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Theodore Parker (search for this): chapter 9
dinner was an early one. Picked a grouse, and saw to various matters. Company came, a little early. The room was cold. Hedge, Palfrey, and Alger to dinner. Conversation pleasant, but dinner late, and not well served. Palfrey and Hedge read Parker's Latin epitaph on Chev, amazed at the bad Latinity. In June, 1864, a Russian squadron, sent to show Russia's good — will toward the United States, dropped anchor in Boston Harbor, and hospitable Boston rose up in haste to receive the strangerth Christianity. Yet I found this very consoling, as filling out the verities of religious development. I seemed to hear in the responses a great harmony in which the first man had the extreme bass and the last born babe the extreme treble. Theo. Parker and my dear Sammy were blended in it. Soon after this the seabirds of Muscovy departed; then came the flitting to Newport, and a summer of steady work. Read Paul in the Valley. Thought of writing a review of his first two epistles fro
Immanuel Kant (search for this): chapter 9
ays in her Reminiscences : In the days of which I now write, it was borne in upon me (as the Friends say) that I had much to say to my day and generation which could not and should not be communicated in rhyme, or even in rhythm. The character of the message, too, was changing. In the anguish of bereavement she sought relief in study, her lifelong resource. Religion and philosophy went hand in hand with her. She read Spinoza eagerly: read Fichte, Hegel, Schelling; finally, found in Immanuel Kant a prophet and a friend. But it was not enough for her to receive; she must also give out: her nature was radiant. She must formulate a philosophy of her own, and must at least offer it to the world. In September, 1863, she writes to her sister Louisa, My Ethics are now the joke of my family, and Flossy or any child, wishing a second helping, will say: Is it ethical, Mamma? Too much of my life, indeed, runs in this channel. I can only hope that the things I write may do good to som
George Bancroft (search for this): chapter 9
m the interchange of thought which was so congenial to him. He at once launched forth in his own brilliant vein, and we were within a few miles of our destination when we suddenly remembered that we had not taken time to eat our luncheon. George Bancroft met them at the station, carried her trunk himself ( a small one! ), and put her into his own carriage. The reception was in the Century Building. She entered on Mr. Bryant's arm, and sat between him and Mr. Bancroft on the platform. The Mr. Bancroft on the platform. The Journal tells us:-- After Mr. Emerson's remarks my poem was announced. I stepped to the middle of the platform, and read my poem. I was full of it, and read it well, I think, as every one heard me, and the large room was crammed. The last two verses — not the bestwere applauded.... This was, I suppose, the greatest public honor of my life. I record it for my grandchildren. The November pages of the Journal are blank, but on that for November 21 is pasted a significant note. It is fro
John A. Andrew (search for this): chapter 9
ht the matchless mood In which impassioned Petrarch sang of thee; But this I know,--the world its plenitude May keep, so I may share thy beggary. J. W. H. After the two real homes, Green Peace and Lawton's Valley, the Chestnut Street house was nearest to our hearts; this, though we were there only three years, and though it was there that we children first saw the face of sorrow. It was an heroic time. The Doctor was in constant touch with the events of the war. He was sent by Governor Andrew to examine conditions of camps and hospitals, in Massachusetts and at the seat of war; he worked as hard on the Sanitary Commission, to which he had been appointed by President Lincoln, as on any other of his multifarious labors: his knowledge of practical warfare and his grasp of situations gave him a foresight of coming events which seemed well-nigh miraculous. When he entered the house, we all felt the electric touch, found ourselves in the circuit of the great current. So, these
Hippolytus (search for this): chapter 9
to see her; she found him modest, intelligent, and above all genuine,--the man as worthy of admiration as the artist. In all the range of classic fiction, to which her mind naturally turned, no character seemed to fit him so well as that of Hippolytus; his austere beauty, his reserve and shyness, all seemed to her the personification of the hunter-prince, beloved of Artemis, and she chose this theme for her play. The writing of Hippolytus was accomplished under difficulties. She says of Hippolytus was accomplished under difficulties. She says of it:-- I had at this time and for many years afterward a superstition about a north light. My eyes had given me some trouble, and I felt obliged to follow my literary work under circumstances most favorable for their use. The exposure of our little farmhouse [at Lawton's Valley] was south and west, and its only north light was derived from a window at the top of the attic stairs. Here was a platform just large enough to give room for a table two feet square. The stairs were shut off from t
