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Max Muller (search for this): chapter 32
th is to be celebrated on Tuesday next. I stayed at home from church to follow some random rhymes which came to me in connection with my remembrance of my ever affectionate friend. I love to think of his beautiful service to his age and to future ages. I fear that my rhymes will fail to crystallize, but sometimes a bad beginning leads to something better.... The poem was finished, more or less to her satisfaction, but she was weary with working over it, and with reading heavy books, Max Muller on metaphysics, Blanqui on political economy. May 10. I began this day the screed of Values which I mentioned the other day. I have great hopes of accomplishing something useful, remembering, as I do, with sore indignation, my own mistakes, and desiring to help young people to avoid similar ones. The ninetieth birthday was a festival, indeed. Letters and telegrams poured in, rose in toppling piles which almost — not quite — daunted her; she would hear every one, would answer as many
Kim (search for this): chapter 32
practising, if she were alone, she would sit at the window and play her Twilight Game: counting the passing, one for a biped, two for a quadruped, ten for a white horse, and so on. In the evening, before the Victor concert, came the reading aloud: this was one of her great pleasures. No history or philosophy for the evening reading; she must have a novel (not a problem novel ; these she detested!)--a good stirring tale, with-plenty of action in it. She thrilled over With fire and sword, Kim, The Master of Ballantrae. She could not bear to hear of financial anxieties or of physical suffering. It gives me a pain in my knee! We see her now, sitting a little forward in her straight-backed chair, holding the hand of the reading granddaughter, alert and tense. When a catastrophe appears imminent, 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
Marion Crawford (search for this): chapter 32
ch good. I spoke of the cup [of life], but advised him to use the spoon for stirring up his congregation. She was asked for a long and exhaustive paper on Marion Crawford in about a week. I wrote, saying that I could furnish an interesting paper on the elder and younger Crawford, but without any literary estimate of Marion's wCrawford, but without any literary estimate of Marion's work, saying that family praise was too much akin to self-praise; also the time allotted much too short. One night she woke suddenly and something seemed to say, They are on the right tack now. This microscopic and detailed study of the causes of evil on society will be much forwarded by the direct agency of women. They too wthis Easter is that I may not waste the inspiration of spring.... In these days came another real sorrow to her. April 10. To-day brings the sad news of Marion Crawford's death at Sorrento. His departure seems to have been a peaceful one. He comforted his family and had his daughter Eleanor read Plato's Dialogues to him. Wa
Amos Wells (search for this): chapter 32
, if her son were there, she would play accompaniments from the Messiah or Elijah ; rippling through the difficult music, transposing it, if necessary to suit the singer's voice, with ease and accuracy. Musicians said that she was the ideal accompanist, never asserting herself, but giving perfect sympathy and support to the singer. We return to the Journal. January, 1908. I had prayed the dear Father to give me this one more poem, a verse for this year's Decoration Day, asked for by Amos Wells, of Christian Endeavor belonging. I took my pen and the poem came quite spontaneously. It seemed an answer to my prayer, but I hold fast the thought that the great Christ asked no sign from God and needed none, so deeply did he enter into life divine. I also thought, regarding Christ and Moses, that we must be content that a certain mystery should envelop these heroic figures of human history. Our small measuring tape or rod is not for them. If they were not exactly in fact what we t
Abel Lefranc (search for this): chapter 32
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 lecturer of the year at Harvard, came to lunch with her. He apologized for only being able to stay for the luncheon hour, owing to a press of engagements and work that had grown overpowering. He stayed for two hours and a half after luncheon was over, and during all that time the flow of poignant, brilliant talk, a deux, held the third in the little company absorbed. She was entirely at home in French, and the Frenchman talked over the problems of his country as if to a co
