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James Parton, The life of Horace Greeley, Chapter 31: conclusions (search)
t, the entirely inevitable result of his character and circumstances. Sin- cerity, therefore, is our only just demand when we solicit an expression of opinion. Every man thinks erroneously. God alone knows all about anything. The smallest defect in our knowledge, the slightest bias of desire, or fear, or habit, is sufficient to mislead us. And in truth, the errors of a true man are not discreditable to him; for his errors spring from the same source as his excellences. It was said of Charles Lamb, that he liked his friends, not in spite of their faults, but faults and all! and I think the gentle Charles was no less right than kind. The crook, the knot, and the great humpy excrescences are as essential features of the oak tree's beauty, as its waving crown of foliage. Let Horace Greeley's errors of opinion be what they may, he has done something in his day to clarify the truth, that no error of opinion is a hundredth part as detrimental to the interest of men as the forcible supp
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Irene E. Jerome., In a fair country, Snow (search)
t besieges the portal, creeps in beneath it and above it, and on every latch and key-handle lodges an advanced guard of white rime. Leave the door ajar never so slightly, and a chill creeps in cat-like; we are conscious by the warmest fireside of the near vicinity of cold, its fingers are feeling after us, and even if they do not clutch us, we know that they are there. The sensations of such days almost make us associate their clearness and whiteness with something malignant and evil. Charles Lamb asserts of snow, It glares too much for an innocent color, methinks. Why does popular mythology associate the infernal regions with a high temperature instead of a low one? El Aishi, the Arab writer, says of the bleak wind of the Desert (so writes Richardson, the African traveller), The north wind blows with an intensity equalling the cold of hell; language fails me to describe its rigorous temperature. Some have thought that there is a similar allusion in the phrase, weeping and gnash
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard), Chapter 14: (search)
he adhered to everything he had once assumed, and what a cold selfishness lay at the bottom of his character, I felt a satisfaction in the thought that he had a wife who must sometimes give a start to his blood and a stir to his nervous system. The true way, however, to see these people was to meet them all together, as I did once at dinner at Godwin's, and once at a convocation, or Saturday Night Club, at Hunt's, where they felt themselves bound to show off and produce an effect; for then Lamb's gentle humor, Hunt's passion, and Curran's volubility, Hazlitt's sharpness and point, and Godwin's great head full of cold brains, all coming into contact and conflict, and agreeing in nothing but their common hatred of everything that has been more successful than their own works, made one of the most curious and amusing olla podrida I ever met. The contrast between these persons. . . . and the class I was at the same time in the habit of meeting at Sir Joseph Banks' on Sunday evening,
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard), chapter 26 (search)
d College, letters to, 321-323, 332, 355, 360, 368. Klopstock, F. G., 125. Knapp, Professor, 112, 113. Krause of Weisstropp, 476. L Laboucheri, Henry (Lord Taunton), 408, 411. La Carolina, 223. Lacerda, 246, 247, 249. Lacretelle, Charles, 133-135, 139. Lafayette, General Marquis de, 139, 143, 161, 152, 155, 257, 263, 344 and note, 350, 351. La Fontaine, Auguste, 112. Lagrange, visits, 151, 152. La Granja. See St. Ildefonso. Lamartine, A. de, 470 note. Lamb, Charles, 294. Lansdowne, Marchioness of, 413, 415. Lansdowne, Marquess of, 263, 264, 430. La Place, Marquis de, 255. Lardner, Dr., Dionysius, 425 and note. Lauderdale, Lord, 264. Lausanne, visits, 152, 155. Laval, Montmorency, Duc Adrien de, 128, 137, 188, 189, 193, 194 note, 204 note, 209, 210, 212-214, 218, 258, 295, 309, 311; letters from, 303, 305; death of, 307 note. Lebanon, Conn., Elisha Ticknor born there, 1. Lebanon, N. H., 4, 5. Le Chevalier, J. B., 131. Le Cle
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard), chapter 30 (search)
da, I. 246, 247, 249. Lacretelle, Charles, I. 133-135, 139. Lafayette, General Marquis de, I. 139, 148, 151, 152, 155, 257, 263, 44 and note, 360, 351, II. 106, 494. Lafayette, Madame de, II. 106. La Fontaine, Auguste, I. 112. Lagrange, visits, I. 151, 152. La Granja. See St. Ildefonso. Laharpe, General, II. 35, 36. Lake George, visits, II. 281 and note, 289. Lallemand, General, II. 113. Lamartine, A. de, I. 470 note, II. 116, 117, 119, 128, 136, 137, 141. Lamb, Charles, I. 294. Lamb, Sir, Frederic, II. 1. Lansdowne, Marchioness of, I. 418, 415, II. 151. Lansdowne, Marquess of, I. 263, 264, 430, II. 145, 146, 151, 259, 323, 324, 325, 363, 366, 371, 380. La Place, Marquis de, I. 255. La Place, Marquis de, Jeune, II. 181. Lardner, Dr., Dionysius, I. 426 and note. Latour-Maubourg, Marquis de, II. 61. Latrobe, John H. B., II. 463. Lauderdale, Earl of, I. 264. Lausanne, visits, I. 152, 155, II. 35, 86. Laval, Montmorency, Duc A
James Russell Lowell, Among my books, Spenser (search)
