) The Naples 
Museiun; (2) the country about Rome; (S) 
the Northern cities like Siena, Florence, and 
Perugia. I cannot feel at home in Rome itself; 
and the Southern Italian landscape seems 
operatic and alien to my origins. But I loved 
the Alban Hills and the Apennines and I adore 
the Italian thirteenth- and fourteenth-century 
history and art, in this part of Italy. 

I am trying to see whether Modem Italy has 
any meaning to other nations in the future. 
Maybe it will contribute as much again as it 
once did. Much love to you all. 

Your affectionate son, 

J. G. Cboswell. 


Florence, May 11, 1914. 

Dear Frances: — Please give my special 
good-bye for the Vacation to the girls in your 
room, and to yourself — my earliest pupil. I 
re-lived the farewells I got from them when I 
sailed: and I look forward specially to seeing 
them next fall again. Please give this message, 
if the letter arrives, as I hope it will, before 
they leave school for the summer, and you go 
to your Sabine Farm. 

I have travelled like a drummer or a one- 
night-stand actor ever since I parted with you. 
My education has greatly advanced especially 
in "Italian Primitives" and other select com- 
pany. I can't stand a picture now that is later 
than Pietro di Lorenzetti or Lorenzo di Pie- 
tro. No. But really these fourteenth-century 
church pictures do have a queer, wild flavor 
like a wild strawberry, which makes the six- 
teenth-century swells seem, if I may say it, 
like the same fruit when cultivated to market, 
too fine and too big and using too much sugar 
and cream. There is one picture of Pintu- 
ricchio's perhaps you know. Not a church 
picture. It is in the Borgia Apartments in 
Rome. It is said to represent "Saint Cath- 
erine disputing with the Doctors"; but it is 


the very best picture of a coU^e girl passing 
an oral examination I ever saw. They say no 
less a lady than Lucrezia Borgia sat for it. It 
is perfectly charming; her struggle and her 
triumph, and the examiners' expression of 
malaUe, as she answers all their questions 
right, is done to the life. I 'm going to bring it 
home for my study if I can. 

Please give my remembrances to Miss 
Bender. I do hope she is well now. I have 
used her Italian book all the time. Won't she 
come over here? 

Your affectionate 

J. G. Croswell. 

Florence, May 17, 1914. 

Dbab Miss Ppeiffeb: — We are settled in 
Florence until June 2. Leta has a heavy cold, 
but we are very well in general. 

I feel that our sight-seeing will end in Venice. 
It is well. We are full-up and are ready to rest. 

My own tastes lean to North Italy rather 
than to Rome and Naples. Strange, is n't it? 
But there are three things in Rome which 
bother me: (1) The Modem Pope; (2) the 
tourists; (3) the cemetery-effect of so many 
ruins. One seems to be in a graveyard; one 


smells corpses in the Colosseum and Forum, 
even if there is so much grandeur and beauty 
about you. But in the hills about, in Umbria 
and Tuscany, in Siena, Perugia, and Florence, 
there is a different sentiment. At any rate, I 
love these things up here more than anything 
in Italy. 

I do not really know when we shall leave 
Florence: say June 2. I do not really know 
when we shall leave Venice: say June 15. 
Address there, Thomas Cook & Son. I do not 
really know when we shall leave Cortina: say 
July 8 or July 15. Then we go to Bride near 
Geneva for Miss Caldwell's wonderful baths 
and " cure." Pray for me. 

J. G. C. 

To Betty Brace 

Florence, May, 1914. 

Here Auntie and Uncle are in Florence. My 
Florence. I have been walking round and 
round the Santa Maria del Fiori to-day. It 
is all there just as it was when I was here in 
1882 when I was thirty years old. It is more 
beautiful than I rememb^ed. The great bril- 
liant exterior, all lovely shape and lovelier 
color, with that unmistakable campanile like 


the stamen of the iris, shooting up out of the 
heart of the flower, fills me with joy. I feel 
like a sinner forgiven, or whatever else will 
describe a perfectly happy mood of mind, when 
I see it again. I keep going back to it. But I 
do other things too with Eleanor and Dorothy. 
This morning we went together to the Palazzo 
Davanzati. Is n't that great? 

J. G. C. 

To the same 

Florence, May 20, 1914. 

I am sorry you are lonely. Everybody has 
to learn to be alone sometimes. But nobody 
ought to be alone too much. '* Alone" means 
away from your "best" people. Still one does 
have to depend on one's self a good deal. Even 
the little birds fly alone from twig to twig. I 
feel as if you were a fledgling tipped out of the 
nest and trying her new feathers in her flight. 
Never mind. It will soon be time for your 
mother to come back. Then you can fly with 
her back to the American forests. Peep I Peep! 

About Florence. It is full of lovely pictures; 
of Renaissance sculpture of the first order; and 
the views from the hills are almost unequalled. 
Moreover, it is full of Italian history especially 


of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. 
And, as you have discovered, I lived here 
when I was thirty years old, when my mind 
was still opening. At thirty I was about as 
old as you are now. Boys are always slower 
than girls to grow up. I feel as if my two 
visits to Florence were like two brackets in 

1882 1914 

algebra =1" ] and between them lies a 

man's life. 

A man's life is like algebra, it contains 
Known Quantities and Unknown Quantities. 
And I can see the whole of my life at once, as 
I stand on the Palazzo Vecchio, between two 
brackets; these two visits — include it all. 
That's what makes Florence especially thrill- 
ing to me; beside the art and the history. It 
is so queer to see myself this way and from 
this point of view. 

J. G. C. 

To the same 

Venice, Jtme, 1914. 
To-day Auntie Leta and I went through 
the Doge's Palace. You can imagine us, if you 
please, standing out on the balcony and sur- 
veying the pigeons. There are some fine speci- 
mens of Doge on the walls of that building I 


So we sat and looked at them and I gave Auntie 
lectures on Venetian History. She fell asleep. 
She says she did n't, but she did I I I 

Yesterday we did the Academy pictures. 
That is a splendid conservatory of Venetian 
blossoms. I find I love the Venetian color 
masters as much as ever. How rich they are I 
How they crowd their canvases with persons 
and events, without being tawdry or affected I 
That is the way to do. 

If I were a painter I should like to be either 
a Bellini or a Basaiti or a Veronese. What is 
the use of painting if you can't pile on colors 
and people the canvas! 

We have been in about twenty churches and 
we sit evenings in the Square and listen to 
music and eat ice-cream. 

J. G. C. 

To the same 

Venice, June^ 1914. . 
To-day I have been gazing at the big Tin- 
toretto Crucifixion in "San Rocco" and the 
halls of the Guild-brothers of San Rocco who 
saved men from the plague. Nowadays we 
know a better way of escaping from the plague. 
We ought to have pictures of Dr. Flexner and 


in the middle of July. Of course I expected 
you to come over here, so I meant to skip 
August letters. You were on holiday, you 
ought not to hear of business or of the firm in 
August. Now I begin again. 

We had a delightful time, mountain-seeing 
in Cortina and the Dolomites. Not until we 
were clear of the Tyrol did trouble begin. 
The day we reached Botzen, July 23, Austria 
declared war. I wanted to make for home then; 
but the ladies who ran my tour laughed at me 
for "cowardice'* and "pessimism." I do not 
understand optimism at all, but I bow to it, 
always. So we went along "optimistically** 
on our regular route to St. Moritz. There we 
collided with Destiny, on the warpath, at 

On August 1, the banks refused to honor 
our letter of credit. The Swiss mobilized and 
our landlord went to the war. Everybody left 
our hotel, which his wife kept "open,** for us, 
without much food, however, and no servants. 
About August 9, I found an old friend in 
another hotel in another village. To this we 
moved. It was very nice; and we were well 
fed and trusted for our board, although we 
had n*t paid our last hotel bill, not even our 


washerwoman, who kept calling on us for her 
dues 1 1 So we paid her with our last francs and 
I gave up smoking, and Leta took to washing 
in our bedroom, like a warrior as she is; and 
so we drifted along about a week till the money 
from Merrill came and we paid up everybody 
and sent out our wash again. But I still can't 
afford tobacco! 

Then we had to wait for money for the 
nieces. At last we got some; and we have now 
drifted down to Lake Como to wait for a good 
cheap boat from Genoa. If Italy goes to war, 
a thing possible but not probable, and if our 
boat is stopped from sailing, we shall wait till 
we get a chance from France or England. We 
still have a stateroom engaged on the Min- 
neapolis for October 3, though I doubt if we 
could use it. But we shall do well enough some- 
how. If I have to wait till October 15 before 
sailing, I know you will all help the School till 
I return. I am coming I 

What would n't I give to hear of the School I 
We have not had one letter of any kind from 
America since August 3. That is to say, no 
news from any friend or any relative since 
July 23. We had the money from the Union 
Trust Company August 16. We had a telegram 


from Dorothy Bull (with answer prepaid^ 
but with no date to it), which we got and an- 
swered about August 14. We had a cabled 
request from Mr. Jay for news, which we an- 
swered August 25. That is all, till yesterday, 

wh^i we got a letter from Mr. , 

writtai August 13. 

But I don't know if there is any Brearley 
School for next year. I shall not know, I sup- 
pose, till I get to New York. I don't really 
know if you sailed to Eiu-ope August 1. Per- 
haps you did. Perhaps you are imprisoned 
near us here. God forbid! I need you at 60 
East Sixty-first StreeL Never mind writing 

As to the Brearley teachers, I can only hope 

they too are not in Europe. Miss 

wrote me from Florence last July, but I can't 
find her now, though I have tried. Give them 
all my love. Ahl How fond of them I amt 

Here the great nightmare overshadows us 
always. The greatest sorrow I have is that I 
feel Germany must have, somehow, betrayed 
her trust I I Of course the Grermans will never 
think so; but I do, and I fear the world will, at 
last say, "Germany made the war." The Em- 
peror's proclamation of war to his people made 


me think of my poor lost friend. My friend, 
too, like the Great Germany of my youth, had 
a strong mind, a high spirit, a fair and hon- 
orable career. But he fell a victim, just as 
Germany has fallen, to the heavy weight of 
his work. His tired nerves b^an to see ^^ene- 
mies'' in every direction. He felt them around 
him. Hallucinations followed. Perfectly inno- 
cent people were enemies, dangerous enemies. 
He became a dangerous man himself, arming 
and looking for trouble. We have to confine 
him. He too has ** declared war" with God on 
his side, and, all the rest of it, just like Ger- 
many, against the world. 

Do you believe a nation can have delusions 
like a man? I think so, and I wish somebody 
could have put the Kaiser into a sanitarium, 
tiU he felt better, last month. Or was it the 
Crown Prince? 

Germany is the greatest nation in the world, 
with a terribly hard job to do; though it has 
the stnmgest kind of intellect, Germany has 
not calm nerves. I love Germany; I am very, 
very sad over its fate. Will she save herself 
at last? 

Yesterday I read in the paper of the death 
of a dear Grerman friend at Namur, ^^killed 


by a shell." Yes. And he was himself firing 
guns at the time. He was a sweet, quiet, lovely 
nature, of whom I like to think. But he al- 
ways had that "fear'* about the necessary war 
which had to come. Now he is a victim to the 

It did n't have to come. It was not a neces- 
sary war. Germany's own dreams brought it on 
the world. This is the tragedy. Well — Here 
I give you my best remembrances. Leta adds 
hers. Au revoir. 

J. G. Croswell. 

The BreabiiEy School^ 
October 23, 1914. 

Pear Chapman: — You have a way of 
saying what I think, "only always better than 
I can. Your only danger is in saying things 
too well to be true. 

In general, I greatly approve and assent, 
except that I do not like the unreserved accusa- 
tion of yours that the "German Government" 
has "niu"sed hatred" as a "policy." The state- 
ment spoils your pretty case. It is not put 
right. Germany is nowadays like a clever man 
with an excitable nervous system, whose job 
for thirty years has been too hard for him. 


Grermany is showing the eflfects of overwork. 
His nerves have given way. He is overdone. 
You say it all excellently. 'Way back in 1880 
my colleagues at Bonn, the boys in college, 
used to tell me in secret about the dreadful 
dangers from Russia and France, about the 
** Three Frontiers," and in secret about "Eng- 
land's rottenness" and decadence. ** England 
is like Holland, she has grown old. Touch her 
with our army! She will collapse." But these 
things did not come from the Government; 
they came from the professors of history and 
the philosophers among the students and the 
newspaper people. The Government exploited 
these feelings now and then, always to help 
the army and navy taxes. They are wide- 
spread feelings, however. But Germany could 
not stand this kind of nervous strain. More- 
over, the army and the universal service in the 
army made the nation nervous and belligerent 
in her nervousness. At last they collapsed. 
The assassination of Franz Ferdinand broke 
them up finally; and Russia finished the job. 
Hence the "holy" war, and the pious upris- 
ing of the nation! ! Delusions of persecution 
attack whole crowds; and this nervousness 
is quite characteristic of intellectual people. 


Hence the professors' talk scared Grermany 
into fits. But the Government is only partly 
to blame. I often see hallucinations of perse- 
cutions among groups of girls during the ex- 
citable age. The Germans are like adolescents 
in their nerves. They play no games to get it 
oflf their nerves. Germans are not phlegmatic; 
they are very excitable. Since the time of the 
Migrations, when the Goths appeared begging 
and fighting for refuge from the Huns, the Ger- 
mans have never been phlegmatic, or wholly 
at ease in the Roman Empire. Look at the 
Crusades, the Holy Roman Empire, the Ref- 
ormation, the Thirty Years' War!! Now they 
have another!! 

You say all this awfully well. But there 
is much less "policy" in the matter than you 
describe. The military crowd, of course, has 
used these feelings in its business. That is an- 
other matter. There is no national "policy" 
and no statecraft involved, however. 

To answer your note — I like the intro- 
ducticm; its plan and purpose; and I admire 
as I always do the wonderful phrases which 
come to you. Yes, do publish it. It is fine. 
But you do tend to personify and invent 
mythical people like "German writers," etc.. 


etc., ** German pcditidans/' and ** German 
professors'' that nobody believes in. Do take 
out these phrases and say it all as said so well 
on the first pages. In the genesis of their 
madness, while no one denies that the '* mili- 
tary party" has existed and does deliberately 
preach terror to get a stronger army voted by 
Parliament, yet I think you overstate the do- 
cility of the people and power of the clique. 
The people hdieve in war^ private and public. 
And they have a q)lendid army. Now their 
nerves are gone and they are using the army 
as a crazy man uses his gun to protect him- 
self against his *' enemies." This is *'not psy- 
chology." Do you read Tarde? 

Yours admiringly, 

J. G. Cboswell. 

To Miss Dunn 

December 22, 1914. 
This is to thank you. I wish I had dared to 
thank you publicly as I wanted to do this 
morning, but I thought perhaps I ought to 
obey your orders strictly. 

I tried to obey you by going to the rear, but 
when I got there I found I was too far away 
to help when called. But I did see the charm- 


ing little group in the crhche^ very well, and 
the tableaux of the village too, as you asked. 
The whole thing was so exactly right. That's 
the way!! It was A-1 . 

Again I recognize the kinship of Italy of the 
Quattrocento and the f oiui;een-year-old Brear- 
ley . Yes ! so looks the Blessed One, and so sing 
the Angels of Lorenzetti and Boccati. I listen, 
and I sit by, like a King, with awful eye. 

To-night I got two Christmas cards from 
Class V girls with Latin texts: Qui dUigii ex 
Deo natus est. That finishes me. I am in a 
condition I cannot describe of rapture and 

I feel like one of the little pictures of donors 
smuggled into the comer of an altar-piece by 
the painter. You are the painter of this. I 
am in the corner. That's why I wanted to 
stand by the piano this morning. I would 
have knelt there, had I dared, and prayed, 
"Little children, ye are of God and have over- 
come, because greater is he that is in you than 
he that is in the world." Does n't that sound 
like the Italian Primitive? Does n't it soimd 
like Plato? It is St. John, of course. 


To Mrs. Scott 

February 15, 1915. 

Dbar Mildbed : — I hate to be outside and 
indifferent in appearance when you are over- 
taken by calamity. You know that nothing 
which happens to you is indifferent to me. Leta 
and I grieve for you, truly and deeply, and fain 
would help you if we could. It is not for me to 
console you. You know more than I do about 
life and death, too. But I have found in sorrow, 
even in the great, gigantic, unspeakable, and 
unbearable sorrows of life, some drops of water 
to cool my tongue in the mere surface expres- 
sion of affection from my dear pupils. These 
are mysteries. At any rate, if my expression of 
affection seems superficial, you know the affec- 
tion itself that I bear for you is not superficial. 
So let me say, first, I am sorry, so sorry for the 
loss of your brother; I grieve with you and with 
your family. I beg you to take consolation in 
the widespread sympathy and sorrow of his 
friends, and especially of your own friends and 
of all who love you and your family of old. We 
all grieve truly at the ending of that promising 
life on earth. 

Your affectionate teacher, 

J. G. Croswell. 


The Bbearley School, 
February 17, 1915. 

Dbab Chapman: — K you want my opinion 
now, I think this is all as unripe as a green 
apple, but yet a fine fruit, and a very distinct 
addition to your ** works," and to the history 
of Harvard in the 80's. I am a very poor 
"adviser" about your stuff. Its grace and 
artistry distract me from the various polit- 
ical questions anent its publication. But I 
think Norton himself would have greatly en- 
joyed this, even as it is, and I think many of 
his good friends will enjoy it too. 

Yours always, 

J. G. Croswell. 

The Bbeaslet School, 
March 6, 1915. 

Dbar Ka^therinb: — Mrs. Croswell and I 
paid our respects to the exhibition. We found 
much pleasure in it; although, as with Words- 
worth's poetry, we find that the public loves it 
rather in spite of the gospel than because of the 
gospel preached by it. We find much beauty 
and grace in your work; and we congratulate 
you in the height you have readied; but we 
expect you to do something else later; and to 
reach much higher, both of you. 


Please give my love to Marion and say 
she certainly is a "'formidable person/' a real 

Your affectionate teacher, 

J. G. Cboswell. 

P.S. Your work makes me feel like a hen 
clucking to a pair of swans. I can't enthuse, 
only duck. 


An Address to the ScHoouiASTEBS* Association 

It seems not unfitting for an association 
of school-teachers, once a year at least, to 
commemorate their patron saint. The great 
Athenian teacher and educational reformer 
should be remembered often even at the risk 
of saying or hearing no new thing after all. 
There is edification in repeating to ourselves 
ancient truths about education, such truths 
at least as are associated with this life and this 

Socrates is especially a tempting subject, 
in that, though the name is so well known, the 
man's character and activity still remain some- 
thing of a riddle. Many have described him. 
He challenges curiosity still. About him ever 
old stories possess always spmething of the 
piquancy of novelty and youth. 

As is well known, two of the greatest liter- 
ary talents the world has ever seen have been 
employed carefully and lovingly upon the 
Socratic biography. In the whole field of 


authorship it would be hard to select two more 
divining and descriptive pens than those of 
the two Athenians whose names are associated 
especially with Socrates and his life. Xenophon 
and Plato, his near friends and his devout wor- 
shippers, wrote of their master, and in writing 
of their master, they have made themselves 

But Xenophon, though he wrote ade- 
quately of ten thousand Greeks, with all his 
effort and all his pious care, could not write 
adequately of this one. At the end of his book 
we still feel that sense of baffled curiosity of 
which I speak. He can tell us, and does tell us, 
of some determining influences which issued 
from the life of Socrates upon his own life; 
he lets us see plainly that Socrates seemed to 
Xenophon to have made him what he was; he 
struggles to explain the process; he thinks too 
of Socrates' good advice and bright example. 
But at the end of the story, how much more 
of Xenophon than Socrates we find we have 

"And of all that knew Socrates, those who 
long for excellence miss him most until this 
day, for we feel that he was the most power- 
ful influence we ever knew making for cultiure 


in all excellence. He was, as I have described 
him, so pious as to undertake nothing with- 
out the knowledge of the gods, so just as to 
injure no man in the smallest degree, nay, 
rather he aided all who sought him most gen- 
erously, so much the master of himself as 
never to choose that which was pleasant be- 
fore that which was good, so discreet as never 
to mistake in distinguishing good from bad, 
able to argue and able to define, able to judge 
others and confute sinners, able to urge one 
toward ideal perfection; such he seemed to 
be as ought to be the best and most heavenly 
minded of men. 

"'If this suffices not any one, let him com- 
pare the character of others with that of Soc- 
rates and so judge/' 

An interesting and beautiful picture; hardly 
characteristic or convincing; it lacks definite- 
ness. In fact, the picture seems somewhat too 
much like Xenophon himself. The descrip- 
tion catches something, to be sure, of the 
activity of Socrates; it gives some idea of his 
effect on the personality of a young Athenian; 
but what Xenophon attributes here to Soc- 
rates, surely belongs even more to himself. 
The turn for moralizing and longing for per- 


fection, the discreet common sense, the ability 
to argue, the ability to distinguish good from 
bad; self -mastering; the eag^ search for hu- 
man perfectness, — all that is a picture of 
Xenophon himself. It is a product of Soc- 
rates' influence, perhaps, but we find its com- 
pletion in reading of the ^^ Retreat of the Ten 
Thousand*' and in the "Cyropedia." 

