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Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 3 4 0 Browse Search
P. Ovidius Naso, Metamorphoses (ed. Brookes More) 2 0 Browse Search
P. Vergilius Maro, Georgics (ed. J. B. Greenough) 2 0 Browse Search
James Parton, Horace Greeley, T. W. Higginson, J. S. C. Abbott, E. M. Hoppin, William Winter, Theodore Tilton, Fanny Fern, Grace Greenwood, Mrs. E. C. Stanton, Women of the age; being natives of the lives and deeds of the most prominent women of the present gentlemen 2 0 Browse Search
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2 2 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Atlantic Essays 2 0 Browse Search
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Harvard Memorial Biographies 2 0 Browse Search
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard) 2 0 Browse Search
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P. Ovidius Naso, Metamorphoses (ed. Brookes More), Book 15, line 680 (search)
in six days to the shores of Italy. There he was borne past the Lacinian Cape, ennobled by the goddess Juno's shrine, and Scylacean coasts. He left behind Iapygia; then he shunned Amphrysian rocks upon the left and on the other side escaped Cocinthian crags. He passed, near by, Romechium and Caulon and Naricia; crossed the Sicilian sea; went through the strait; sailed by Pelorus and the island home of Aeolus and by the copper mines of Temesa. He turned then toward Leucosia and toward mild Paestum, famous for the rose. He coasted by Capreae and around Minerva's promontory and the hills ennobled with Surrentine vines, from there to Herculaneum and Stabiae and then Parthenope built for soft ease. He sailed near the Cumaean Sibyl's temple. He passed the Warm Springs and Linternum, where the mastick trees grow, and the river called Volturnus, where thick sand whirls in the stream, over to Sinuessa's snow-white doves; and then to Antium and its rocky coast. When with all sails full sprea
P. Vergilius Maro, Georgics (ed. J. B. Greenough), Book 4, line 116 (search)
And I myself, were I not even now Furling my sails, and, nigh the journey's end, Eager to turn my vessel's prow to shore, Perchance would sing what careful husbandry Makes the trim garden smile; of Paestum too, Whose roses bloom and fade and bloom again; How endives glory in the streams they drink, And green banks in their parsley, and how the gourd Twists through the grass and rounds him to paunch; Nor of Narcissus had my lips been dumb, That loiterer of the flowers, nor supple-stemmed Acanthus, with the praise of ivies pale, And myrtles clinging to the shores they love. For 'neath the shade of tall Oebalia's towers, Where dark Galaesus laves the yellowing fields, An old man once I mind me to have seen— From Corycus he came—to whom had fallen Some few poor acres of neglected land, And they nor fruitful' neath the plodding steer, Meet for the grazing herd, nor good for vines. Yet he, the while his meagre garden-herbs Among the thorns he planted, and all round White lilies, vervains, a
James Parton, Horace Greeley, T. W. Higginson, J. S. C. Abbott, E. M. Hoppin, William Winter, Theodore Tilton, Fanny Fern, Grace Greenwood, Mrs. E. C. Stanton, Women of the age; being natives of the lives and deeds of the most prominent women of the present gentlemen, Margaret Fuller Ossoli. (search)
oma and spirit of Western life. It is almost the only book which makes that great region look attractive to any but the energetic and executive side of man's nature. In this point of view even her literary episodes seem in place; it is pleasant to think that such books as she describes could be read upon the prairies. In the narrative of most travellers it would seem inappropriate to say that they stopped in Chicago and read a poem. It would seem like being offered a New York Tribune at Paestum. But when Margaret Fuller reads Philip Van Artevelde, by the lake shore, just in the suburbs of the busy city, all seems appropriate and harmonized, and the moral that it yields her is fit to be remembered for years. In Chicago I read again Philip Van Artevelde, and certain passages in it will always be in my mind associated with the deep sound of the lake, as heard in the night. I used to read a short time at night, and then open the blind to look out. The moon would be full upon t
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 2, Chapter 21: Germany.—October, 1839, to March, 1840.—Age, 28-29. (search)
