The New England magazine . t so sore. Oh, cure me, dear St. Trophimus, and send meback again To Hock, Moselle, and Burgundy, Yquem, La-fitte, Champagne. He died in 1874, far too early, and was sorelymissed. A satirist, yet loved. A jester, yet deeply in earnest; a man of theworld, yet never coarse or blase; flattered and asocial favorite, yet not conceited; always a friendin need and in deed. A brilliant writer, a witty raconteur, his cor-diality and heartiness had never been soured byillness or age into cynicism or applause and affection, he never lost hisindependence or
The New England magazine . t so sore. Oh, cure me, dear St. Trophimus, and send meback again To Hock, Moselle, and Burgundy, Yquem, La-fitte, Champagne. He died in 1874, far too early, and was sorelymissed. A satirist, yet loved. A jester, yet deeply in earnest; a man of theworld, yet never coarse or blase; flattered and asocial favorite, yet not conceited; always a friendin need and in deed. A brilliant writer, a witty raconteur, his cor-diality and heartiness had never been soured byillness or age into cynicism or applause and affection, he never lost hisindependence or truckled to the great and power-ful. He did his wholesome part in helping thenineteenth century to laugh itself into sanity, whenit was like to go melancholy mad under the teach-ings of its Ruskins, its Carlyles, and its other lesserpessimists. Whose humor, as gay as the fireflys light, Played round every object and shone as itplayed;Whose wit in the combat, as gentle as bright,Neer carried a heart-stain away on its mm
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Keywords: ., bookcentury1800, bookdecade1880, bookidnewenglandma, bookyear1887
