At about ten years of age I began going to what we always called the “Port School,” because it was kept at Cambridgeport, a mile from the College.  This suburb was at that time thinly inhabited, and, being much of it marshy and imperfectly reclaimed, had a dreary look as compared with the thriving College settlement.  The tenants of the many beautiful mansions that have sprung up along Main Street, Harvard Street, and Broadway can hardly recall the time when, except the “Dana House” and the “Opposition House” and the “Clark House,” these roads were almost all the way bordered by pastures until we reached the “stores” of Main Street, or were abreast of that forlorn “First Row” of Harvard Street.  We called the boys of that locality “Port-chucks.”  They called us “Cambridge-chucks,” but we got along very well together in the main.

Among my schoolmates at the Port School was a young girl of singular loveliness.  I once before referred to her as “the golden blonde,” but did not trust myself to describe her charms.  The day of her appearance in the school was almost as much a revelation to us boys as the appearance of Miranda was to Caliban.  Her abounding natural curls were so full of sunshine, her skin was so delicately white, her smile and her voice were so all-subduing, that half our heads were turned.  Her fascinations were everywhere confessed a few years afterwards; and when I last met her, though she said she was a grandmother, I questioned her statement, for her winning looks and ways would still have made her admired in any company.

Not far from the golden blonde were two small boys, one of them very small, perhaps the youngest boy in school, both ruddy, sturdy, quiet, reserved, sticking loyally by each other, the oldest, however, beginning to enter into social relations with us of somewhat maturer years.  One of these two boys was destined to be widely known, first in literature, as author of one of the most popular books of its time and which is freighted for a long voyage; then as an eminent lawyer; a man who, if his countrymen are wise, will yet be prominent in the national councils.  Richard Henry Dana, Junior, is the name he bore and bears; he found it famous, and will bequeath it a fresh renown.

Sitting on the girls’ benches, conspicuous among the school-girls of unlettered origin by that look which rarely fails to betray hereditary and congenital culture, was a young person very nearly of my own age.  She came with the reputation of being “smart,” as we should have called it, clever as we say nowadays.  This was Margaret Fuller, the only one among us who, like “Jean Paul,” like “The Duke,” like “Bettina,” has slipped the cable of the more distinctive name to which she was anchored, and floats on the waves of speech as “Margaret.”  Her air to her schoolmates was marked by a certain stateliness and distance, as if she had other thoughts than theirs and was not of them.  She was a great student and a great reader of what she used to call