AGASSIZ, THE TEACHER.
A prominent trait in the character of Agassiz was his dislike of ostentation. This is eminently illustrated in his virtual rejection of all titles. He possessed all the honors that Universities and learned societies could bestow, but made no use of them. On the title page of his great works we find only “Louis Agassiz.” There was, however, one title in which he did take pride—the only one he ever assumed. In his last will he described himself as “Louis Agassiz, teacher.” An intimate personal friend alluding to this, says that “he gloried in the title of schoolmaster, preferring it to that of professor.” He deemed the profession of teacher “the noblest of all professions, but included in that category all good and great minds engaged in disseminating knowledge or in increasing it.”
The desire to know something of his methods and ideas of teaching, is often expressed. His methods were simple, but radically different from prevailing methods. He despised recitations by rote from text-books—allowed the use of books only for reference, and urged the selection of such as were authoritative and the work of original investigators. In teaching Natural History his leading purpose was to stimulate and secure independent observation. A fine illustration of this was given anonymously by one of his pupils, who subsequently became a successful entomologist, in Every Saturday, in 1874, which we venture to quote entire, as affording perhaps the best conception of his method:
“It was more than fifteen years ago that I entered the laboratory of Professor Agassiz and told him I had enrolled my name in the scientific school as a student of natural history. He asked me a few questions about my object in coming, my antecedents generally, the mode in which I afterward proposed to use the knowledge I might acquire, and finally, whether I wished to study any special branch. To the latter I replied that while I wished to be well grounded in all departments of zoölogy, I purposed to devote myself specially to insects.
“‘When do you wish to begin?’ he asked.
“‘Now,’ I replied.
“This seemed to please him, and with an energetic ‘Very well,’ he reached from a shelf a huge jar of specimens in yellow alcohol. ‘Take this fish,’ said he, ‘and look at it; we call it a Hæmulon; by and by I will ask what you have seen.’
“With that he left me, but in a moment he returned with explicit instructions as to the care of the object intrusted to me. ‘No man is fit to be a naturalist,’ said he, ‘who does not know how to take care of specimens.’
“I was to keep the fish before me in a tin tray, and occasionally moisten the surface with alcohol from the jar, always taking care to replace the stopper tightly. Those were not the days of ground glass stoppers and elegantly shaped exhibition jars; all the old students will recall the huge, neckless glass bottles with their leaky, wax-besmeared corks, half eaten by insects and begrimed with cellar dust. Entomology was a cleaner science than ichthyology, but the example of the Professor, who had unhesitatingly plunged to the bottom of the jar to produce the fish, was infectious, and though this alcohol had ‘a very ancient and fish-like smell,’ I really dared not show any aversion within these sacred precincts, for gazing at a fish did not commend itself to an ardent entomologist. My friends at home, too, were annoyed when they discovered that no amount of eau de cologne would drown the perfume which haunted me like a shadow. In ten minutes I had seen all that could be seen in that fish, and started in search of the Professor, who had, however, left the museum; and when I returned, after lingering over some of the odd animals stored in the upper department, my specimen was dry all over. I dashed the fluid over the fish as if to resuscitate the beast from a fainting fit, and looked with anxiety for a return of the normal sloppy appearance. This little excitement over, nothing was to be done but return to a steadfast gaze at my mute companion. Half an hour passed—an hour—another hour; the fish began to look loathsome. I turned it over and around; looked it in the face—ghastly; from behind, beneath, above, sideways, at three-quarters view—just as ghastly. I was in despair; at an early hour I concluded that lunch was necessary; so, with infinite relief, the fish was carefully replaced in the jar, and for an hour I was free.
“On my return, I learned that Professor Agassiz had been at the museum, but had gone and would not return for several hours. My fellow-students were too busy to be disturbed by continued conversation. Slowly I drew forth that hideous fish, and with a feeling of desperation again looked at it. I might not use a magnifying glass; instruments of all kinds were interdicted. My two hands, my two eyes, and the fish; it seemed a most limited field. I pushed my finger down its throat to feel how sharp the teeth were. I began to count the scales in the different rows until I was convinced that that was nonsense. At last a happy thought struck me—I would draw the fish—and now with surprise I began to discover new features in the creature. Just then the Professor returned. ‘That is right,’ said he; ‘a pencil is one of the best of eyes. I am glad to notice, too, that you keep your specimen wet and your bottle corked.’