James Freeman Clarke (search for this): chapter 32
ty, since, even if superior to many in some respects, you will be likely to fall below them in others. 11. Remember the Christian triad of virtues. Have faith in principles, hope in God, charity with and for all mankind. A windy March found her rather miserably ailing. Dr. Langmaid came, and pronounced her lungs sound as a bass drum ; nothing amiss save a throat irritated by wind and dust. Thereupon she girded herself and buckled to her next task, a poem for the centenary of James Freeman Clarke. I have despaired of a poem which people seem to expect from me for the dear James Freeman's centennial. To-day the rhymes suddenly flowed, but the thought is difficult to convey — the reflection of heaven in his soul is what he gave, and what he left us. April 1. Very much tossed up and down about my poem... . April 2. Was able at last, D. G., to make the poem explain itself. Rosalind, my incorruptible critic, was satisfied with it. I think and hope that all my trouble has
J. A. Froude (search for this): chapter 32
her lips,-- The Flag of Freedom crowns the Pole! The following letter was written while she was at work on the poem:-- To Laura Oak Glen, July 9, 1909. Why, yes, I'm doing the best I know how. Have written a poem for the Hudson and Fulton celebration, September 28. Worked hard at it. Guess it's only pretty good, if even that. Maud takes me out every day under the pine tree, makes me sit while she reads aloud Freeman's shorter work on Sicily. I enjoy this. ... I have just read Froude's Ceesar, which Sanborn says he hates, but which I found as readable as a novel. Am also reading a work of Kuno Fischer on Philosophy, especially relating to Descartes. Now you know, Miss, or should know, that same had great fame, and sometimes blame, as a philosopher. But he don't make no impression on my mind. I never doubted that I was, so don't need no cogito, ergo sum, which is what Carty, old Boy, amounts to. Your letter, dear, was a very proper attention under the circumstances.
Harriet Prescott Spofford (search for this): chapter 32
hat I have received. My dearest wish would be to take up some thread of our A. A.W. work, and continue it. I rather hope that I may find the way to do this in the study of Economics which I am just starting with a small group.... To Mrs. Harriet Prescott Spofford Dear Mrs. Spofford,-- You wrote me a lovely letter on my ninetieth birthday. I cannot help feeling as if the impression expressed by you and so many other kind friends of my personal merits must refer to some good work which I Mrs. Spofford,-- You wrote me a lovely letter on my ninetieth birthday. I cannot help feeling as if the impression expressed by you and so many other kind friends of my personal merits must refer to some good work which I have yet to do. What I have done looks small to me, but I have tried a good deal for the best I have known. This is all I can say. I am much touched by your letter, and encouraged to go on trying. Don't you think that the best things are already in view? The opportunities for women, the growing toleration and sympathy in religion, the sacred cause of peace? I have lived, like Moses, to see the entrance into the Promised Land. How much is this to be'thankful for! My crabbed hand shows how
Ernest Schelling (search for this): chapter 32
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 lecturer of the year at Harvard, came to lunch with her. He apologized for only being able to stay for the luncheon hour, owing to a press of engagements and work that had grown overpowering. He stayed for two
James Freeman (search for this): chapter 32
covery of the North Pole: it was the general voice that cried through her lips,-- The Flag of Freedom crowns the Pole! The following letter was written while she was at work on the poem:-- To Laura Oak Glen, July 9, 1909. Why, yes, I'm doing the best I know how. Have written a poem for the Hudson and Fulton celebration, September 28. Worked hard at it. Guess it's only pretty good, if even that. Maud takes me out every day under the pine tree, makes me sit while she reads aloud Freeman's shorter work on Sicily. I enjoy this. ... I have just read Froude's Ceesar, which Sanborn says he hates, but which I found as readable as a novel. Am also reading a work of Kuno Fischer on Philosophy, especially relating to Descartes. Now you know, Miss, or should know, that same had great fame, and sometimes blame, as a philosopher. But he don't make no impression on my mind. I never doubted that I was, so don't need no cogito, ergo sum, which is what Carty, old Boy, amounts to. You
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