te. I wish he had left the selections to Mrs. Chapman.
When Caroline Weston expressed her regrets that certain things were inserted in the volume of his poems by Johnson, he
Oliver Johnson. replied, with a smile, Ah, you know there are all sorts of tastes in the world.
To which she answered, that was true enough; but when a man Oliver Johnson. replied, with a smile, Ah, you know there are all sorts of tastes in the world.
To which she answered, that was true enough; but when a man was collecting his writings in a permanent form, that there was but one kind of taste to be consulted, and that was the best.
Both were right.
Mr. Garrison's literary ambition, like his poetic talent, was subordinate to his moral purpose in life.
Hence, in noticing the appearance of his little volume of Sonnets and other poemt dislocation of the same joint was carried through life.
By the end of October the family had returned to Boston, occupying a new house on Pine Street, with Oliver Johnson and his
No. 13. wife as welcome co-tenants.
The Liberator, all this time, had been supplied editorially by several friends—by Quincy and Mrs. Chapman abov