Channeling The Greats
As perceived by
M. Bradley McCauley
With compliments to Elbert Hubbard
1856 - 1915
Creator/Author of "Little Journeys Into the Homes of the Great," He is my inspiration.
© 2012 M. Bradley McCauley. All rights reserved unless written permission is granted by M. Bradley McCauley
All photos of the 'greats' are from Public Domain unless otherwise specified.
Forward!
I didn't really 'channel' the Greats, some of my favorite people in history. At least I don't think I channeled them. Each was written after I read about one in "Little Journeys into the Homes of the Great". This is a collection of books written by Elbert Hubbard and published monthly starting in 1894.
The biographies were collected and republished in a 14 volume Memorial Edition in 1916, shortly after Mr. and Mrs. Hubbard died during the sinking of the RMS Lusitania, sunk by a German submarine on May 7, 1915.
I am thrilled to have the 1928 Memorial Edition printed by the Royrofters, It is a 14 Volume set, including the Little Guide Book. Each volume contains photos of the great men and women whose homes Mr. Hubbard visited, and whose lives he writes about in his undeniable style.
You can read more about the Roycrofters, a "handicraft community founded by Mr. Hubbard in East Aurora, NY about 1895" at this web site.
Near the bottom of the web page is written -” but thoughts being in the air are the possession of whoever can seize them..."
I believe the thoughts of Mr. Hubbard permeated the air and instilled in me the desire to create my personal journey into the lives of the greats.
.
© 2016 All Rights Reserved No part of this work may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of M. Bradley McCauley, author, publisher, M Bradley McCauley,
Confucius
I must first tell you about my early years. I was born in China in 551 BC. My father, Heih, was governor of one of the areas in China. He was in his seventies when I was born, and he died when I was three. My mother, a beautiful woman much younger than my father, taught me to work hard, live humbly, and serve my fellow man.
From an early age, I was taught that I was no better than any other children in the village. My father's status as governor was an honor he had earned, not mine, and I was made to work in the garden, tend the herds, and bring food and water.
Let a man's labor be proportioned to his needs, for he who works beyond his strength does but add to his cares and disappointments. A man should be moderate even in his efforts.
Our life was simple. Hard work helped develop my body. Quiet times at work gave me time to think about nature. I loved the beauty of the world, especially music.
I learned to play the lute, which is similar to today's guitar. Great happiness for me was to play and sing songs that I made up. People would come from far and near to hear my songs, and I thanked heaven for my ability to entertain them.
Because of my father's position, I was considered a 'prince'. I was what today would be called a 'pauper prince'. We owned land but not wealth in monetary terms.
As I got older, my duty was to ride throughout our state and make sure the people lived in harmony, and there was no unrest. Numerous times I found herders fighting over cattle or where the goats were to graze. I would tell them to treat each other as they wished to be treated. Today it is known as The Golden Rule. To me, it was a way of life.
Once I became weary of all the fighting occurring among my people, I painted a symbol of love and friendship on a piece of wood and placed it in front of my tent. It became a flag of peace that people would carry with them in a show of friendship to strangers.
I tried to teach people that quarreling is useless. It tires the body and mind. It causes what you call stress, and in the end, no one wins since the friction has depleted each body.
I was considered a teacher in my time. Now I am called a philosopher. I believed that every truth has four corners, and as a teacher, I give you one corner, and it is for you to find the other three. When a man has been helped around one corner of a square and cannot manage by himself to get around the other three, he is unworthy of further assistance.
Perhaps some things I believed in that long ago time would be helpful to the people of today. Some of them I learned from a great Chinese philosopher, Lao-tsze. I present some of those thoughts to you now. Be guided by them, use them in your life, and you will create a world for yourself that brings you great happiness.
As riches adorn a house, so does an expanded mind adorn and tranquilize the body. Hence, it is that the superior man will seek to establish his motives on correct principles.
Be aware of ever overdoing that which you are likely, sooner or later, to repent of having done.
The men of old spoke little. It would be well to imitate them, for those who talk much are sure to say something it would be better left unsaid.
A man must reason calmly for, without reason, he would look and not see, listen and not hear.
We should not search for love or demand it, but so live that it will flow to us.
Perhaps my thoughts and beliefs would be laughed at in your world today. It is indeed a much different world than mine, more complex, industrialized. We lived simply in my time, working the land, tending the cattle, and using our hands to build without machinery.
Somehow I feel that the words and ideas can be used anytime, with any people. I hope you will consider them in the context of your world. I also hope that you will find joy in the life you live.
Love the land and all of nature. Be thoughtful of your neighbor, and work so that you feel you have always done your best. Treat yourself with kindness and treat others as you would treat yourself.
//////////////////////////////
Plato: I have no desire to write this communication. Socrates, my teacher, and a friend asked that I write for both of us.
Socrates: You know me as well as I know myself, dear friend. I have one desire that you include; my major axiom is to know thyself.
Plato: I am amused that he would say this. Great were his orations, his lectures, and most of all his interrogation of the Sophists. He rallied wherever there was an ear. Only in the presence of his wife did he remain in a 'dumb' state. Many times she pulled him from a public lecture or debate to accost him not working.
