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May Alden Ward (search for this): chapter 32
hen I should depart from this earthly scene, God's poor Debtor might be the fittest inscription for my gravestone, if I should have one. So much have I received from the great Giver, so little have I been able to return. April 5.... Heard May Alden Ward, N. E.W. C., on Current Events. Praecipue tariff reform. Proposed a small group to study the question from the point of view of the consumer. What to protect and how? American goods cheaper in Europe than here. Blank tells me of pencils ce impossible here. I said that the real bottomless pit is the depth of infamous slander with which people will assail our public servants, especially when they are faithful and incorruptible, apropos of aspersions cast on Roosevelt and Taft. Mrs. Ward read a very violent attack upon some public man of a hundred or more years ago. He was quoted as a monster of tyranny and injustice. His name was George Washington. April 8.... My prayer for this Easter is that I may not waste the inspirat
Frank Potter (search for this): chapter 32
e right way. September 21. Green Peace, New York. A delightful drive with Mr. Seth Low in his auto. A good talk with him about the multi-millionnaires and the Hague Conferences which he has attended. We reached Green Peace in time for Mr. Frank Potter to sing about half of my songs. He has a fine tenor voice, well cultivated, and is very kind about my small compositions. I had not counted upon this pleasure. I dreaded this visit, for the troublesome journey, but it has been delightful. I am charmed to see my son so handsomely and comfortably established, and with a very devoted wife. Potter brought me some flowers and a curious orchid from Panama. November 3. Oak Glen. Yesterday and to-day have had most exquisite sittings in front of my house in the warm sunshine; very closely wrapped up by the dear care of my daughters. These sittings were on what she called her boulevard, a grassy space in front of the house, bordering on the road, and taking the full strength of
Julia Ward (search for this): chapter 32
nt, Stop a minutes she cries. I cannot bear it! --and the reader must pause while she gathers courage to face disaster with the hero, or dash with him through peril to safety. She would almost be sorry when the doorbell announced a visitor; almost, not quite, for flesh and blood were better than fiction. If the caller were a familiar friend, how her face lighted up! Oh! Now we can have whist! The table is brought out, the mother-of-pearl counters (a Cutler relic: we remember that Mr. Ward did not allow cards in his house!), and the order for the rest of the evening is A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigor of the game! -- It was a happy day when, as chanced once or twice, Mr. Ernest Schelling, coming on from New York to play with the Boston Symphony Orchestra, offered to come and play to her, all by herself, whatever she wanted, and for as long as she liked. She never forgot this pleasure, nor the warm kindness of the giver. One day Mr. Abel Lefranc, the French
on, and I am only just ready to go to college! When it was too cold for her to go out, she took her walk in the house, with the windows open, pacing resolutely up and down her room and the room opposite. She sat long hours at her desk, in patient toil. She was always picking up dropped stitches, trying to keep every promise, answer every note. Went through waste-paper basket, redeeming some bits torn to fragments, which either should be answered or recorded. Wrote an autograph for Mr. Blank. It was asked for in 1905. Had been put away and forgotten. She got too tired that morning, and could not fully enjoy the Authors' Club in the afternoon. Colonel Higginson and I sat like two superannuated old idols. Each of us said a little say when the business was finished. It is not recalled that they presented any such appearance to others. She went to the opera, a mingled pleasure and pain. It was the Huguenots, much of which was known to me in early youth, when I us
t they presented any such appearance to others. She went to the opera, a mingled pleasure and pain. It was the Huguenots, much of which was known to me in early youth, when I used to sing the Rataplan chorus with my brothers. I sang also Valentine's prayer, Parmi les fleurs mon reve se ranime, with obligato bassoon accompaniment, using the 'cello instead. I know that I sang much better that night than usual, for dear Uncle John said to me, You singed good! Poor Huti played the 'cello. Now, I listened for the familiar bits, and recognized the drinking chorus in Act 1st, the Rataplan in Act 2d. Valentine's prayer, if given, was so overlaid with fioritura that I did not feel sure of it. The page's pretty song was all right, but I suffered great fatigue, and the reminiscences were sad. Through the winter she continued the study of economics with some fifteen members of the New England Woman's Club. She read Bergson too, and now and then got completely bogged in him, findin
Robert Underwood Johnson (search for this): chapter 32
