I began Latin at eight years—­my first book a yellow paper primer.

I was always interested in chickens, and dosed all the indisposed as: 

          Dandy Dick
          Was very sick,
          I gave him red pepper
          And soon he was better.

In spring, I remember the humming of our bees around the sawdust, and my craze for flower seeds and a garden of my own.

Father had a phenomenal memory; he could recite in his classroom pages of Scott’s novels, which he had not read since early youth.  He had no intention of allowing my memory to grow flabby from lack of use.  I often repeat a verse he asked me to commit to memory: 

          In reading authors, when you find
          Bright passages that strike your mind,
          And which perhaps you may have reason
          To think on at another season;
          Be not contented with the sight,
          But jot them down in black and white;
          Such respect is wisely shown
          As makes another’s thought your own.

Every day at the supper table I had to repeat some poetry or prose and on Sunday a hymn, some of which were rather depressing to a young person, as: 

          Life is but a winter’s day;
          A journey to the tomb.

And the vivid description of “Dies Irae”: 

          When shrivelling like a parched scroll
          The flaming heavens together roll
          And louder yet and yet more dread
          Swells the high Trump that wakes the dead.

Great attention was given to my lessons in elocution from the best instructors then known, and I had the privilege of studying with William Russell, one of the first exponents of that art.  I can still hear his advice:  “Full on the vowels; dwell on the consonants, especially at the close of sentences; keep voice strong for the close of an important sentence or paragraph.”  Next, I took lessons from Professor Mark Bailey of Yale College; and then in Boston in the classes of Professor Lewis B. Monroe,—­a most interesting, practical teacher of distinctness, expression, and the way to direct one’s voice to this or that part of a hall.  I was given the opportunity also of hearing an occasional lecture by Graham Bell.  Later, I used to read aloud to father for four or five hours daily—­grand practice—­such important books as Lecky’s Rationalism, Buckle’s Averages, Sir William Hamilton’s Metaphysics (not one word of which could I understand), Huxley, Tyndall, Darwin, and Spencer, till my head was almost too full of that day’s “New Thought.”

Judge Salmon P. Chase once warned me, when going downstairs to a dinner party at Edgewood, “For God’s sake, Kate, don’t quote the Atlantic Monthly tonight!” I realized then what a bore I had been.

What a treat to listen to William M. Evarts chatting with Judge Chase!  One evening he affected deep depression.  “I have just been beaten twice at ‘High Low Jack’ by Ben the learned pig.  I always wondered why two pipes in liquid measure were called a hogshead; now I know; it was on account of their great capacity.”  He also told of the donkey’s loneliness in his absence, as reported by his little daughter.