In this pictiu^ of Socrates* virtues it is be- 
yond doubt that Xenophon is drawing him- 
self as he grew under the master's hand, and 
is attributing his own best characteristics and 
ideas to the influence of Socrates. Socrates 
has told us something about this great func- 
tion of the teacher, the bringing out of the 
originality of a young man, in that ironical 
picture of his art which he gives in the "These- 

"I am barren enough myself. The reproach 
which is often made against me, that I ask 
questions of others and have not the wit to 
answer them myself, is very just. I am not 
myself at all wise, nor have I anything which 
is the invention or art of my own soul; but 
those who converse with me profit. Some of 
them appear dull enough at first, but after- 
wards, as our acquaintance ripens, if the god 

WRITIN08 195 

is gradous to them, they all make astonishing 
progress. No one can imagine that they have 
learned anything of me; but they have ac- 
quired many noble things of themselves/' 

"I can assure you, Socrates," says Theeete- 
tus, "'I have tried very often to answer when 
I heard the questions which came from you; 
but I can neither persuade myself that I 
have any answer to give nor hear of any one 
who answers as you would have me answer; 
and yet I cannot get rid of the desire to an- 


This is what Socrates* teaching did for 
Xenophon; but Xenophon, trying to describe 
his general method, has obscured it somewhat 
by attributing his own wisdom back to Soc- 
rates. He is filled with gratitude; all that he 
can conceive of good in himself or in the 
world, he attributes to his master. But as a 
direct consequence of his master's method he 
cannot even think of Socrates without a de- 
sire to deliver himself of doctrines and ideas 
that are strictly speaking of his own concep- 
tion. So the Socrates of the "Memorabilia" 
is, properly speaking, a sort of Socratic Xeno- 
phon rather than a Xenophontic Socrates. 

It is not otherwise with the far greater 


Socrates described by Plato. Xenophon speaks 
halting prose, while Plato's thought has the 
wing and speed of poetry. Plato is one of the 
world's great imaginative artists. His mind 
also was awakened by Socrates. No doubt we 
have far more of the real Socrates as a teacher 
in the picture of Plato than in the print of 

And yet here also we suspect, we feel, we 
have too much of Plato himself in the por- 
trait. Artists are prone to draw themselves 
imknowingly in their own work. Certainly this 
artist has done so. He has felt the witchery 
of this great magician — all he has and all he 
knows, he owes to Socrates, and his gratitude 
took the same form as that of Xenophon. 
Plato attributes his own discovery and his 
own philosophy and many of his own convic- 
tions to the master. Twenty-seven "Papers 
on Socrates as a Teacher" you can read in the 
dialogues of Plato. There we shall find Soc- 
rates teaching many doctrines just as Plato's 
own mind went on to develop. We shall find 
this Socrates inconsistent with himself; we 
shall find the dialogues inconsistent with each 
other, so that students can group them by their 
stages of development; we shall hardly find 


any clear picture of the mind of Socrates on 
any subject of discussion. We shall find in- 
stead many disclaimers on the part of Soc- 
rates that he has any mind on any subject. 

These two men were gifted historians and 
imaginative writers. They were also intimate 
friends of the subject of their biography. It 
may well be guessed that if they fail, as they 
do fail, to reveal finally the true Socrates, 
later biographers could hardly succeed better. 

Such is indeed the case from that day to 
ours; every one who sets out to write about 
Socrates ends as Xenophon ends, by writing 
about himself. From the Socratic school there 
sprang forth numberless shoots, differing in 
every conceivable way, agreeing only in trac- 
ing to the master the origin of all they pro- 
duce. From the historians who write of Soc- 
rates and from the philosophers who preach of 
Socrates, we inevitably get their own views on 
life in society; but Socrates is credited with 
teaching all that each man holds most dear. 
He always talks the language of the writer. 
Hear Socrates talk in German: '*To win a 
veritable world of objective thought, and ab- 
solute import, to set in the place of empirical 
subjectivity absolute or ideal subjectivity. 


objective with rational thought, this now was 
the task Socrates undertook and achieved." ^ 

I know what Socrates would have said to 
this: **li you want to see this gentleman and 
me run in the same race, you must ask him 
kindly to slacken his speed to mine, for I can- 
not run quickly and he can run slowly. If 
you want to hear Protagoras and me discuss, 
ask him to shorten his words and keep to the 
point, for discussion is one thing and making 
an oration is another." It is wise for us to 
criticise carefully every account of the pur- 
poses and intentions attributed to Socrates by 
any student. We all put in too much of our- 
selves. But some certainly may be reached. 

It is a commonplace observation enough, in 
all studies upon Socrates, to say that when 
Socrates is represented, even by Plato, as an 
authoritative teacher, he is misrepresented. 
He should not be conceived as a professional 
teacher at all. He who moulded his genera- 
tion more than any one member of it, he who 
affected the whole course of education after 
his lifetime, never was a "teacher" at all; he 
delighted to say that he was no "teacher." 
"There is no foundation for the report that I 

1 SAingfer'a HiHorv cf Pkiloiophjf. 


am a teacher, though if a man were really able 
to instruct mankind it would be an honorable 
trade." So he said on trial for his life: "Not 
guilty, to the charge of school-teaching/* 

What shall we make of this paradox — the 
great teacher who said he was no teacher? 
The truth is that Socrates lived and moved 
in a new world of educational activity, half 
realized by himself. The Delphic God did not 
reveal to him the whole meaning of his own 
life; Apollo left him struggling with his in- 
spiration. It was the inspiration to become a 
teacher, of so new a type, that he could not 
identify himself with anything existing. 

Speaking of Socrates as a teacher perhaps 
the best single proposition to make about him 
is this: he was the pioneer of a new conscious- 
ness in human thinking, a consciousness of 
analytical processes of human thinking. In 
him the human race awoke to the knowledge 
of systematic analysis and definition. In this 
awakening Socrates knew that he had expe- 
rience of unique value. To him it appeared 
a divine inspiration. The novelty of this dis- 
covery at that time is hard for us to realize; 
the greatness of it, I propose to dwell uppn. 
Every word Plato tells us of the awe-stricken 


reverence with which Socrates spoke of his 
peculiar call from God to be wise may be more 
than justified by studying the peculiar nature 
of his thought. It was a call from God, from 
the God who has shaped the course of human 
thought, and has revealed Himself more and 
more fully to human reason in these latter days 
than ever before. The Socratic method of 
thought is the first dawning upon this planet 
of conscious, logical study based upon psy- 
chological verity. 

Can we wonder if the characteristics of Soc- 
rates as a teacher were obscured to the Athe- 
nian mind by the one characteristic of novelty 
in his method? He brought a stirring of the 
air, an imintelligible, exciting touch upon the 
souls of men. They could hardly guess the 
meaning of their own feelings, and Socrates' 
own account of the nature of his mission was 
no great help to their understanding. It came 
and went before their eyes, like an exhibition 
of some new X-rays to the human eyes, as yet 
half developed. 

I do not know anything more curiously in- 
teresting than to study from the point of view 
oi a modem teacher the intercourse of Socrates 
with his excited personalfriends. The great- 


ness of their vision, the high intention of the 
processes of Socrates, is so insufficiently regis- 
tered in the actual conclusions reached I Even 
in the "Phsedo/* we hardly know which is the 
most wonderful; the greatness of the ideal of 
reasoning set up, or the clumsiness of the de- 
velopment, or the wildness of the conclusion. 
The dignity of the group of truth-seekers, in the 
face of the master's death, chasing the logical 
processes through mists of misapprehension, 
crossed by half-serious play of intellectual light- 
ning, on to the dramatic end, is a miraculous 
exhibition of high-minded devotion to intel- 
lectual duty. A cloud of unconvincing argu- 
ments, and odd phraseology, receives the mas- 
ter out of our sight; nothing is proved about 
the soul, but the virtue of argument is proved. 
Perhaps modem teachers are in a somewhat 
better position to understand the greatness of 
Socrates than either Plato, or Xenophon, or 
himself. I propose to apply to the story of the 
master some words drawn from our own vocab- 
ulary. For the world has thought out many of 
the propositions which the Athenians were only 
beginning to figure upon; the work has been 
done which Socrates only foresaw, foreshad- 
owed ; Aristotle and Bacon have lived ; the whole 


world has been, trained in the intellectual 
processes of greater minds. Any private soldier 
knows the modem art of war of which Socrates 
sketched only the first campaign. But we can 
see now more clearly what a campaign that 
was. And perhaps we can describe it in the 
vocabulary of modem warfare. I should like 
to concentrate my attention, however, on a 
single point. If I am to speak of Socrates as a 
teacher, I should like to suggest how much he 
foresaw of the need of modem psychology, as 
the commanding position from which to wage 
the battle of education. "Know thyself" is the 
watchword of his activity. "Know thyself** 
means, of course, to him two things : it suggests 
ethics, but it also suggests psychology. Practi- 
cal interests always enlisted his attention and 
directed his reasoning. Xenophon must be 
right about that. He was first of all ethical 
students and an interested politician. But his 
"know thyself" meant really more than that. 
It meant also a study of the mind in the psy- 
chological sense. 

"I do nothing but go about persuading you 
all not to care for your persons or your prop- 
erties, but first and chiefly to care about the 
greatest improvement of the mind. 



The mind was an object of interest to him 
of which we do wrong to overestimate the 
practical application. Psychology, as well as 
ethics, certainly is within the meaning of his 

And this interest is the greater interest of 
Socrates to us, as I talk to you. It is the half- 
understood anticipation of psychology which 
can justify to us of this scientific generation 
his curious avoidance of physical science as an 
interest. Having in his hand the very tool of 
modem science, inductive logic, he laid it down 
and turned away to the study of man and 

"Socrates used to ask whether it was be- 
cause they thought they knew all about the 
constitution of man already, that they passed 
on to consider the universe and the causes 
which produced the things in the heavens, or 
whether they cared not for man's interest, and 
thought they were acting more judiciously in 
considering all those wondrous things." 

His inspiration seems at fault here. Science 
has acted more judiciously; and yet to believe 
that logical scientific knowledge of the mind 
ought to precede the use of that mind, was for 
Socrates not so great an error. 


Astronomy, which Socrates despises, for ex- 
ample, outgrew and suppressed for centuries 
the scientific psychology which Socrates seems 
to dream of in a vision. Logically, the order 
should have been reversed. But the history of 
man's development has never gone on in logi- 
cal steps. Though Socrates longed for a scien- 
tific study of the process of the mind, yet he 
failed to realize in detail what that ideal proc- 
ess should be. Logic outran the study of psy- 
chology which he only foresaw. Both logic and 
psychology, however, belong to Socrates by 
right of discovery. 

As we talk of Socrates, then let us not to-day 
obscure his interest as a psychologist with talk 
about his civic virtues, like Xenophon, or his 
metaphysical conclusions, like Plato. Let us 
briefly sketch his work as illustrating the psy- 
chology of the reasoning faculty. 

I would choose a sentence or two from Dr. 
James's books to illustrate the Socratic Psy- 
chology: "Li reason we pick out essential quali- 
ties; essential to some purpose." "The chief of 
these purposes is predication, a theoretic func- 
tion.*' "We pick out of the unanalyzed pre- 
sented mass something we need for a practical 
end or an aesthetic end, or an intellectual end. 


always an end in view/' U it is not mere 
revery, we are voluntarily seeking along a line 
of thought. There is a train of suggestion : A to 
B, B to C, C to D, D to E; the links between 
these steps are general characters articularly 
denoted and expressed, analyzed out. ""A and 
B need never have been associated habitually 
before. They need not be similar to each other. 
They may have been unknown in this connec- 
tion with each other or in any connection what- 
ever in our past experience.*' Reasoning is thus 
produced. *^It puts things together," makes a 
new conclusion, as two and two put together 
make four. Reasoning thus contains analysis 
and abstraction. ^'The empirical thinker 
stares at his facts in their entirety. They sug- 
gest nothing, there is no train of thought, but 
the reasoner breaks up his facts and holds on 
to one of the pieces. This special attribute he 
takes as the part of the whole fact essential to 
his end, but this special attribute has attri- 
butes not hitherto perceived. Therefore the 
original whole has the same attributes." I need 
not carry on Dr. James's ingenious account 
of the reasoning process, psychologically con- 
Biologically described, the logical process 


corresponds in an interesting way to what is 
called variation from type. Mr. Henry Rutgers 
Marshall has drawn out this thought in his 
remarkable book *^ Reason and Instinct.'' Ex- 
pressed in terms of neural activity, the reason 
seems to him to correspond to a sort of special 
power in some nervous centre or group of cen- 
tres to keep on acting by themselves, to con- 
tinue attention till other activities die out. Just 
as some cells, biologically speaking, *' learn" to 
group together into an eye and in thousands of 
years to see, so other cells "learn" to think. 
Reason differs from instinct in being more con- 
scious of its end; like the act of will, it feels 

These descriptions of the reason will be found 
interesting if interpreted in terms of the activ- 
ity of Socrates. 

The process of Socrates as a teacher was es- 
sentially one of question and answer. This is 
meant to excite the "centres " of the pupil. The 
question is pointed, definite, and practical, ex- 
citing the vivacity of the part of the mind 
needed in the pursuit of the end in view. The 
train of thought is carefully directed. "Let 
X equal the unknown quantity" — Socrates 
would have delighted to possess that phrase. 


in analysis is encouraged; let us 
grasp the matter on the side which will lead on 
to the point. Examples may be chosen and 
almost at random from any dialogue of Plato. 
The description of Socrates' argument at the 
opening of the ** Protagoras/' where he dis* 
cusses with the young man analytically why it 
is desirable to seek the company of sophists, 
persuading the youth by question and answer 
to analyze out the true meaning of his loosely 
held opinions, is a good case in point. Sagacity, 
the power to discover attributes essential to 
the end in view in the subject under discussion, 
is the one lesson which Socrates attempts to 
inculcate. The power to observe according to 
Socrates is the power to observe sagaciously. 

To quote Mill: "The observer is not merely 
one who sees the things before his eyes but one 
who sees the parts that the thing is composed 
of. To do this well is a rare talent; one person 
from inattention or attending in the wrong 
place, overlooks the essential part of what he 
sees and the other sets down more than he 
sees, making it of what he imagines." 

How does sagacity grow? Our perceptions of 
all things are at first vague. The thing we per- 
ceive has no parbi or subdivisions or limita- 


tions. But some practical aesthetic or instinct 
interest sets us attending to the parts; associa- 
tion and dis-association begin their work and 
analysis sets in. Some minds reflect on the proc- 
ess itself; some people have noticed them- 
selves reasoning; they notice the method of 
their own working. This reflective analysis is 
the mother of science. 

Socrates' greatness seems to me to be in- 
dicated most clearly by his discovery of these 
psychological phenomena. This is the kernel 
of the Socratic Elenchus. He noticed that the 
poet and the artist cannot reflect on the steps 
of their own processes. "I went to the poets," 
he says. " Will you believe me that I might say 
there is hardly a person present who cannot 
talk better about poetry than the poets them- 
selves? Then I knew without going farther, 
that not by wisdom do poets write, but by 

"The abrupt transitions," says Dr. James, 
"in Shakespeare's thought astonish the reader 
no less by their unexpectedness than they de- 
light him by their fitness. Why does the death 
of Othello so stir the spectator's blood? Shake- 
speare could not say why; his invention, though 
rational, was not ratiodnative. That speech 


about the Turbaned Turk flashed upon him as 
to the right end. Shakespeare, whose mind sup- 
plied the means, could not have told why they 
were effective/* 

But science knows where she is going and 
has reflected on the steps thither. She needs 
and she can train her own special sagacities. 
Conscious analysis has taken the place of in- 
tuitive analysis. 

This step, Socrates noticed; he noticed the 
nature of analysis; he noticed the inattention 
of all thinkers of his time, specially of practical 
and ready actors in the human drama, to the 
stages of the process of reasoning. The Athe- 
nians lack specially ^^ sagacity"; strict analysis 
of general ideas, the identification of individuals 
under the general classification are wanting in 
their thought. " People do not know what they 
think they know." He desires to educate the 
young, at least, in the scientific process of 
thought, especially in this sense. 

It is curious to observe how men undervalue 
this side of education to this day. Even under 
the light of modem science how incessantly we 
crave information; how we overvalue memory; 
how short-winded we are in pursuing lines of 
reasoning; how dull we are in detecting the 


essential and valuable qualities, attributes, 
parts, of any matter which will tdl on our ends 
in view. First of all, we are dull in conceiving 
and holding any purposed end practical or 
theoretic. Ho w hard it is to order any problem 
rightly. How rarely we readi any practical 
result or even any theoretic predication by the 
reas(»iing process. We live always by general 
processes which have come to us by authority; 
even then we do not see their contents; we can- 
not analyze. Professor Lebon says: "The mem- 
orable events of history are the visible effects 
of the invisible changes of human thoughts. 
The reason these great events are so rare is 
that there is nothing so stable in a race as the 
inherited groundwork of its thought." 

Socrates is for all times the bright exanq>le 
of the rarer type, the critical and sagacious 
type of man. So eager is he, at least as Plato 
exhibits him, to show the processes of reason- 
ing to his hearers that this becomes his only 
end in view. He cares very little apparently 
about the manufactured product of his process. 
He will cheerfully leave an analysis defective. 
His actual conclusions are often negative or 
purposely absurd. It would be a very interest- 
ing and a very long study to criticise the want 


of logic, the blunders and absurdities of the 
Socratic reasoning in terms of modem psy- 
chology. But one thing would certainly ap- 
pear: Socrates does mean to uphold the logical 
process and his logical process is founded upon 
correct psychology. He desires to lead the 
world to think for themselves in every exigency; 
he desires to develop sagacity. Those who do 
not reascm at all, those who reason badly, 
those who reason well, are to be his pupils. His 
process is all compacted of one effort to set and 
make attractive as an educational ideal, a pur- 
suit of knowledge by analytical selection. On 
that he is ready to fall or stand; for that gospel 
he was willing to quarrel with the whole city. 
There should be to him no other element in 
education except the stirring up of the ana- 
lytical faculty; no other product of education 
than a mind which can select for itself the 
essential attribute to the processes. Now, if 
modem psychology tells us anything it is that 
this selective action of the mind is the essen- 
tial attribute of mental activity, that the mind 
that is quick to select and insinuate itself into 
and grasp the essential part of presented fact 
is the educated mind. Compared with this 
originality, whether trained or untrained, no 


other human activity has a right to be called 
intellectual. Socrates, once for all, founded the 
teaching of reasoning processes. And yet how 
slow we are to believe it — our inherited basis 
of thought, our maxims, our sentiments, the 
rules and the ways of doing things that we have 
received from our ancestors — how we love to 
hand them along. How little we care to analyze. 
How parents love us to teach their children 
"what everybody ought to know." How they 
long to have their children's education market- 
able in the world they have known. How slight 
the instinct for discovery of unattractive and 
immarketable truth. 

I have always wished to know if there had 
been any school-teachers on the jury that tried 
Socrates. I imagine there must have been two 
types in Athens. One of them, I think, was that 
of the sophist who gave brilliant lectures on the 
current philosophy; perhaps he read "Homer** 
aloud, or exhibited the wonders of science. He 
built a garden of rootless flowers in the mind of 
the Athenian boy, but he did n't teach analysis. 
Perhaps Socrates had met his pupils; perhaps 
he had shown some of them that none of all 
this was an intellectual activity, that "what the 
boy thought he knew, he did not know"; that 


he misunderstood the first element of intel- 
lectual process. That type of man voted for 
condemnation. They were many, too many 
alas I as always, on all juries. Perhaps another 
juryman may have been a teacher who had 
held his boys up to the painful duty of thought 
— never a highly appreciated duty especially 
by parents of children. The thinking of his 
pupils was of course clumsy; there were little 
or no direct "results." Only these boys learned 
to think. Parents do not always appreciate the 
part the teacher plays or the school plays in 
such a process. The boy may become a thinker; 
but the parent imagines he was bom so, and 
the processes of his school appear to them 
unpractical, useless. The boy has learned to 
think; but nothing else. *'Why has he not 
learned Persian? he might become ambassador 
or get a position at Sardis. " Such teachers are 
not popular. Such an Athenian teacher might 
get on the jury, but he would have voted for 

In this sense the trial of Socrates and his 
process is still going on; you and I are tried to- 
day. The great educational questions of the 
time turn on this quarrel. Athenian history is 
in this point, as in so many others, almost like 


a dress rehearsal of human life ever since. For 
us the story of Socrates has a personal color. 

It was a brave fight and a good death that 
Socrates made. Grod trusted him, we feel, with 
a mission, and to that mission he was faithful. 
But I have tried to suggest that the description 
of that mission of Socrates might be restated in 
an interesting way in the terms of modem psy- 
chology. To me that fact seems to make his 
mission even more impressive than ever, es- 
pecially to school-teachers to-day. 

I do not know if Socrates is aware in the 
Elysian fields of this curious resurrection at the 
end of modem scientific investigation of his old 
interest. I do not know if his happy spirit has 
found the occupation he desired in the other 
world, whether he has been searching as he 
promised ever since his death into the true and 
false knowledge over Jordan, and finding out 
who is wise and who is not. "K, indeed, when 
the pilgrim arrives in the world below, he is 
delivered from the professors of justice in this 
world and finds the true judges there the saints 
of God which are righteous in their own lives 
here, then that pilgrimage will be worth mak- 
ing. What infinite delight would there be in 
conversing with these people and asking them 


questions. In another world they do not put 
a man to death for asking questions, but beside 
being hi^pier in that world than this, we shall 
all be immortal there, if what they say is true." 
Certainly his questionings put him to death; 
more certainly they have made him inmiortal. 

JOHN TETLOW (1843-1911)^ 

Head Master of the QirW High School in Boston, 


Your teacher was a great man, how great I 
do not know that I can say, but as I have lis- 
tened here to-night I have perceived that that 
has happened abeady to him which is the 
teacher's high reward, — that the light which 
in his profession he cast forward on the steps 
of the young entrusted to his charge is already 
reflected back on his own figure, illustrating 
and glorifying his memory. Not that such an 
ambition could ever enter into the heart of 
John Tetlow. Self-illustration, it seems to me, 
as I remember him, was the most aUen thing 
one can conceive of him. But it is not possible 
that — at the head of this great school, at the 
head of his profession — the light should not 
illuminate hun as we remember hun. 