Socrates: It is not true what you write, Plato. I was not idle. My work was to teach. Did I not teach you? You, who became the writer with books read through all these many generations. I have no books, only the statues I sculpted as a young man. Alas, I have no written work.
Plato: Yes, Socrates, but you have given more than the written word. You produced the ideas, and you taught great men who were to inscribe the words for posterity.
I am amused. He directs me to relate the information, which I do not wish to do, then he interrupts me with his comments. It is as it was when we were together in the great halls of Athens. He would bid me to begin the oratory and then proceed to question me until he was conducting the speech.
Socrates: I questioned to learn my own thoughts. The mind is stimulated by debate. Did my questions not stir you to greater thoughts?
Plato: True, in the ten years we were together you assaulted my mind. You were always the leader, I the follower. Even at your death, I would have followed you, drunk the hemlock with you, but you persuaded me to carry on and write your philosophies.
Socrates: Yes my friend, but you left Athens, the center of learning, and went to Syracuse, a cursed city of neglected intelligence.
Plato: I could not remain in Athens after you were forced to take your life, dear Socrates. I went to Syracuse after leisure travel through Italy to Egypt. Only after repeated requests from Dionysius, the ruler, did I feel free to go.
Socrates: What did he do? He sold you as a debtor.
Plato: I was given my freedom by a faithful benefactor and returned to Athens to continue my work.
Ahh, do I have silence for a brief moment? Have you no retort, Socrates? Good, then I shall continue the text as I was asked to do.
After my return to Athens, I was given the opportunity to start an academy, where I taught young students among the gardens and trees. Always I attempted to teach them the importance of classifying one's thoughts in order to think logically. My greatest pupil was Aristotle who became my trusted companion for many years. To him, I handed down your teachings Socrates and my own thoughts about life.
It was my firm belief that an authority that would grant equality to all should govern the State. I felt that people would work well if they were assigned to a labor they had a talent for and enjoyed doing. I believed in equality. I had been fortunate to be born into a family of wealth, which you dear friend Socrates were not. Still, I felt not superior to you or to any human. I might have been gifted by the design of the Creator to learn, write, and teach, but others too are gifted, to carve, build, harvest, and create.
Even a blind can learn to play the lute and give music to his neighbors. A crippled one can learn to weave and make fine clothes for others. I believed that women were not inferior to men, except perhaps in strength. Your mother, Socrates, was a nurse and midwife who supplemented your father's stone cutting income.
In my dialogue, The Republic, I extolled the virtue of women. I deplored that a woman should be forced into a marriage against her will. To have or not have a child was for her to decide not a husband or ruling authority.
Socrates: May I intercede at this point, Plato?
Plato: You will, with or without my approval.
Socrates: I owe you a debt of gratitude for preserving my teaching in Athens after I had been labeled a heretic and forced to drink Hemlock. Most of all, I wish to commend you on your expanded consciousness. You took my humble beliefs and combined them with your own. Frequently I have been given credit for philosophies that were yours.
Plato: It is of no consequence. Surely the seed of the idea was planted by you.
Socrates: Just as you planted the seeds in your student and friend Aristotle who expanded on them.
Plato: There is one major seed of an idea that should be passed on to all generations, Socrates.
Socrates: What might that be my friend?
Plato: To know thyself.
/////////////////
Aristotle
I was born in 384 BC in the mountains of Macedonia. My father was a surgeon to Amyntas, King of Macedon. I became good friends with the king's son, Philip.
When my father died in an avalanche of stones, I was taken to the home of a relative, Proxenus. King Amyntas was kind and generous to me in memory of my father. When I was seventeen, he agreed to send me to Athens where I studied with the great master Plato for twenty years.
I found Plato to be elderly, over sixty. Like Socrates, his teacher, he looked younger than his years.The Academy was a wonderful place of learning. We, students spent much of our time in the garden where we read or talked and listened to lectures by our Master. Plato and I became friends. Mostly he thought of me as a son, which he did not have.
I became a teacher at the Academy. Over the years, I became quite successful. I owned a large library where I studied natural history, plants, animals, and nature in general. I was also interested in economics.
When my beloved teacher died, I encountered great resistance from the people because I was considered a foreigner. I moved away, took a wife, and in time was summoned by King Philip to come to Macedon and be a teacher to his thirteen-year-old son, Alexander.
At that time, I was forty-two, filled with health and vitality. I often rode into the desert and slept under the stars. I loved animals and had what you would call a zoo. Alexander and I trained many animals and we kept a menagerie of all kinds of species. We studied horses and once we made a skeleton of the bones. People believed we were trying to make a living animal and laughed at us.
Alexander became a great military leader. He fought to defend Greece from the Persians and conquered many lands. We corresponded until his death. Again, I was assailed because I was a foreigner. I retreated to my country home where I lived and taught until I died at the age of sixty-two.
I believe that I am best known as a student of Plato and a teacher of Alexander. I do not feel that my wisdom was greater than another, or that I excelled at any study.I always believed that people should live in gentleness, moderation, and helpfulness. We are all part of the nature of life and should live accordingly.
