EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

Shortly before the Civil War, I went with father to St. Louis, he to
take a place in the Washington University, while I was offered a
position in the Mary Institute to teach classes of girls. Chancellor
Hoyt of the university had been lured from Exeter, New Hampshire. He
was widely known in the educational world, and was one of the most
brilliant men I ever knew, strong, wise, witty, critical, scholarly,
with a scorn of anything superficial or insincere.

I had thought of omitting my experience in this city, to
me so really tragic. Just before we were to leave Hanover, a
guest brought five of us a gift of measles. I had the
confluent-virulent-delirious-lose-all-your-hair variety. When
convalescent, I found that my hair, which had been splendidly thick
and long, was coming out alarmingly, and it was advised that my head
be shaved, with a promise that the hair would surely be curly and just
as good as before the illness. I felt pretty measly and "meachin" and
submitted. The effect was indescribably awful. I saw my bald pate
once, and almost fainted. I was provided with a fearsome wig, of
coarse, dark red hair, held in place by a black tape. Persons who had
pitied me for having "such a big head and so much hair" now found
reason for comment "on my small head with no hair." The most expensive
head cover never deceived anyone, however simple, and I was obliged to
make my debut in St. Louis in this piteous plight.

We then had our first taste of western-southern cordiality and
demonstrativeness. It occurred to me that they showed more delight in
welcoming us than our own home folks showed regret at our departure.
It was a liberal education to me. They all seemed to understand about
the hideous wig, but never showed that they noticed it. One of our
first callers was a popular, eloquent clergyman, who kissed me "as
the daughter of my mother." He said, "I loved your mother and asked
her to marry me, but I was refused." Several young men at once wanted
to get up a weekly dancing class for me, but I was timid, fearing my
wig would fall off or get wildly askew. Whittier in one of his poems
has this couplet, which suggests the reverse of my experience:

"She rose from her delicious sleep,
And laid aside her soft-brown hair."

At bedtime my wig must come off and a nightcap take the place. In the
morning that wig must go on, with never one look in the glass. Soon
two persons calle