I cannot speak of his achievements. They 
have been spoken of in particular to-night, but 
there is another light which does illuminate a 

^ Address by Mr. CrosweU at the memorial service held in 
Ariington Street Church, Boston, on April 8, 1912. 


character, — not the light that comes from 
what he did, beautiful as that is, but the light 
that comes from what he wished to do, not his 
achievements, but his ideals, his hopes, his 
loves. Any picture of any man is imperfect 
without that. It seems to me that of all men 
the school-teacher works by his ideals even 
more than by his achievements; that what 
John Tetlow did for us was in some way to 
convey the inspiration of his thought, — that 
this was even more than what he did by the 
efficient and great work of his life. 

I represent to-night as I can, as Dr. Gal- 
lagher has said, the Head Masters' Associa- 
tion. The Head Masters' Association is a body 
of friends who meet together once a year in the 
holiday season to exchange their ideals — to 
tell each other what they would like to do, not 
what they have done. It has no achievements, 
it has never "acted"; the membership is com- 
posed very variously; there are in it, or have 
been in it, men whose names are known all over 
the profession; there are men whose work is 
small. There is there, however, a spirit of fra- 
ternity, of love, of personal intercourse, which 
make it to those who know it one of the most 
powerful, one of the most useful, one of the 


most inspiring of our experiences; and this so- 
ciety was the creation of Dr. Tetlow. He was 
one of the first, he was one of the last. His name 
stood on our programme at Christmas time, 
and when that time came for him, he was not. 
He held all the offices, — I think, every one, — 
almost all from the lowest to the highest. It 
was there that I met him. As a man among his 
friends and as a member of the Association, I 
should like to speak, if you will permit me f (nt 
a few minutes, of what I learned of that good 
man's ideals in that way. The first impression 
that he made upon me was one I am sure you 
all know. In the first fifteen minutes of my ac- 
quaintance with him I said, "This man loves 
work." The next I am sure you know. In the 
next fifteen minutes of my acquaintance I said, 
"This man would love me to work." In the 
third fifteen minutes, and from that time on, 
my feeling of him was, "I should love to work 
with him." He had that natural leadership. 
He conveyed that ideal almost irresistibly, 
relentlessly. He was a worker and he spoke of 
work. He loved accuracy. He loved efficiency. 
He loved good work. It is no siuprise to me to 
hear, as I have heard Professor Moore bear 
witness, that his pupils loved it too. He loved 

WRITIN08 810 

reason. It seemed to me that he was himself 
reason. In our professional outlook there are 
not many people who reason or who love it. 
Those who do are valuable beyond price. Rea- 
soned truth, truths that can be stated, con- 
clusions that can be drawn, — these were dear 
to him, I had almost said this was his main in- 
terest in life. 

Then he loved people. Many people love 
wisdom, but the first impression and the last 
impression I drew from his society was that he 
loved people, the human race, yes, that he loved 
me. Is there anything more inspiring? Is there 
anything that children need more than the love 
of their teacher? Is there anything that means 
more in our profession than that love and the 
conveying of that love from the older to the 
younger? I had the impression also that he 
loved the Past; that the things that the himian 
race had already attained were precious to him; 
that he did not care to throw things away for 
the sake of something better and later, profes- 
sionally. We need the progressive spirit, but 
the Future will not come by a stampede of the 
Present. If there is any truth in the evolution 
theory, the Future can only emerge out of what 
is strong in the Past. I speak without, perhaps, 


authority enough, but it seems to me that 
that was Dr. Tetlow's belief. As we saw him 
in the hours of social interchange we relied 
upon himforconservatism, for o-ca^poowi;. There 
too he will be missed in the profession of the 
educator. This, as the master passion of his 
life, the love of the Past, he certainly conveyed 
to us. Where is the place where love of hu- 
manity, love of work, love of wisdom, love of 
reason, all are at home? In the Greek and 
Latin classics. In the pursuit of these classics, 
in the attainment of the vision of antiquity 
which he in such large measure knew, it is no 
wonder that a man of his power, his thought, 
his history, was distinguished not only as an 
accurate and careful scholar but as a lover of 
those works. 

Last, as I have heard to-night again, he was 
a lover of freedom. " Captain of the company " 
certainly persisted to the end. He was a good 
soldier in the war of the liberation of humanity. 
I like to think that whatever heaven is or is not 
to be, on the evidence of two great men we arc 
told it is a place of freedom. "Jerusalem which 
is above is free — the mother of us all." Dante, 
also, at the end of his vision, turns to his guide 
who has carried him up through the circles and 


says, '*Thou hast guided me from servitude to 
freedom/' It is the joy of his spirit to have 
stood in that struggle for individual freedom 
which made him the champion of the school- 
teacher against oppressors from above, which 
made him fight for freedom of thought, which 
made him our champion as well as our genial 
opponent. Whatever the other joys of heaven 
may be, that freedom I like to think he enjoys 

I came here to-night chiefly for the privilege 
of saying the farewell in the name of his pro- 
fession and his associates, that farewell of 
which fate cheated us in the circumstances of 
his death. In what words shall we give it? 
Latin words rise to my lips, words which would 
have been to him reminiscent of delightful 
study, — 

Accipe fratemo multum manantia fletu 
Atque in perpetuum, frater, ave atque vale.^ 

They are perhaps too cold. They are too 
much like an inscription. Fragments of a still 
older funeral hymn come back to me, only 
fragments, written when Rome itself was still 
in the cradle, written "before all time," frag- 
ments of a great hymn. In the funeral by the 

1 Catullus 10 


banks of the Ganges there gathered not the 
members of the Brahmin caste, for caste was 
still midevelopedy but the heads of families 
stood roundabout. Is it forcing the analogy to 
think of the members of the Head Masters' 
Association, the families in which he was so 
illustrious, using those words as a last greeting: 
"Depart thou by the ancient paths where the 
fathers have departed. Shake off thy imper- 
fections. Go to thy home. Let him depart to 
those who are mighty in battle, to the heroes 
who have given their lives for others. Bear him 
and carry him to the world of the righteous. 
Let the new-bom soul, crossing the gloom, 
gaze in wonder and go up to the high heaven 
once more." These are good words to speak 
now, in two ways. Do they not show us that 
the fire that was lighted so Ipng ago has been 
passed on, the same fire lit at the distant fu- 
neral pyre in India? These are our ideals and 
his. The fiire flamed on from the East, touching 
in Jerusalem, touching in Athens, touching in 
Rome, passed like a torch from the hands, now 
of the great man, now of the dwarf, through 
various obstacles to us, and from us on forever. 
It seems to me one may say — a friend may 
say — no stronger hand, no purer heart has 


ever held it than his. And then in the other 
way too. Is it not good for us to remember 
that this plain, straightforward, honest man 
that we knew, is truly a good soldier in the 
sealed warfare of humanity, one of "the heroes 
who have given their lives for others''? 


Thb task of the teacher, be it in school or 
in college, is not an easy one. There are a set 
of unpleasantnesses peculiar to our profession, 
of which the most unpleasant is that, as a 
profession, we are subjected to more criticism, 
just and unjust, than any other trade or pro- 
fession has to endure. We school-teachers are 
criticised by our pupils, by their parents, by 
the citizens of our Republic, by all the news- 
papers, indeed by all those who think they 
can see a gap between their ideals of what we 
ought to do and our performance of our tasks, 
like the ministers of the Gospel, we are always 
under &e from those we would serve, and in 
some sense perhaps we always deserve it. 

But, like no other profession, school and 
college teachers are also exposed continually 
to shots from the rear. Our profession suffers 
more from self-criticism than any other; more 
than in any other profession, except perhaps 

^ Address by Mr. Croswell, as President of the Association of 
Colleges and Preparatoiy Schools of the Middle States and Maiy- 
]and» delivered at Lancaster, Penn^lvania, in 1908. 


that of the artist» the humblest workers 
behold the glory of the ideal. We all see the 
hilltops of our aspiration and we observe 
distinctly one another's distance therefrom. 
Teachers collected in convention suffer from 
special forms of depression, in addition to our 
chronic despondency. We exhibit a "conven- 
tional melancholy." It is brought on or much 
increased by such heart-searching exercises as 
we have had this afternoon. 

The best of us, perhaps the best more than 
the worst of us, are prone to utter on these 
occasions somewhat despairing statements 
over the condition of the teaching world as it 
exists to-day. Just at present there seems to 
be an unusual abundance of such pessimistic 
views before the public. In Professor Barrett 
Wendell's last book, for example, entitled "The 
Privileged Classes of America," I find this im- 
pressive sentence: "There are few colleges of 
America in which we are not often confronted 
with bachelors of arts who are virtually un- 
educated." Or this: "All over the world the 
traditional methods of education have been 
tried and found wanting." And here, again: 
"From my point of view, the younger genera- 
tion seems hardly educated at all." 


In the presidential address of last year 
President Woodrow Wilson made some state- 
ments of the same sort, viewing the matter 
from another angle. *'I have had the e:q>eri- 
ence (which I am sure is conmion to modem 
teachers) of feeling that I was bending all 
my efforts to do a thing which was not sus- 
ceptible of being done, and that the teaching 
that I professed to do was as if done in a vac- 
uum, as if done without a transmitting me- 
dium, as if done without an atmosphere m which 
the forces might be transmitted." Or this: "I 
wish to state these things, if need be, in an 
extravagant form, in order to have you realize 
that we are upon the eve of a period of recon- 
struction. I never attend any gathering of this 
kind (that is, a teachers' convention) that I 
do not hear the frankest admission that we 
are in search of the fundamental principles 
of the thing we are trying to do." 

This view prevails with Mr. Abraham Flex- 
ner in his recent book on the American college. 
He speaks as follows: "Our college. students 
are just as lacking in spontaneous and dis- 
interested intellectual activity as in more 
strictly instrumental power and efficiency.** 
Or this: "Our college students are and for the 


most part emerge flighty, superficial and im- 
mature, lacking, as a class, concentration, 
seriousness and thoroughness." The drift of 
his arguments, he thinks, establishes the 
proposition that the very qualities which seem 
to secure the degree B.A. would secure a man's 
dismissal from any other business whatever. 

It is small wonder that, bearing the burden 
and heat of the day and getting so bad a har- 
vest, school-teachers should sometimes grow 
faint and weary. The prospect does at times 
look dark. I myself received a letter recently 
from a school-teacher in New York, a teacher 
who had been successful in every way, having 
done, perhaps, the best work in the city and 
received much reward in the good-will and 
affection of her scholars. She was writing on 
business, but her pen, straying to the general 
discussion of the teacher's work and its re- 
ward, summed up her experiences as follows: 
"Sometimes, in the last few years, I have been 
made to feel, considering the tortures that 
are applied to me, that school-teaching might 
be characterized as General Sherman de- 
scribed war." 

I am here to-night to deny the validity of 
all such statements and all such criticisms, 


long and short, if considered as serious at- 
tempts to assess the total value of American 
educational work of to-day, though I am will- 
ing to accept them as suggestive propositions 
to open up our discussion of a topic I desire 
to introduce. 

I do not believe we are going to destruction. 
I do believe, however, that **porro unum est 
necessarium" With us, as with the yoimg 
man in the Bible, there is something necessary 
to perfection which we do not now notably 
possess in the American school life. With all 
our endeavors and success there is something 
missing. I propose, as well as I can, to offer 
suggestions which may at once account for 
these animadversions of our critics and do 
something, on the other side, toward de- 
scribing the better state of things I desire to 

In the first place, there is a misunderstand- 
ing or two to clear up. School-teaching is not 
heaven, either to the teacher or learner. We 
should not try to make our schools too bliss- 
ful. The unsuccessful effort to make heavenly 
schools will account for a good deal of the mel- 
ancholy and despair which at times settle 
over us. The simple fact, hard to remember 


as it seems, is this, that the world in which 
teachers live and scholars work is a curious 
world of itself, full of odd geography, but it is 
neither hell nor heaven. It is true, many of 
our experiences as teachers give a certain plaus- 
ibility to my friend's saying that school-teach- 
ing had some resemblance to the adventures 
of the Inferno, or at least we will confess 
that it suggests the classical Hades. I have 
often thought as I read the sixth book of the 
^neid, that Virgil must have foreseen school- 
teaching. I know the wheel of Ldon; it sug- 
gests to me the routine in which I have spun 
round, Tuesday following Monday, Wednes- 
day Tuesday, and so on for twenty years. Cat- 
iline has abused our patience longer than 
he did that of Cicero; Homer has, as the 
Greek epigram says, supported more lives 
than ever the Iliad made the prey of dogs and 
birds. I know the stone of Sisyphus, rolled 
everlastingly up hill and everlastingly bound- 
ing down again. Has it ever happened to you 
to hear a pupil, after two years of algebra, 
inquire in a startled voice, "What is an * un- 
known quantity'?" As for the banquets of 
Tantalus, we teachers have educational luxu- 
ries set forth by publishers of schoolbooks and 


makers of committee reports which evade our 
touch as we grasp after them in vain. 

School is not heaven, but school differs pro- 
foimdly from any circle of any inferno. The 
world of school is, beyond all worlds, the 
place of hope. However crude and imperfect 
our present arrangements, however crude out 
processes, however unsatisfactory our results, 
however deeply condemned may be the young 
men who take our degrees and diplomas, there 
is no sense in speaking in despair of the worst 
school that ever was known; there is always 
a possibility, nay, even a probability, of im- 
provement. Hope is the great commodity of 
all schools. Anything may happen in a school; 
even the imps of the pit may in one hoiu* be- 
come angels of light; not only become so, but 
remain so. A boy may turn into anything, 
even into a man. The worst, yes, the worst 
possible system of education turned in the 
worst possible way, by the worst possible 
hands, has on occasion transformed itself, 
slowly or suddenly, into a thing of greater and 
greater beauty. 

But if school is not heaven or hell, neither 
IS it earth. The common blunder in judging 
the world of school and college is to presume 


to judge this fluctuating, adolescing mass by 
the fixed standards of the adult world. Such 
is the blunder of the critics above quoted. 
Men judge schools, schoolboys, and even 
schoolgirls, by the standards of adult males. 
They do not recollect that our profession dif- 
fers from all others in that its business is not 
transacted upon their earth at all. Our world 
may not be in heaven, but neither is it on terra 
firma. We live and work in the borderland, 
the "never, never land," the limbo of the inno* 
cents. There lies the *^ bonny road that winds 
across the ferny brae " of youth. The school 
world is full of hope, but it is not a land of at- 
tainment. School is a place of still imrealized 
ideals, of loyalties to the causes that cannot 
be described as lost, because they have never 
been won. Why should we judge these half- 
defined cloudlands by the standards of any 
old man in this old world? 

Such an answer I should make to most crit- 
ics such as I have quoted. Such are the feel- 
ings with which the American, the school- 
teacher or the schoolboy himself, is apt to 
answer all critics of his shortcomings. Even 
parents, in one of their two moods, are indul- 
gent to these arguments. As Professor Briggs 


very keenly says : " Many parents r^ard school 
and collie as far less serious in its demands 
than business; a place of delightful irrespon* 
sibility, where a youth may disport himself 
before he is condenmed to hard labor." 

Possibly, however, we Americans tolerate 
childishness too long and too much in school 
and collie. We may let our children remain 
too long immature, under the influence of 
these feeEngs which I have described. Our 
critics may be right in this r^ard. American 
teachers are not awake to the actual danger 
of the situation. Let us consider the matter 
again more carefully. 

After all, more does go to the making of 
man than quick senses or volatile attention or 
the hopefulness and charm of childhood. If 
we have no more than that in our schools we 
are not contributing our proper share to the 
maturing of the nation. To remind us of a 
better ideal, let me read to you President 
Wilson's description of the educated man as 
he gave it at Haverford this month: "The 
nation needs not only men in the vague and 
popular sense of that word, that is, men who 
have been taken from the narrow surround- 
ings of somewhat simple homes and who have 


gone through the process of a sort of miniature 
world (what I have just called of the unreal 
world) such as the large college often is; it 
needs trained and disciplined men, men who 
know and who can think; men who can per- 
ceive and interpret, whose minds are accus- 
tomed to difficult tasks and questions, which 
cannot be threaded except by minds used to 
processes and definite endeavor; men whose 
faculties are instruments of precision and 
whose judgments are steady by knowledge. 
Such men it is not getting by the present proc- 
esses of college life, and cannot get them until 
that life is organized in a different spirit and 
for a different purpose." These are beautiful 
words, and as we read them we cannot but 
appreciate more deeply the complexity of 
what we ought to do for education. One may 
doubt and despair if one turns his eyes too 
earnestly on this dazzling standard. When 
we contrast the elaborate finish of this ideal 
product with the intellectual crudity of the 
early stages of a boy's life, as we have them, 
few of us would venture to promise, by any 
process of our present schooling, to produce 
such beings as these. Very few such men get 
bom, though such men do appear in the col- 


lege world of tener than President "^Ison will 
admit. He is such a man himself. He has, 
therefore, no right to say that such men are 
not produced at all by our educational proc- 
esses. What we have to do, we will admit, 
is to consider more carefully the process of 
maturing and to improve it if we can. We 
must find better ways of helping the process of 
growth in making less the stupidities of youth. 
We now multiply the children's experiences of 
life, but we must also deepen them. 

We must think with patience of this process 
and with hope of the result. We produce some 
good men now; we must produce more of 
them. Especially we must try to produce 
more mature men. It is our duty to advance 
the maturity of young Americans. Yet, on 
the other hand, in the interests of this matu- 
rity, I should say to our critics and to my col- 
leagues, we must stay our haste and make 
delays. This part of the teacher's duty, to 
diminish the pace of life for young people, is 
least understood by American parents, and 
the American community is, therefore, im- 
patient with us. Much of the school criticism 
arises simply from undue impatience. Delay 
in ripening is a very vital part of the ripening 


process. '^Before the beginning of years there 
Came to the making of man time, with the gift 
of tears." And yet we talk to parents, and 
college presidents talk to us, as if some teach- 
ers' association, some day, would invent a 
process to eliminate patience and time; as if 
children could be matured, if we only knew 
how, in no time at all, as in Paradise. 

I recollect hearing once of a process for 
maturing wine "while you wait." The inven- 
tor had figured that contact with the air was 
the chemical cause of the ripening of wine. As 
contact could only occur at the surface, con- 
sequently, if any way could be found for mul- 
tiplying the points of contact between the 
air and the surface of the liquid, the process 
must be shortened by that factor. His patent 
or device was to take the wine to the top of a 
shot tower and spray it downward through the 
air four hundred feet, whereby raw, new port 
must become fine old wine in the space of about 
five minutes. Some of our schemes and sys- 
tems for the economical ripening of youth 
seem to have the defects of this device, physi- 
cally and psychologically. 

All American life, American ideals, Ameri- 
can practices need the slow ripening of time. 


We must therefore ripen our educational proc- 
esses, maturing the culture of those who con- 
trol and plan them. We need a patient at- 
tendance, too, on the natural growth of our 

Moreover, our critics need patience in their 
estimation of our results. A very good friend 
of mine, who sent me into the teaching pro- 
fession thirty years ago, gave me that watch- 
word as the result of his own successful expe- 
rience. **You will need patience every day," 
said he; "you will need courage once a month." 
I have needed more patience and less courage 
than that. We all of us have courage enough, 
especially in challenging the difficulties of our 
educational task; probably we none of us 
have patience enough with ourselves and our 

But the imrest of our generation of which 
I speak is, as a sign of the times, not to be 
dismissed with a mere recommendation of 
patience. What does it mean, that for a gen- 
eration, as Woodrow Wilson said to us last 
year, "We have been passing through a period 
when everything seems in the process of dis- 
solution"? When there is such a imiversal 
dispersion of every ancient aspect and concep- 


tion of our world we must examine ourselves. 
There must be a cause for it. K the new re- 
naissance is due, and perhaps overdue, pa- 
tience alone will not produce it. 

We need something yet to satisfy the long- 
ings alike of the hopeful and the despairing 
who study the educational field. There must 
be something more looked for to save us. And 
this one thing needful seems to me to be a 
better attitude of mind toward work. K one 
looks more carefully into the mass of criticism 
of our processes of which I am speaking one 
feels that they generally reduce to mistrust 
of the attitude of mind toward work prevail- 
ing among teachers or students, or both. As 
President Wilson said, we are in search of 
fundamental principles of the thing we are 
trying to do, and we must be on the eve of a 
period of reconstruction. Now, there is noth- 
ing more fundamental than the attitude of 
mind with which scholars and teachers attack 
their common task. It is probably our atti- 
tude toward our work as scholars and teachers 
which we should reconstruct. A search for the 
best method of doing this ought to reward us, 
even before we capture any more fundamental 


opinion prevails in America about the teach- 
ing profession we cannot rely on a great nuin- 
ber of superior personalities joining us in our 
forlorn hope, certainly not enough to bring 
about a "New Renaissance," to get a new 
attitude of mind in the place of the old one 
by their inspiration. K we are to have among 
us teachers that produce scholars and lame 
ducks, the attitude of mind of pupils, teachers, 
and parents to work will never improve. 

But I am prepared to say that even if by 
some miracle a large number of authoritative 
personalities were to appear in the next gen- 
eration of school-teachers there would still be 
need of further help to produce the change of 
heart for which I am looking. There is some- 
thing further needful than great ideals em- 
bodied by great teachers. The saying that 
Mark Hopkins at one end of the log and a 
student at the other makes a university is 
only in one sense true. There must be an at- 
mosphere, an intention, an ambition on both 
sides of the log, which would hardly be cre- 
ated simply by a dominating personality. We 
want better reactions on the part of our stu- 
dents themselves, not a reaction excited merely 
by their interest in attractive people. 


While we gladly welcome, therefore, the 
mystical transfer of life by the living to the 
living, which Thwing described as the true 
definition of the teacher's activity, there lies 
even beyond this a more matiuing experience 
still, which every boy and girl must have deep 
rooted in their lives if they are to be true men 
and women. Our students must know work. 