Trust yourself, know that wisdom lies within you, and be guided by your intuition.
Happiness itself is a sufficient excuse. Beautiful things are right and true; so beautiful actions are those pleasing to the gods.
/////////////////////////
I write of my daughter, Hypatia with great love. Her mother and I, Theon, were blessed with her arrival in 351. From her first sounds, I was touched by the wisdom I perceived in her. As a teacher of mathematics and astronomy, I was determined she would be well educated. Her rare beauty was evident when she was still a mere child. Her mother and I admired her beauty and took great pride in her skill at learning.
I cautioned her to refrain from the common belief that a woman should be less than a man. My admonishment to her was to continually utilize her power to think and be able to contrive through her own mentality that was right for her.
As she grew in wisdom and beauty, she desired to travel and learn from great teachers. Her capacity to ask questions outdistanced my simple education, thus I allowed her and gave her the means to go. First, she went to Athens, then to Rome. Her letters were filled with the news of the day. She was entertained in the homes of the leading citizens in each city.
In Alexandria, she taught Neo-Platonism. I was not in agreement with this new philosophical thought-form and I wished for her to be with me as I aged. How blessed it might have been for both of us.
Unrest in Alexandria between the church and state brought about her eventual demise. This came long after I had passed on. My grief that she was so far distant went with me to my grave.
Hypatia's mind was set against formal religion. She taught freedom of spirit and
freedom of thought. This did not sit well with the ruling church. She was accused of trying to start her own religion. In spite of threats, Hypatia stood her ground and taught her philosophy as her followers grew in great numbers. People came from great distances to hear her speak. They were captivated by her beauty, her eloquence, and her thought-provoking rhetoric.
She believed, as did Plato, that the soul of all of mankind is united. She believed in the oneness of all and the universal force of life existing in all that is. She made no individual god or gods, no graven images. Her thought was that all should think with a divine mind, allowing the truth of what is within their nature to be the truth in their lives.
To know oneself, and to trust his or her intuition was the main facet of her teachings. For this, my daughter suffered great threats and ridicule. In the end, people were told that Hypatia had gone to Athens. Rumors were rampant. The prevalent story was that she had been set upon by a frenzied mob, murdered, and her remains set on fire to hide the evidence.
I have no desire to change what has been said. That my daughter lived, learned, and taught is of most importance to me, not how she died. Suffice to say, Hypatia did that which she was born to do. Her beauty, intellect and her philosophy helped others in far-reaching ways.
//////////////////////
Swedenborg
Swedenborg, you're crazy! They cried when I told them I was inventing a boat that could navigate underwater.
I was nearly laughed out of town when I made a treadmill chariot where the horse rode on board. The horse bolted one day and caused damage in the town. I had to give up my invention. However, I did visualize that someday guns would be able to shoot dozens of cartridges in a moment and I knew there would be flying machines. Alas, my work was not to be the inventor of these futuristic things. My work was to write and work as an assayer for the King of Sweden, which is where I was born.
My parents welcomed me in 1688. My father was a Bishop of the Lutheran church. He was interested in the spiritual world, believing that he was receiving messages from those who had passed beyond. This subject greatly interested me when I grew older. I wrote about it, but unfortunately, most of the people of those times did not understand what I was writing. Oh yes, I was praised highly but the praise was from people who could not understand the words, therefore they thought the writing was of a great intellectual nature.
How I wish I could live in these wonderful, modern times of yours. I would say to my countrymen, see, see, it is possible to have all the things I told you about, the submarines, the Gatling gun, and the motorcar. I would be the one to laugh then, but never at anyone's expense. I would laugh with joy that these things had come to be.
Emanuel! Emanuel! You are a dreamer, I would hear my family say again and again. My father believed in my dreams and made it possible for me to travel to Germany, France, Italy, and England, where I was able to meet with heads of state and brilliant men. I learned the language of each country and prided myself in my ability to converse with the people in their native tongue.
I had been an excellent scholar. I loved to study and learn, especially things of nature. When I returned from my tour of the foreign countries, I wrote in detail of my travels. The King took me on to give scientific advice about the mineral properties of ores. I was happy to do this work since I loved all that had to do with the earth. I also designed canals for the State and was considered to be quite good at my work.
For my work in transporting ships overland by using a roller railway, the King knighted me. It was a just reward. Modesty was never one of my characteristics. I believed that if the Almighty gives us gifts, then we should use them to the maximum limit.
I wrote a book of prophecies and regret that although I lived into my eighties, I never saw my visions materialize. It pleases me now that most of the things I wrote about have come into being. Your generation is lucky, and you too might have dreams of things to come in the future.
Consider these:
Planets being connected by a universal highway system, but rather than roads, highways would be built on laser beams of light.
The earth would become a contained object surrounded by a Plexiglas-like substance. Openings would work for space travel, and the shield would protect the environment. The sun's life-giving energy would be filtered through a web-like opening during certain periods of the day.
This environmental protection system would enable other planets to be inhabited.
The atmosphere would come through a filter system much like the reservoirs of today.
The human body will have learned to sustain itself on chemical foods. This is all part of your natural evolution.
