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Browsing named entities in Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall). You can also browse the collection for Wayland (Massachusetts, United States) or search for Wayland (Massachusetts, United States) in all documents.

Your search returned 109 results in 97 document sections:

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Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To Miss Lucy Osgood. (search)
To Miss Lucy Osgood. Wayland, 1862. I thank you heartily for thinking of me at New Year's time. The echo of hand clapping, which you heard when news came of the capture of Port Royal, was not from me. I have had but one approach to a pleasurable sensation connected with public affairs since this war began, and that was when I read Fremont's proclamation. He acknowledged the slaves as men. Nobody else, except the old Garrisonian abolitionists, seems to have the faintest idea that they haience. It is the same hateful pro-slavery spirit everywhere. I felt very little interest in the capture of Mason and Slidell. It did not seem to me of much consequence, especially as their dispatches were carried to Europe. Living up here in Wayland, at a distance from cities and railroads, is very conducive to. quietude of mind, which is in fact in some danger of approaching to drowsiness. The prospect of a war with England, superadded to our present troubles, made me almost down sick.
Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To Mrs. S. B. Shaw. (search)
To Mrs. S. B. Shaw. Wayland, 1862. I had planned writing to you a few days hence; deferring it for the important reason that I could then write on my birthday, and inform you that I was sixty years old. But there comes along a package from you and Mrs. C--, followed by your letter, and I am so charmed with John Brent that I must write right away, as the children say. How all-alive the book is! Glowing and effervescing, like champagne poured out in the sunshine! I had formed the idea that Mr. Winthrop was an uncommon man; but I had no idea he was so overflowing with genius. Alas, that such a rich and noble life should have been cut off in its full vigor by the ruthless hand of slavery! I took a great interest in him because he was a dear friend of yours; but since a portion of his vivacious and beautiful mind has been transmitted to me through the pages of his book, I feel as if he were my friend,--as if I had known and loved him. When I was in Boston, last week, I stopped an
Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To Francis G. Shaw. (search)
To Francis G. Shaw. Wayland, 1862. I inclose twenty dollars, which I wish you would use for the contrabands in any way you think best. I did think of purchasing shoes, of which I understand they are much in need, but I concluded it was best to send to you to appropriate it as you choose. In November I expended eighteen dollars for clothing, mostly for women and children, and picked up all the garments, blankets, etc., that I could spare. I sent them to Fortress Monroe. Last week I gave A. L. twenty dollars toward a great box she is filling for Port Royal. My interest in the contrabands, everywhere, is exceedingly great; and at this crisis I feel that every one ought to be willing to do their utmost. I still have forty dollars left of a fund I have set apart for the contrabands. I keep it for future contingencies ; but if you think it is more needed now, say the word and you shall have it.
Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To Miss Lucy Searle. (search)
To Miss Lucy Searle. Wayland, 1862. So you dispute Gerrit Smith's testimony about my being wise and candid ? I cannot say I have much respect for my wisdom. I think less and less of it every year I live. But when I write for the public, I think I am generally candid. I do not profess to be so in my talk, because that bubbles up, and I do not take time to examine its spirit. We all present different phases of character, according to circumstances, and I think I do so more than most people. It is natural enough that Gerrit Smith should deem me wise. When I approach him, I don't go dancing on a slack rope, decorated with spangles and Psyche-wings; I walk on solid ground, as demurely as if I were going to meeting, with psalm book in hand. If I happen to catch a glimpse of a fairy by the way, she and I wink at each other, but I never let on. He supposes the chosen teachers of my mind to be profound statesmen and pious Christian Fathers. I never introduce to him any of my acqu
Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To Miss Henrietta Sargent. (search)
To Miss Henrietta Sargent. Wayland, 1862. The broad meadow lies very beautiful before me; for the frequent rains have kept it fresh and green. The sky is a beautiful clear blue, with a light, floating tracery of silvery clouds. All looks so serene and smiling that it is difficult to realize the scenes of violence and destruction going on in other parts of the country. A little striped squirrel that has for weeks come to the stone wall near my back window, to eat the breakfast I daily placed for him there, has disappeared for several days, and the fear that some evil beast has devoured him makes me sad. When so many mothers are mourning for their sons, not knowing where or how they died, I am ashamed to say that I have cried a little for the loss of my squirrel. I had learned to love the pretty little creature. He came so confidingly and sat up so prettily, nibbling a kernel of corn in his paws. I learned many of the little ways of squirrels, which I had never known before.
Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To Miss Lucy Osgood. (search)
To Miss Lucy Osgood. Wayland, December, 1862. Your letter did me an unco deal oa gude, as your letters always do. I agree with you entirely about the buss fuss of metaphysics. It has always been my aversion. More than thirty years ago, when Mrs. R. was intimate at my brother's, I used to hear her discuss Kant's philosophy with collegian visitors, until I went to bed without knowing whether or not I had hung myself over the chair and put my clothes into bed. I met Mrs. R. in the cars several days ago, after an interval of twenty years, and what do you think? In ten minutes she had plunged into the depths of Kant's philosophy, and was trying to pull me after her. But I resisted stoutly. I do sometimes like a bank of fog to look at, if there are plenty of rainbows on it; but I have no fancy for sailing through it. Circumstances afterward made me acquainted with the transcendentalists, and I attended some of their meetings, where I saw plenty of fog with rainbows flitting over i
Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To Miss Lucy Searle. (search)
To Miss Lucy Searle. Wayland, December 21, 1862. We live almost like dormice in the winter. Very few people are so completely isolated. But I warm up my little den with bright little pictures, and rainbow glories from prisms suspended in the windows. I am amused twenty times a day with their fantastic variations. Sometimes the portrait of Charles Sumner is transfigured by the splendid light, and sometimes the ears of my little white kitten, in the picture opposite, are all aglow. The moss on a stick of wood in the corner suddenly becomes iridescent, and then the ashes on the hearth look like the glittering soil where the metallic gnomes live. I am childish enough to find pleasure in all this, and to talk aloud to the picture of a baby that is being washed. But you must not infer from this that I live for amusement. On the contrary, I work like a beaver the whole time. Just now I am making a hood for a poor neighbor; last week I was making flannels for the hospitals; odd
Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To the same. (search)
To the same. Wayland, 1863. I have been travelling through dark and thorny places, dear, where there were no roses of thought to send to you; and ever overhead has been the great murky cloud of public affairs that will not scatter and let the sunshine through. I am glad, dear, that new bright links are being continually added to your life. To me there come no changes but sad ones; no new links — only the continually dropping away, one after another, of the old ones. The decease of my brother adds greatly to my loneliness. In my isolated position, he was almost my only medium with the world of intellect. How much my mind has owed to him can never be described. I loved him, too, and this separation, so utterly unexpected, rouses up a thousand memories of childhood and youth. During the last month of his life I was going backward and forward often to see him. I was with him the last eight days, and with him when his soul departed on its mysterious journey to the unknown.
Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To Miss Lucy Osgood. (search)
To Miss Lucy Osgood. Wayland, 1863. I am glad your Philadelphia campaign proved so glorious. I hope you will enjoy many such. After all, I think the careful housewife was the largest element in your good time at Philadelphia. The older I grow the more I respect the careful Marthas. I would rather have one for a household companion than ten devout and contemplative Marys. They did very well in the days when saints went barefoot and wore a perennial suit of hair-cloth: but the Marthas are decidedly preferable in these days of nicely-ironed linen, daily renewed, and stockings so flimsy that they need continual looking after. Devout, poetic saints must have careful Marthas to provide for them if they would be comfortable themselves, or be able to promote the happiness of others. Mr. S- says his wife is a careful Martha. I wonder what would have become of him and the boys if she had been of the Mary pattern. All hail to the careful Marthas! say I. If I had one I would kiss h
Lydia Maria Child, Letters of Lydia Maria Child (ed. John Greenleaf Whittier, Wendell Phillips, Harriet Winslow Sewall), To Miss Eliza Scudder. (search)
To Miss Eliza Scudder. Wayland, 1863. Wasn't I as proud as a peacock, and did n't it make me spread all my feathers, to have a pair oa vairses written to me in my old age? and such verses, too! Seriously, dear friend, I was never so touched and so pleased by any tribute in my life. I cried over the verses, and I smiled over them. I wanted to show them to everybody; but I did n't dare to show them to anybody — they were so complimentary. I knew I didn't deserve them; but I also knew that you thought I did, and that made me happ
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