The hunger for work which comes to every 
man when he first faces the life struggle, that 
lonely, competitive personal struggle which we 
must all know, I shall once for all describe 
as working for the market. That is the one 
thing needful to make our schools alive again. 
Our boys and girls, our yoimg men and women 
must leam to work by working for the market. 
This market may be man's market, where 
one earns one's living, or God's market, where 
one earns one's salvation. It is this sacramen- 
tal touch of the spirit of work upon our spirits 
which we ought to yearn for in the lives of our 
youth in our secondary schools and colleges. 
This touch is now, it seems to me, very much 
wanting. Our boys and girls do not believe 
they are working for any market at all. If 
we could persuade the boys and girls in our 
schools and colleges that they were truly 


earning their living at school by their work in 
school we should soon find that our American 
youth would rise near^ to the measure of their 
duty in the high schools and colleges. If it 
could be seen by pupils that the processes and 
occupations in the high schools and colleges 
were in any way concerned with their own 
marketable value as men we should soon see a 
renaissance begin. Nothing short of this atti- 
tude of mind will really save our schools. 

I dislike the words "cultural" and "voca- 
tional,'' but in this connection I feel much 
tempted to use them. And if I use them I 
should say that if we wish a new renaissance 
we must assess the value of our educational 
institutions in terms of vocation. All pursuits 
in school should be thought of by the students 
as vocational pursuits. This will renew our 
lives. The day one feels that his work is worth 
more than he is, that day the boy becomes a 
man. I do not say that one must earn dollars 
or quarters of dollars, necessarily, to acquire 
that new feeling. When the storm of the Civil 
War swept over this country a most marvellous 
change was wrought in many an idle boy. The 
heroes whose names are inscribed on the walls 
of our institutions of learning are the names 


of boys, often chiefly distinguished in college 
by their apathy in all matters of scholastic 
regimen. Why did they drill in the army who 
never would drill in college? It was because 
they saw that their output was marketable 
in one case and not in the other. It was cul- 
tural versus vocational activity. Many are the 
markets of the universe. They were earning 
their living who fell at Gettysburg; home they 
went, and took their wages. 

I urge, then, greater consideration and 
greater esteem for the vocational ideal in school. 
I think this will work a great change of mind 
and a greater change of practice. Vocation 
alone can stimulate Americans to duty. We 
cannot, of course, deny the value of self -cul- 
ture as a good in itself, nor can we tell our 
children that anything they do at the age of 
the secondary school life will be marketable 
in any very definite vocation. Nothing that 
our pupils put out, whether it be the solution 
of a mathematical problem or the acquisition 
of French or Latin, is as marketable as they 
are themselves. But though this be the master 
fact of the adolescent situation, it is not in 
the least wholesome for such an idea to domi- 
nate their imaginations. Cardinal Newman, I 


believe, laid down the ingenious paradox of 
ethics, as follows: *'Be virtuous and you will 
be happy. But they that seek happiness have 
not the virtue." Let me alter it! "Be indus- 
trious in school and you will be cultivated. 
But they that work for culture never have 
the right kind of industry. It is only those 
who work for the product's sake who truly 

I propose, then, that we should cease to 
emphasize the cultiu*al ideal of work, as we 
have done in the past in school and collie, 
and should emphasize the vocational. Cid- 
ture is not a wholesome ideal for youth. It is 
in no way a natural ideal for youth; least of 
all is it so in our generation. Any boy or any 
girl in our time must work for some social 
market; the nearer the market the better. It 
is, for example, because the playing of a foot- 
ball game seems to boys a true vocation that 
athletics have flourished so largely in the 
midst of the cultural vacuum, into which 
Woodrow Wilson describes our teaching as 
having passed. Can any one conceive, for 
example, of the hosts which assemble to be- 
hold our boys following their "vocation" as 
athletes assembled to watch cultural exer- 


cises in gymnastics? It is the market of com- 
petition which enlivens the work of the mus- 
cles. Why not of the mind? 

Let me repeat. I think that the cultural 
ideals of the past are not deeply rooted enough 
in the social life of the present and future 
to serve the turn of enlisting the best work 
of American youth. The educational ideal of 
Athens, for example, on which our ideals of 
culture generally rest, contemplated an aris- 
tocracy whose perfections, mental and bodily, 
rested upon slave labor and a social ideal of 
life now outworn. It fails to interest the mod- 
em world; our boys misunderstand it. Per- 
fection of the Oxford culture, defined as Pro- 
fessor Jowett described it, teaching "the 
English gentleman to be an English gentle- 
man," this, too, fails to meet the demand of 
our time in our country. "A gentleman's mark 
is *C,' " was the inmiortal statement of an in- 
genuous college youth at Harvard. Why not? 
But no boy would ever believe that a **C** 
alegbra, offered in any market, was worth 
more than "Al" algebra. 

In what way can we bring the more whole- 
some market ideal more closely before the 
eyes of growing boys and growing girls? In 


what way can we make the new technical 
studies serve the test of humanistic ideals, 
the ideals of work? For this is far more 
necessary than the reverse. In two ways, it 
seems to me. 

The true market of adult life can be sug- 
gested in the work of the earlier years by in- 
creasing the number of vocational studies and 
vocational schools in oiu* community. Let us 
have trades taught imiversally. Let us, even 
in childhood, learn things which we know 
even in childhood can be taken to market. 
Open the trade schools, if we are to have them, 
to all comers. From them will spread pre- 
cisely that seriousness about the process, that 
value in the product, which I desire to see in- 
crease in the life of American school boys. This 
will uplift our cultural ideals. Taking the 
market as it is, even with all its narrowness, 
let us see that our children get into it earlier 
than they now do. Let them learn to work with 
their hands, even though it were hunting and 
fishing. All the yachting and canoeing and 
boat-sailing, all the gardening and farming, 
into which hungry children throw themselves 
with such avidity, will increase and multiply 
the centres by which this vivacious ideal of 


the meaning of work, the true, new attitude of 
mind, may spread. 

A second way in which this same end may 
be reached seems to me important for us 
American school-teachers to consider. Should 
we not multiply trainings for new vocations 
in our schools? Why must we narrow our voca- 
tional schools to the teaching of trades already 
at work in the market? Because they see 
no direct connection between school work and 
any definitely established trade or profession, 
parents forget that their sons may be called 
upon to be pioneers in new vocations. We 
forget that America has to establish new 
trades and new professions as well as pursue 
the old ones, and that trade schools alone will 
not train a man even for the life of trade and 
conmierce. In this connection I should be 
glad to tell you a story told me by Frederick 
Law Olmsted of his own beginning and his 
own experience. He it was who designed and 
mapped out Central Park, in New York. He 
told me that when this undertaking first be- 
gan to be realized he was forced to spend 
nearly the whole of his days in persuading citi- 
zens and oflScials of New York that they needed 
a park there. His nights he gave to the pro- 


fessional work involved in maJdng it. So in 
our work we must cultivate the demand for 
ourselves as a condition preceding our efforts 
to satisfy it. 

Another thing we can do, if we wish to 
produce a more inspired industry in our sec- 
ondary schools, is a thing which is dose at 
hand. We might try to give more of their 
proper vocational values to such studies as 
actually exist in the present high-school cur- 
riculum. We treat all our studies in the high 
school and college too often with no regard to 
their vocational possibilities. We treat them 
as cultural subjects exclusively and they droop. 
But all the cultural subjects in our curricu- 
lum began originally as vocations. Vocations 
are older than cultures. Any culture study has 
more to gain from being true as a vocational 
study than it has to lose. For instance, it was 
not until Latin ceased to be of marketable 
value as a language that it posed as pure cul- 
ture. But by treating it merely as a culture 
we are killing it off. Let us now treat it again 
as vocation. Mr. Wendell suggested that he 
studied Latin simply as a nauseous means 
of cultivating the voluntary attention. But 
why not learn Latin? Why not pursue it as a 


thing of vocational meaning? It can be done; 
it ought to be done. It is a language, after all. 

Or why not learn some French in our schools? 
The new method of teaching modem languages 
has just the vocational meaning. Under the 
cultural methods of treating the subject one 
is supposed to value the intellectual culture 
involved in studying French grammar, rhet- 
oric, and literature more than he values the 
incidental French he acquires. Suppose one 
postpones all this to the acquisition of a work- 
ing knowledge of French or German as lan- 
guages. Would not the attitude of mind in our 
modem language classes improve? Are they 
not languages, after all? 

Or consider mathematics. Why make that 
very practical subject so essentially into a 
setting-up drill of the intellect? Is it neces- 
sary to have three years of arithmetical cul- 
tiu-e, two years of algebraic culture, one year 
of geometric culture, all separated by logical 
classification from each other? Is there any 
good argument for this arrangement? Is there 
any vocation known in which geometry exists 
simply as an exercise in logic, independently 
of arithmetic or algebra? 

Or consider the problem of instruction in 


English. Where would the cultural ideal con- 
duct us finally if we pursued it in the study of 
English to the exclusion of vocational English 
entirely? Shall we be able to speak English? 
We have not made or we have lost too far the 
vocational connections in our school work. 

When I plead for the vocational ideal as 
a new means of inspiration in our American 
schools, I am not speaking, of course, solely 
of the money value of acquisitions or talents. 
Money values may easily be overestimated, 
though money value is a pretty faithful index 
of market value. A boy or girl who receives 
wages for work feels most vigorously, most 
strongly, that he is at last enlisted with the 
colors. It is a great experience, one that I 
should like every boy and every girl in our 
country to have, to work for money, as regu- 
larly as all European boys serve in the army, 
if only for two or three years. 

But it need not be money values that we 
propose to consider when we speak of voca- 
tional work in school. Much social service is 
done, and always will be done, which cannot 
be paid for in money. It is sufficient that a 
boy*s work is recognized by the worker and 
his comrades as service. It may be service to 


the school, the college, the family, or the com- 
munity. Work done in the sight of the host 
has its uplifting inspiration. Why not idealize 
the word ** vocation" and make it appeal in 
more general ways to our scholars? 

If our schools create this vocational atmos- 
phere even in culture studies, great improve- 
ments must follow. Two of our gr^test prob- 
lems would probably be solved at once. Under 
no vocational ideal of school instruction could 
the absurd proposition maintain itself that 
every child, in every public school, must study 
every subject. This superstition sprang out of 
the old ideal of a rounded culture to the end 
of school work. This is already a hopeless 
ideal; it never had any vocational meaning. 

Moreover, the other enemy of good work 
might vanish. If it were understood that the 
value of the product was to be considered, 
which each child can present to the world at 
the dose of his school life, we should hear less 
of overcrowded high schools and overburdened 
taxpayers. Pupils who could not " make good " 
from the vocational point of view in pursuing 
their college and high school subjects, who 
could not produce any marketable commodity 
in any subject of learning, necessarily would 


receive no consideration from the taxpayers. 
Our democratic indulgence to incompetency 
in our public schools would be cut at the 

These random suggestions seem to me to 
point out the road on which we may march; 
they do not pretend to be a developed scheme 
for immediate realization. 

We need a new attitude of mind. I think 
we must search for the new attitude of mind 
by making our school and college work appeal 
more and more to the constructive ambition 
of American youth. James Russell Lowell 
was fond of saying that school and college 
should be the place where "nothing useful 
was studied." He put it somewhere in another 
way, that we should respect and provide for 
the growing of roses, not less than cabbages, 
in our academic field. No one will deny the 
deep meaning of these poetic imaginations. 
Our new attitude of mind cannot controvert 
them; but both roses and cabbages, after all, 
grow best when grown for the market. I con- 
fess, for one, that I think there is more danger 
in idly contemplating our cabbage field than 
in attempting to make roses useful. We must 
interest our boys more in the market values 


of their intellectual product. This is good 
modem pragmatism. 

We must judge the schools with more se- 
verity from the standpoint of public market. 
Things are tolerated good-natm^dly in Ameri- 
can schools which would not be tolerated in 
Europe, where market values are more con- 
sidered. We are too gentle, for example, with 
bad English if produced in school by a nice 
boy. The one thing needful is a new and 
severer attitude of mind, which would arrive 
automatically among both pupils and teachers 
if vocational ideals should be more considered, 
even at the expense of the cultural atmosphere. 

As this convention is now housed in a church, 
I hope it will be permitted me to remind my 
audience of the New Testament story from 
which we have derived our phrase, "The one 
thing needful." The rich young man asked 
the Master what he must do to be saved. He 
rehearsed his great possessions and detailed 
his culture. But the answer was, "Sell all 
that thou hast." Does this not mean to take 
all that we have to market? This application 
of the parable is not fanciful, I think; it is good 
Christianity. Here shortly follows another 
parable which proves this. At the Day of 


Judgment, we are told, one set of mankind 
will appear before the bar of heaven, appeal- 
ing to their cultural experiences. "Lord, we 
have eaten and drunk in thy presence, and 
Thou hast taught in our streets." They have 
been in the presence of great things and great 
men; they have seen them idly; they have 
passed by. We are also told that they will be 
judged by a vocational test: have they done 
anything for "the least of these my brethren"? 
and those who have only eaten and drunk in 
the presence of the Lord, who have never 
brought their talents to the market test, will 
be invited to depart with the other children 
of selfish culture to the place where there is 
weeping and gnashing of teeth. 

Vocation is a word to conjure with in mod- 
em America. I want to use it, with its asso- 
ciations, to cover the whole ground of a boy's 
experience in his school life. I want it to bring 
about a new attitude in work. Do not mis- 
take me. I have no desire to make radical 
substitutions, say of laimdry work for Latin. 
I do not wish the higher experiences of the 
soul to give way to the lower. But high or low 
are dangerous words to use of human educa- 
tion. Let the rose follow the vocation of the 


rose, and the cabbage of the cabbage; they are 
both in honor. Good laundry work well done 
is higher than bad Latin. Even for the cul- 
tural studies one may desire to win the con- 
notations of the word vocational. There is no 
telling by what lowly door the Lord of Life 
may enter in. 

Let us persuade our students to take their 
talents and their cultiure always in the spirit of 
service. Let us so teach them how to work and 
why to work and what work is, from the mar- 
ket point of view. That is the one thing need- 
ful, I think, to fill again the idle sails of Ameri- 
can schools and colleges. 


By the Word of Allah, all creatures are — the 
jewel after his kind, and the dark coal after 
his kind. In a moment His Word makes and 
unmakes all things; and His Word is spoken 
by His Prophet and by His children alike. 

Long years since, a merchant dwelt in Bag- 
dad. His traffic was with princes, and his 
gains, the spoils of kings; for in the secret places 
of his house lay jewels of great price, such as 
monarchs in their splendor wear. Par and near 
he sought for them, the rubies of Asia, the 
diamonds of Africa, the pearls of the seas that 
lie between. In their quest he endured hunger 
and fatigue; in their winning he had trod both 
dark and dangerous ways. Por this man would 
possess the most secret and most lordly jewels 
of the world, such as lie hid in the cabinets of 
emperors, or blaze on the diadems and sword- 
hilts of conquerors and kings. 

Many a great prize had he won, and his soul 
exalted itself when he gazed upon his match- 


less treasures. But his heart grew hard; so that 
he left the kindly intercourse of man with man; 
yea, he sinned the sin of the lonely and the 
proud. He thought only upon his treasure ; men 
died to add to it; yea, for it, this man sold all he 
had of manhood, and of all life's good. And 
the treasure heaped itself, in sullen glory, in his 

Then, in an hour, his dream vanished. For, 
by the wisdom of Allah, an evil enchanter 
passed over his house, and he cast a spell upon 
it. And lo, the spirits of air and fire, which 
abide in all jewels, were, by that spell, cast out 
from those stones, so that their glory departed 
from them and died. And when the master 
arose to look upon them, the jewels of his 
treasure-house were no longer jeweb, but dark 
and gleaming coals. 

Then his soul died within him, for he thought 
not upon Allah, who by a word makes and un- 
makes all things. So he said in his heart, ''Lo, 
my jewels were not jewels! I am the sport of 
the spirits of Evil, and the chief of fools! These 
were but gleaming coals, for which I have given 
my life. Verily, I am wasted, even as water is 
poured in the dust.'' 

In his misery, he found no comforter. And 


he cried aloud. But the Clement and Merciful 
One, looking down upon the sons of men, be- 
held his sorrow. Therefore He, in whose coun- 
sels lie the coming and the going of men, made 
to pass that way a wise and holy man, who, 
hearing the lamentation of the despairing one, 
entered the house; and, inquiring of his trou- 
ble, said: "Peace be to thee, my son! Why 
wailest thou so?'* 

And the merchant answered and said: "Be- 
hold my life and the hours of my youth are 
wasted; I have labored and fasted and these 
are the treasures of my labor and the reward 
for my denial of joy. I took these stones for 
jewels, and they are but coals! Surely I have 
been the plaything of the Spirits who are 
mightier than men. My hours are wasted as 
water is poured in the dust." 

Then answered the sage: "What is wasted 
and what is saved, Allah alone knoweth; and 
His judgments shall determine. He maketh the 
diamond, coal; and in His time, the coal, dia- 
mond. And from the same earth as the diamond 
and the coal, He hath made thee and me." 

Then said the merchant: "Yet these were my 
labors and this is the wage of my labor. I have 
labored for jewels, and I have received coals. 



Then said the sage: ** Allah hath given to 
Man labor and wages. Praise Him for both. 
But take now the coals, which thou hast re- 
ceived from Him, down to the market-place; 
and do with them as is fitting. But if it be pos- 
sible, give of them to the needy wayfarers. So 
shall even these coals be a blessing, yea, be- 
yond the sullen glory of the jewels which thou 
hast, it shall come to thee. And in the bless- 
ing of the poor shall the message of Allah be 

So the merchant made his coals into sackfuls 
and bagfuls. And he took them to the market- 
place. And he sat down to sell. Then as he 
sat, there came by many. Some saw him not; 
and others mocked him, saying: ""Once thou 
didst deal with kings for jewels; but now thou 
art glad to traffic with slaves for coal.'' And 
his heart was heavy within him, for he heard no 
message from Allah; and the day waned. 

Then at last came gently the footsteps of a 
child. And she paused and gazed at his sacks 
of coal and at him, as the man sat at his mer- 
chandise. And when he saw the child, straight- 
way he forgot his lost jewels. For in the eyes of 
a child lingers the light of that heaven whence 
children come; and there is neither diamond 


nor pearl which shines with their ineffable 
light. So the man looked, and the child gazed 
at his sacks and at him. And lo, the spell of 
the enchanter was broken, and the sin of the 
merchant's covetous heart melted away. And 
there arose in him a longing, not for the jewels 
of earth, but for the service and the care of the 
children who are the jewels of God. So he said 
to the child: ** Little one! I am but a merchant 
of coal, but take of me what I have to give. 
My coals may warm thee in the days of storm 
and cold; they may feed thee, when thou and 
thine shall hunger. Take them and bless thy 
Father and mine." 

And the child laughed and answered: ''Coal 
merchant, why dost thou sell diamonds and 
pearls for coal?** 

And lo, as she spoke, he beheld the splendor 
of the jewels returned to them; and the sacks 
of coal were filled again with rubies, with 
emeralds, with jacinths, with diamonds, far 
beyond the glory of the lost jewels. 

Then understood the man that the message 
of Allah had come to him, and that in the 
market-place, among humble men and chil- 
dren, the merchandise of Allah is lost and 


Praise be to Allah, the Clement and Merdf ul» 
who maketh of one earth the coal and the dia- 
mond; and of one soul, Hope and Despair. 
Out of the mouth of babes has He ordained His 
praise, to still the Enemy and the Avenger. 
Praise Him, all ye jewels and coals; O ye chil- 
dren of Men, praise Him and magnify Him 


On a hill at sunrise stood Adam and Eve. 
like children who f ear, not knowing what they 
fear, they ding together, watching their new 
and dreadful world. After the night of wrath 
and tempest which had overhung their banish- 
ment from Eden, the sun was rising again in 
peace. Natiu^, after her wild alarms, was re- 
turning, as is her wont, to her friendly calm; and 
the evil shadows of the dreadful midnight were 
now melting into the dawn of hope. 

But even in the peace of the dawn, yes, be- 
cause of the sweetness, the empty sweetness, 
of the scene, there was a pang more poignant 
than the terror of the Flaming Sword. 

They were alone. Henceforth alone. Hence- 
forth aUens in their own house. All happiness 
is to be bounded by this grief; all satisfactions 
edged by this despair. 

So brooded the lost pair, taking up the new 
burden of the fate of mankind to come. 

Then in their lonely sorrow they became 
aware that they were not alone. For there 


stood at their side a Being, strange among the 
angelic faces they knew in Paradise, yet seem- 
ing no stranger as he smiled and presently 
spoke: — 

"Your tears are no longer due to your 
destiny, children of earth! Cease to lament. 
Dread not. Trust wholly to this new earth. 
There is that here which Paradise itself did not 
contain. Ye shall know here the comfortable 
joy of human life. Behold me! I am to be the 
companion of your future life and its solace* 

"My name is Delight. like yourselves I am 
made of the Dust of the Earth. I will open 
your eyes to the pleasant things of this worl^. 
Sounds shall be sweet, sights shall be pleasant, 
odors shall spring for you from the flowers of 
life. Look not at the majesty of the sky; live 
comfortably below it, where the Sun doth shine 
on the evil and on the good. Stare not upon 
the mountain tops; trust the friendly valleys. 

"Delight yourselves in the little world. Let 
fade the memory of Paradise; the thunder- 
scarred gates are shut. Yes, cast away the 
biu*densome knowledge of good and evil, which 
has cost you a world. By small delights, by 
pleasant senses, by comforting habit of experi- 
ence, so shall the sons of Earth hereafter live. 


This shall be your home; with sudi companion- 
ship as mine, even the curse of Adam may be 
borne; and the Doom of Eve shall bring after it 
a train of happy delight in hearth and home." 

Then said Adam: — 

"Spirit! Thou hast not touched my sorrow. 
Not labor's burden, nor the travail of body 
and soul to come to motherhood, crushes the 
life of our souls. In the craft of my hand, in 
the sweat of my brow shall come a triumph, 
like to God's. Even the birth and bearing of 
the Child to come is full of hope and glory, 
shining through the danger and despair. Not 
these are the ciu*se of Man. Not these visions 
affright my heart. 