These things may seem outlandish to you but then so did my predictions of a submarine, machine gun, and automobile
.///////////
Jane Austen
Oh my, I am unprepared to be brought into this world of fast and frenzied motion. Please forgive me but I am a simple girl from the country. Your world today could not understand the life I lived more than 100 years ago.
I am humbled that you invited me to converse with you about my stories, but even after all these years, I have no idea why they are considered great novels. Pride and Prejudice and Sense and Sensibility are merely stories to me.
I wrote with the simplicity of my rural life. As the daughter of a Reverend in a small village, I saw very little of spectacular living, except on occasion when a relative visited from London or even France.
I remember when my cousin, the widow Madame Fenilade, arrived at our humble lodging to stay for a short visit. It was not a short visit. She stayed until she married my brother. She was the delight of the household.
She even taught us to speak French sufficiently. I was saddened that they moved away. Of course, it was my father who requested nothing but French be spoken in the household for a period of time. It was not long before we were all conversant in the French language.
No one knows of my longing to go to France. I dreamed of it as I committed myself to my daily chores. Father would not allow any of us to be idle, with the exception of when I would tarry at the desk with my writing. It was accepted, for in the evening, I would read to our family the words I had written and they would comment.
Some of their suggestions I accepted, including them in the correct places within my rendering or not. My wonderful secret was that I, and I alone could indulge in my fantasy life and write what I pleased.
As I have mentioned, if you will pardon me for repetition, we lived a rural life in a small community. One of my delights, aside from writing, was to accompany my father on his rounds visiting the parishioners. It was when I listened to their tales told to my father, that I sensed a spirit of various identities.
As the men spoke quietly over cups of spiced tea, the baker's wife, Amilee, told me of the young man who first captured her heart.
She had been born into a family of wealth and prestige in London among the social gentry. She fell deeply in love with a handsome young Baron. When it became known she was with child, her parents sent her to our Village of Steventon. The babe was born out of wedlock and was sent to be adopted by a family in Yorkshire. She never saw the baron after she had been banished. She never saw the child of their union. She heard from a traveler who had stopped to purchase bread that the baron died in a tragic carriage accident. Leaning towards me, she whispered how she often would imagine he was on his way to be with her.
I was awed by her tale. The vivid description of her lover remained with me long after our visit. I wonder now if it might have been the seedling of the birth of one of the characters I fell in love with in my fantasy stories. I certainly do not recall any one of his style and demeanor ever visiting the Parsonage, our home. Was he perhaps the embryo of Mr. Darcy?
I truly cannot say. It was so long ago. It was a time of simplicity and decorum. It was a time to think without distraction. It was simple to go about one’s chores with practiced hands and an imaginative mind. Sweeping the floors of the rectory, I could feel his presence waiting the turn of my head. Stirring cream to churn butter, I could feel the warmth of his breath upon my neck. I would close my eyes, preparing for his touch. Too often, my sister Cassandra would sneak upon me and startle me from my reverie. Upon occasion, the churn would be dashed to the floor. Cassandra would howl with laughter.
I was very young when I began writing, only twenty. I never planned for my stories to be published. My father wrote to several publishers, who informed him they had no desire to read the ramblings of a country girl. It was only after Papa passed that we sent my words to a gentleman who agreed to publish them. A very limited printing I might say. No one was more surprised than I when they were in demand by the public.
Two of my stories were published after I joined my departed Father. Never did I even pretend to be a writer of worth. I wrote for myself, to live in a fantasy world and to amuse my family. I am quite surprised that I have been considered a novelist of some worth.
If I were to live in your fast-paced world, I sincerely doubt that I would know how to be in quietude and retreat to my imagination. The swirling events around everyone and the noise would be intrusive, blocking any meaningful thought. Where could I retreat to capture my ideal life?
No, 'tis better that I lived in the long-ago time where life was simple. I might not have been in a world of grandeur, a life of splendor, except perhaps when I was at the tiny desk in the parlor. It was there I could live in a fantasy world of my imagination. It was a very good time.
/////////////////
I am humbled and proud to be called the Father of this great nation. It is an honor bestowed beyond my youthful dreams and simple ambitions. I often think it would have been better served upon the author of our Declaration of Independence, my friend, fellow Virginian, Thomas Jefferson, or any of the other framers of the Constitution. Great men all, who would well deserve the honor bestowed upon me. They held my most profound admiration, and I was honored to be among them as they founded our country’s fundamental ideals.
You know of my involvement as a General of the ByronArmy when we fought the British for our freedom. Much has been written of my crossing the Delaware River to battle with Lord Cornwallis and his troops, but did you know it was the third crossing? Another occurred on Christmas Day.
I am not writing to review my life and times as a General or as the first President of the United States. I have come to give a glimpse of my time before those written in great lengths by historians throughout several generations.
I am here to show you my life, begun in simple trappings in a small community in West Moreland County, Virginia. My father, Augustine Washington, married my mother after his first wife died, leaving him with two sons. He was not a man of wealth and prestige; he was a simple planter. It would not be said he was a gentleman farmer, nor the lord of a plantation, but a man with some land, which he managed and earned a living for his family.
