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George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard), Chapter 5: (search)
enous in the North, among the lowlands, and on the coast. How long these dialects have existed, it is not now possible to determine; but they are probably as old as the earliest population of the country, since traces of them have been found in Tacitus. The low German, which is the vernacular of the lowest class in this part of the country, is a much more harmonious and happy language in its elements than the high German, which is the language of all people of any education through the whole nually acting and reacting upon each other, many things must be made to serve some practical purpose, and nothing is valued which is not immediately useful. In Germany, on the contrary, the national character, from the first intimation of it in Tacitus, and the tendency of the government, from its first development to the present day, have always had an effect directly opposite. A man of science here lives entirely isolated from the world; and the very republic of letters, which is a more rea
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard), Chapter 2: (search)
ll in 1818 at Madrid, where his father was Sardinian Minister. He has had very various fortunes since I saw him last,—was exiled in 1821, for some part he took in the affairs for which Pellico suffered; passed two years in Paris, where he married a granddaughter of Count Segur; came back, and was still not permitted to enter Turin, but passed two years more in the country; became an author, to amuse and fill his time, wrote a History of the Lombards in Italy, a translation of the Annals of Tacitus, four Novelle, which are very beautiful, some literary discussions, an edition of his friend Count Vidua's Letters, etc. He lived there most happily, and continued happy in Turin after his return, till the death of his wife, about three years ago, who left him with eight young children and his aged father. He felt himself quite overcome by his position for a long time, and especially after the death of his mother-in-law, about a year since, which finally determined him to marry again; so
George Ticknor, Life, letters and journals of George Ticknor (ed. George Hillard), Chapter 10: (search)
the place where the glorious Alonso de Aguilar, of the Ballads, fell But there is really no doubt about it. It was in the Sierra Vermeja. One of the most picturesque passages in the history of any country is the account by old Mendoza, of an expedition by the Duke of Arcos, in the days of what is quaintly called the Rebellion of the Moors,—say 1570,—and of his finding in the Vermeja the bones of those that perished with Alonso; a passage you will enjoy the more if you will compare it with Tacitus' account of the finding, by Germanicus, of the bones of Varus' lost legion, which the old Spaniard has so exquisitely used, and stolen, as to make his very theft a merit and a grace. Do read it. It is in the fourth book of the proud old courtier, and fully confirms the ballad. . . . . Gray, Prescott, and the rest of tutta quella schiera,—as you call it, and you might have added benedetta,—are well. We dined together yesterday, and wanted you cinquieme, Sparks being the fourth. . . . .
James Russell Lowell, Among my books, Dante. (search)
ct of Dante's priorate was to expel from Florence the chiefs of both parties as the sowers of strife, and he tells us (Paradiso, XVII.) that he had formed a party by himself. The king of Saxony has well defined his political theory as being an ideal Ghibellinism Comment on Paradiso, VI. and he has been accused of want of patriotism only by those short-sighted persons who cannot see beyond their own parish. Dante's want of faith in freedom was of the same kind with Milton's refusing (as Tacitus had done before) to confound license with liberty. The argument of the De Monarchia is briefly this: As the object of the individual man is the highest development of his faculties, so is it also with men united in societies. But the individual can only attain the highest development when all his powers are in absolute subjection to the intellect, and society only when it subjects its individual caprices to an intelligent head. This is the order of nature, as in families, and men have fo
James Russell Lowell, Among my books, Spenser (search)
the Piscatory Eclogues of Phinehas Fletcher. And why? Browne and Fletcher wrote because Spenser had written, but Spenser wrote from a strong inward impulse—an instinct it might be called—to escape at all risks into the fresh air from that horrible atmosphere into which rhymer after rhymer had been pumping carbonic-acid gas with the full force of his lungs, and in which all sincerity was on the edge of suffocation. His longing for something truer and better was as honest as that which led Tacitus so long before to idealize the Germans, and Rousseau so long after to make an angel of the savage. Spenser himself supremely overlooks the whole chasm between himself and Chaucer, as Dante between himself and Virgil. He called Chaucer master, as Milton was afterwards to call him. And, even while he chose the most artificial of all forms, his aim—that of getting back to nature and life—was conscious, I have no doubt, to himself, and must be obvious to whoever reads with anything but the
James Russell Lowell, Among my books, Milton. (search)