"Delight? I do delight in this new, strange, 
glorious world. I do believe that, for its sor- 
rows, its joys are potent consolation enough. 
The new sun warms us; the blue sky covers 
us lovingly. I well believe that earthly life is 
filled with comfort. I and my children shall 
possess the earth and learn, by the strong tie 
of living, to love it. 

"But the Agony of Man's Spirit is not this. 
It cannot yield to spells like thine. For I 
brought with me from Paradise a Longing, 
eternal, unearthly. Can the Delight of Earth 


satisfy the Soul's hunger for that which is not 
earth? The hunger of the Soul is eternal and 
insatiate; can the hunger of the Body torture 
like this? The Nakedness of the soul, blown 
upon by the cutting winds that move through 
the Void, what earthly shelter can cover? 
What earthly friendliness can warm? 

^'What shall thou and thy charm profit us, 
O Spirit? Who can comfort with the sweet- 
ness of Earth, for loss of Heaven? Shall Death 
yield to thy spell? Shall the Darkness of Eter- 
nity be Ht from earthly fires?'' 

Then grew pale the color which played 
about the wings and head of the beautiful 
Spirit. Yet he lingered about the pair, telling 
them again and again of the sweet comfort 
earthly kindness may bring, of earthly hun- 
gers that earthly joy may satisfy, of earthly 
hopes that earthly labors may fulfil. But as 
the twain sat silent, behold, in the eyes of 
Eve, which were looking afar, there kindled 
a great light. For she beheld approaching an 
Angel of the Heavenly Host. 

His face was shadowed; and in the shadows 
lay deeper shadows still. His coimtenance was 
sad; his statiu*e terrible; and he was armed as 
a Man of War. 


Yet over his forehead shone the light of 
interstellar spaces. His eyes were glorious 
within. And on the brightness of the sunrise 
he descended; and at last he spoke. 

"Children of earth," he said, "who are also 
children of the Highest Heaven, I bring you 
rescue from Death." 

And as he spoke, they heard; and their in- 
most hearts knew that this was true; and they 
worshipped God. And the angel said: — 

"Behold I am come from the home beyond 
Death of your longing souls. Not Paradise 
could contain me; not Earth could name me; 
not Death can tame me. I am Love Himself 
the Unconquered. 

"No comfortable delight do I bring you; 
I bring but longing for that which is not. No 
easy satisfaction do I give my servants; only 
despair, desire and hope for their portions. 
For I come from afar oflf. In the longing for 
something greater than that which is, in de- 
votion to it, in unflinching loyalty shall be 
felt my power over Man. So in my name, 
Man shall love, and ruin himself, and save the 
World. Parent shall give himself to Child; 
Friend shall serve Friend; Lover shall die for 
Lover; and all shall find Heaven. I bring not 


happiness; but cast ye yourselves in the waves 
of my power, which roll through the universe, 
and find the Bliss from which I came. 

^^By my great Drama, this little Earth shall 
be ennobled among the stars. For though I 
enact my life on earth, I am from the court of 
the King beyond the World. 

^^ Yet, to the end. Earth shall not understand 
me. For I have no earthly reality. I tell of 
that which is not. My home is not that planet 
which God made in six days; for that is ruined. 
I am of other source and striving. I am the 
Unknowable forever. 

^'Like Man himself I am here a stranger; 
He and I alone in this world are not of this 
world. We are of God. Therefore my chil- 
dren, love to end of time and to the uttermost 
hope. Ask not life for delight of earth; follow 
me to Heaven. For I am Heaven." 

Then fell a silence on the world, and the crea- 
tures of life stood still. And Eve whispered, 
"Bringest thou not delight nor comfort?*' 

And he said, "Delight beyond all delight; 
and pain beyond all pain.** 

And Adam said: "" Mighty Angel, shall weak 
souls of men follow in thy train without per- 


Then said the Archangel: "It is thy fate, 
to follow me, oh mystery of earth, creature of 
dust, inhabitant and child of Eternity." 

Then said the Man: "" Shall I not blench and 
fall back, again a traitor to my Destiny?" 

Then said the Archangel: "Look me in the 
face; follow me to the end. For Love alone 
can give power to see Love and live." 

And as they looked they saw the Vision of 
the Beatified World. And thus faded the 
lonely sorrow of the morning; and they re- 
joiced. For even Paradise had no such song 
as the song of Human Love, eternal, trium- 
phant, victorious; and even Paradise had no 
such light as shone about the head of the Angel 
of the Vision. 


Professor N. S. Shaler, of Harvard Uni- 
versity, says in an article on "Volcanoes" in 

Scribner*s Magazine" of February, 1888: — 
This translation I owe to my friend Pro- 
fessor J. G. Croswell, who has given a better 
and more lively rendering of the text than can 
be found in any of the previous versions/' 

(Pliny's Letters. Book 6, 16.) 

Gains Plinius sends to his friend Tacitus 

You ask me to write you an account of 
my uncle's death, that posterity may possess 
an accurate version of the event in your his- 
tory. • . • 

He was at Misenum, and was in command 
of the fleet there. It was at one o'clock in the 
afternoon of the 24th of August that my mo- 
ther called his attention to a cloud of unusual 
appearance and size. He had been enjoying 
the sun, and after a bath had just taken his 
lunch and was lying down to read; but he 


immediately called for his sandals and went 
out to an eminence from which this phenom- 
enon could be observed. A doud was rising 
from one of the hills (it was not then clear 
which one, as the observers were looking from 
a distance, but it proved to be Vesuvius), which 
took the likeness of a stone-pine very nearly. 
It imitated the lofty trunk and the spreading 
branches, for, as I suppose, the smoke had 
been swept rapidly upward by a recent breeze 
and was then left hanging unsupported, or 
else it spread out laterally by its own weight, 
and grew thinner. It changed color, sometimes 
looking white and sometimes, when it carried 
up earth or ashes, dirty and streaked. The 
thing seemed of importance, and worthy of 
nearer investigation to the philosopher. He 
ordered a light boat to be got ready and asked 
me to accompany him if I wished; but I an- 
swered that I would rather work over my 
books. In fact, he had himself given me some- 
thing to write. 

He was going out himself, however, when 
he received a note from Rectina, wife of Csesius 
Bassus, living in a villa on the other side of the 
bay, who was in deadly terror about the ap- 
proaching danger and begged him to rescue 

WRITIN08 278 

her, as she had no means of flight but by ships. 
This converted his plan of observation into a 
more serious purpose. He got his men-of-war 
under way, and embarked to help Rectina, 
as well as other endangered persons, who were 
many, for the shore was a favorite resort on 
account of its beauty. He steered directly 
for the dangerous spot whence others were 
flying, watching it so fearlessly as to be able 
to dictate a description and take notes of all 
the movements and appearances of this catas- 
trophe as he observed them. 

Ashes began to fall on his ships, thicker and 
hotter as they approached land. Cinders and 
pumice, and also black fragments of rock 
cracked by heat, fell around them. The sea 
suddenly shoaled, and the shores were ob- 
structed by masses from the moimtain. He 
hesitated a while and thought of going back 
again; but finally gave the word to the reluc- 
tant helmsman to go on, saying, *' Fortune 
favors the brave. Let us find Pomponianus.** 
Pomponianus was at Stabiae, separated by 
the intervening bay (the sea comes in here 
gradually in a long inlet with curving shores), 
and although the peril was hot near, yet as it 
was in full view, and, as the eruption increased. 


seemed to be approaching, he had packed up 
his things and gone aboard his ships ready 
for flight, which was prevented, however, by 
a contrary wind. 

My unde, for whom the wind was most 
favorable, arrived, and did his best to remove 
their terrors. He embraced the frightened 
Pomponianus and encouraged him. To keep 
up their spirits by a show of imconcem, he 
had a bath; and afterwards dined, with real, 
or what was perhaps as heroic, with assumed 
cheerfulness. But, meanwhile, there began 
to break out from Vesuvius, in many spots, 
high and wide-shooting flames, whose bril- 
liancy was heightened by the darkness of ap- 
proaching night. My uncle reassured them 
by asserting that these were burning farm- 
houses which had caught fire after being de- 
serted by the peasants. Then he turned in 
to sleep, and slept indeed the most genuine 
slumbers; for his breathing, which was always 
heavy and noisy, from the full habit of his 
body, was heard by all who passed his cham- 
ber. But before long the floor of the court on 
which his chamber opened became so covered 
with ashes and pumice that if he had lingered 
in the room he could not have got out at all. 

WRITIN08 975 

So the servants woke him, and he came out 
and joined Pomponianus and others who were 
watching. They consulted together as to what 
they should do next. Should they stay in 
the house or go out of doors. The house was 
tottering with frequent and heavy shocks of 
earthquake, and seemed to go to and fro as it 
moved from its foundations. But in the open 
air there were dangers of falling pumice-stones, 
though, to be sure, they were light and porous. 
On the whole, to go out seemed the least of 
two evils. With my unde it was a compari- 
son of arguments that decided; with the others 
it was a choice of terrors. So they tied pillows 
on their heads by way of defence against fall- 
ing bodies and sallied out. 

It was dawn elsewhere; but with them it 
was a blacker and denser night than they had 
ever seen, although torches and various lights 
made it less dreadful. They decided to take 
to the shore and see if the sea would allow them 
to embark; but it appeared as wild and appall- 
ing as ever. My imde lay down on a rug. He 
asked twice for water and drank it. Then as 
a flame with a forerunning sulphurous vapor 
drove off the others, the servants roused him 
up^ Leaning on two slaves he rose to his feet. 


but immediately fell bade, as I miderstand, 
choked by the thick vapors» and this the 
more easily that his chest was naturally weak, 
narrow, and generally inflamed. When day 
came (I mean the third alter the last he ever 
saw) they found his body perfect and unin- 
jiu'ed, and covered just as he had been over- 
taken. He seemed by his attitude to be rather 
asleep than dead. 

In the mean time my mother and I at Mise- 
nimi — but this has nothing to do with my 
story. You ask for nothing but the account of 
his death. • . • 

(Book 6, 20.) 

Gains Plinius sends to his friend Tacitus 

You say that you are induced by the letter 
I wrote to you, when you asked about my 
uncle's death, to desire to know how I, who 
was left at Misenum, bore the terrors and dis- 
asters of that night, for I had just entered on 
that subject and broke it ofif. "Although my 
soul shudders at the memory, I will begin." 

My imcle started ofif and I devoted myself 
to my literary task, for which I had remained 
behind. Then followed my bath, dinner, and 


sleep, though this was short and disturbed* 
There had been aheady for many days a tremor 
of the earth, less appalling, however, in that 
this is usual in Campania. But that night it 
was so strong that things seemed not merely 
to be shaken, but positively upset. My mother 
rushed into my bedroom. I was just getting 
up to wake her if she were asleep. We sat 
down in the little yard, which was between our 
house and the sea. I do not know whether to 
call it courage or foolhardiness (I was only 
seventeen); but I sent for a volume of livy 
and quite at my ease read it and even made 
extracts, as I had already begun to do. And 
now a friend of my uncle's, recently arrived 
from Spam, appeared, who, finding us sitting 
there and me reading, scolded us, my mother 
for her patience and me for my carelessness 
of danger. None the less industriously I read 
; my book. 

It was now seven o'clock, but the light 
was still faint and doubtful. The siuroimding 
buildings had been badly shaken and though 
we were in an open spot, the space was so 
small that the danger of a catastrophe from 
falling walls was great and certain. Not till 
then did we make up our minds to go from 


the town. A frightened crowd went away 
with us, and as in all panics everybody thinks 
his neighbors' ideas mcnre prudent than his 
own» so we were pushed and squeezed in our 
departure by a great mob oi imitat<»rs. 

"When we were free of the buildings we 
stopped. There we saw many wonders and 
endured many terrors. The vehicles we had 
ordered to be brought out kept running back- 
ward and forward, though on level groimd; 
and even when scotched with stones they 
would not keep still. Besides this, we saw the 
sea sucked down and, as it were, driven back 
by the earthquake. There can be no doubt 
that the shore had advanced on the sea and 
many marine animals were left high and dry. 
On the other side was a dark and dreadful 
doud, which was broken by zigzag and rap- 
idly vibrating flashes of fire, and yawnmg 
showed long shapes of flame. These were like 
lightnings, only of greater extent. Then our 
friend from Spain attacked us more vigorously 
and earnestly. "If yoiur brother, your unde," 
said he, "is alive, he wishes you to be safe; 
if not, he certainly would wish you to survive 
him. Why, then, do you dday your flight?'* 
We said we could not bring ourselves to think 


of our own safety while doubtful of his. So, 
without more delay, the Spaniard rushed o£F, 
taking himself out of harm's way as fast as 
his legs could carry him. 

Pretty soon the cloud began to descend over 
the earth and cover the sea. It enfolded Ca* 
presd and hid also the promontory of Mise- 
num. Then my mother b^an to b^ and be- 
seech me to fly as I could. I was young, she 
said, and she was old, and was too heavy to 
run, and would not mind dying if she was not 
the cause of my death. I said, however, I 
would not be saved without her; I clasped her 
hand and forced her to go, step by st^, with 
me. She slowly obeyed. Reproaching herself 
bitterly for delaying me. 

Ashes now fell, yet still in small amount. 
I looked back. A thick mist was close at our 
heels, which followed us, spreading out over 
the country, like an inundation. ^^Let us turn 
out of the road," said I, "while we can see, 
and not get trodden down in the darkness by 
the crowds who are following, if we fall in 
their path.'* Hardly had we sat down when 
night was over us — not such a night as when 
there is no moon and clouds cover the sky, 
but such darkness as one finds in dose-shut 


rooms. One heard the screams of women, the 
fretting cries of babes, the shouts of men. 
Some called their parents, and some their 
children, and some their spouses, seeking to 
recognize them by their voices. Some la- 
mented their own fate. Others the fate of their 
friends. Some were praying for death, simply 
for fear of death. Many a man raised his hands 
in prayer to the gods; but more imagined that 
the last eternal night of creation had come 
and there were now no gods more. There 
were some who increased our real dangers 
by fictitious terrors. Some said that part of 
Miseniun had sunk, and that another part was 
on fire. They lied; but they found believers. 

Little by little it grew light again. We did 
not think it the light of day, but a proof that 
the fire was coming nearer. It was indeed fire, 
but it stopped afar off; and then there was 
darkness again, and again a rain of ashes, 
abundant and heavy, and again we rose and 
shook them off, else we had been covered and 
even crushed by the weight. I might boast 
of the fact that not a groan or a cowardly 
word fell from me in all the dreadful peril, if 
I had not believed that the world and I were 
coming to an end together. This belief was 


a wretched and yet a mighty comfort in this 
mortal struggle. At last the murky vapor 
rolled away, in disappearing smoke or fog. 
Soon the real daylight appeared; the siin 
shone out, of a lurid hue to be sure, as in 
an eclipse. The whole world which met our 
frightened eyes was transformed. It was cov- 
ered with ashes white as snow. 

We went back to Misenum and refreshed 
our weary bodies, and passed a night between 
hope and fear; but fear had the upper hand. 
The trembling of the earth continued, and 
many, crazed by their anxiety, made ludi- 
crously exaggerated predictions of disaster to 
themselves and others. Yet even then, though 
we had been through such peril and were still 
surrounded by it, we had no thought of going 
away till we had news of my uncle. . . . 



A SULLEN guardian o'er the bay 

Of gentle islets full. 
Fronting the Ocean's outer verge, 

Standeth the wild, white Bull. 

Behind him range his brown-backed herd. 

He faces full to sea. 
His weatherbeat and storm-scarred head 

Lowered to the billows free. 

Above his back plays down the sun. 
The strayed sea-swallow rests; 

The slim winged gulls glance in the air. 
Watching their lonely nests. 

The straying rockweed strokes his side 

And lulls his summer sleep; 
He mutters hoarse, half angry still. 

To the slow-heaving deep. 

He dreams the whirl of volleying storm. 
The rush of seething waves; 


His strong head tosses high the surf; 
That hoarse throat roars and raves. 

Come, leave him in his lonely grove, 
Firm set to the attacking sea. — 

Full many a fairer form, old friend. 
Is not so fair to me. 

Casoo Bat. 


I READ how in the outer space 

Beyond our farthest ken. 
There roll majestic starry shapes 

In paths unseen of men. 

The heavenly glory of their light. 

The melodies they chime. 
Come scarcely through long years of years 

To reach the sons of time. 

And all the w(»'lds we know; our own — 

The motions of our earth — 
Bend in their course obediently 

To power that there has birth. 

I know not how; but so awhile 
My heart is swayed away 


To some compelling hope beyond 
The orbit of my day. 

Holding my path, I feel a life 

That woos me to its side. 
Compelling, yearning, charming mine. 

As moons draw up the tide. 

I feel in all the noisy war 

Of battling forces* strife. 
Through all the shifting drcumstanoe 

That makes and mars my life, 

A nobler, stronger, sweeter soul, 

A star of clearer shine. 
Higher in heaven and fairer set, 

Yet strenuous, seeking mine. 

'T is but a happy dream; and yet 
Some sudden moment's course. 

Flashing with light of that fair world 
May show the hidden force. 

Where high among the powers that rule 

The spaces of our sky. 
Shall dawn at last that orb divine, 

Whose satellite am I, 


Then, like the searchers of the sky, 
By that long-hidden light, 

The riddles of its wavering world 
My soul shall read aright. 

April, 1880. 


Oh, desert isle, not desert where thou art. 
Small nest from earth withdrawn, where dwell 

thy dreams, 
Thither I bring my galleys also; all that seems 
For this dull world too dear, joys of the heart. 
Thoughts beyond speech, visicms above all 

This is the freight they carry down the streams 
Of drifting fancy, lit with heavenly gleams 
From long-remembered days where thou hadst 


WUtthounothold them, dear? They are for thee. 
My treasures, for the sovereign of the isle. 
And though the work-day world shall never see 
My galleys hasting to the sunset land. 
Yet I may call thee, with thy happy smUe, 
To lean against thy tree, and understand? 

January 1, 1909. 



**Non dolet^ Paete.** Hark, the mortal cry, 
Echoing in great halls of Roman fame! 
The Stoic, laurel twines about her name; 
That wife, who taught a Roman how to die ! 
Still unforgot, 'neath our barbarian sky. 
Great Spirit, whom an empire could not tame 
Thou beckonest us who weary of this frame, 

" Death were not painful, in a world awry." 
Then, to rebuke, rise up the visions of lives 
Not less than hers; hearts of another tone; 
Patient of living, cheerful, res<dute wives. 
Bearing the harder part, whatever betide. 
Not Roman death, but Yankee life, their 

And life itself pains not, while they abide. 

B&EARLET School, 
October 21, 1903. 



Here we set our name and hand. 
Vassals of this House and Land. 
High the Field, but not more high 
Than our Love and Loyalty. 
By the enchantments of the Lake, 
Where the visions form and break. 


By the Vigfl of the HiU, 
Hidden, faithful, patient, still. 
By the Light of Heaven that falls 
Gently on these lovely walls. 
By the burning Stars that go 
Night by night in friendly row. 
By the Welcome, heavenly sweet. 
Waiting here for weary feet. 
By the love of friend for friend 
Here begun to know no end, — 
Here assembled. Youth and Age, 
Here on this endiuing Page, 
Write our Oath of Fealty 
To the sovereign Ladies Three; 
All our Prayers to all the Powers 
Who shall bring them Happy Hours, 
Blessings full, in bounteous store, 
Forevermore, forevermore. 


(From Theocritus, Idyl 24.) 

Sleep, my babies, sweet and light. 
Sleep, my soul, unharmed this night; 
Safely my little brothers two. 
Till the dawn awaken you. 
Blessed, sleep the livelong night. 
Blessed, come to morning light! 


To the Editor of ike Evening Post: — 

Sir: Last Tuesday the funeral of James 
Greenleaf Croswell was held in Grace Church. 
Old men were there who had watched and 
encouraged his work, very little children, 
pupils, graduates, and teachers — and no one 
was there who did not love the head master 
of the Brearley School. At such a time as 
this, it is appropriate for us who have served 
under him to express our deep affection. 

Of what Mr. Croswell was in his private 
life, of the part he played in the educational 
life of this coimtry, it is not yet time to speak; 
but between the two was the Mr. Croswell 
whom his teachers knew. It is, perhaps, too 
soon to measure what he was to us. Yet our 
sense of his wisdom, his flashing insight, and 
his tenderness has not needed death to bring 
it to consciousness. Most of us have taught 
under him for many years; but these years 
seem few and a great opportunity slighted. 

What was it that this head master did? He 
rarely visited classrooms: he found it a rather 
painful and embarrassing task; detailed dis- 
cussions of work bored and wearied him. Hours 


we spent in his study were seldom given en- 
tirely to school reports. His mind was a cru- 
cible: a few words gave all that he needed; 
his decisions seemed always creative. Routine 
over, the rest of an appointment might be 
given to Herodotus or Italy, or, more rarely, 
he gave us some glimpse of himself, of the 
child who, in a frugal. New England home, 
caught his love of Latin from his mother; of 
the shy, awkward boy, who made his first 
connection between poetry and life as he read 
"The Clouds" — "I looked out of the win- 
dow and there were the same clouds that 
Aristophanes was talking about"; and of the 
last revelation of himself, that he had foimd 
in the Siennese Primitives, who expressed, he 
said, all that he had felt during a long life. It 
was so he taught us. In his hands the art of 
indirection became genius. "He sits in his 
office with the door closed and fills the whole 
school," said an aliunna. It was true. At 
teachers' meetings he often buried his head in 
a book; reports seemed unheard, until a quick 
question was asked here, or a conunent made 
there. A month later, a year later, he could 
crystallize a child's personality and capacity, 
summarizing the many reports of that past 


afternoon, and through that mterpretation, 
making the whole true and vital. His mind 
omitted partial products : the child who took 
some question to his oflBce was probably con- 
scious that the tall, kindly man took great 
pains to meet her demand, but before she left 
the room, the little girl had herself written 
some pertinent and worthy record m Mr. 
Croswell*s mind. His charm with children 
was great. K the interview happened to be 
of a piuritive nature, we had every reason to 
think that the culprit withdrew believing that 
the head master had committed the crime. 
During the past winter he gave, every Friday, 
readings from the Greek : Homer, Plato, The- 
ocritus, the Epigrammatists, and Aristophanes. 
They are not to be forgotten, those hours, 
when he half read, half acted "The Clouds." 
New York has never seen before a hundred 
little girls, laughing like a himdred little Athe- 
nians, over a wit that flashed through the 
keen, colloquial, running-translation: poetry 
and philosophy are not generally so taught in 
secondary schools. 