nd. Oh! help me, divine Father, to merit even a very little of Thy kindness! In this autumn she was elected a member of the American Academy of Arts and Letters, and in December she wrote for its first meeting a poem called The Capitol. She greatly desired to read this poem before the association, and Maud, albeit with many misgivings, agreed to take her on to Washington. This was not to be. On learning of her intention, three officers of the association, William Dean Howells, Robert Underwood Johnson, and Thomas Nelson Page, sent her a round-robin telegram, begging her not to run the risk of the long winter journey. The kindly suggestion was not altogether well taken. Ha! she flashed out. They think I am too old, but there's a little ginger left in the old blue jar! She soon realized the wisdom as well as the friendliness of the round robin, and confided to the Journal that she had been in two minds about it. On Christmas Day she writes:-- Thanks to God who gave us t
Abraham Lincoln (search for this): chapter 32
andel wrote parts of the Messiah in heaven itself. Where else could he have got Comfort ye, Thy rebuke, Thou shalt break them, and much besides? Late in December, 1908, came the horror of the Sicilian earthquake. She felt at first that it was impossible to reconcile omnipotence and perfect benevolence with this catastrophe. We must hold judgment in suspense and say, We don't and we can't understand. She had several tasks on hand this winter, among them a poem for the Centenary of Lincoln's birth. On February 7 she writes:-- After a time of despair about the poem for the Lincoln Centenary some lines came to me in the early morning. I arose, wrapped myself warmly, and wrote what I could, making quite a beginning. She finished the poem next day, and on the 12th she went with three handsome grandchildren to deliver it at Symphony Hall before the Grand Army of the Republic and their friends. The police had to make an entrance for us. I was presently conducted to my se
Edward Emerson (search for this): chapter 32
everlasting goal to gain. ... And then I saw the victory. All of evil was gone from the earth. Misery was blotted out. Mankind was emancipated and ready to march forward in a new Era of human understanding, all-encompassing sympathy and ever-present help, the Era of perfect love, of peace passing understanding. Mrs. Humphry Ward was in Boston this spring, and there were many pleasant festivities in her honor. A luncheon with Mrs. Humphry Ward at Annie Fields'; very pleasant. Edward Emerson there, easy and delightful.... A fine reception at the Vendome, where she and Mrs. Ward stood under a beautiful arch of roses and exchanged greetings. A delightful call from Mrs. Humphry Ward. We had much talk of persons admired in England and America. She has great personal attraction, is not handsome, but very simpatica and is evidently wholesouled and sincere, with much good-fellowship. We embraced at parting. In strong contrast to this is her comment on a writer whose wor
he economies and efforts of brave young people, she thrilled to them all. Indeed, all human facts roused in her the same absorbed and reverent interest. These are Boston memories, but those of Oak Glen are no less tender and vivid. There, too, the meals were festivals, the midday dinner being now the chief one, with its following hour on the piazza; Grandmother in her hooded chair, with her cross-stitch embroidery or hooked rug, daughters and grandchildren gathered round her. Horace and Xenophon were on the little table beside her, but they must wait till she had mixed and enjoyed her social salad. At Oak Glen, too, she had her novel and her whist, bezique or dominoes, as the family was larger or smaller. She never stooped to solitaire; a game must be an affair of companionship, of the social tie in defence of which Broa Sam, in his youth, had professed himself ready to die. Instead of the Victor concert, she now made music herself, playing fourhand pieces with Florence, the m
William Goddard (search for this): chapter 32
re in the faces of those girls, cast on them a keen glance that somehow was a challenge, Catch up with me if you can! She had labored long for the higher education of women, suffered estrangement, borne ridicule for itthe sight of those girl graduates, starting on their life voyage equipped with a good education, was like a sudden realization of a life-long dream; uplifted her, gave her strength for the fatigues of the day. At the dinner given for her and the college dignitaries by Mrs. William Goddard, she was at her best. She was asked for a Fourth of July message to the Sunday-School children of the Congregational Church, and wrote:-- I want them to build up character in themselves and in the community, to give to the country just so many men and women who will be incapable of meanness or dishonesty, who will look upon life as a sacred trust, given to them for honorable service to their fellow men and women. I would have them feel that, whether rich or poor, they are b
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