nor wanted in his grasp What seemed both spear and shield. But the thin stiletto of Macchiavelli is a more effective weapon than these fantastic arms of his. He had not the secret of compression that properly belongs to the political thinker, on whom, as Hazlitt said of himself, nothing but abstract ideas makes any impression. Almost every aphoristic phrase that he has made current is borrowed from some one of the classics, like his famous License they mean when they cry liberty, from Tacitus. This is no reproach to him so far as his true function, that of poet, is concerned. It is his peculiar glory that literature was with him so much an art, an end and not a means. Of his political work he has himself told us, I should not choose this manner of writing, wherein, knowing myself inferior to myself (led by the genial power of nature to another task), I have the use, as I may account, but of my left hand. Mr. Masson has given an excellent analysis of these writings, select
Margaret Fuller, Memoirs of Margaret Fuller Ossoli (ed. W. H. Channing), chapter 4 (search)
steps to mount to the star of the Legion of Honor,—the fairest star of heaven to us children. No meditation could keep long in chains heads made constantly giddy by the noise of cannon and bells for the Te Deum. When one of our former comrades returned to pay us a visit in uniform, and his arm in a scarf, we blushed at our books, and threw them at the heads of our teachers. Our teachers were always reading us bulletins from the grande armee, and our cries of Vive l'empereur interrupted Tacitus and Plato. Our preceptors resembled heralds of arms, our study halls barracks, and our examinations reviews. Thus was he led into the army; and, he says, It was only very late, that I perceived that my services were one long mistake, and that I had imported into a life altogether active, a nature altogether contemplative. He entered the army at the time of Napoleon's fall, and, like others, wasted life in waiting for war. For these young persons could not believe that peace and calm
Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 16. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones), Pegram battalion Association. (search)
than useless to attack them. Now it seems strange to me that this great general, who fought a score of battles, and always at the odds of about one man against ten, but yet who never lost an engagement, who achieved the independence of his country, and who wrested freedom from the mighty power of the Grecian Empire, has not been accorded the place in the estimation of the world to which his signal prowess and military genius entitle him. I know no reason except that which was alleged by Tacitus in a similar instance, when he says of the Greeks, that they never admire any exploits but their own. Grecian literature is silent respecting Judas Maccabeus, and Grecian literature has moulded the thought of the world. Surely it is not enough to do deeds of glory. Their formative influence, their inspiring example, is lost to the world unless they are embodied in an imperishable literature. And I assert that no more imperative duty lies before the South than to secure the preservatio
Southern Historical Society Papers, Volume 25. (ed. Reverend J. William Jones), chapter 1.38 (search)
left no trace. He is not demonstrative in manner, yet he is a true and reliable friend. His expression is serious, but when excited in speech it grows articulate with the emotions that thrill his soul. His voice is musical and fits every intonation and cadence, his penetrative intellect is as quick as it is vivid, and does not wait upon labored induction; he darts at once upon the core of his subject, and starts where most reasoners end. He is familiar with the Latin and Greek classics; Tacitus is his favorite author. Disciplined by such an education, his tastes are always correct. In the subtle game of law he is as adroit as a general in the field; when he gets into his subject and is warmed with it, he utters words of fire that carry the listener along captive with him. If his argument is close to the point, it is at the same time full of his adversary's inconsistencies. He is renowned for his ability to sway courts by his logic, almost irresistible, and his juries by his fas
Jula Ward Howe, Reminiscences: 1819-1899, Chapter 1: birth, parentage, childhood (search)
ll hand on an inestimable legacy, an imperishable record. While my heart exults at these grandeurs of which I have seen and known something, my contribution to their history can be but of fragmentary and fitful interest. On the world's great scene, each of us can only play his little part, often with poor comprehension of the mighty drama which is going on around him. If any one of us undertakes to set this down, he should do it with the utmost truth and simplicity; not as if Seneca or Tacitus or St. Paul were speaking, but as he himself, plain Hodge or Dominie or Mrs. Grundy, is moved to speak. He should not borrow from others the sentiments which he ought to have entertained, but relate truthfully how matters appeared to him, as they and he went on. Thus much I can promise to do in these pages, and no more. I was born on May 27, 1819, in the city of New York, in Marketfield Street, near the Battery. My father was of Rhode Island birth and descent. One of his grandmothers
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