His criticisms to his teachers had to be 
caught in glancing asides: "Of course, you 
may have sounded a little ironic"; "It is just 


possible that the chfld thought your dis- 
pleasure was personal/' for tenderness toward 
failure was a marked characteristic: he a&vr 
weakness, but ignored it when he might; he 
brushed aside the fault to emphasize the vir- 
tue. One of his own masters had said: *^He is 
most my friend who demands my best, and 
will give me no rest until he gets it/' "I am 
a survival," he said this year; **Kant and 
Emerson had said it all before me." Other 
lessons he taught us: lessons of suspended 
judgment, of amused tolerance. Hb wisdom 
was the harvest of much silence, touched with 
the light that comes from high places. Hardly 
more than a month ago he said: *'The time 
has come now when I am getting experience 
together to leave as a bequest to my school. 
These sunset hours are the loveliest of the day." 
That bequest to us is his spirit that stripped 
convention and sophistry from formula, and 
revealed truth and wisdom and love. To teach 
imder Mr. Croswell meant to live in touch 
with a man of vision. K we can carry out 
the marching orders his life gave, we need no 
other decoration. 

One of his Tbachebs. 

New York, March 19. 



James Cboswell, or *^Jim'' as his friends 
called him, was a member of the First Class 
at the Cambridge High School in 1868-60. 
Classes recited in rooms where other classes 
were studying; and, as I remember it, the boys 
in the First, Second, and Third Classes who 
were ^^fitting for College," occupied the same 
room. However that may be, the First College 
Class recited in Vergil at the front of the room 
while the Third College Class tried to study 
at the back. Thus I as I sat at my desk first 
saw and admired the boy who became my life- 
long friend. 

He was tall and loose-jointed, with the same 
whimsical, sensitive, and altogether fascinat- 
ing individu^ty which in later life marked 
him always and everywhere. Naturally it 
had not the deepened sweetness, the seasoned 
strength, that came to it from the intense ex- 
periences of maturity; but even then it made 
us younger boys feel his personal distinction. 
** W. is the first scholar,*' we said, "but Cros- 
well is the best [by which we meant * ablest'] 
in the dass.'' 

Few of us thought seriously of Vergil as a 


poet: we had to read him and to know the 
principal parts of his verbs. If we had heard 
of culture we regarded it, no doubt» as an 
advanced stage of affectation; but somehoi;^ 
we grasped the fact that Jim Croswell got 
more out of his Vergil than other boys and 
that his getting it proved his intellectual su- 
periority. It now seems strange that this man, 
whose presence was like the Uving presence of 
the finest literature, wrote so little. Some men 
express literature in their writings; others in 
their lives. 

His appreciation of literature did not pre- 
vent him from being a normal boy who would 
play baseball, or "scrub," or "knock-up" 
every afternoon. Day after day we played 
with happy unskilfulness, he and his brother, 
I and mine. Simon Croswell, my own class- 
mate, was an unusually clever and lovable 
boy, with a quick, dear mind and a wit that 
was quite his own. The breaking down of 
Simon was one of the keen and abiding sor- 
rows of Jim's life, a sorrow which he accepted 
with endless self-sacrifice and with unembit- 
tered patience. 

At College I saw little of Jim; but the friend- 
ship was steadfast then and always. When 


he was a young teacher at Harvard and I was 
a still younger one I saw more of him. He 
would lean back in his chair and with eyes half 
closed talk as no man has talked before or since. 
I believe there was never a more charming 
impromptu talker, whimsical, witty always 
with an underlying seriousness, adventurous 
always; yet never foolish or cynical or unre- 
fined, never anything but his natural, spon- 
taneous self. Such profound observations as 
** Appreciation of beauty may be catching; 
but you can't vaccinate with it," fell from his 
lips as easily as platitudes fall from the lips 
of others. In those days he was retiring and 
in danger of becoming imsocial except to his 
intimate friends; there was something exclu- 
sive in knowing him well: but he had to meet 
his classes, and he could not meet them with- 
out revealing himself and thus winning their 
affection. When his work in New York forced 
him to conquer his shyness, new persons dis- 
covered him every day and with new and pecul- 
iar delight. The mere thought of him did much. 
*^He sits in his office with the door shut," said 
one teacher, *^and fills the whole school." 

Such adoration as he received is dangerous 
to man or woman. He took it as he took his 


sorrows. His was a nature too fine for the 
world to coarsen, too sweet for grief to em- 
bitter, too large for discipleship to spoil. 

Let me end with part of a sketch read soon 
after his death to the Tavern Club of Boston, 
of which he was a non-resident member. 

As a teacher of Greek James Croswell drew 
students to the study of Greek because he 
taught it. He was wholly without that push- 
ing quality whereby a man advances himself 
and extends the limits of scholastic knowledge, 
or at least of scholastic controversy; one can- 
not imagine him warring with a German about 
text criticism; but he let the most fascinating 
mind we have known here play over ev^ry 
subject that came before it, casting on each 
subject new lights of fancy and of wisdom. 
Here lay his intellectual charm. Our colleges 
are still so misguided as not to reckon such 
a man among their productive scholars. If it 
be productive scholarship to leaven every life 
with which you come into contact, to approach 
every question with the fine scholarly appre- 
ciation of a mind sensitive, penetrating, and 
fertile, to reveal new truth in what men have 
blindly passed by, James Croswell was a pro- 
ductive scholar of a kind sorely needed among 


the teachers of to-day. Few men have achieved 
larger results in the minds and hearts of those 
about them. 

The heart as well as the mind, for his own 
heart was true, simple, and strong. Naturally 
retiring and subject to depression, he schooled 
himself to meet every social demand and to 
bear with steadily increasing sweetness and 
courage burdens that would have crushed 
many a man who b^an life with a tempera- 
ment more cheerful than his. His wit, though 
brilliant, was kindly; his speech was at once 
light and deep. He was unlike any man we 
have known or shall know; and there were 
few finer privileges than to be his friend. 


I REMEMBER Very vividly my first sight of 
Mr. Croswell. We were having our geography 
lesson, the lowest class of little Brearley girls, 
in our stmny back schoolroom, upstairs, in the 
brown-stone house where the school had its 
beginnings. Mr. Brearley's death had not 
greatly affected us, and I do not remember 
wondering who would replace him, or imagin- 
ing that our visitor that morning might be 
his successor. Still, I must have looked at 


him with especial interest, for the picture of 
him, as he appeared then, to be so clearly fixed 
in my mind after all these years. 

We were, as I said, deep in geography, when 
the door opened and one of the older teachers 
came in with a tall yoimg man who looked 
keenly at us and then settled down on the 
opposite side of the room to listen and watch. 
He was a very tall and very thin, not to say 
lanky, man, with rather untidy brown hair, 
eyes with a tilt to them, which were already 
surroimded by delicate wrinkles, and a large, 
sensitive, and very expressive mouth, from 
whose finely cut lips a whimsical smile was 
never long absent. He was a very awkward 
young man, whose clothes hung limply on 
him. He didn't seem to know what to do 
with his legs, so he twisted them roimd each 
other as he sat on a desk and listened to our 
class and watched us with his kindly, humor- 
ous eyes. I remember thinking it odd of him 
to sit so casually on a desk, and odder still 
when I was told afterwards that our visitor 
would probably be the new head master. 

I have no recollection of my first talk with 
him. My next memories are of him estab- 
lished in the rather dark central room that was 


his first study, and my going to see him dur- 
ing my free time. It began, I think, in my 
complaining about a stuffy schooboom; I ex- 
pressed my ideas firmly, and he must have 
been amused, for he encouraged me to talk; 
and I seem to remember going fairly often 
to see him there in the years that followed. 
No matter what the ostensible cause for my 
visit, it always ended in a conversation about 
things in general, a conversation in which we 
seemed by some miracle of sympathy to be 
exchanging ideas as equals; and yet I was even 
then dimly aware that he was guiding me by 
a thousand delicate touches and hints and in- 
ferences to a comprehension of his own su- 
premely humane and sanely poised view of life. 
He never openly criticised or checked one's 
opinions. I could come down as flat-footed 
as I would, his affectionately quizzical smile 
was usually the only sign that he was not alto- 
gether in agreement. I was never in awe of 
him. He treated me with respectful cour- 
tesy tinged with a humor that never hurt, 
as grown-up people's humor often does hurt 
children. I think his manner with children 
was a quite perfect interpreter of his real 
feeling about them, the profound respect he 


had far the sanctity of diildhood and for eadi 
mdividual difld's personality. 

I remember another talk in his study in the 
new school, or rather I suppose I should call 
it the ^^ middle school/' though it seemed won- 
derfully new and bright and grand to us when 
we moved there from the house in Forty-fifth 
Street* What business we had been talking 
about first I do not know, but he suddenly 
said: **Tell me, Mildred, do you think there 
is any meaning at all in Mathematics as we 
teach it?" That was the delicious quality of 
Mr. Croswell's mind. It was so wholly un- 
expected, it kept its almost childlike flexibil- 
ity and openness after years of teaching, so 
that it was ready at any moment to reconsider 
elementary things and humorously envisage 
'^scrapping" all the accepted dogmas. 

I did not have the joy of being regularly 
taught by him until my last year at school, 
for it had been decided that I was not to take 
the college examinations, and therefore not to 
do classics. But he used occasionally to burst 
in on our regular routine. I remember one 
day when Miss Winsor announced that we 
were not to have our English lesson, as Mr. 
Croswell wanted to talk to us. He came in. 


stood by the blackboard, wrote the word 
Lyric on it and asked the class to define it* 
No one could* Ode followed; then Idyli; and 
when he found how ignorant we were he began 
to talk about poetry, and finally produced a 
little volume of Greek verse, from which he 
translated to us. There was some Theocritus, 
and I think Sappho. It was the first Greek 
poetry I had ever heard. I can see him now 
with the little book in his hand, trying to con- 
vey to us — a class of young and raw New 
York school-girls — the golden beauty of the 
verse he loved so well. 

During my last year at school I read Virgil 
and Cicero with him. With his help and en- 
couragement I had prevailed on my mother 
to let me try the Harvard examinations. It 
meant eighteen months of cram, for I knew 
no Latin. Mr. Croswell gave me the best 
coach in the school for private lessons and 
used to follow my hare-brained race with 
amused and somewhat horrified sympathy. 
He never quite reconciled to his conscience 
having allowed me to scamp the foundations 
of classical learning as I did; but it enter- 
tained him to watch me floimder ahead, and 
he let me come into his advanced class when 



I was still struggling with the elements. I have 
always been grateful for that. After the regu- 
lar lesson and our halting translations he used 
to give himself and us the pleasure of hearing 
how the thing might be done; and the gracious 
verses will always be associated in my mind 
with his vivid and human rendering. He went 
at a good pace, we following the text and 
not bothering about grammar or construction. 
Without those readings my brief excursion into 
the classics would have been indeed arid; but 
he showed us what it was all about. 

I have said that his moral teaching was all 
done indirectly. In my case, however, there 
was one exception to the rule. Frances Arnold 
and I had been behaving foolishly for some 
time. We were grown-up girls and ought to 
have known better than to break rules for 
the mere fun of the thing. After a peculiarly 
childish escapade, Mr. Croswell sent for me, 
and to this day I have not forgotten my one 
direct preachment from him. It was severe 
and searching. It showed that in spite of his 
indulgent manner he had observed and fol- 
lowed my special failings with acute insight* 
and when the moment came he could speak with 
unsparing New England directness. 


The examination week came and passed. I 
remember the little note he wrote me telling 
the result. It began: — 

Dear Mildred, — 
Hmrah! Here are your marks: — 
• ••..•*•• 
Your affectionate teacher, 

J. G. C. 

School-days were over and college-days be- 
gan, but I think we hardly felt the leaving 
school as much as would have seemed natural 
in girls whose whole childhood and youth had 
been spent in surroundings so perfectly har- 
monious and happy. For we went together, 
ten of us, and there was no break in the affec- 
tionate interest our teachers felt for us. In- 
deed, I think my friendship with Mr. Cros- 
well grew in depth and richness from the time 
of my leaving his immediate care. Rewrote 
to me charming little letters, hardly more 
than notes, but I knew that everything that 
happened to me interested him. I always went 
to see him when I was in New York and he 
came sometimes to Bryn Mawr. His fostering 
care was always there in the background of 


one's life, a thing assumed and accepted, with- 
out at first conscious gratitude, as a mother's 
care is assumed and accepted. 

He was pleased with our little successes, but 
life and human relations always meant move 
to him than scholarship, though. he was him- 
self so fine a scholar. That was why some 
people doubted whether he was a whcde- 
hearted supporter of the higher education of 
women. He distrusted mere bookishness, and 
he saw how empty and absurd examination 
standards and tests were. For his girls he 
wanted nothing less than the best life could 
give, and when he felt us in danger of being 
absorbed by the petty preoccupations of our 
small academic world, he would make some 
smiling comment that made us wonder whether 
after all he valued as he ought that wonderful 
thing, "A college education." 

I remember the note I got from him the 
day after the European Fellowship had been 
announced, an event as important in our 
world as the publication of the Senior Wran- 
gler's name at Cambridge. 

I knew I had not deserved it myself, but I 
was feeling a little sore still, when an envelope 
in his f amiUar writing was handed to me. He 


had pasted on a sheet of paper the newspaper 
cutting giving the name of the successful candi-r 
date, and underneath it he had written, *' Con- 
gratulations, dear Mildred, that it was not 

The golden thread of his friendship and 
tenderness was woven into the pattern of all 
the years that f ollowed, with an ever-increasing 
realization on my part of the exquisite beauty 
of his personality and gratitude for it as an 
element in my life. He was different from 
other people. His was a world of real values, 
the clear golden world of Greek thought 
warmed by Christian feeling; and to people 
whose lives were for the most part spent in 
dusty ways he brought an indescribable sense 
of relief and moral liberation. He always, in 
spite of his human sympathy and whimsical 
humor, seemed just a little remote. It was 
the remoteness of the eternal, imperishable 
beauty of the world in which he lived. 


Mrs. Cboswell has asked that I should 
write *'of the effect which Mr. Crosw^ell had 
upon my intellectual life." 


When I attempt to do so, I find that I can- 
not think of intellectual life apart from him. 

He came to New York and to the Brearley 
when I was just fifteen; and from that time he 
showed me what I felt to be a perfect intellec- 
tual attitude. The things he knew were part 
of him, and there seemed to be no ei^d to what 
he knew. Information flowed from him deli- 
ciously on every subject, freshening even the 
most arid ground. His point of view com- 
bined all the maturity of cultivation with an 
unfailing freshness of approach, binding the 
new life always to the beauty that had lived 
before it. What he said seemed to me related 
to the wisdom of the ages, as deep as it was 
broad. I can recall no instance of a disappoint- 
ment in his treatment of the endless problems 
which for so many years I always took to him 
— problems of my own actual life, as well as 
those presented by every subject that engaged 
my thought and feeling. 

I left the school soon after he took charge 
of it, and for three years I had the privilege 
of reading Greek with him. Two or three after- 
noons a week He gave me, sometimes only 
fifteen minutes, sometimes three hours at a 
time. I think I may say truly that my work 


with him was the most whoUy satisfying thing 
that life has brought me. It was dear joy, the 
joy of being perfectly directed by one whom 
I could trust entirely, in a way of study of 
which I never had to doubt the value. He 
taught, it seemed to me, by virtue of his love 
of what he talked of. I cannot tell how far 
the inspiration of his teaching lay in the love 
which he himself inspired in his pupils. A 
Harvard boy who had been in his Greek class 
told me that if you did not know the lesson 
you could start him by a question, and tiun 
the recitation period into a lecture. By girls 
who worshipped him, this amiable weakness 
was not abused, as their chance of pleasing him 
lay in the excellence of their own work. 

Through those three years I only listened 
spellbound, and studied with the whole of 
my intelligence to win his approbation. It 
was only when I went abroad and left him 
that I began to know his quality in friend- 

I found one morning in my mail a whoUy 
unexpected letter from him, very long and 
entirely delightful — the beginning of a cor- 
respondence which ended only with his death. 
I had never, till that time, imagined he had 


any interest in me apart from my capacity 
for learning Greek; and I had not dared speak 
to him of my own ambitions and ideas. His 
letter set me free to talk to him — and from 
that time we talked, either in letters or in 
meeting one another, of everything there was 
to talk about. To get a letter was almost as 
good as seeing him — better in one way, f <Kr 
I had it to read over. I could not wait with 
patience, for opportunity to answer, in my 
eagerness for the discussion he invited — for 
although I always felt and trusted the wisdom 
of the things he said, we almost never thought 
alike on any subject. I am even perplexed 
to-day to imderstand why, since I never could 
agree with him, it should have been, to me, 
essential, always to submit to him any idea 
the worth of which I wished to test. But I 
knew that anything he disapproved could not 
be right. 

"The effect he had upon my intellectual 
life"? Surely it is not often given to man or 
woman to possess, from childhood unto middle 
age, a perfect friend — one in whom confi* 
dence may be reposed on every subject, who 
knows all of one*s past and yet will trust one's 
future. As I look back, it seems to me that I 


have known an ideal human being, and have 
known him well. 

How, with that knowledge, is it possible 
ever to doubt of good or consciously to side 
with evil? Such influence as he exerted cannot 
end until the world shall end, and any life it 
touches must be, to some e3d;ent, transmuted 
to a higher value. 


James Gbeenleaf Cboswbll was a tall, 
lank New Englander with a very gentle voice, 
whose broad shoulders had a stoop in them. 
His quietude and his smile were full of inward 
amusement. His habit of standing and look- 
ing down, his long straight nose, the gleam 
in his eyes, which still had a little of the be- 
nevolent Mephistopheles in them, always re- 
minded me of some imaginary old actor, law- 
yer, or diplomat, who knew everything and 
had seen everything, — the man-of-the-world, 
the civilized being, the wise citizen, — Gar- 
rick retired, or Rossini in the foyer of La Scala. 

A man-of-the-world he undoubtedly was, 
for he was head master of a fashionable girls' 
school, and his daily life was taken up with 
problems of organization, personal equations, 


social expediencies, moral tensions, educa* 
tional plans. No one, however, who fell into 
conversation with him would be apt to guess 
his profession. His leisurely finesse suggested 
something Academic to be sure. It suggested 
the garden of a scholar, or the old rampart 
of a small city where philosophers might meet 
to exchange thoughts. You could not surprise 
him with a paradox. He would cap it out of 
Aristophanes or illustrate it with an anecdote 
from the classics. For he was a good Greek 
scholar and had mused himself into a close 
acquaintance with Greek literature. The 
strange thing was that he had never known 
leisure or foreign travel, had never been any- 
thing except a hard-working schoolmaster who 
earned his bread by the sweat of his brow 
and plucked his ideas from the brambles that 
lay along the hard path of experience. 

Croswell belonged to a distinguished Cam- 
bridge family. When I was in college he had 
got as far as being an instructor in Harvard. 
He was, at that time, a starved, sensitive, per- 
pendicular, smiling, saintly Yankee youth — 
and looked like the poor tutor who had never 
had a square meal or a robust compliment in 
his life. Nevertheless, his general cultivation 


was well known even then, and his distinction 
of character could be seen for a quarter of a 

Harvard at this period was not a kind nurse 
to those who loved the humanities. Croswell 
was one of those bui^geons of personal talent — 
the little new leaves of a fresh learning — that 
were rubbed off the vine at Harvard by acci- 
dents of the world. He was more effectively 
needed elsewhere. I remember his disappear^ 
ance. A vague wave of regret passed over the 
undergraduate mind, and we knew that we 
had lost a friend. 

Croswell became Head Master at the Brear- 
ley School, where he taught for twenty years 
during which he blossomed into the very re- 
markable being whom we all knew. I suppose 
you would classify him as a Humanist, but 
Humanism would never account for his influ- 
ence. This was of a personal kind, and seems 
to have gone out to all sorts of people — 
pupils, parents, teachers, men of the world, 
writers, educators. At the time of his death 
the air was filled with testimonies, many sorts 
of people appeared and proclaimed their debts 
to him. Nothing was more remarkable than 
his funeral* The church was banked with 


flowers, and was» of course, filled to over- 
flowing with women of all ages, most of them 
in tears. The service was more than a symbol, 
it was an outpouring of love and gratitude 
by people whose great friend had been taken 
from them. It was the last meeting of that 
mystical society which had sprung, up through 
love of the man. His coffin became an altar 
and the hymns were pseans. No one except a 
schoolmaster can have this kind of a funeral, 
for the pupils drag with them the hearts of 
their parents and of their children. A school 
is a great family and a schoolmaster becomes, 
in time, a priest and a patriarch. 