Born a year after their marriage, I was very fond of my mother, Mary Ball. She was an austere, self-disciplined woman who often seemed to lack sentimentality towards any of her six children. As the eldest, I was quite aware of her sensibility and also aware of her loving heart, hidden beneath the veneer of her stoic courage.
We moved from Westmoreland County twice before my father died when I was eleven, eventually settling near Fredericksburg. I am sad to report my education was quite limited. Unlike children of the gentry who could afford tutors, I was taught by my mother and my older half-brother Lawrence, whom I greatly admired. I had some schooling in the local schoolhouse, but my formal education ended when I was fourteen.
I was not only limited in formal education but in social skills as well. I have an outstanding indebtedness to Lawrence, who was the epitome of social graces and charm and was most anxious to teach me when I visited him at his home, Mt. Vernon.
Despite my humble and limited education, I was good at mathematics and learned some of the basics of surveying. Eventually, at the age of seventeen, I became a surveyor and was quite content in that field. I was able to make a substantial living and even buy some land, hoping to become a gentleman farmer someday.
Alas, I was most saddened when my dear brother and mentor died of tuberculosis. For a long time, I was morose, in deep sorrow, grieving as I had not even grieved with the passing of my father. To ease the pain, I took on a great deal of work, neglected my personal life, and almost became a recluse. That was all turned about in two years when Lawrence’s daughter died, and I inherited Mt. Vernon. I vowed I would finish my brother’s dream to embellish the home and lands and make it one of Virginia’s great plantations.
I was not granted much time to fulfill the dream. Because I had also inherited his rank as Major in the Virginia militia, in less than a year, I was ordered by Governor Dimwiddle to deliver a message to the French, who were occupying the land near an area that is known today as Pittsburgh. At that time, it was part of the Virginia western frontier. It was a very long and arduous journey of 900 miles during freezing weather and many hazards.
A few months later, the Governor advanced my rank to Lt. Colonel and sent me with 150 men to battle with the French in the Ohio territory. Sadly, and with great humiliation, I lost the battle. It has been noted in history that this skirmish was what started the French and Indian War.
Unfortunately, it was not my only defeat in battle. I regrettably recall New York City’s battle when General Howe’s army defeated us at Long Island. But, I am not here to speak of my life during those times. Historians have noted it in great detail.
After my French defeat, I returned to Mt. Vernon, resigned from my military position, and again endeavored to become a prosperous landowner and farmer. It was at this time I met and married Martha Dandridge Custis, a handsome and appealing widow, mother of two children who became very dear to me. The gossip-mongers insisted I married my Martha for her wealth and estate near Williamsburg. I shall give no credence to this tale.
After two defeats, I was finally elected to the Virginia House of Burgesses, a group of landowners who met regularly in Williamsburg to form laws that could be approved or not by the Governor, his council of six well-known citizens, or directors in London. At that time, we were still a colony of the English Crown.
While politics was not one of my main concerns of the day, I did enjoy the rapport and idea exchange with the likes of Jefferson and Patrick Henry. Through them, I became concerned about the increasing disputes between the Colonies and Great Britain.
I had mixed emotions. After I resigned my commission in 1755, I volunteered to be an aide to General Edward Braddock, who the King sent to oust the French from Ohio. If you recall, it was the area of my defeat as a military commander.
However, because of my commitment to helping send the French out of the territory, I was given command of Virginia’s entire military force. With a few hundred men, I was dispatched to protect 350 miles of the frontier. Once the British took full command, I returned to my beloved Mt. Vernon.
It was memories of my time with the British commander that I had hesitant thoughts about breaking with our mother country. Those thoughts were eventually dispelled after I was selected to be one of the six Virginia delegates to the Continental Congress in Philadelphia.
As unrest increased among the delegates and their constituents at home, the thoughts of breaking with the King and possible war became apparent. At that time, I was commissioned to take command of the Continental Army. It was a frightening position as I had only seen battle along the frontier. Never did I feel worthy of being in this esteemed position; however, my military experience was more than any other who had been considered.
I had written to Martha telling her I did not expect the time away to last too long. It was eight years before I returned to Mt. Vernon and my family for good.
As I said earlier, I’m sure you have read or heard of my time as a military leader, eventually as president of the new United States of America. I caution you, do not believe all that you read.
Did I chop down the cherry tree, or was that merely a tale embellished upon by one of my first biographers, Mason Locke Weems?
Did I have wooden teeth? With your modern technology, it has been learned my teeth, which I began losing at an early age, were carved from Hippopotamus ivory.
Was I as austere, straight-laced, and serious as my mother? No, I loved to dance, and, much to Martha’s annoyance, I liked to pay attention to the ladies. You would call it flirting.
Did I throw a silver dollar across the Potomac? Anyone who has seen that river in our Capital knows it is impossible; however, I had a cousin who swore I threw one across the narrower Rappahannock. I don’t recall the incident.
I am hesitant to dispel any of the misguided historical tales about my life and times. I would like to leave you with this.
To serve my fellow citizens, to work the land I loved, to keep accounts of my expenditures, to be in the company of great men who formed this country, some who died for their beliefs, and to have lived a good life is what I hope you will most remember about me.
