hide Sorting

You can sort these results in two ways:

By entity
Chronological order for dates, alphabetical order for places and people.
By position (current method)
As the entities appear in the document.

You are currently sorting in ascending order. Sort in descending order.

hide Most Frequent Entities

The entities that appear most frequently in this document are shown below.

Entity Max. Freq Min. Freq
Kansas (Kansas, United States) 86 0 Browse Search
Ralph Waldo Emerson 84 0 Browse Search
Worcester (Massachusetts, United States) 77 1 Browse Search
John Brown 66 2 Browse Search
Samuel Longfellow 58 0 Browse Search
John Lowell 48 0 Browse Search
Massachusetts (Massachusetts, United States) 48 0 Browse Search
New England (United States) 48 0 Browse Search
Theodore Parker 47 1 Browse Search
Wendell Phillips 44 0 Browse Search
View all entities in this document...

Browsing named entities in a specific section of Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Cheerful Yesterdays. Search the whole document.

Found 274 total hits in 156 results.

... 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 ...
Louisa Storrow (search for this): chapter 3
the whole, happy. They dwelt in England, in Jamaica, in St. Andrews, in Campobello, then in Jamaica again, Captain Storrow having in the meantime resigned his commission, and having died at sea on his passage to Boston, in 1795. My mother, Louisa Storrow, had been born, meanwhile, at St. Andrews, in 1786. Among my mother's most vivid childish recollections was that of being led, a weeping child of nine, at the stately funeral of her father, who was buried in Boston with military and Masoniay, thus laying for my mother the foundation of some life-long friendships. This school has been praised by Mr. Barnard, the historian of early American education, as one of the best of the dawning experiments toward the education of girls. Mrs. Storrow, however, died within a year and a half, and her little family were left orphans among strangers or very recent friends. Their chief benefactor was my father, into whose family my mother was adopted, assisting in the care of his invalid wife
John Dwight (search for this): chapter 3
t sister was an excellent pianist,--one of the first in this region to play Beethoven. Among the many students who came to the house there were three who played the flute well, and they practiced trios with her accompaniment. One of them was John Dwight, afterwards editor of the Journal of music, and long the leading musical critic of Boston; another was Christopher Pearse Cranch, poet and artist; and the third was William Habersham from Savannah, who had a silver flute, of which I remember JJohn Dwight's saying, when it first made its appearance, It has a silver sound. When I read in later years the experiences of the music-loving boy in Charles Auchester, it brought back vividly the happiness with which, when sent to bed at eight o'clock, I used to leave the door of my little bedroom ajar, in order that I might go to sleep to music. Greater still were the joy and triumph when Miss Helen Davis, who was the musical queen of our Cambridge world, came and filled the house with her
William Habersham (search for this): chapter 3
least, was the musical atmosphere that pervaded the house. My youngest sister was an excellent pianist,--one of the first in this region to play Beethoven. Among the many students who came to the house there were three who played the flute well, and they practiced trios with her accompaniment. One of them was John Dwight, afterwards editor of the Journal of music, and long the leading musical critic of Boston; another was Christopher Pearse Cranch, poet and artist; and the third was William Habersham from Savannah, who had a silver flute, of which I remember John Dwight's saying, when it first made its appearance, It has a silver sound. When I read in later years the experiences of the music-loving boy in Charles Auchester, it brought back vividly the happiness with which, when sent to bed at eight o'clock, I used to leave the door of my little bedroom ajar, in order that I might go to sleep to music. Greater still were the joy and triumph when Miss Helen Davis, who was the mus
John Marshall (search for this): chapter 3
Many of them were sold in his adversity, yet nearly a thousand volumes remained, chiefly of English literature and history of the eighteenth century; and most of these I read. There was a fine set of Dr. Johnson's works in a dozen volumes, with an early edition of Boswell; all of Hoole's Tasso and Ariosto; a charming little edition of the British essayists, with pretty woodcuts; Bewick's Birds and Quadrupeds; Raynal's Indies; the Anti-Jacobin; Plutarch's Lives; Dobson's Life of Petrarch; Marshall's and Bancroft's Lives of Washington; Miss Burney's and Miss Edgeworth's works; and Sir Charles Grandison. There were many volumes of sermons, which my mother was fond of reading,--she was, I think, the last person who habitually read them,--but which I naturally avoided. There were a good many pretty little Italian books, belonging to one of my elder sisters, and a stray volume of Goethe which had been used by another. In out-of-the-way closets I collected the disused classical textbook
Rufus King (search for this): chapter 3
