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Oriental (Oklahoma, United States) (search for this): chapter 4
ee the peaceable establishment of the Red Republic of Letters. The estate was the third lot of the eighth Squadron (whatever that might be), and in the year 1707 was allotted in the distribution of undivided lands to Mr. ffox, the Reverend Jabez Fox, of Woburn, it may be supposed, as it passed from his heirs to the first Jonathan Hastings; from him to his son, the long-remembered College Steward; from him, in the year 1792, to the Reverend Eliphalet Pearson, Professor of Hebrew and other Oriental languages in Harvard College, whose large personality swam into my ken when I was looking forward to my teens; from him to the progenitors of my unborn self. In the days of my earliest remembrance, a row of tall Lombardy poplars mounted guard on the western side of the old mansion. Whether, like the cypress, these trees suggest the idea of the funeral torch or the monumental spire, whether their tremulous leaves make us afraid by sympathy with their nervous thrills, whether the faint b
Bunker Hill (West Virginia, United States) (search for this): chapter 4
local history. I retain my doubts about those dents on the floor of the right-hand room, the study of successive occupants, said to have been made by the butts of the Continental militia's firelocks, but this was the cause the story told me in childhood laid them to. That military consultations were held in that room, when the house was General Ward's headquarters, that the Provincial generals and colonels and other men of war there planned the movement which ended in the fortifying of Bunker's Hill, that Warren slept in the house the night before the battle, that President Langdon went forth from the western door and prayed for God's blessing on the men just setting forth on their bloody expedition,—all these things have been told, and perhaps none of them need be doubted. It was a great happiness to have been born in an old house haunted by such recollections, with harmless ghosts walking its corridors, with fields of waving grass and trees and singing birds, and that vast terr
Lombardy (Italy) (search for this): chapter 4
ffox, the Reverend Jabez Fox, of Woburn, it may be supposed, as it passed from his heirs to the first Jonathan Hastings; from him to his son, the long-remembered College Steward; from him, in the year 1792, to the Reverend Eliphalet Pearson, Professor of Hebrew and other Oriental languages in Harvard College, whose large personality swam into my ken when I was looking forward to my teens; from him to the progenitors of my unborn self. In the days of my earliest remembrance, a row of tall Lombardy poplars mounted guard on the western side of the old mansion. Whether, like the cypress, these trees suggest the idea of the funeral torch or the monumental spire, whether their tremulous leaves make us afraid by sympathy with their nervous thrills, whether the faint balsamic smell of their leaves and their closely swathed limbs have in them vague hints of dead Pharaohs stiffened in their cerements, I will not guess; but they always seemed to me to give an air of sepulchral sadness to the
Massachusetts (Massachusetts, United States) (search for this): chapter 4
ption of an old Cambridge home now passed away: the following extracts are made from it. My birthplace, the home of my childhood and earlier and later boyhood, has within a few months passed out of the ownership of my family into the hands of that venerable Alma Mater who seems to have renewed her youth, and has certainly repainted her dormitories. This was written in 1872. In truth, when I last revisited that familiar scene and looked upon the flammantia moenia of the old halls, Massachusetts with the dummy clock-dial, Harvard with the garrulous belfry, little Holden with the sculptured unpunishable cherubs over its portal, and the rest of my early brick-and-mortar acquaintances, I could not help saying to myself that I had lived to see the peaceable establishment of the Red Republic of Letters. The estate was the third lot of the eighth Squadron (whatever that might be), and in the year 1707 was allotted in the distribution of undivided lands to Mr. ffox, the Reverend Jab
Joseph Warren (search for this): chapter 4
I retain my doubts about those dents on the floor of the right-hand room, the study of successive occupants, said to have been made by the butts of the Continental militia's firelocks, but this was the cause the story told me in childhood laid them to. That military consultations were held in that room, when the house was General Ward's headquarters, that the Provincial generals and colonels and other men of war there planned the movement which ended in the fortifying of Bunker's Hill, that Warren slept in the house the night before the battle, that President Langdon went forth from the western door and prayed for God's blessing on the men just setting forth on their bloody expedition,—all these things have been told, and perhaps none of them need be doubted. It was a great happiness to have been born in an old house haunted by such recollections, with harmless ghosts walking its corridors, with fields of waving grass and trees and singing birds, and that vast territory of four or
