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Cambridge History of American Literature: volume 1, Colonial and Revolutionary Literature: Early National Literature: Part I (ed. Trent, William Peterfield, 1862-1939., Erskine, John, 1879-1951., Sherman, Stuart Pratt, 1881-1926., Van Doren, Carl, 1885-1950.) 49 1 Browse Search
Cambridge History of American Literature: volume 3 (ed. Trent, William Peterfield, 1862-1939., Erskine, John, 1879-1951., Sherman, Stuart Pratt, 1881-1926., Van Doren, Carl, 1885-1950.) 30 2 Browse Search
James Russell Lowell, Among my books 21 1 Browse Search
Frank Preston Stearns, Cambridge Sketches 20 0 Browse Search
The Daily Dispatch: March 18, 1861., [Electronic resource] 18 0 Browse Search
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard) 17 13 Browse Search
Cambridge History of American Literature: volume 2 (ed. Trent, William Peterfield, 1862-1939., Erskine, John, 1879-1951., Sherman, Stuart Pratt, 1881-1926., Van Doren, Carl, 1885-1950.) 16 0 Browse Search
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 1 15 1 Browse Search
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing) 14 0 Browse Search
Wendell Phillips, Theodore C. Pease, Speeches, Lectures and Letters of Wendell Phillips: Volume 2 12 0 Browse Search
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lied this defect. He did not have an enemy in the corps, or an unkind feeling to any one, though he was select in his associates. The testimony of others might be adduced to the same purport; suffice it to say, however, that he pursued the prescribed course at the Military Academy with diligence and success. The struggles of the South American republics for independence, and the revolt of Greece against Turkey, had excited the warmest interest in the United States; and the poetry of Byron and the eloquence of Clay found an echo in the feelings and opinions of the young men at the Military Academy. Johnston and some others were approached by the agents of the revolutionary governments. The era of profound peace that was evidently opening before the United States was contrasted with other arenas which seemed to offer the most splendid prizes to military talent and ambition; and it was seriously discussed among the more adventurous cadets whether aid to the nationalities striv
lly described by Poe in The Raven. On one of these occasions, at the town of Lincoln, sitting in the position described, he quoted aloud and at length the poem called Immortality. When he had finished he was questioned as to the authorship and where it could be found. He had forgotten the author, but said that to him it sounded as much like true poetry as anything he had ever heard. He was particularly pleased with the last two stanzas. Beyond a limited acquaintance with Shakespeare, Byron, and Burns, Mr. Lincoln, comparatively speaking, had no knowledge of literature. He was familiar with the Bible, and now and then evinced a fancy for some poem or short sketch to which his attention was called by some one else, or which he happened to run across in his cursory reading of books or newspapers. He never in his life sat down and read a book through, and yet he could readily quote any number of passages from the few volumes whose pages he had hastily scanned. In addition to hi
former, under date of December 6, 1866, says: Mr. Lincoln was so unlike all the men I had ever known before or seen or known since that there is no one to whom I can compare him. In all his habits of eating, sleeping, reading, conversation, and study he was, if I may so express it, regularly irregular; that is, he had no stated time for eating, no fixed time for going to bed, none for getting up. No course of reading was chalked out. He read law, history, philosophy, or poetry; Burns, Byron, Milton, or Shakespeare and the newspapers, retaining them all about as well as an ordinary man would any one of them who made only one at a time his study. I once remarked to him that his mind was a wonder to me; that impressions were easily made upon it and never effaced. No, said he, you are mistaken; I am slow to learn, and slow to forget that which I have learned. My mind is like a piece of steel — very hard to scratch anything on it, and almost impossible after you get it there to r
mond, as the solitary car containing the body of the great soldier, accompanied by a suitable escort, slowly and solemnly approached the depot. The body lies in state to-day at the Capitol, wrapped in the Confederate flag, and literally covered with lilies of the valley and other beautiful Spring flowers. Tomorrow the sad cortege will wend its way to Lexington, where he will be buried, according to his dying request, in the Valley of Virginia. As a warrior, we may appropriately quote from Byron: His spirit wraps the dusky mountain, His memory sparkles o'er the fountain, The meanest rill, the mightiest river, Rolls mingling with his fame forever. As a Christian, in the words of St. Paul, I thank God to be able to say, He has fought the good fight, he has finished his course, he has kept the faith. Henceforth there is laid up for him a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, shall give him at the last day. Wednesday, may 13th, 1863. I have just heard
