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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.) 114 0 Browse Search
James Russell Lowell, Among my books 80 0 Browse Search
Harper's Encyclopedia of United States History (ed. Benson Lossing) 50 0 Browse Search
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard) 46 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Carlyle's laugh and other surprises 38 0 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.) 32 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Henry Walcott Boynton, Reader's History of American Literature 30 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Atlantic Essays 28 0 Browse Search
Frank Preston Stearns, Cambridge Sketches 28 0 Browse Search
Knight's Mechanical Encyclopedia (ed. Knight) 20 0 Browse Search
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was to read slowly, weighing the matter of the book as he went along, and reflecting on it afterward. But, during this period, I recollect that he was accustomed to run rapidly over Euclid and other mathematical works with which he was familiar, reviving at a glance their trains of reasoning. General Johnston read slowly, and not many books; but he thought much on what he read. His habit was to revolve what he read in every possible relation to practical life. He was familiar with Shakespeare; he enjoyed Dickens, and drew largely upon Gil Blas for illustration. He was fond of physical science, and Mrs. Somerville and Sir Charles Lyell were favorites with him. But, at the time of which I speak, his chief literary delight was a translation of Herodotus. He was the first to impress upon me the veracity of the Old Historian, and to point out the care with which he discriminated between what he saw, what he heard, and what he surmised or inferred. While I was with him, a repo
Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, The Passing of the Armies: The Last Campaign of the Armies., Chapter 4: Five Forks. (search)
assages of it made a remarkable coincidence. It was its misfortune to lose two of its commanders — the first and the last in the field of action-by measures so questionable as to call for a court of review, by which, long after, both were substantially vindicated: Fitz-John Porter, accounted the most accomplished corps commander on the Peninsula, and heir apparent to the command of the army, and Warren, whom Grant says he had looked upon for commander of the army in case anything should take from the field the sterling Meade. Grant's Memoirs, vol. II., p. 216. Who from such beginning could have foretold the end! And Meade,--he, too, went from the Fifth Corps to the command of the army, and found there a troubled eminence and an uncrowned end. Shakespeare tells us, poetizing fate or faith: There's a Divinity that shapes our ends, Rough-hew them how we will. To our common eyes it often seems a dark divinity that rules; and the schoolmaster might interchange the verbs
Joshua Lawrence Chamberlain, The Passing of the Armies: The Last Campaign of the Armies., Chapter 5: the week of flying fights. (search)
very field where by unanimous consent the enemy's main force could have been crushed, and in fact was broken away with less complete results by Miles' gallant fight, Sheridan came perilously near-so near in truth that the difference is inappreciable by the human mind — to being found not in the fight, by reason of the far-reaching effect of his recoil from the suddenly appearing Humphreys, who rose upon him at the crowning moment when he gave Miles permission to open the crushing fight. Shakespeare puts it: Ay, now, I see 'tis true; For the blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles upon me, And points at them for his. It is a relief to resume the plain account of our pursuit of tangible beings evading Five Forks. It seems like passing from war to peace. Early on the morning of the 2d our cavalry drew off northwesterly from the Ford Road crossing of Hatcher's Run to cut off some rebel cavalry reported to have made a push in that direction. Sheridan having returned from the Claiborne Ro
e native aroma of the weed. Smoke, guest of mine! That brand is warranted to drive off all blue-devils — to wrap the soul in Elysian dreams of real Java coffee, English boots, French wines, and no blockade. There are men, I am told, who don't smoke. I pity ‘em! How do they sustain existence, or talk or think? All real philosophers use the magical weed; and I always thought Raleigh, when I used to read about him, the most sensible man of his time, because he smoked. I have no doubt Shakespeare carried a pipe about, and wrote his plays with it in his mouth. I'll trouble you to hand me that chunk when you are done with it. Thank you. Now the summit glows; the mysterious depths are illumined. All right; I am lit. This is soothing; all care departs when you smoke a good pipe. Existence assumes a smiling and bright aspect; all things are rose-coloured. I find my spirits rising, my sympathies expanding, even until they embrace the whole Yankee nation. This is an excellent
ccessful business career. Once installed behind the counter he gave himself up to reading and study, depending for the practical management of the business on his partner. A more unfortunate selection than Berry could not have been found; for, while Lincoln at one end of the store was dispensing political information, Berry at the other was disposing of the firm's liquors, being the best customer for that article of merchandise himself. To put it more plainly, Lincoln's application to Shakespeare and Burns was only equalled by Berry's attention to spigot and barrel. That the latter in the end succeeded in squandering a good portion of their joint assets, besides wrecking his own health, is not to be wondered at. By the spring of 1833 they, like their predecessors, were ready to retire. Two brothers named Trent coming along, they sold to them on the liberal terms then prevalent the business and good-will; but before the latter's notes fell due, they in turn had failed and fled.
so poetically 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 addi
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 rub it out. I give th
Ford's theatre, in Washington to attend in the evening a performance of the play, Our American cousin, with Laura Keene as the leading lady. This play, now so well known to all play-goers, in which the late Southern afterward made fortune and fame, was then comparatively unheralded. Lincoln was fond of the drama. Brought up in a provincial way, in the days when theatres were unknown outside of the larger cities, the beautiful art of the actor was fresh and delightful to him. He loved Shakespeare, and never lost an opportunity of seeing his character rendered by the masters of dramatic art. But on that evening, it is said, he was not eager to go. The play was new, consequently not alluring to him; but he yielded to the wishes of Mrs. Lincoln and went. They took with them Miss Harris and Major Rathbone, daughter and stepson of Senator Harris, of New York. The theatre was crowded. At 9:20 the President and his party entered. The audience rose and cheered enthusiastically as t
ey have failed woefully to give it that importance which it deserves. Newton beheld the law of the universe in the fall of an apple from a tree to the ground; Owen saw the animal in its claw; Spencer saw evolution in the growth of a seed; and Shakespeare saw human nature in the laugh of a man. Nature was suggestive to all these men. Mr. Lincoln no less saw philosophy in a story and an object lesson in a joke. His was a new and original position, one which was always suggesting something to hiln is that he read less and thought more than any man in his sphere in America. No man can put his finger on any great book written in the last or present century that he read thoroughly. When young he read the Bible, and when of age he read Shakespeare; but, though he often quoted from both, he never read either one through. He is acknowledged now to have been a great man but the question is what made him great. I repeat, that he read less and thought more than any man of his standing in A
peras were finer, and the plays which came under the head of legitimate drama were of a higher order than those presented in these latter days. Washington was favored by the engagements of Adelina Patti, Brignoli, Ritter, Cellini, Boetti, and Herr Hermanus. Ole Bull gave two concerts during the winter. Parepa Rosa, cantatrice, gave two grand concerts in Metezrott Hall during January. Mrs. Scott Siddons, granddaughter of the great Siddons, appeared at the National with a fine company in Shakespeare's plays. Kate Bateman, John Owen, Sothern, and many other celebrated actors and actresses made the amusements for the winter delightful, the theatres being crowded every night. General and Mrs. Grant were the recipients of much attention; you met them everywhere. General John A. Rawlins, General Dent, Mrs. Grant's brother, General Badeau later General Grant's biographer-General Comstock, General Horace Porter, General O. E. Babcock, all members of General Grant's staff, often accomp
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