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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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Browsing named entities in Charles E. Stowe, Harriet Beecher Stowe compiled from her letters and journals by her son Charles Edward Stowe. You can also browse the collection for Shakespeare or search for Shakespeare in all documents.

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om's Cabin is denounced by time-serving preachers as a meretricious work. Will you not come out in defense of it and roll back the tide of vituperation? To this the editor answered: We should as soon think of coming out in defense of Shakespeare. Several attempts were made in the South to write books controverting Uncle Tom's Cabin, and showing a much brighter side of the slavery question, but they all fell flat and were left unread. Of one of them, a clergyman of Charleston, S. evision and improvement, yet my heart warms to her as, on the whole, the strongest, greatest, and best nation on earth. Have not England and America one blood, one language, one literature, and a glorious literature it is! Are not Milton and Shakespeare, and all the wise and brave and good of old, common to us both, and should there be anything but cordiality between countries that have so glorious an inheritance in common? If there is, it will be elsewhere than in hearts like mine. Since
would help me till I got through, and still I am pressed beyond measure and above strength. This horror, this nightmare abomination! can it be in my country! It lies like lead on my heart, it shadows my life with sorrow; the more so that I feel, as for my own brothers, for the South, and am pained by every horror I am obliged to write, as one who is forced by some awful oath to disclose in court some family disgrace. Many times I have thought that I must die, and yet I pray God that I may live to see something done. I shall in all probability be in London in May: shall I see you? It seems to me so odd and dream-like that so many persons desire to see me, and now I cannot help thinking that they will think, when they do, that God hath chosen the weak things of this world. If I live till spring I shall hope to see Shakespeare's grave, and Milton's mulberry-tree, and the good land of my fathers,--old, old England! May that day come! Yours affectionately, H. B. Stowe.
uchess of Sutherland. One of the first objects that attracted my attention upon entering the vestibule was a baby's wicker wagon, standing in one corner. It was much such a carriage as all mothers are familiar with; such as figures largely in the history of almost every family. It had neat curtains and cushions of green merino, and was not royal, only maternal. I mused over the little thing with a good deal of interest. We went for our dinner to the White Hart, the very inn which Shakespeare celebrates in his Merry wives, and had a most overflowing merry time of it. After dinner we had a beautiful drive. We were bent upon looking up the church which gave rise to Gray's Elegy in a country Churchyard, intending when we got there to have a little scene over it; Mr. S., in all the conscious importance of having been there before, assuring us that he knew exactly where it was. So, after some difficulty with our coachman, and being stopped at one church which would not answer ou
Charles E. Stowe, Harriet Beecher Stowe compiled from her letters and journals by her son Charles Edward Stowe, Chapter 14: the minister's wooing, 1857-1859. (search)
e end turn to his advantage by compelling him to depend for his effects on the contrasts and collisions of innate character, rather than on those shallower traits superinduced by particular social arrangements, or by hereditary associations. Shakespeare drew ideal, and Fielding natural men and women; Thackeray draws either gentlemen or snobs, and Dickens either unnatural men or the oddities natural only in the lowest grades of a highly artificial system of society. The first two knew human n I feel it every day in this weary editorial mill of mine, that there are ten thousand people who can write ideal things for one who can see, and feel, and reproduce nature and character? Ten thousand, did I say? Nay, ten million. What made Shakespeare so great? Nothing but eyes and — faith in them. The same is true of Thackeray. I see nowhere more often than in authors the truth that men love their opposites. Dickens insists on being tragic and makes shipwreck. I always thought (forg
which relate to Indian wars and witchcraft. I was in the habit of applying to my grandmother for explanations, and she would relate to me, while I listened with breathless attention, long stories from Mather's Magnalia or (Mag-nilly, as she used to call it), a work which I earnestly longed to read, but of which I never got sight till after my twentieth year. Very early there fell into my hands an old school-book, called The art of speaking, containing numerous extracts from Milton and Shakespeare. There was little else in the book that interested me, but these extracts from the two great English poets, though there were many things in them that I did not well understand, I read again and again, with increasing pleasure at every perusal, till I had nearly committed them to memory, and almost thumbed the old book into nonenity. But of all the books that I read at this period, there was none that went to my heart like Bunyan's Pilgrim's progress. I read it and re-read it night and