ir victim, planting his long legs one on each side of the
carriage door, resisted sturdily, and his neighbors assaulted the
officers with hue and cry. The town rose upon them. Judge Hoar hastily
issued a habeas corpus returnable before the Massachusetts Supreme
Court, and the baffled minions of the slave power went back to Boston.

The School assembled in the Orchard House, formerly the residence of Mr.
Alcott, on the Lexington road. Next door was the Wayside, Hawthorne's
home for a number of years, a cottage overshadowed by the steep hillside
that rose behind it, thick with hemlocks and larches. On the ridge of
this hill was Hawthorne's "out door study," a foot path worn by his own
feet, as he paced back and forth among the trees and thought out the
plots of his romances. In 1879 the Wayside was tenanted by George
Lathrop, who had married Hawthorne's daughter, Rose. He had already
published his "Study of Hawthorne" and a volume of poems, "Rose and
Rooftree." His novel, "An Echo of Passion," was yet to come, a book
which unites something of modern realism with a delicately symbolic art
akin to Hawthorne's own.

A bust of Plato presided over the exercises of the School, and
"Plato-Skimpole"--as Mr. Alcott was once nicknamed--made the opening
address. I remember how impressively he quoted Milton's lines:

How charming is divine philosophy!
Not harsh and crabbed, as dull fools suppose,
But musical as is Apollo's lute.

Our _piece de resistance_ was the course of lectures in which Mr. Harris
expounded Hegel. But there were many other lecturers. Mrs. Edna Cheney
talked to us about art; though all that I recall of her conversation is
the fact that she pronounced _always olways_, and I wondered if that was
the regular Boston pronunciation. Dr. Jones, the self-taught Platonist
of Jacksonville, Illinois, interpreted Plato. Quite a throng of his
disciples, mostly women, had followed him from Illinois and swelled the
numbers of the Summer School. Once Professor Benjamin Peirce, the great
Harvard mathematician, came over from Cambridge, and read us one of his
Lowell Institute lectures, on the Ideality of Mathematics. He had a most
distinguished presence and an eye, as was said, of black fire. The
Harvard undergraduates of my time used to call him Benny Peirce; and on
the fly leaves of their mathematical text books they would write, "Who
steals my Peirce steals trash." Colonel T. W. Higginson read a single
lec