in the war of 1812, in the engagements on the lakes. Though quite ill, he had come on deck to participate in the fight. At one time the fire was so hot that a stool was shot from under him, and a tin cup of water, which was being handed to him at the same time, was struck out of his hand by another ball. He was three times commended in orders for extraordinary gallantry in action. His brother, Franklin Howell, was killed by a splinter on the President, and instead of the bad bust which Byron dreaded, was commended in orders, and his name printed John Howell in a book entitled The naval monument. After peace was declared my father came in 1815 in a flat-boat down to Natchez, to look at the country; he was then an officer on half-pay and on leave. Very soon after he reached there he became intimate with Mr. Joseph Emory Davis, who was practising law. They became so mutually attached that when, in 1818, Mr. Joseph E. Davis, attracted by the great fertility of the alluvial land
Varina Davis, Jefferson Davis: Ex-President of the Confederate States of America, A Memoir by his Wife, Volume 1, Chapter 22: the secret service fund--charges against Webster, 1845-46. (search)
re of the day. The most delightful evening of my early youth was spent at Mr. Robert J. Walker's, when he was Secretary of the Treasury, talking with Mr. Ingersoll and Mr. George M. Dallas. No young men of this or any other day that I have seen, ever equalled them. These two splendid creatures, finding themselves in charge of a very inexperienced young person, commenced to angle in the shallow stream for such sport as the green recesses might afford. They talked to each other and to me of Byron and Wordsworth, of Dante and Virgil, and I remember the key they gave me to their tastes and temperamental divergence. Mr. Dallas said Wordsworth was the poet of nature, and Mr. Ingersoll remarked that he bore the same relation to cultivated poetic manhood that Adam did to Goethe, and who would hesitate for a moment which to choose if granted a day with either. Mr. Dallas immediately announced a preference for Adam, and insisted that a mind fresh from the storehouse of the Supreme Source
lments in the old Spirit of the Times, called The Handley cross Hounds, in which he took great delight, and so frequently quoted from it that his brother declared he would cease to take the paper if the story was continued. One special jest in it was Jorax's statement that he called his horse Zerxes and his little groom's horse Arterzerxes, ‘cause Bengy rode arter him. His love for poetry was continuous throughout his life. In his youth he memorized a large part of Moore's Lalla Rookh, Byron's Childe Harold, The Giaour, Lara, English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, and especially the storm in Don Juan, and the Lady of the Lake. I have often seen him sitting at night, and, in a half-whisper, repeating: Time rolls its course, The race of yore that danced our infancy upon its knee; How are they blotted from the things that be? His voice was musical in the extreme, and added charm to the numberless verses he had unconsciously committed to memory from his favorite poets. The f
to falsify that affair. It was sent by General Beauregard the day before he undertook the execution of his own plan, to account for the change he made, and from which, when it failed, he endeavored to escape by blaming Whiting and Ransom. After faithful self-examination it is permitted to me to say, I have not done to others as they do unto me. There is no occasion, now, to make Frankensteins. Like ready-made clothing, they wait in abundance for customers. When Roberts grew angry with Byron, you know he charged him with being miserable because of a soul of which he could not get rid. The sentinel has stamped with such noise, back and forth, in front of me, that, until another and more quiet walker comes on, and I recover from the effect produced by the attempt to write under such difficulty, I will desist . Somebody writing from Augusta to the Boston Advertiser, makes an extraordinary statement about a letter said to have been written to someone in Columbus, by Mr. A. H.
ed on hopes which live beyond this fleeting life Often has it occurred in the world's history that fidelity has been treated as a crime, and true faith punished as treason. So it cannot be before the Judge to whom all hearts arc open, from whom no secrets are hid. Dr. Cooper has just been here to visit me, he says all which is needful for me is air and exercise. It was the want which Cowper's bird had, and hardly had bird more usually sought for air and motion than I did when I had Byron's Heritage of woe. But I am not of Cato's creed, and do not hold that it is man's wisdom to equal the swallow, but man's dignity to bear up against trials under which the lower animals would sink. Resolution of will may not, according to Father Timon, prolong indefinitely our earthly existence, but it will do much to sustain the tottering machine beyond the observer's calculation. 23d. You can imagine how one, shut out from all direct communication with his friends, dwells upon every
of daily obedience and of hourly devotion; and when the wearisome toil is over, and the faithful feet can no longer come at call, and the loyal hands can no longer minister, all this service is repaid by a place in the back settlements of the cemetery, and an epitaph of the Lydia Languish description! Ample reward! Who would not have been My own good Lucy, most valuable (say $1,000) before death, and so sincerely (we have no doubt) lamented afterwards. There has been nothing like it since Byron gave his dog a monument at Newstead. No wonder the Fayetteville man did write his touching article to let a weeping world know all about My own good Lucy. Tomb-stone No. 2 was inscribed: Uncle Harry. Mark the perfect man! Now, we are at a loss to decide what this inscription means. Does it refer to Uncle Harry physically? Was he what a dealer would pronounce sound and A1 for the New Orleans market? We suppose not, for he is spoken of by The Observer as an old man. He was a Baptist.
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