///////////////////////////
It amuses me that I am often remembered more for my enjoyment of the fair sex than for my inventions, writing, and statesmanship. Yes, I did enjoy the ladies, and I was often surprised that they, even the very young ones, returned my advances.
I wonder how many people know that I was born in Boston, not Philadelphia. As the youngest of fifteen children, I was quite spoiled by my mother. To bring some discipline into my life, I was apprenticed to my older brother, and I learned a printer’s trade.
Not too infrequently, I wrote things and slipped them under the door of his office. He, thinking they had been written by someone more erudite than I, printed them. When he learned they were my musing, and he, he was most unpleasant. I thought it a good idea to leave, and I sailed on a schooner to Philadelphia.
Ahh, the City of Brotherly Love, how I enjoyed the environs, especially after I made the acquaintance of Deborah Reed, whom I eventually married.
In most areas, I led a charmed and happy life. I followed my trade as a printer and did quite well. My life was most pleasant. I was a writer, a fair politician, and I invented useful items. Today people refer to the reading glasses I made as Franklin Glasses. That, too, amuses me. As you can tell, I have always been a rather jovial person, even more so when I was able to retire at the relatively young age of 42.
Retiring early is what afforded me the opportunity to begin my career as a statesman. I started an organization called the Junto Club. Here, some of the learned and interesting men of Philadelphia gathered to discuss the events of the times and how we could benefit others and ourselves from them. This was the foundation for the Public Library. I suppose one could say I started the library for more people to have access to my writings, but that was not quite my intent.
My little experiment with the kite and key may have seemed like folly to the people of my day, but you know what has become of it. I will admit it was a bit scary standing out there in the flashing storm but so worthwhile. I proved a point, did I not?
I enjoyed several years of experimenting, but I knew the unrest that was occurring in our colonies. The people were not happy with the way the Crown was treating them, and in 1754 I wrote a piece determining that it would be wise for the colonies to unite. I expounded on this thesis for a time, and finally, in 1757, I was sent to England as an agent to plead the cause of our fledgling country.
It was a most enjoyable five-year experience. William, the young lad I brought back from England previously and adopted as my son, and I were entertained by most of the socially known and hospitable gentry. While I was considered quite a social gad-about, I was quietly making the feelings of my countrymen known. Unfortunately, those in power were not listening. They paid no heed. Most of them thought the colonists were indolent little upstarts.
I returned to my home for a short two years. The Stamp Act was most likely the crowning blow. Back I went to merry old England, but again to no avail. Only a handful of the elite heard what I was telling them over the next few years. Finally, knowing I could make no changes in what was happening, I sailed home and became one of the Declaration of Independence signers.
When war broke out, our little bands of men prepared to do battle with the great might of England. I went to France and entreated them to help our cause. They responded quite heartily, and I am happy to say my years in that allied country were joyfully spent. Ahh, France, how lively she was and most beautiful. But I must not remain in nostalgia; I am here to share my life and times with you. Some, of course, are not to be written in detail. Suffice to say, Oh, France, how I enjoyed my sojourn there.
I believe my life was one of great delight. I enjoyed the things I did as a writer, statesman, inventor, and Bon vivant. I was given the opportunity to travel, meet many great people in different countries, be a founding father of an emerging nation, and tinker with ideas that turned into successful inventions.
I always attempted to live within my conscience’s dictates, which were to harm no one, be of usefulness to others, and enjoy my life.
By Jove, I think I did it.
/////////////////////
Lord Byron
I was not lame, as has oft been told. My limp was not due to a malformation but an accident during my birth. Let that first be known and accepted. It was not an honor to be considered a lame poet.
Also, I was not born a Lord. That distinguished honor came to me on the death of an uncle. I, being the only male heir, became Lord Bryon. I was christened George Gordon Byron. I was not born into society nor raised among the more cultured class.
I was the son of an Army Captain, a rather vagabond person known to many as BlackJack Byron. My mother, whom I would prefer not to discuss, was his second wife and I, his second child. My stepsister, Augusta, was born two years before her mother, Baroness Conyers, died in France after leaving her husband, the Marquis of Carmarthen, to live with my father. Nothing more needs to be said of this relationship except that I loved Augusta but was not in love with Augusta, as it has sometimes been mistakenly told.
I had a most unpleasant childhood. My father traveled with his regiment, most often squandering the pay before caring for his family. Augusta was more fortunate than I. After her mother died, she lived with her grandparents, who were quite well off financially, and she was raised in a genteel environment.
I, on the other hand, was often left to my own rearing. My mother was not skilled in parenting. She often taunted me, called me vile names, and then in bouts of remorse, would embrace me until I felt I would suffocate. I both loved and hated her. The hate was because I wanted her to love me, but most of the time, she chose to ignore me.
My schooling was intermittent. Sometimes I went, sometimes I didn't. It was my father's genes I believe I inherited that prompted me to act the role of a vagabond and live a life of pleasures of the flesh. Sometimes with drink, sometimes gambling, sometimes carousing.