Jabez Fox (search for this): chapter 4
assachusetts with the dummy clock-dial, Harvard with the garrulous belfry, little Holden with the sculptured unpunishable cherubs over its portal, and the rest of my early brick-and-mortar acquaintances, I could not help saying to myself that I had lived to see the peaceable establishment of the Red Republic of Letters. The estate was the third lot of the eighth Squadron (whatever that might be), and in the year 1707 was allotted in the distribution of undivided lands to Mr. ffox, the Reverend Jabez Fox, of Woburn, it may be supposed, as it passed from his heirs to the first Jonathan Hastings; from him to his son, the long-remembered College Steward; from him, in the year 1792, to the Reverend Eliphalet Pearson, Professor of Hebrew and other Oriental languages in Harvard College, whose large personality swam into my ken when I was looking forward to my teens; from him to the progenitors of my unborn self. In the days of my earliest remembrance, a row of tall Lombardy poplars moun
Alma Mater (search for this): chapter 4
y Oliver Wendell Holmes. All rights reserved. Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co. Oliver Wendell Holmes. One of the delightful papers in the series called The poet at the breakfast-table is mainly devoted to a description of an old Cambridge home now passed away: the following extracts are made from it. My birthplace, the home of my childhood and earlier and later boyhood, has within a few months passed out of the ownership of my family into the hands of that venerable Alma Mater who seems to have renewed her youth, and has certainly repainted her dormitories. This was written in 1872. In truth, when I last revisited that familiar scene and looked upon the flammantia moenia of the old halls, Massachusetts with the dummy clock-dial, Harvard with the garrulous belfry, little Holden with the sculptured unpunishable cherubs over its portal, and the rest of my early brick-and-mortar acquaintances, I could not help saying to myself that I had lived to see the peaceabl
Abiel Holmes (search for this): chapter 4
prayed for God's blessing on the men just setting forth on their bloody expedition,—all these things have been told, and perhaps none of them need be doubted. It was a great happiness to have been born in an old house haunted by such recollections, with harmless ghosts walking its corridors, with fields of waving grass and trees and singing birds, and that vast territory of four or five acres around it to give a child the sense that he was born to a noble principality. Note.—The Editor cannot resist the impulse to express his suspicion that the ugly slanting contrivance, mentioned on page 45, was the patent bedstead and the machinery pertaining to it, described in the records of the Cambridge Humane Society, of which Dr. Abiel Holmes was so long president, as having been bought in 1816. It is pleasant to believe that after a long and beneficent ministry to the indigent sick, it found an appropriate resting-place itself in the Poet's garret. See page 270 of the present volu
Eliphalet Pearson (search for this): chapter 4
uld not help saying to myself that I had lived to see the peaceable establishment of the Red Republic of Letters. The estate was the third lot of the eighth Squadron (whatever that might be), and in the year 1707 was allotted in the distribution of undivided lands to Mr. ffox, the Reverend Jabez Fox, of Woburn, it may be supposed, as it passed from his heirs to the first Jonathan Hastings; from him to his son, the long-remembered College Steward; from him, in the year 1792, to the Reverend Eliphalet Pearson, Professor of Hebrew and other Oriental languages in Harvard College, whose large personality swam into my ken when I was looking forward to my teens; from him to the progenitors of my unborn self. In the days of my earliest remembrance, a row of tall Lombardy poplars mounted guard on the western side of the old mansion. Whether, like the cypress, these trees suggest the idea of the funeral torch or the monumental spire, whether their tremulous leaves make us afraid by sympa
Langdon (search for this): chapter 4
nd room, the study of successive occupants, said to have been made by the butts of the Continental militia's firelocks, but this was the cause the story told me in childhood laid them to. That military consultations were held in that room, when the house was General Ward's headquarters, that the Provincial generals and colonels and other men of war there planned the movement which ended in the fortifying of Bunker's Hill, that Warren slept in the house the night before the battle, that President Langdon went forth from the western door and prayed for God's blessing on the men just setting forth on their bloody expedition,—all these things have been told, and perhaps none of them need be doubted. It was a great happiness to have been born in an old house haunted by such recollections, with harmless ghosts walking its corridors, with fields of waving grass and trees and singing birds, and that vast territory of four or five acres around it to give a child the sense that he was born t
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