O. W. Holmes (search for this): chapter 9
y speaks through the lips of her hero a pungent word on the subject:-- The raffle business is, I suppose, the great humbug of occasions of this kind. It seems to me very much like taking a front tooth from a certain number of persons in order to make up a set of teeth for a party who wants it and who does not want to pay for it. We should like to linger over the pages of the Boatswain's Whistle ; to quote from James Freeman Clarke's witty dialogues, Edward Everett's stately periods, Dr. Holmes's sparkling verse; to describe General Grant, the prize ox, white as driven snow and weighing 3900 pounds, presented by the owner to President Lincoln and by him to the fair. Did we not see him drawn in triumph through Boston streets on an open car, and realize in an instant-fresh from our Wonder-book --what Europa's bull looked like? But of all the treasures of the little paper. we must content ourselves with this dispatch:-- Allow me to wish you a great success. With the old
Mary Booth (search for this): chapter 9
ought and motive has been of great use to me, but I think that I have been able to give them an extended application and some practical illustrations which did not lie within his scope. The next day she writes: Dreamed of dearest Sammy. Thought that he was in the bed, and that I was trying to nurse him in the dark as I have so often done. I thought that when his little lips had found my breast, something said in my ear, My life's life -the glory of the world. Quoting from my lines on Mary Booth. This woke me with a sudden impression, Thus Nature remembers. She decided this spring to read some of her essays in Washington. There were various difficulties in the way, and she was uncertain of the outcome of the enterprise. She writes:-- I leave Bordentown [the home of her sister Annie] with a resolute, not a sanguine heart. I have no one to stand for me there, Sumner against me, Channing almost unknown to me, everyone else indifferent. I go in obedience to a deep and stron
Journal (search for this): chapter 9
heard me, and the large room was crammed. The last two verses — not the bestwere applauded.... This was, I suppose, the greatest public honor of my life. I record it for my grandchildren. The November pages of the Journal are blank, but on that for November 21 is pasted a significant note. It is from the secretary of the National Sailors' Fair, and conveys the thanks of the Board of Managers to Mrs. Howe for her great industry and labor in editing the Boatswain's Whistle. Neither Journal nor Reminiscences has one word to say about fair or paper; yet both were notable. The great war-time fairs were far more than a device for raising money. They were festivals of patriotism; people bought and sold with a kind of sacred ardor. This fair was Boston's contribution toward the National Sailors' Home. It was held in the Boston Theatre, which for a week was transformed into a wonderful hive of varicolored bees, all workers, all humming and hurrying. The Boatswain's Whistle was
James Russell Lowell (search for this): chapter 9
l Sailors' Home. It was held in the Boston Theatre, which for a week was transformed into a wonderful hive of varicolored bees, all workers, all humming and hurrying. The Boatswain's Whistle was the organ of the fair. There were ten numbers of the paper: it lies before us now, a small folio volume of eighty pages. Title and management are indicated at the top of the first column:-- The Boatswain's Whistle. Editorial Council. Edward Everett.A. P. Peabody. John G. Whittier.J. R. Lowell. O. W. Holmes.E. P. Whipple. Editor. Julia Ward Howe. Each member of the Council made at least one contribution to the paper; but the burden fell on the Editor's shoulders. She worked day and night; no wonder that the pages of the Journal are blank. Beside the editorials and many other unsigned articles, she wrote a serial story, The Journal of a fancy Fair, which brings back vividly the scene it describes. In those days the raffle was not discredited. Few people realized t
William Rounceville Alger (search for this): chapter 9
s, kind and friendly. After seeing him in the Senate she writes: Sumner looks up and smiles. That smile seems to illuminate the Senate. Another passage in the Journal of March, 1864, is in a different note: Maggie ill and company to dinner. I washed breakfast things, cleared the table, walked, read Spinoza a little, then had to fly round, as my dinner was an early one. Picked a grouse, and saw to various matters. Company came, a little early. The room was cold. Hedge, Palfrey, and Alger to dinner. Conversation pleasant, but dinner late, and not well served. Palfrey and Hedge read Parker's Latin epitaph on Chev, amazed at the bad Latinity. In June, 1864, a Russian squadron, sent to show Russia's good — will toward the United States, dropped anchor in Boston Harbor, and hospitable Boston rose up in haste to receive the strangers. Dr. Holmes wrote a song beginning,-- Seabirds of Muscovy, Rest in our waters, which was sung to the Russian national air at a public recept
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