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Charles Congdon, Tribune Essays: Leading Articles Contributing to the New York Tribune from 1857 to 1863. (ed. Horace Greeley) 4 0 Browse Search
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Charles Congdon, Tribune Essays: Leading Articles Contributing to the New York Tribune from 1857 to 1863. (ed. Horace Greeley), A Biographical battle. (search)
es is child's play compared with it. In the meantime, while suffering ourselves to be entertained by Colonel Parker's Reminiscences, we await with impatience the Family Biography. Everybody knows what a capital character a man receives when his relatives write his life. We anticipate nothing less than the portliest of folios, unspeakably dignified from title-page to colophon — a grave and stately narrative — a story heroical, of which the central figure will be Mr. Choate, more like Jupiter Ammon than a member of the Suffolk Bar. The family is right. Pray what does the world want of Mr. Choate in his shirt-sleeves? Of Mr. Choate laughing, chatting, cracking jokes? of Mr. Choate careless of money, of appearances, and of his chirography? of Mr. Choate in his character of human being, fond of the same food and drink which nourish and cheer ordinary creatures? The real Family Choate will be of incomputable altitude, with a voice like Olympian thunder, and an eye of flame divine.
Charles Congdon, Tribune Essays: Leading Articles Contributing to the New York Tribune from 1857 to 1863. (ed. Horace Greeley), A Bacchanal of Beaufort. (search)
A Bacchanal of Beaufort. The good news from the Naval Expedition has already, as to its more momentous details, been discussed and digested; but a distinguished person, deserving of historical fame, who figured, or rather who fell at Beaufort, will miss his immortality unless we amiably give him a hoist. When Capt. Ammon, with three gun-boats, visited Beaufort on the day after the action, but a single white man was found in the village, and he was drunk. Such is the laconism of the telegraph, than which nothing can be more teasing; for we are left utterly in the dark as to the name of this cool reveler, who refused to intermit his libations to the god of whisky, even in the sulphurous presence of the god of war. In a poem like Campbell's Last man, namelessness might be artfully adopted to heighten the impression; but in matter-of-fact annals the hiatus is to be censured and deplored. If some gentleman of a curious turn had been intrusted with the dispatches, he would have told