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Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Letters and Journals of Thomas Wentworth Higginson 6 0 Browse Search
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Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Letters and Journals of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Chapter 2: the Worcester period (search)
nter, more hospitable, and more entertaining than the bibliopole himself. Such treasures as that house is crammed with. Most of the books there described I saw and some not mentioned; as, for instance, a Greek book, marked in the title-page Percy Shelley and Leigh Hunt, in the latter's hand, but the blank leaves full of Shelley's notes in pencil-writing, delicate as himself. The Wordsworth volumes were captivating, with his own later alterations put in with ink in the neatest way, and showinShelley's notes in pencil-writing, delicate as himself. The Wordsworth volumes were captivating, with his own later alterations put in with ink in the neatest way, and showing the delicacy of his literary work. They have the original engravings from Sir George Beaumont, giving the actual scenes of Lucy gray, Peter Bell, and other poems. Fields described Wordsworth's reading of his own poems in old age, quite grandly, and his reading Tennyson aloud also with equal impressiveness; and turning on a silly lady too profuse in her praise of passages, with You admire it? But do you understand it? A long parlor, in a house on Charles Street like Louise's, looking on
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Letters and Journals of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Chapter 7: Cambridge in later life (search)
tions of my youth, those days at the solitary lake, all hid in woods and steep hill precipices, Hammond's Pond. The old leaky boat, the black water, that darkest spot of all where another boat had sullenly sunk at its moorings and which I hated to approach, as if water spirits had drawn her down.. . . What could Germany or Scotland have given me, more than that lake and woods and hills? Yet it is not so remarkable a region in itself; dreams, fancies, associations made it. The pine was Shelley's one vast pine ; the rocks were those where Mignon's serpents cowered; the lake was the gloomy Mummelsee where the enchanted lily maidens dwell; the pine woods were such as Sterling describes in his Woodland mountains, where all grand ideal shapes go by. Yet it was all in the suburbs of Boston and I was nineteen. It takes time and the long years to saturate every locality with romance and tenderness, but we are doing it slowly and surely in this dear America of ours. To a literary