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Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Short studies of American authors, Hawthorne. (search)
h his wife by his side, and a noble-looking baby-boy in a little wagon which the father was pushing. I remember him as tall, firm, and strong in bearing; his wife looked pensive and dreamy, as she indeed was, then and always; the child was Julian, then known among the neighbors as the Prince. When I passed, Hawthorne lifted upon me his great gray eyes, with a look too keen to seem indifferent, too shy to be sympathetic-and that was all. But it comes back to memory like that one glimpse of Shelley which Browning describes, and which he likens to the day when he found an eagle's feather. Again I met Hawthorne at one of the sessions of a short-lived literary club; and I recall the imperturbable dignity and patience with which he sat through a vexatious discussion, whose details seemed as much dwarfed by his presence as if he had been a statue of Olympian Zeus. After his death I had a brief but intimate acquaintance with that rare person, Mrs. Hawthorne; and with one still more fin
James Parton, The life of Horace Greeley, Chapter 20: Margaret Fuller. (search)
easing intervals, to correspond with the paper down nearly to the time of her embarkation for her native land in 1850. During the twenty months of her connection with the Tribune, she wrote, on an average, three articles a week. Many of them were long and elaborate, extending, in several instances, to three and four columns; and, as they were Essays upon authors, rather than Reviews of Books, she indulged sparingly in extract. Among her literary articles, we observe essays upon Milton, Shelley, Carlyle, George Sand, the countess Hahn Hahn, Sue, Balzac, Charles Wesley, Longfellow, Richter, and other magnates. She wrote, also, a few musical and dramatic critiques. Among her general contributions, were essays upon the Rights, Wrongs, and Duties of Women, a defence of the Irish character, articles upon Christmas, New year's day, French Gayety, the Poor Man, the Rich Man, What fits a man to be a Voter —genial, fresh, and suggestive essays all. Her defence of the Irish character was
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Harvard Memorial Biographies, 1837. (search)
n, soft brown hair, pale blue eyes, and very mobile features. Incongruities seemed to meet in him, and he himself seemed to enjoy them, and liked to hear them mentioned. He was tall, erect, and well built,—yet his health was delicate, he had little physical strength, and seemed to move by his nerves rather than by his muscles. His face had always a youthful look, despite his increasing baldness. His voice, in speaking, was rather jarring and metallic,—I always fancied it might resemble Shelley's,—yet in singing it was melodious and beautiful. His verbal utterance was hurried and somewhat confused, yet his style of composition was rather elaborate, and his handwriting unusually clear and regular. In his manners an uneasy self-consciousness was singularly mingled with real power. And every peculiarity seemed to open the way to some other peculiarity, so that the very groundwork of his nature seemed bizarre and fantastic, while all its main tendencies were essentially noble. H<
James Russell Lowell, Among my books, Spenser (search)
genius or more knowledge to support it. Pope says, There is something in Spenser that pleases one as strongly in one's old age as it did in one's youth. I read the Faery Queen when I was about twelve with a vast deal of delight; and I think it gave me as much when I read it over about a year or two ago. Thomson wrote the most delightful of his poems in the measure of Spenser; Collins, Gray, and Akenside show traces of him; and in our own day his influence reappears in Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, and Keats. Landor is, I believe, the only poet who ever found him tedious. Spenser's mere manner has not had so many imitators as Milton's, but no other of our poets has given an impulse, and in the right direction also, to so many and so diverse minds; above all, no other has given to so many young souls a consciousness of their wings and a delight in the use of them. He is a standing protest against the tyranny of Commonplace, and sows the seeds of a noble discontent with prosaic view
James Russell Lowell, Among my books, Wordsworth. (search)
odern poet the thrush-like improvisation, the impulsively bewitching cadences, that charm us in our Elizabethan drama and whose last warble died with Herrick; but Shelley, Tennyson, and Browning have shown that the simple pathos of their music was not irrecoverable, even if the artless poignancy of their phrase be gone beyond recal best words in the best order. But idealization was something that Wordsworth was obliged to learn painfully. It did not come to him naturally as to Spenser and Shelley and to Coleridge in his higher moods. Moreover, it was in the too frequent choice of subjects incapable of being idealized without a manifest jar between theme aock of our common sympathies. Wordsworth shows less of this finer feminine fibre of organization than one or two of his contemporaries, notably than Coleridge or Shelley; but he was a masculine thinker, and in his more characteristic poems there is always a kernel of firm conclusion from far-reaching principles that stimulates tho
