For Andover had her social life, and knew no better, for the most part, than to enjoy it.  It is true that many of her diversions took on that religious or academic character natural to the place.  Of village parish life we knew nothing, for our chapel was, like others of its kind, rather an exclusive little place of worship.  We were ignorant of pastoral visits, deacons, parochial gossip, church fairs, and what Professor Park used to call “the doughnut business;” and, though we cultivated a weekly prayer-meeting in the lecture-room, I think its chief influence was as a training-school for theological students whose early efforts at public exhortation (poor fellows!) quaveringly besought their Professors to grow in grace, and admonished the families of the Faculty circle to repent.

But we had our lectures and our concerts—­quite distinct, as orthodox circles will understand, from those missionary festivals which went, I never discovered why, by the name of Monthly Concerts—­and our Porter Rhets.  I believe this cipher stood for Porter Rhetorical; and research, if pushed far enough, would develop the fact that Porter indicated a dead professor who once founded a chair and a debating society for young men.  Then we had our anniversaries and our exhibitions, when we got ourselves into our organdie muslins or best coats, and listened to the boys spouting Greek and Latin orations in the old, red brick Academy, and heard the theological students—­but here this reporter is forced to pause.  I suppose I ought to be ashamed of it, but the fact is, that I never attended an anniversary exercise of the Seminary in my life.  It would be difficult to say why.  I think my reluctance consisted in an abnormal objection to Trustees.  So far as I know, they were an innocent set of men, of good reputations and quite harmless.  But I certainly acquired, at a very early age, an antipathy to this class of Americans from which I have never recovered.

Our anniversaries occurred, according to the barbaric custom of the times, in the hottest heat of August; and if there be a hotter place in Massachusetts than Andover was, I have yet to simmer in it.  Our houses were, of course, thrown open, and crowded to the shingles.

I remember once sharing my tiny room with a little guest who would not have the window open, though the thermometer had stood above ninety, day and night, for a week; and because she was a trustee’s daughter, I must not complain.  Perhaps this experience emphasized a natural lack of sympathy with her father.

At all events, I cherished a hidden antagonism to these excellent and useful men, of which I make this late and public confession.  It seemed to me that everybody in Andover was afraid of them.  I “took it out” in the cordial defiance of a born rebel.

Then we had our tea-parties—­theological, of course—­when the students came to tea in alphabetical order; and the Professor told his best stories; and the ladies of the family were expected to keep more or less quiet while the gentlemen talked.  But this, I should say, was of the earlier time.