g in my commencement oration. Yet it is a curious fact that I owe indirectly to a single remark made by my mother all the opening of my eyes to the intellectual disadvantages of her sex. There came to Cambridge a very accomplished stranger, Mrs. Rufus King, of Cincinnati, Ohio, -afterward Mrs. Peter,--who established herself there about 1837, directing the college training of a younger brother, two sons, and two nephews. No woman in Cambridge was so highly educated; and once, as she was making some criticisms at our house upon the inequalities between the sexes, my mother exclaimed in her ardent way, But only think, Mrs. King, what an education you have obtained. Yes, was the reply, but how did I obtain it? Then followed a tale almost as pathetic as that told in Mrs. Somerville's autobiography, of her own early struggles for knowledge. I cannot now recall what she said, but it sank into my heart, at the age of fifteen or thereabouts; and if I have ever done one thing to secure t
Rhodes (search for this): chapter 3
lumes of Baron Trenck, and Rinaldo Rinaldini, and The three Spaniards, and The Devil on two sticks. Can these be now found at any bookstore, I wonder, or have the boys of the present generation ever heard of them? But the most important portion of a boy's life is perhaps his outdoor training, since to live out of doors is to be forever in some respects a boy. Who could be before me, though the palace of the Caesars crackt and split with emperors, while I, sitting in silence on a cliff of Rhodes, watcht the sun as he swang his golden censer athwart the heavens? Landor's hero was not happier than my playmate, Charles Parsons, and myself, as we lay under Lowell's willows at the causey's end, after a day at Mount Auburn,--then Sweet Auburn still,to sort out our butterflies in summer or divide our walnuts in autumn, while we chanted uproariously the Hunter's chorus: -- We roam through the forest and over the mountain; No joy of the court or banquet like this. We always made a pause
John Bewick (search for this): chapter 3
had bought a great many books in London, and had them bound under his own eye in the solid fashion of that day. Many of them were sold in his adversity, yet nearly a thousand volumes remained, chiefly of English literature and history of the eighteenth century; and most of these I read. There was a fine set of Dr. Johnson's works in a dozen volumes, with an early edition of Boswell; all of Hoole's Tasso and Ariosto; a charming little edition of the British essayists, with pretty woodcuts; Bewick's Birds and Quadrupeds; Raynal's Indies; the Anti-Jacobin; Plutarch's Lives; Dobson's Life of Petrarch; Marshall's and Bancroft's Lives of Washington; Miss Burney's and Miss Edgeworth's works; and Sir Charles Grandison. There were many volumes of sermons, which my mother was fond of reading,--she was, I think, the last person who habitually read them,--but which I naturally avoided. There were a good many pretty little Italian books, belonging to one of my elder sisters, and a stray volume
Stoddard (search for this): chapter 3
nce. I should add that he taught us to write from copies set by himself in a clear and beautiful handwriting, and that we were supposed to learn something of history by simply reading aloud in class from Russell's Modern Europe; this being, after all, not so bad a way. It must not be forgotten that he bestowed a positive boon upon us by producing a Latin grammar of his own, so brief and simple that when I was afterwards called upon to administer to pupils the terrible manual of Andrews and Stoddard, it seemed to me, as indeed it has always since seemed, a burden too intolerable to be borne. French was taught by his eldest daughter, an excellent woman, though she sometimes had a way of tapping little boys on the head with her thimble; and mathematics we received from a succession of Harvard students, thimbleless. For a time, one fair girl, Mary Story — William Story's sister, and afterwards Mrs. George Ticknor Curtis --glided in to her desk in the corner, that she might recite Virgi
Philip Artevelde (search for this): chapter 3
nce, short and freckled, and a secondary figure beside Story; yet in later life, with his fine eyes and Apollo-like brow, he became much the more noticeable of the two, as he was certainly far superior in genius. Oftener I went alone. Sometimes I made up stories as I went, usually magnifying little incidents or observations of my own into some prolonged tale with a fine name, having an imaginary hero. For a long time his name was D'Arlon, from the person of that name in Taylor's Philip van Artevelde, which my mother was reading to us. In these imaginings all the small wrongs and failures of my life were retrieved. D'Arlon went through the same incidents with myself, but uniformly succeeded where I had failed, and came out of the crisis with the unerring certainty of one of Stanley Weyman's heroes. One of my chief playmates, Thornton Ware, a handsome boy with curly black hair, the admiration of all little girls, might easily distance me in their regard, but had no chance whateve
Francis A. Walker (search for this): chapter 3
no such vivid feeling about fishes or insects. Perhaps it was because they are so much farther from the human, and touch the imagination less. I could then fish all day by the seashore and could collect insects without hesitation,--always being self-limited in the latter case to two specimens of each species. Since the Civil War, however, I find that I can do neither of these things without compunction, and was pleased to hear from that eminent officer and thoroughly manly man, General Francis A. Walker, that the war had a similar effect on him. Dulce bellum inexpertis. It has been a source of happiness for life to have acquired such early personal acquaintance with the numberless little people of the woods and mountains. Every spring they come out to meet me, each a familiar friend, unchanged in a world where all else changes; and several times in a year I dream by night of some realm gorgeous with gayly tinted beetles and lustrous butterflies. Wild flowers, also, have been a
... 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 ...