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), chapter 1 (search)
r Sternenkrone, Die Wahrheit in der Sonne Glanz. Schiller What wert thou then? A child most infantine, Yet wandering far beyond that innocent age, In all but its sweet looks and mien divine; Even then, methought, with the world's tyrant rage A patient warfare thy young heart did wage, When those soft eyes of scarcely conscious thought Some tale, or thine own fancies, would engage To overflow with tears, or converse fraught With passion o'er their depths its fleeting light had wrought. Shelley. And I smiled, as one never smiles but once; Then first discovering my own aim's extent, Which sought to comprehend the works of God, And God himself, and all God's intercourse With the human mind. Browning Tieck, who has embodied so many Runic secrets, explained to me what I have often felt toward myself, when he tells of the poor changeling, who, turned from the door of her adopted home, sat down on a stone and so pitied herself that she wept. Yet me also, the wonderful bird, si
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), chapter 2 (search)
James Freeman Clarke. Extraordinary, generous seeking. Goethe Through, brothers, through,—this be Our watchword in danger or sorrow, Common clay to its mother dust, All nobleness heavenward! Theodore Koerner. Thou friend whose presence on my youthful heart Fell, like bright Spring upon some herbless plain; How beautiful and calm and free thou wert In thy young wisdom, when the mortal chain Of custom thou didst burst and rend in twain, And walk as free as light the clouds among! Shelley There are not a few instances of that conflict, known also to the fathers, of the spirit with the flesh, the inner with the outer man, of the freedom of the will with the necessity of nature, the pleasure of the individual with the conventions of society, of the emergency of the case with the despotism of the rule. It is this, which, while it makes the interest of life, makes the difficulty of living. It is a struggle, indeed, between unequal powers,—between the man, who is a consc
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), chapter 3 (search)
lleled fairness of mind, should be in a great measure lost to the world, for want of earnestness of purpose, might impel us to attach to the latter attribute as much importance as does the wise uncle in Wilhelm Meister. As to what you say of Shelley, it is true that the unhappy influences of early education prevented his ever attaining clear views of God, life, and the soul. At thirty, he was still a seeker,—an experimentalist. But then his should not be compared with such a mind as ——'s, which, having no such exuberant fancy to tame, nor various faculties to develop, naturally comes to maturity sooner. Had Shelley lived twenty years longer, I have no doubt he would have become a fervent Christian, and thus have attained that mental harmony which was necessary to him. It is true, too, as you say, that we always feel a melancholy imperfection in what he writes. But I love to think of those other spheres in which so pure and rich a being shall be perfected; and I cannot allow <
Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 27. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones), chapter 1.34 (search)
er Battle—Captain Craven, U. S. N., Court-Martialed for Cowardice. Died in Rome, Italy, October 26, 1899, Captain Thomas Jefferson Page, in the 92d year of his age. Captain, or as he was more familiarly known, Commodore Page, was born at Shelley, Gloucester county, and his boyhood was spent there. In 1827 he was appointed a cadet at the United States Naval Academy by President John Quincy Adams, in recognition of the services of his paternal and maternal grandfathers, Governor John Pagngton. A widow, a daughter (the Countess of Spinola), Professor Frederick Page, of Bryn Mawr, Pa., and Philip Page, of Buenos Ayres, South America, sons, survive him. He also has many relatives who reside in this State. The Page homestead at Shelley is now occupied by his grand-nephew, Richard Page. The death of Captain Page recalls to the minds of those who knew him many thrilling incidents in connection with his life. As Mr. Virginius Newton was one of the officers of the Stonewall,
Historic leaves, volume 2, April, 1903 - January, 1904, Literary men and women of Somerville. (search)
walls Of shining twigs, that drop the rain; Then 'round the hill, to greet again The purple day before it falls, And breathe the clover on the plain. Such bits from Nature occur on the background of country life. ‘The Quilting’ and ‘The Husking’ are two companion poems, through both of which a single love story runs, troublous, but with a happy ending. In ‘The Immortals,’ Mrs. Lowe celebrates heroes and friends that have gone from sight. Charlotte Bronte, Mrs. Browning, Chatterton, Shelley represent the English poets; Lowell, Emerson, Whittier, and E. R. Sill, the Americans; Channing and Brooks and Charles Lowe, her husband, the ministers; to say nothing of the several friends commemorated, dearer than any stranger. Let us choose a few stanzas from ‘Sleepy Hollow,’ written on the occasion of Emerson's funeral:— They bore him up the aisle, His white hands folded meekly on his breast; He had the very smile He wore the night he gently sank to rest. The words of lov
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