Croswell had the gift of intellectual sym- 
pathy. He had it in a greater degree than I 
have known in any other, and in a more spe- 
cific form. His mind ran before yours on the 
search for truth as a pointer runs before, the 
sportsman. He found the bird, he gave the 
word needed, he flashed the illumination, and 
yet they were your own bird, your own word 
and illumination. He would look into a mind as 
a clock-maker examines a clock, adjust it and 
give it back to the owner in better running 
order. There was an element of genius in his 
power, because the nature of the power was 


undisooverable. His extreme impersonality 
and detachment of f eeling, his perfect micon- 
sdousness of what he was doing, made him 
walk invisible, — for he always imagined that 
he was merely thinking about various truths 
for their own sake and had no idea that he 
was using any skeleton keys in unlocking other 
people's thought. 

Toward the end of his life I saw a good deal 
of him, wrote to him often, and often asked 
his aid in literary ventures. I thus became, in 
a sense, one of his scholars; and it is this that 
gives me the impulse to speak of him. I wrote 
many papers and verses for his eye, and in 
so doing I became anxious to please him. So 
deep was the experience that I have written 
nothing since without writing it largely for 
Croswell. Shortly before his death I enlisted 
his interest in an article which I was bent on 
writing about Greece and the Greeks — a sub- 
ject with which I was quite unfitted to deal, 
because I knew very little Greek. Yet I had 
ideas and convictions, and I knew that Cros- 
well would prevent me from making a fool of 
myself. I knew I should get aid, but I could 
not have believed that his mind would enter 
so far into mine as it did. He unravelled and 


essayed: he rearranged and suggested; and he 
did these things without seeming to do them. 
He was there in your thought, but you oouJd 
not touch him because he had, for the time^ 
become a part of your own mind. 

I have no doubt that in dealing with his 
school-girls Croswell made use of the same sort 
of impersonal magic that he did with me. His 
devotion to them stopped little short of adora- 
tion; I think it was this adoration of the young 
that gave him his quality. People who live 
with the young move in a heaven of their own. 
The schoolmaster is more apt to retain the 
plasticity of his feelings than the Collie pro- 
fessor, because his material is plastic. The 
souls of children are inchoate and live in limbo. 
They cry for help with voices which are in- 
audible save to the saints. And in the end 
they endow their teachers with second sight. 
To his pupils Croswell perhaps owed as much 
as he gave them. The spirit of a growing girl 
is as complex and vaporous a spirit as exists; 
and perhaps it was Croswell's contact with 
growing girls that gave him his lightness of 
touch. Indeed, the thing was done with no 
touch at all; but, as it were, with vision merely. 
> The power to enter into the souls of others 


is the gift that makes teaching divine. Other 
ambitions must be laid down at this gate, for 
to gain an entry, the teacher must be merely 
an angelic messenger. Those who can do these 
miracles need to do them; they find their own 
fulfilment in the mystical assistance which 
they bring to other men. They may walk 
voiceless to their graves; but they have filled 
the air with choirs that sound behind them. 


James Greenleaf Croswell was by birth 
and descent a New Englander. He was the 
grandson of old Simon Greenleaf, a professor of 
law, who taught in the Harvard Law School 
some seventy or eighty years ago. Professor 
Greenleaf wrote a book on the law of evidence, 
which at once took rank as a classic, and stands 
on every lawyer's bookshelf next to Kent and 
Blackstone. Greenleaf is to the law of evidence 
what Cicero is to oratory, or Moli^re to comedy ; 
his name is known wherever the English race 
has carried the Common Law. There is a tra- 
dition, piously handed down at the Harvard 
Law School, that old Greenleaf was endowed 
with many social gifts, — entertaining, hu- 
morous, witty and delightful, when out of the 


lecture room. He is entitled to be kindly re- 
membered, for he put all his dryness into his 
book, and bequeathed the graces of his mind 
to his grandson. 

The part of the schoolmaster is anomalous. 
It belongs to a cat^ory of its own. Nature 
creates the relation between child and parent, 
brother and sister, niece and spinster aunt, and 
feels her responsibility; she strengthens the 
bond by instinct on the one side, by depend- 
ence on the other. The ties between friend and 
friend are wrought by mutual attraction and 
voluntary choice; they need no tending, no cor- 
roborant artifice. The relation between school- 
master and pupil is of a third sort, created 
neither by Nature, nor by voluntary choice. It 
is rarely enriched by affection, or made capable 
of enduring beyond graduation day. The rela- 
tion is difficult because it is anomalous; and at 
best seldom attains to the fine perfection of 
which it might be capable. The reason for this 
maladjustment is, that the business of a school- 
master is neither a trade nor a craft; it is an art 
which requires a delicate sensitiveness, a half- 
divine intuition, and a self -consecration, hard to 
find among men and women. Now and again 
there is a favorable juncture of the stars, and a 


schoolmaster is bom. That is a rare event and 
should be celebrated with rejoicings. 

Is there a scene in one of Plato's dialogues 
— or does a misty memory of undergraduate 
Greek lead me astray — in which Socrates and 
his friends discourse upon the one person nec- 
essary to the welfare of a state? One speaker 
declares that the priest, who performs the sacred 
ceremonies and hands down the sacred tradi- 
tionsyis the one necessary man. A second main- 
tains that it is the general who defends the 
State from its enemies; a third, that it is the 
poet whose verses shall glorify the City to after- 
times. But Socrates says that the one man 
needful is the schoolmaster, since he combines 
the functions of the other three : he defends the 
State better than the general, because he forms 
that which is the real strength of the State — 
the character of its people; he prepares for the 
future glory of the City quite as well as the poet, 
for he instils decorum and breeding into the 
parents of future citizens; he exercises the func- 
tions of a priest, for day by day he ministers to 
the souls of his pupils. And (if I am right) 
Socrates goes on to say that the teacher must 
be rich in insight and wisdom, firm of character, 
kindly in disposition, gentle in manner, quick 


to praise every excellence, slow to blame any 
faulty a lover of innocencey beauty, and unself- 
ishness; indeed a man who loves these qualities 
so much that, like a bee hunting for honey in 
a hollyhock, he comes out covered with their 
golden pollen. 

Such a schoolmaster was James Greenleaf 
Croswell. How did it come about? How did 
Nature so happily divine the needs of hundreds 
of unborn girls, and bestow upon a youth, long 
before their birth, the qualities that should 
make him their spiritual guide, their worldly 
philosopher, their tender friend? How much did 
he owe to old Simon Greenleaf and his Puritan 
progenitors? How much to the New England 
atmosphere? How much to Harvard Collie 
and familiar intercourse with the Classics? 
His education — if the tree may be judged by 
its fruit — was admirable. He was bred on 
Homer, Plato, and Aristophanes; he was on 
terms with the Bible, that to a modem youth 
would seem of fanatical familiarity; and upon 
this cultivation, like jewels enhanced by their 
setting, sparkled his native humor, irony, and 
genial human sympathies. 

The habit of his mind did not seem like that 
of a native New Englander. One would have 


thought he had been bom in Ephesus and had 
paced the Ionian shore with Heraclitus, watch- 
ing the dark purple outline of Samos against 
the golden glory of the setting sun, and dis- 
coursing on the universal flux of things. Or, he 
might have been a pupil of Plato, meditating 
upon thoughts of the master in company with 
seekers after truth from Argos and Thebes, or 
serenely holding the balance while they dis- 
puted with southern heat upon the nature of the 
soul. Socrates would have rejoiced in him. One 
can see in the mind's eye that ugly, awkward, 
inspired old man, just back from a hot walk to 
the Piraeus, pausing on the threshold of a dis- 
ciple's house to survey the assembled guests 
with an eager eye, hoping to discover Croswell 
among them. Must we not believe that Py- 
thagoras was right? Did not Croswell once sit 
in that immortal company, bandying wit, ex- 
changing playful or daring hypotheses, and 
unravelling the high concerns of the spirit? 

Croswell was an admirable schoolmaster 
because he was an admirable friend; he was 
serious and inspiring in the weightier concerns 
of friendship, and nimble as Quicksilver in per- 
forming its lighter obligations. His company 
metamorphosed a walk in the city, so that on 


coming home you vagudy felt that you had been 
strolling down a oountiy lane; it would have 
made a dentist's parlor a place of agreeable 
expectancy; at a teetotal dinner, if talk, imag- 
ination, and hilarity are evidence, it tnined 
water into time-honored Falemiaa. Hewaasa- 
premely indifferent to the vulgar prizes of life; he 
probably did not know whether you possessed 
them or not; he was taken up with the knowl- 
edge that you and he were companioiis in the 
marvdlous experience of life, and that you were 
in need of stimulus, appredation, encourage- 
ment. He gave prodigaUy of his best; and dis- 
played a lowly and surprised gratitude for any 
sympathy returned. He imparted wisdom, as 
fire its heat, by mere proximity. In his friend- 
ship and daily behavior, thare was no trace of 
his profession; nevertheless he taught every- 
body who knew hun one great lesson, — a les- 
son emphasized by that sad, interesting, noble 
face which recalled the effigies of Lorenzo de* 
Medici, — that pain, heroically borne, is the 
greatest of teachers, and that without its les- 
sons the education of the soul remains incom- 

Our civilization lays stress on things quite 
different from those on which Socrates and 


Plato laid stress; it seldom recognizes school- 
masters as the most important men in the State; 
it does not care overmuch for simplicity, mod- 
esty, or indifference to notoriety and applause; 
it pays little heed to the sower who quietly 
sows the seed of vrhsA men live upon; it values 
other things more congenial to it. So Croswell 
departed from us quietly, modestly, as he lived; 
leaving hundreds of girls and yoimg women 
with richer lives because he lived, and many 
men wondering at their good fortune to have 
had such a friend, and rejoicing in a wealth of 
happy memories. 


Of all the relations in which we knew Mr. 
Croswell there is none that stands out so 
clearly in the minds of those of us who were 
privileged to share it as that of the Head 
Masters' Association. The reason for this is 
to be found in the character of the Associa- 
tion. Limited in its membership, and bound 
together by the ties of common interest and 
a conunon purpose, it forms a particularly 
dose and intimate group. When one recalls 
the names of Bancroft, Keep, Tetlow» Coy, 
Robinson, Bradbiury , — to mention only a 


few of those who were active m fonner days 
and who have aheady gone, — any school- 
master will realize that here was no ordinary 
gathering of teachers. The intimacy and free- 
dom of the annual meetings, when we all live 
together in the same hotel, have been espe- 
cially aided by two rules, one written the other 
unwritten, but equally binding by the force 
of common consent and tradition. The un- 
written rule is that no resolution expressing 
the opinion of the Association on any edu- 
cational matter will ever be passed. The 
written rule is that no report of the meetings 
or of anything that is said at them can be 
given to the newspapers. Only the bare pro- 
granmie can be published. 

The result of these rules has been a free- 
dom and intimacy of discussion that have 
been most unusual, and altogether delight- 
ful. Men can speak even their half-developed 
thoughts, can tell their most personal experi- 
ences, without the fear that they will later be 
confronted with them in cold type, or that 
their words will be interpreted to mean sup- 
port of some scheme in regard to which they 
are only seeking light. 

In this atmosphere of freedom and inti- 


inacy» among men whom he loved and admired, 
and who admired and loved him, the flower 
of Croswell's wit and personality flourished ex- 
ceedingly. It is hard to say, as we recall him 
year after year at those meetings, whether 
we cherish most warmly his part in our more 
formal discussions, — if indeed they could ever 
be called formal, — his talk as we sat at break- 
fast or luncheon together, or gathered in 
groups in the intervals between sessions, or 
those inimitable speeches at the dose of the 
dinner that always bring to an end the meet- 
ings of the Association. I presimie that it was 
seeing him in all three aspects so nearly at the 
same time that made us feel that we knew him 
better in the Head Masters than anywhere else. 
In the regular discussions of set topics he 
was not one of the active debaters. He never 
engaged in a controversy, and he seldom acted 
as if he were trying to make one side or the 
other prevail. As the debate grew warm his 
interest would increase. Once in a while he 
would interject a few words — a keen com- 
ment, or, more often, a pregnant question. 
Finally, when he thought the subject was 
threshed out, he would rise, and in his in- 
imitable way would close the discussion. He 


iseldom argued, but simply set before us what 
was passing through his mind. ^When lie 
spoke at the meetings of the Head Masters.** 
writes one of the veterans of the oi^ganiza- 
tion, '"the members always settled back for a 
treat while he played with a subject or showed 
its absurdity — once I recall that he did not 
even debate it — just showed how impossible 
it was/' When he sat down, the disciissi<«» 
by common consent, was ended. No one 
cared to speak after him, and he usually left 
the subject as it was well to leave it. Once, I 
remember, I spoke aftar him, in order to call 
attention to some overlooked point, and apolo- 
gized for doing so, saying that I realized that 
for any one to speak after Croswell was an 
anti-climax. That evening at the dinner he 
''came back'' at me, and when he was called 
on to speak poured forth his grief and indig- 
nation that one of his best friends had called 
him a ''climax," something that he had never 
been called before! But that chance word 
proved a most fruitful text for one of those 
witty, suggestive dinner speeches that will be 
a tradition in the Head Masters as long as any 
who heard them remain to tell the tales of the 


The same man whose remark has ak^ady 
been quoted also wrote of him: — 

'* There was a freshness, at times a quaint- 
ness and felicity of expression that would have 
charmed had his treatment been conventional, 
but he loved to present his views by contrasts, 
pictures, analogies — anything that would ar- 
rest attention and make the dull follow him. 
His mind was keenly analytical; he dissected 
with the intelligence and precision of a master 
in surgery. He loved to startle by iconoclastic 
remarks, for he knew that nothing heretical 
could harm such conservatives as schoolmas- 
ters, and he might possibly make them think. 

"How wonderful he could be! I recall this 
occasion. The Head Masters had discussed 
a painful subject and then dropped it. Some 
member evidently (or apparently) had a mor- 
bid liking for it and reopened the subject. 
Croswell sprang to his feet, eyes flashing, and 
said words to this effect, *I thought that we had 
dumped that stuff and disinfected the room.' 
The effect was magical; the man slit down and 
the subject was never again discussed.'* 

Of Mr. Croswell's charm in conversation 
this is perhaps not the place to speak. His 
talk in the corridors at the Head Masters' 


meetings had no more distinctive charm than 
in the lounging-room of the Century, or in- 
deed wherever one met him, but still one can- 
not think of those meetings without recalling 
the little groups of which he was always the 
centre. What was his charm? He certainly 
never talked for effect. No one ever heard 
him deliver a monologue. In fact, he did not 
even talk much. I am not sure but that often 
the rest of us did most of the talking. But 
always he was the centre, and always it was 
what he said that stuck in our minds. 

I do not think that the secret of his charm 
was that he was a good listener, although he 
certainly was that. Rather it was the sug* 
gestiveness of his comment, the pregnancy of 
his response. Often he would suggest a topic 
or a line of thought. While we talked he would 
be thinking as well as listening, and when we 
paused he would simply reveal what was pass* 
ing through his own mind. I suppose that we 
had a child-like pleasure in seeing the quaint 
fancies and the far-reaching ideas to which' 
our words apparently gave rise. And over it 
all was the charm of that genial kindliness, 
and that humorous, whimsical idealism that 
was so characteristic of the man. 


But above all it was in his after dinner 
speeches that he shone, and for which he will 
be longest remembered. That he should al- 
ways be one of the speakers at the dinner be- 
came a tradition of the Association. Prob- 
ably every President of the Head Masters 
for the last ten years received more than one 
note requesting that Croswell be asked to 
speak at the dinner. He often demurred, but 
he always consented, for no President would 
take No for an answer from him. And never 
once did he fail to make good ! 

By tradition he was always the last speaker 
at the dinner. The first speaker was usually 
a guest, frequently a distinguished college 
president. Woodrow Wilson, Taft, Garfield, 
Hibben are among those that come to mind. 
Then would come two or three short speeches 
by members of the Association, and last Cros- 
well would be called on. There was always a 
burst of spontaneous applause, and every eye 
would brighten in anticipation. The task 
assigned to him was to sum up the impres- 
sions of the meeting, to bring to a focus the 
discussions, and to formulate the dominant 
ideas. He made no formal analysis, no cut- 
and-dried sununary, but with unerring skill 


went straight to the heart of the matter, 
seized the elusive idea for which we were all 
groping, and set it clearly before us, expressed 
in those incisive phrases, and illumined with 
that suggestive wit, that made the hearing a 
delight, and the memory a lasting joy. 

Who of us that heard it can ever forget 
that speech in which he told his dream of hav- 
ing died and gone to heaven, and recounted 
the various occupations in which he found us 
engaged? The man who was always hammer- 
ing at the unreasonableness of college require- 
ments, was going around complaining that 
it was growing harder and harder to get into 
heaven, while eternity was no longer than it 
had always been! The opponent of the old 
traditional subjects of education was trying 
to introduce new occupations among the an- 
gelic hosts; the advocate of the certificate 
method of admission to college was trying to 
persuade Saint Peter that a man should be 
admitted on his own signed statement of fit- 
ness, and so on through the list. 

My memory is not clear as to whether it 
was at a dinner of the Head Masters or of the 
New York Schoolmasters' Association that 
he made his famous speech on the Penguins. 


He told how he had been interested in reading 
in Captain Scott's travels the accounts of the 
behavior of the Antarctic penguins, how great 
flocks of them, without any apparent reason, 
would suddenly fly oflF in one direction; later, 
would as suddenly reappear, and shoot off 
toward an entirely different point of the com- 
pass. Then he said that what we in America, 
and particularly in New York, were suffering 
from was "Penguinity/* With one accord 
and at one time we were all rushing to see the 
Sorolla pictures, to save Saint John's Chapel, 
to try to understand Herbart, or to follow 
whatever happened to be the particular fad 
of the moment. It was in the same speech, 
I think, that he said that thinking was the 
hardest work that a man could do. He made 
it a matter of religious duty to think ten min- 
utes a day, and if by any stretch of his will 
power he could force himself to think twenty 
minutes a day, he was sure that inside of a 
month he would have New York at his feet. 

While it has no connection with the Head 
Masters, I cannot help recalling a dinner of the 
New England Society of Orange in celebration 
of Forefathers' Day, at which I had persuaded 
him to speak. The subject assigned him was 


'"The Puritan Maidens/' and the quotatiaii 
under his name on the programme was, ** YHiy 
don't you speak for yourself, John? *' 

It was on a Saturday night. Croswell was 
the last speaker on the list. The dinner was 
slow in serving, the earlier speakers were in- 
terminable, and it was ahnost midnight when 
the President called on him to speak. The 
audience, to most of whom he was unknown, 
settled back in resignation. Croswell rose de- 
liberately, drew out his watch, looked at it, and 
then solemnly remarked that it had always 
seemed to him that when Prisdlla finally 
lost her patience, and burst out with that 
immortal question which had been given him 
for a text, it must have been on a Saturday 
night, about ten minutes before the beginning 


of the Puritan Sabbath. With that he sat 
down, and the audience literally rose at him. 
That was his first dinner speech in Orange, 
but it was not his last. The first is still quoted 
as a classic. 

As I have been writing this little sketch, I 
have realized with steadily growing deamess 
how impossible it is to reproduce in cold type 
even a faint suggestion of the charm of his 
talk and of the unequalled wit and wisdom 


of his speech. A well-known writer said to me 
the other day: "I always liked to talk over 
my work with Croswell. He seemed to mider- 
stand what I was trying to get at, and to know 
what I really thought better than I did my- 
self." No one who did not know him can 
adequately appreciate him, but to those who 
knew him their memory of him may serve to 
interpret these random recollections, and per- 
haps in the light of that memory they may 
explain what one of our number meant when 
he said, "The Head Masters have lost their 
Master, and the charm of the gathering is 


James Greenleaf Croswell, '73, Head 
Master of the Brearley School, in New York, 
died unexpectedly on March 14. After gradu- 
ating at Harvard he studied at Leipsic and 
Bonn, taught for a year at St. Mark's School, 
Southboro, and was Assistant Professor of 
Greek and Latin at Harvard from 1883 to 
1887, He was highly acceptable as a teacher 
of the classics at Harvard, and would naturally 
have gone on there, but Samuel Brearley, after 
starting a school for girls in New York, had 


died on the threshold of his work, and there 
was a sudden call for a man to take up his task. 
To that duty President Eliot sent James Cros- 
well, thereby taking away a remarkable teadier 
from young men at Harvard and bestowmg 
him upon girls in New York. 

For the rest of his life, twenty-eight yeais» 
James Croswell taught girls in the Brearl^ 
School. There were those who thought he 
should have been teaching men, but he did not 
feel so. That half of life which is girls seemed 
to him at least as well worth what he had to 
give it as the other. He was recognized and ap- 
preciated as a notable schoolmaster, and served 
his turn as president of the Schoolmasters' 
Association, and other like organizations, and 
he spoke and wrote often on matters relating 
to his profession. But the most of his mind he 
gave to his girls, making each year acquaintance 
with a new band of them who came to him at 
nine or ten, and stayed with him from five to 
eight years. While the girls studied under his 
guidance what was thought to make for educa- 
tion or what the colleges expected, he studied 
the girls, and studied in their interest the rap-* 
idly changing life that was passing, and their 
changing relation to it. 


relation with the Brearley girls was a 
wonderful thing, not to be contemplated with- 
out emotion. Many of them never let go of his 
good hand. In school and after, still they took 
counsel with him» and in due time many of 
them brought him their girl children to learn 
from him what they had learned. 

Here was a great fatherly spirit, refined and 
endowed by an unusual scholarship, full of 
talent, full of perception, full of humor, dis- 
ciplined by some sore misfortunes and the 
stronger and sweeter for that discipline, work- 
ing steadily for twenty-eight years to contrib- 
ute what he could of civilization to the bar- 
baric development of New York. 

Happily there was that in New York that 
well appreciated what it had got. Croswell was 
greatly beloved and honored. Among men (as 
was said in a notice of him) he was a favorite 
depositary of the thoughts of thinkers and 
philosophers, who loved him because he could 
understand them, and found a profit in him 
because their own came back to them from 
him with something added that was new to 




A RARE soul severed temporal relationships 
with many friends on earth when Jaicbs 
Greenleaf Croswell died. A descendant of 
preachers and teachers, he came to New York 
in 1887 to take the headmastership of the 
Brearley School for girls. Hundreds of the 
best young women in the city will testify to 
the sensible discipline, the sanity of life, the 
enlarging suggestion, which came to them from 
one whose understanding of girlhood was unique 
and delightful. It is for us to speak of what he 
was to men. 