About the time I turned sixteen, I fell in love. It was far different than my youthful infatuation with Mary Duff. My love for her was the love I could not bear for my mother. She listened to my childish yearnings. She gave me respect rather than taunts, understanding rather than criticism, joy rather than sorrow. An unloved child needs someone like Mary Duff.
My first passionate love came about after my uncle's title and inheritance was bestowed upon me. My mother took us to Nottingham, and Miss Chatsworth lived on a neighboring estate. I was smitten with affection and physical attraction though she was not what one would call a great beauty. I knew it not then, but she dallied with my attention, driving me to sublime pleasure with a glance or deepest agony with a rebuff.
Never knowing what mood she would present in my presence, I took to expressing my feelings in little rhymes, which I thought she treasured and that she was beginning to return my heart's desire. I accidentally overheard her remarks to a servant. The words,” Don't imagine that I am such a fool as to love that lame boy,” cut me deeply, wounded me, I thought, beyond healing.
I admit I had a sensitive nature. Lacking my father’s guidance or any male, I was not admonished to be a man and hide my feelings. I more often struggled with them, trying desperately not to weep upon a sorrowful occurrence in the company of peers.
When I felt the need, I would retreat to my educational foundation at Harrow School, where I sauntered between studies and follies. Hoping to become manlier, for lack of another word, I studied the art of pugilism, along with perfecting the art of dalliance. It was a lackluster existence with no defined objective or a driven purpose.
Our funds dwindled, and as the estate became too costly to maintain, we moved to Southwell, a small, rather dull village between Mansfield and Newark. By then, I was attending Cambridge. Note, I stated I was attending, as I did not consider myself studying at Cambridge.
The one high point of living in Southwell was my association with John Pigot and his sister. They became dear friends, and we spent many hours together taking long walks, idling much of our time. They were the catalysts to becoming a writer of prose, Giveerse, if you will, of poetry.
Encouragement in any endeavor had never been placed upon me until they, dear, dear friends, delighted in my scribbling. Their glowing praise and obvious enjoyment of the words I wrote and read to them kindled my desire to do more. Eventually, they instilled in me a confidence to have my words printed, bound, and titled, Juvenilia, which to my surprise, sold for sixpence.
Empowered by the success of Juvenilia, I proceeded to write and compile another printed book, which I called, Hours of Idleness. My vision of being hailed as a writer of worth was impaled by the scathing criticism of Lord Brougham in the Edinburgh Review. Crushed, daunted, exasperated beyond normal frustration, I became incensed and determined to destroy the assailant of my heartfelt words with the very weapon of his ridicule, the pen and paper.
As I searched for vilifying words of contempt for all those critics who often destroyed emerging talent’s artistic endeavors, Anger seethed within. It was with an angry heart that I wrote and published English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. When it was done, I retreated to my Newstead Estate, bringing along revelers who joined me in days and nights of partying and debauchery.
Leaving all that behind me, I decided it was time to take my rightful place in the House of Lords and become a gentleman. I was not welcome, unfortunately being assailed by Lord Carlisle, my guardian, with whom I had been at odds for quite some time. While not accepted by the peers, I presented myself as a member, as was my right.
In time, the life of a gentleman was not ordained for me. I soon found myself restless and anxious to be away from England. I am not ashamed to admit I was an admirer of Napoleon. Needless to say, my countrymen did not accept it.
Bored and restless, I borrowed a sum of money, recruited a friend, and my valet, Fletcher, to embark on jolly adventures seeing other parts of the world. We toured Europe, enjoying the popular cities’ delights and the excitement of changing horizons, which encouraged my writing, Muse.
I diligently obeyed its command and wrote from city to city, from adventure to adventure, sometimes detailing encounters. One I recall was in Athens. It was there I wrote, Maid of Athens,’ ere we part, give, oh give me back my heart.’ As I look back upon that time, I wonder, was it a fair lass of which I yearned, or was it Athens that had stolen my heart? I'm unsure.
Our two-year journey came to an end and, upon reaching the shores of England, I learned my mother had recently passed on. I was able to attend her funeral but did not remain for the burial. The pent-up emotions of our long-denied relationship burst to the surface, and I could not bear to watch her interred into the ground, aware her mothering love would never be granted.
I became settled, hoped perhaps to wed. In the meantime, I worked on a manuscript, a compilation of my writing during my travels. I presented it for publication. It was accepted and printed. Much to my surprise, and that of the publisher, John Murray, it became quite successful. Childe Harolds' Pilgrimage. It had a run of seven editions in four weeks. I was never fond of it. I was, however, quite fond of the attention and social amenities it afforded me. It was inebriating to be a celebrity in the social strata of England.
Eventually, I wed a young woman of some financial means. Our union lasted little beyond a year. When our babe, Ada was but a few weeks old, her mother departed with her and moved back to live with her mother. This hasty, ill-thought decision aroused gossip, tales of abuse, and accusations of infidelity. I went from being a celebrity to a scourge on society. I was warned to watch where I ventured, for a mob could assemble and become threatening.
I knew it would be of no use to defend myself against the scathing diatribes. It was time for me to leave the country of my birth again. With heavy heart, I boarded a ship that would take me to Holland. I was twenty-eight, had lived a lifetime of dissatisfaction, and I was determined to be an author of merit.