pen air. Man's season is over; but God's is come. If, then, you are in Rome during the summer, you will see high solemnities of the Church enough without witnessing those of Easter. Corpus Christi day, at the end of June, will be enough for you. See, as you propose, Sicily,—though I would make but a short stay there; then go to Naples where there is much to interest; the Museum is very rich, both in antiquities and paintings: and then, on one side, there is Pompeii, Herculaneum, Vesuvius, Paestum; and, on the other Baiae, Cumae, &c. Do not fail to procure Valery's book on Italy, in French; the Brussels edition is in one volume, and therefore more portable, as well as cheaper than the three volumes of Paris. This book is the production of a scholar; and all the spots are described with references to the ancient classics. To you in particular, who have not had the advantage of an early classical education, it will be indispensable. Read also Eustace's Classical Tour and Matthew's
Edward L. Pierce, Memoir and letters of Charles Sumner: volume 3, chapter 14 (search)
of Virgil and the Grotta del Cane; visited Herculaneum and Pompeii, dining at the Hotel Diomed, where Sumner ordered Falernian wine; attempted the ascent of Vesuvius, but were stopped short of the Hermitage by a hard rain, Sumner going alone to Paestum. With all his weakness, his energy was too much for Bemis. The latter, whose journal and oral account are here followed, relates Sumner's pertinacity in seeing all that was possible in the way of art and history; his indignation at the Royal Put me to. Sumner was sad at leaving Rome, feeling that he should never be there again, and deeply regretting that he had left so much unvisited. He wrote to Longfellow, May 12, the day before leaving Rome:— I have been in Naples, visited Paestum, which I had never seen before, and the ancient cities, and driven near the rolling, fiery lava. All this was most interesting; but nothing touches me like Rome. Constantly I think of early days when I saw everything here with such fidelity, u
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Atlantic Essays, On an old Latin text-book. (search)
me is simply this: that while we make children happy by teaching them the careful observation of nature,--so that our educated men need no longer be naturalists by accident, as Professor Owen said of those in England,--we yet should give to the same children another happiness still, by such first glimpses of literary pleasure as this book afforded. A race of exclusively scientific men and women would be as great an evil as would be a race trained only in what Sydney Smith calls the safe and elegant imbecility of classical learning. We can spare the Louvre and the Vatican, we can spare Paestum and the Pyramids, as easily as we can spare the purely literary culture from the world. And while watching the seeming death-throes of the one nation on earth which still recognizes literature as a branch of art, we need surely to make some effort to preserve the tradition of the beautiful, lest it vanish from the realm of words. Cambridge: Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co.
Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Harvard Memorial Biographies, 1854. (search)
more glorious field. I have often said, writes General Mosby, that, of all the Federal commanders opposed to me, I had the highest respect for Colonel Lowell, both as an officer and a gentleman. In the spring of 1863 Colonel Lowell became engaged to Josephine, daughter of Francis G. Shaw, Esq., of Staten Island, and sister to Colonel Shaw. To her most of his later letters are addressed. June, 1863. Your Capri and Sorrento have brought back my Campagna and my Jungfrau and my Paestum, and again the season is la gioventu dell anno, and I think of breezy Veii and sunny Pisa and the stone-pines of the Villa Pamfili Doria. Of course it is right to wish that some time we may go there. Of course the remembrance of such places and the hope of revisiting them makes one take the all in the day's work more bravely. It is a homesickness which is healthy for the soul; but we do not own ourselves, and have no right to even wish ourselves out of harness. I don't believe you wish
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard), Chapter 17: (search)
anter winter there than any I have ever passed in Europe. . . . . A fortnight in Naples was much less satisfactory. The city itself is anything but agreeable; but the excursions are charming, and the Museo Borbonico, containing in numberless rooms the spoils of Herculaneum and Pompeii, could be agreeably visited daily for almost any length of time, going occasionally to see the spots from which its treasures came. Another fortnight divided between Sorrento and drives to Amalfi, Salerno, Paestum, etc., was delicious; especially eight quiet days spent in the full burst of spring at Sorrento, with the most beautiful bay in the world before our windows, Vesuvius in front, and the Mediterranean washing the foundations of the terrace on which our parlor opened. The mornings that we passed in the orange groves there, where the trees were in luxuriant fruit, and the afternoons we gave to going on donkeys over the precipitous hills, and once to boating on the still waters, we shall never