Croswell was an intellect; not a creative one 
in the way of bookmaking, but one rejoicing in 
things intellectual and the entertaining subtie- 
ties of human temperament. He was a lovely 
scholar; not a tremendous or repelling one. His 
mind, disciplined and furnished with classi- 
cal standards, ranged unvitiated throughout 
the ill-regulated world of literature. So well 
equipped with knowledge, gifted with sensitive 
and friendly sympathy, Croswell was one from 
whom his friends were sure of an appreciation 
which might be overkindly, and yet was always 


on the right point. Frequently he saw more 
than the other man had been conscious of in- 
tending. His criticisms were suggestions. And 
praise from Croswell never shamed the giver or 
receiver. His mind played caressingly about 
the productions and personalities of his friends; 
it was busy with its sympathies and apprecia- 
tions, never with itself. Most of us know what 
egotism is, and have to recognize ourselves as 
filled with it. One would look far to find an 
intellectual man as devoid of egotism as Cros- 
well. And how beautifully did his sweet amenity 
suggest to his friends that they should try to 
understand each other more sympathetically, 
and so more prof oundly, with that kind of un- 
derstanding which is an aid alike to him who 
understands and him who is understood. Those 
with whom Croswell was intimate will feel their 
lives narrowed and the significance of their 
work diminished through his death. 

(At the Brearley School) 

I AM most grateful for the opportimity to 
be here to-day and to say a word of apprecia- 
tion of your friend and leader. He was also 
my friend, and I with you looked up to him. 


One thing which Mr. Crogwell would like 
to have said among the words spoken to-<lay 
is that his life was lost in the life of the School. 
He would like us to believe, not that the 
School was part of his life, but that his life 
was part of the on-going life of the School. 
It is astonishing in how short a time a Schodi 
like this can acquire permanent traditions, — 
traditions which shall always distinguish it. 
A strong and earnest man can give to an in- 
stitution permanent qualities. I have there- 
fore been thinking of the diaracteristics of 
our dear friend, which through him I am sure 
have already become characteristics of the 
School which he has loved and served. 

In the first place, Mr. Croswell was a scholar. 
Scholars are rare in any institution, especially 
in institutions outside the rank of universi- 
ties. You recognized Mr. Croswell's scholar- 
ship because, when you asked him a ques- 
tion, he either said that he did not know, or 
gave you such exact information that you 
knew that you could rely upon its accuracy. 
Most people are content with general infor- 
mation, which they think sufficiently exact 
for ordinary purposes. A scholar has not only 
respect for accuracy but reverence for truth. 


That you through Mr. Croswell, and that all 
who henceforth catch the spirit of the Brearley 
School, shall hold before you the ideals of 
scholarship, is a matter of high importance 
in the cause of American education. 

A second quality in Mr. Croswell upon 
which I should like to dwell was his marvel- 
lous enthusiasm. Whfsn he described a book 
which he admired, you instantly wished to 
read it. When, on the other hand, he uttered 
his contempt for a book or a play, you felt 
that you must not read the book or see the 
play. It is said that many a pupil of Dr. 
Arnold, long after his days at Rugby, held his 
hand back from an unworthy deed because it 
came over him how Dr. Arnold would look 
if he could see his old pupil at that moment. 
So I can imagine that many of you, in the 
days to come, will go through some hard and 
brave duty, seeming to see the smile of Mr. 
Croswell flashing to you from the unseen. 
Or you will withhold yoiu'self from some un- 
worthy act because you will see again his flash 
of scorn. An enthusiasm for the right and the 
beautiful is a significant mark of any school. 

Only one other characteristic may I men- 
tion, and that was his joy in life. It was not 


many years ago that devout people apologized 
for their sense of humor. We now know that 
humor is one of the supreme qualities of the 
saints. No one can be sanely and normally 
serious without it. Mr. Croswell found all 
through experience mirth and gladness. And 
how we loved to investigate with him the 
foibles of people in life and in books! Never 
with bitterness, always with kindness, he was 
a man of laughter and joy. Mr. Jay has al- 
ready spoken of Mr. Croswell's description 
of himself when, returning to you last fall, he 
called himself a perfectly happy man. To be 
happy naturally and simply through all the 
vicissitudes of life, is not only a gift from 
heaven, but a gift through man to the world. 
So Brearley School must carry on through its 
history these qualities of its great Head Master, 
— reverence for scholarship, enthusiasm for the 
best, and a joy in life which cannot be daunted. 


(7*0 Mrs. CrosweU) 

At this first meeting of the Brearley League 
since the loss of our beloved Head Master, our 
hearts turn with deep sympathy to you whose 
loss is so much greater than our own. 



We axe met to-day to honor his memory and 
to mourn his loss, but we lift up oiu* hearts in 
thanksgiving that it was our lot to know him 
and to be children in the school that he so 
dearly loved. 

By grace of the precious inheritance he has 
left us, we pledge ourselves to the Brearley 
of the futiu'e with the prayer that countless 
unborn children may receive that heritage of 
truth and honor and gentleness that is so dear 
to us. 


James Greenleaf Croswell, for twenty- 
eight years Head Master of the Brearley School, 
was bom in 1852 in Brunswick, Maine, son of 
the Reverend Andrew Croswell and Caroline 
Greenleaf Croswell. A graduate of Harvard 
in the Class of 1873, he afterwards studied at 
Bonn, taught for a time at St. Mark's School, 
and from 1883 to 1887 was Assistant Professor 
of Greek and Latin at Harvard. When Samuel 
Brearley died, in the third year of the School 
which he had founded, Mr. Croswell was called 
from Cambridge to New York to take up the 
work which his friend had so notably begun. 


Since 1887 the Brearley Sdiool and 'Mr. Cros- 
well have seemed inseparable and identical. 

His service to the School has been of inesti- 
mable value. Himself a classical sdiolar of rare 
attainments, he has kept the Brearl^ free from 
the vices of superficiality and sham knowledge, 
and has given it a standard of real and sound 
scholarship. Rare and excellent in his humanity 
as in his learning, he has also saved the Brear- 
ley from ever becoming a mere educational 
machine. He had only limited faith in any 
given apparatus or process of education. He 
knew that by devious ways the human mind 
and spirit may come to their own, and he was 
willing to have all possible ways open. With 
a sympathetic and personal knowledge of every 
pupil, he made the Brearley a place where the 
individuality of each could grow and be en- 
riched and develop into the fulness of life. To 
him the School owes its position in the conunu- 
nity during the last quarter of a century. To 
the inspiration of his personality was due the 
successful move from the old building and the 
recreation of the Brearley, on the new site, as 
a permanent institution which will stand as 
his living monument. 

His service to the teachers of the School has 


been a precious one. As a f riend» a sympathetic 
critic, a leader under whom it was an inspiration 
to work, he taught them insight, tolerance, and 
kindliness; he stripped convention and sophis- 
try from formula and revealed to them the way 
to truth and wisdom and love. To teach un- 
der him meant to live in touch with a man of 

His relation with his pupils was one of pe- 
culiar beauty. He had for the little girls of the 
Primary affectionate and humorous tender- 
ness, for the older students sympathetic under- 
standing and guidance, and for his graduates 
friendly counsel during many later years and 
even after they had sent their own daughters 
to learn from his wisdom. Eager to convey to 
each mind the inspiration of sound scholar- 
ship and broad human interest, he wanted each 
woman to develop to the best of which she 
was capable. No shadow of condescension ever 
marred his attitude towards his girls. Nor did 
he need to think of discipline. His personality 
permeated and unified the School; its wisdom, 
its quaint himior, its shrewd wit, its kindly 
tolerance, its peculiar common sense, its ex- 
quisite friendliness, constituted the spirit of 
the Brearley. 


Not only by his work at his Sdiocd, but also 
by his speeches, his writings, and his wide- 
spread personal influence, Mr. Croswell aided 
greatly in raising the education of New York 
girls to a higher standard of thoroughness 
and sanity. To the whole teaching profession, 
moreover, his character added distinction and 
dignity. For these great services the City of 
New York owes him gratitude. 

The Directors of the Brearley Sdiool here 
record their deep sense of the grievous loss 
caused by his death, and of the great and per- 
manent contribution to the School made by 
the twenty-eight years of noble service during 
which he instilled into the Brearley a spirit of 
truth and of wisdom, of kindness and of breadth 
of vision, that will last as long as the School 
shall endure. 


At the death of Dr. James Greenleaf Cros- 
well the City of New York paused to pay lov- 
ing tribute to a life spent ungrudgingly in the 
service of its children. Among many others, the 
Head Mistresses' Association affirms and re- 
cords its gratitude for fellowship with him and 
expresses its deep sense of loss in his death. . 


A rare scholar and a humble student, a great 
teacher and a generous and faithful critic, 
Mr. Croswell consistently upheld the beauty of 
simplicity and the value of the aim at perfec- 
tion. The flash of his humor was brilliant and 
keen, but never destructive; it illuminated the 
truth and left the vision of it clearer in the soul. 

His reverence for each personality led him 
to shield the young lives he touched from un- 
due pressure and interference, and he never 
exalted methods and results above growth and 
development. The breadth of his sympathy 
and the sanity of his judgment gave him re- 
markably quick and true insight into the na- 
tures of those under his care. 

Marvellously free himself from confusion of 
ideals, he left as his legacy to other teachers the 
inspiration of his life, an inspiration so to carry 
on his work that the children he guided, pro- 
tected, and loved may not too greatly miss his 
earthly presence. 

HEAD Blasters' association 

It is always difficult for one teacher to ap- 
praise adequately another teacher's character 
and service. In the case of James G. Croswell 
it is quite impossible for the reason that his 


qualities of mind were unique and because he, 
more than any other schoolman that I have 
known, successfully withstood the oonditicms 
and resisted the forces that nairow the think- 
ing and blight the imagination of the man that 
spends his life in the schocd. 

In breadth of visicm this w<Hider-warking 
man, as I think, had no peer among the head 
masters. He could see things in the laijpe — in 
their due proportions and right rdations. He 
thought of education in terms of life rather 
than in the terms of subjects of 8tu4y. Na- 
poleon once said that men of imaginaticm rule 
the world. To my mind this same piicdess 
power was Mr. CroswelFs dominatin^f charac- 
teristic. It was the key to his character. Be- 
cause of it, in all of our deliberations he engaged 
in no controversies. Because iA it, no cme at- 
tacked his theses or questioned the truth of 
his vision. Because of it, he was an illuminat- 
ing speaker* taking us to the mountain tops 
where the >H[sion is broad and dear. Hus gift 
of the seer gave him preeminence and leado^ 
ship among schoolmen and made him the great 
teacher that he was. It may be said that inimi- 
table humor and ready wit chiefly diaracterized 
his thought and speech; but no man l«Ai«g in 


imagination can command through the years, 
as Mr. Croswell did, the rapt attention and 
ready assent of critical hearers. 

Mr. CroswelFs imique and pervasive influ- 
ence among his colleagues and over his stu- 
dents was also due in no small degree to the 
fact that by mheritance and training his chief 
interests in life were scholastic and intellec- 
tual. From the point of view of the teacher he 
studied the social and political life of his time, 
and all the more eagerly and effectively because 
of the illumination derived from his extensive 
study and knowledge of classical literature and 
Greek philosophy. 

This man, whose absence from our midst 
to-day is so keenly felt, undoubtedly inherited 
much of the intellectual and moral power that 
distinguished his life and service. His father 
was an Episcopal clergyman in a little village 
in the State of Maine. His mother was the 
daughter of Judge Greenleaf , Professor of Law 
at Harvard, whose book, "Greenleaf on Evi- 
dence," has been studied by generations of law- 
yers. The formative influences and intellec- 
tual stimulus of such a home are forces beyond 
the reckoning, when we come to measure the 
lives and achievements of men who devote 


themselves, as Mr. Croswell did, to the noble 
work of human betterment. 

Richly endowed by nature, he was equally 
favored in his nurture. Prepared for collie in 
the Cambridge Latin School under the incom- 
parable Head Master Bradbury, graduated from 
Harvard College in 1873, he taught a year in 
St. Mark's School and then served as instruc- 
tor of Latin and Greek at Harvard until 1878, 
when he went to Europe for further study. 
Returning in 1881, he was appointed Assistant 
Professor of Greek at Harvard where he re- 
mained until 1887, when he was smnmoned to 
New York to establish the Brearley School for 
Girls. In this position he continued until the 
day of his death — a period of twenty-eight 

This, gentlemen, is the bare outline of the 
life of a scholarly, cultured, and high-minded 
man who with generous purpose and unflagging 
industry consecrated his life to the education 
of the young — an undertaking than which no 
task is more subtle, more baffling, or more 
necessary to the welfare of man. 

This man, with whom intellectual contact 
was so stimulating, and social intercourse so de- 
lightful — this man whom we all revered and 


loved, met, as it seems to me, all the require- 
ments of President Eliot's definition of a cul- 
tivated man. 

''He had a liberal mind and generous heart, 
he had comprehensive interests and sympathies, 
he had a wide range of vision, and he found the 
great satisfactions of his life in pursuing truth 
and rendering service." 



Mr. Croswell was a person who whenever 
you met him you invariably knew that the 
kindly eyes that beamed upon you had an 
unmistakable twinkle in them. I think that 
the school meant to him not only a great body 
of girls, but when he thought of it, he thought 
of it as composed of all of us and he took a 
deep interest in each girl. Last year when I 
was sick he wrote me such a nice understand- 
ing letter. He made you feel (at least he did 
me) that lessons weren't the all-important 
object of school life. I associated him with 
my Sundays as well as with my school days 
for he always used to sit in front of us in 
churchy and from the time when I was a tiny 
girl and he was pointed out to me as my fu- 
ture head master I have always had a feeling 
of ownership for him. I remember quite well 
when I swallowed a marble in church, amidst 
a series of loud, gasping chokes, wondering 
with shame what he must have thought of 


me. I am so glad and proud that I have been 
able to be under the influence of so great a 
scholar and man» and I hope that my memory 
of him will never grow dim^ and I know that 
my affection for him can never lessen as the 
years go on. 

Serena Hand, V. 

The last time that I saw Mr. Croswell he 
impressed me as being more splendid than I 
had ever seen him before. It was before school, 
and I had gone into Miss Pfeiffer's room to 
speak to her. Mr. Croswell was in there, and 
when I had delivered my message I looked 
at him for a second. He seemed very tall, 
much taller than usual, and very noble. He 
smiled at me and said, ^^Good morning," and 
I went out. He always seemed to know me, 
and he called me by my name as if I was a 
very good friend of his, and it pleased me. 

He always saw the fim in things, even in 
racing downstairs in the middle of a period 
to get a sweater. I did that once, and I met 
him on the stairs; he got out of my way (I 
was going awfully fast) and smiled at me as 
I raced past, as if he would like to do it too, 
but could n't. 


I was having an exam, once when he came 
into the room. I looked up, but was thinlring 
of a terrible example that I could n't do. He 
looked at me as if he understood how honid 
it was. He must have hated exams, when he 
had them; anyway, I hope he did, they are so 

He was very human, and very different 
from what I expected a head master to be like. 
I thought he would be a horrid person with 
glasses and a beard, who was always scolding, 
but I found him to be a very sweet, f atheriy 
sort of man who remembered his girls' names, 
and did not forget how horrid exams, were, 
and how nice it was to race downstairs. 

He didn't forget, and I admired him and 
was proud of him because he did n't. 

Dorothy Stewart, V. 

What it was in Mr. Croswell that fasci- 
nated and made me admire him, and love him, 
and trust him, is hard to define. I did not 
meet him often about the school and rarely 
spoke with him, and only now do I begin to 
realize to a full extent how wonderful a man 
he was. Yet it is certainly the proof of ex- 
traordinary personality that from the slightest 


contact with sudb a person one should per- 
ceive how mudb greater is his scope of power 
and influence than what is shown you at the 
moment. And that Mr. Croswell possessed 
this personality, who can doubt? Or who can 
estimate how much his work and unbounded 
interest has meant to the school? 

Of the many things Mr. Croswell did for 
the school the two that gave me the most 
pleasure were the remarks whidb he often 
made in the mornings at prayers, and his 
Friday lectures. The former were on many 
and varied subjects. One year he asked for 
contributions from all the classes and arranged 
a School Calendar with an event for as many 
days in the year as possible. On these anni- 
versaries he talked of the historical happen- 
ings that had taken place, or the life of a 
great man whose birthday it was, or some- 
thing of the kind. Sometimes he read us an 
interesting passage or told of some amusing 
incident; or he woidd explain and discuss some 
thought or problem in which the school might 
be interested, as for instance, loyalty. I re- 
member he devoted several mornings to this 
subject, and what he said was always thought- 
ful, valuable and true. 


The Friday talks were lectures on ancient 
Greece whose aim, as Mr. Croswell said, was 
to make the lives of the ancient Greeks appear 
more real and vivid than history alone could 
paint them. But they were not lectures in 
the ordinary sense of the word. Mr. Croswell 
did not discuss archaeological theories, or 
merely describe the country, as it is or as it 
was, or quote some modem author. It was 
through the literature of the Greeks them- 
selves — their own expressions of their own 
thoughts — that Mr. Croswell sought to give us 
a glimpse of Hellas two thousand years ago, 
— of its spirit and its people. He read us 
selections from the ** Frogs'' and the whole 
of the '' Clouds " of Aristophanes. This last he 
acted enough to illustrate how it was origi- 
nally performed, putting in little touches of 
his own to explain the scenery and characters, 
modernizing ancient jokes and Athenian slang, 
greatly to the amusement of the schooL Sev- 
eral of the lectures were given to short extracts 
from biographical authors, containing amus- 
ing anecdotes, epitaphs on household pets, 
sketches of daily Greek life, and a few others 
were about Socrates. In all of these Mr. Cros- 
well carefully pointed out any similar charao- 


teristics and sympathies between the people 
of to-day and the people of that distant past. 
And we cannot be too grateful to him for 
these lectures in which he established a link 
between our advanced present and those 
far-off times which have come down in history 
as among the most wonderful the world has 
ever known. 

Jean Flexner, VI. 

One of the highest tributes paid to Mr. 
Croswell was each girl's personal r^ard for 
him. Every one who knew Mr. Croswell had 
the deepest affection for him. I know that 
each girl in the school regarded him as Aer 
Mr. CroswelU because she loved him so much, 
and was unhappier over his death because of 
this love. 

Although Mr. Croswell's great spirit filled 
the school, and made the school, and was the 
school, yet there was a distinctly personal 
atmosphere about him that was one of his 
greatest characteristics. It gave me a won- 
derful hot feeling to pass him on the stairs and 
have him speak to me by name. Having once 
connected a name and a face, he never forgot 
them. This also gave a sense of particular 


friendship to those to whom he spoke in jiaas- 

So all through our life, we shall ranember 
Mr. Croswell as one of our dearest and wisest 
friends, and the memory of his loving woids 
and kind face makes us and will make us better 
and stronger people. 

Clabinda Gabbison, VI. 

Mr. Croswell was a man who commanded 
great respect from his giris. He, unconscioualy , 
both to the girls and himself, exerted his in- 
fluence over every one in the school. His smile 
was for everybody alike, and one alwajys felt 
better after seeing it. 

The picture whidh remains in my mind 
most clearly was on the day which the school 
opened in the new building, and when the 
small primary children came for the first time. 
After prayers, a tiny child carrying a great 
pile of books and pencils in her arms, stood in 
the middle of the aisle, very much frightened 
and uncertain what to do. It was then that 
Mr. Croswell, looking very tall beside the 
little children, came down the aisle to where 
this little girl stood. He looked at her and 
smiled, but the little one was so thoroughly 


frightened that books and pencils dropped 
with a bang. Then Mr. Croswell, tall as he 
was, stooped down and carefully picked up 
every book and pencil, put them in her hands, 
and courteously bowed to her as he would 
to any lady. Most head masters would have 
felt it beneath their dignity to have performed 
this service for a small child, and would have 
passed on with a smile, leaving the child to 
pick up the books herself. 

I think that that little girl will always re- 
member the kind man who picked up her 
books, and I am sure that every older girl who 
saw this incident will remember it, and the 
lesson in courtesy so unconsciously given. 

Helen N. Smith, VI. 

We were all very much excited as we filed 
slowly down into Miss Eaton's room. It was 
our first commencement. The room was filled 
with people and flowers, as we took our places 
in the front row of seats. Suddenly there was 
a whispering down the line, and the girl next 
to me said, **Mr. Croswell wants you to sit 
beside him, 'cause you're president." 

I never shall forget how excited and par* 
ticularly scared I was as I stumbled up to my 


seat beside the '* great Head Master.'' Great 
in every way was exactly how he seemed to 
me, of course. I was pretty small and awfully 
scared until he suddenly looked down at me» 
smiled, and said in the kindest tone possible, 
*' Don't you think Commencement is lots of 
fun? Pretty soon our great class eight will 
come, and then we must all stand up when the 
flag comes in." Every bit of scaredness left 
me, and my heart went out to this big, kind 
man who had such a nice voice and smile, and 
in a few minutes we were chatting away just 
as if he was my age — or perhaps rather I felt 
as if I was his. 

Then class eight came down and the exer- 
cises started. All through I watched Mr. Cros- 
well hard, laughed when he laughed, and real- 
ized dimly that though the graduating class 
sat up on the platform and did most of the 
talking, somehow the Head Master seemed 
to be the centre of everything. 

Then came the eight's class song and my 
most vivid remembrance of Mr. Croswell, 
perhaps because it was my first, and some 
striking impressions, received when a child, 
always stand out and never seem to lose any 
of their reality. The song ended with a salute.