Faery Queen, B. I. c x. 43. that with him sensation and intellection seem identical, and we can almost say his body thought. This subtle interfusion of sense with spirit it is that gives his poetry a crystalline purity without lack of warmth. He is full of feeling, and yet of such a kind that we can neither say it is mere intellectual perception of what is fair and good, nor yet associate it with that throbbing fervor which leads us to call sensibility by the physical name of heart. Charles Lamb made the most pithy criticism of Spenser when he called him the poets' poet. We may fairly leave the allegory on one side, for perhaps, after all, he adopted it only for the reason that it was in fashion, and put it on as he did his ruff, not because it was becoming, but because it was the only wear. The true use of him is as a gallery of pictures which we visit as the mood takes us, and where we spend an hour or two at a time, long enough to sweeten our perceptions, not so long as to c
James Russell Lowell, Among my books, Wordsworth. (search)
d in the revised edition. The original, a quarto pamphlet, is now very rare, but fortunately Charles Lamb's copy of it is now owned by my friend Professor C. E. Norton. Wordsworth somewhere rebukes eat, Sent forth as if it were the mountain's voice. In 1800 the friendship of Wordsworth with Lamb began, and was thenceforward never interrupted. He continued to live at Grasmere, conscientiouslet upon the Convention of Cintra, which was published too late to attract much attention, though Lamb says that its effect upon him was like that which one of Milton's tracts might have had upon a cog enough to impose on itself. It suits his solitary and meditative temper, and it was there that Lamb (an admirable judge of what was permanent in literature) liked him best. Its narrow bounds, butll, full though it be of profound touches and subtle analysis, is lumbering and disjointed. Even Lamb was forced to confess that he did not like it. The White Doe, the most Wordsworthian of them all
John Dimitry , A. M., Confederate Military History, a library of Confederate States Military History: Volume 10.1, Louisiana (ed. Clement Anselm Evans), Chapter 21: (search)
ut, swept through a gorge and impetuously broke upon the plateau. The next instant, the battery was theirs. Three times was that battery lost and won—a plaything of war, and cup-and-ball of the armies! Not to be balked of all his pieces, the enemy, moving up once more, finally succeeded in carrying off some of the guns. Taylor was not to be outwitted by the blue-coats. With a desperate rally, his brigade carried the battery for the third time. That time our boys, each planting what Charles Lamb calls a terribly fixed foot upon the plateau, held it to keep—held it like bulldogs, but like bulldogs baited by boys, and snarling at each attack. The plateau had grown dangerous. The enemy once more recovering was advancing upon them in a solid mass. Just then Ewell came up like a healthy breeze, to be welcomed with cheers. A moment later a shell came shrieking along. To it rebel yells responded somewhere in the advance and, freed from his delightful excitement, Jackson rushed up l
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, The new world and the new book, XVI (search)
to any critic who differed from them, pointing out that he must be dead also. It may be so, since there may always be room for such a possibility. Tyrawley and I, said Walpole's old statesman, have been dead these two years; but we don't let anybody know it. In the matter of literary criticism, however, the fact is just the other way. The critics who cling to the plot are not aware of their own demise; but Mr. Howells has found it out. To find it out is justly to silence them; for, as Charles Lamb says in his poem exemplifying the lapidary style, which the late Mr. Mellish never could abide:-- It matters very little what Mellish said, Because he is dead. But if we grant for a moment, as a matter of argument, that whatever yet speaks may be regarded, for controversial purposes, as being alive, it may be well enough pointed out, that, if plot is dead and only characters survive, then there is a curious divergence in this age between the course of literature and the course of s
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, The new world and the new book, XXVI (search)
tly than his greater contemporaries, and liked the taste so well that he held his own poems far superior to those of Wordsworth, and wrote of them, With Virgil, with Tasso, with Homer, there are fair grounds of comparison. Then followed a period during which the long shades of oblivion seemed to have closed over the author of Madoc and Kehama. Behold! in 1886 the Pall Mall Gazette, revising through the best critics Sir James Lubbock's Hundred Best Books, dethrones Byron, Shelley, Coleridge, Lamb, and Landor; omits them all, and reinstates the forgotten Southey once more. Is this the final award of fate? No: it is simply the inevitable swing of the pendulum. Southey, it would seem, is to have two innings; perhaps one day it will yet be Hayley's turn. Would it please you very much, asks Warrington of Pendennis, to have been the author of Hayley's verse? Yet Hayley was, in his day, as Southey testifies, by popular election the king of the English poets; and he was held so import
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