My travels through Germany and Switzerland inspired me beyond anything I had anticipated. Words flowed effortlessly. I became enthused with each inspiring view. It was as if a sleeping appreciative soul had awakened. I wrote, and the words were published, accepted in England, and I felt a satisfaction I had never known before.
Was it this awakened soul that led me to Greece and a quiet, caring relationship with a woman who filled my heart with the love I had never known? Our five years together were my most endearing years. Perhaps, had I known her kind of love in my youth, I would have never felt that man's greatest tragedy is that he can conceive of a perfection which he cannot attain.
With her, I came close to that perfection.
///////////////////
Much ado was made at my passing from this life. Surely people knew that I was ready for the journey. Near the end, my memory failed, and my mind was not as keen and agile as it had been.I no longer wrote, nor could I converse with a degree of competency. Time had taken its toll, but I was ready, and I knew I was about to embark on another journey.
It had been an easy life that I enjoyed during the early times. Life was not complex. I came from a respected family, was fortunate to receive a good education, and had the benefits of good friends of intelligence.
As a young man, I aspired to become a minister. I achieved that goal; however, I determined it was not the life for me. My philosophies were not readily acceptable to the clergy. When I left the ministry, I embarked on a trip to England where I longed to meet with men of literature. In my youthful mind, I believed this young country of America had no literary masters.
I would know men such as Carlyle, Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Dickens, who would become friends in years to come. I was privileged to dine with Tennyson, exchange ideas with Macaulay, admire George Stephenson’s inventiveness, and the mind of Thackeray.
As I grew older and wiser, I admired and respected my countrymen: Bronson; Alcott; Henry James: Margaret Fuller; Nathaniel Hawthorne; and my dearest friend, Henry David Thoreau, the young man I had taken into my home to assist me in my attempt at farming.
How grand and yet simple were his stories. His oneness with nature embellished all that he said and did. Well, I recall helping to get him a scholarship to Harvard, and the joy I felt when he returned, still imbued with his love of nature, unimpressed by the classic education.
What can I say of my life? That I enjoyed the company of all people? I was equally at home with the laborer as with the socially elite. I wrote my thoughts and feelings and people invited me to speak them in public lectures. I was an admirer of the Plato philosophy and a member of the Transcendentalist Society*. My joy was exchanging ideas with anyone who cared to listen.
To be a poet of worth was my greatest aspiration. Unfortunately, it was not to be. My rhyme and verse were acceptable but not of great literary value.
I also failed as a farmer. Hawthorne once wrote that my idea of farming was to lean on a hoe while Thoreau leaned upon a rake and Alcott sat on the fence. It is somewhat true. We greatly enjoyed discourse over workhorse.
My thoughts and philosophies were not new. They had been the filtration of wisdom from earlier times. I embraced the thoughts and beliefs of masters before me and then reconciled them with my own intuitive spirit. In my essay, Fate, I wrote:
No one can read a history of astronomy
without perceiving that Copernicus, Newton,
Laplace. are not new men or a new kind of men,
but that Thales, Anaximenes, Hipparchus,
Pythagoras, OEnipodes, had anticipated them;
Did Socrates and Plato not come before Immanuel Kant? And before Moses, Confucius, and Pythagoras? When people speak of New Thought, compare it to ancient wisdom, and you will find that nothing new exists under the sun that has not been envisioned by another.
How do I appraise myself as a writer? In my essay on beauty, I stated:
It is proof of high culture to say,
the greatest matters in the simplest way,
or to clothe the fiery thought,
In simple words succeeds,
For still the craft of genius is
To mask a king in weeds.
I believe that we could learn much from the laborers who work close to nature. Watch a man build a bridge, see a woman tend her garden, observe the tin maker crafting his wares, and you see nature in her finest hours.
If we are true to our nature, open our minds to the voice of the universal spirit, allow the will of fate to guide our actions, break no law of nature, then we have lived to the fullest measure of our being. To that end, I hope I achieved a modicum of success.
////////////////
Henry David Thoreau
My sojourn to Walden Pond has been somewhat exaggerated. True, I did live in a cabin I built on Walden Pond, but I was not as isolated as it has been reported. The property belonged to my dear friend and mentor, Ralph Waldo Emerson. I was within easy walking distance to my family home, and I also spent many evenings there with the Emerson's.
The community of Concord, Massachusetts, was alive with writers and thinkers. They inspired me. Encouraged and aided by Mr. Emerson, I studied at Harvard and did quite well for a pencil maker son. However, the confines of academia were not for me. I tried teaching school but was dismissed by the headmaster because I refused to use the switch.
I spent some time on Staten Island tutoring the children of Mr. Emerson's brother. Horace Greeley asked me to be a reporter for the Brooklyn Tribune. I declined. I longed for the woods, to be alone with nature, my thoughts, and my writing. My decision to return to Concord and the outdoor life was made in 1845.
The cabin I built was on a hillside that sloped down to Walden Pond. The furnishings were simple. I made a table, chair, and bed. My life also was simple. I followed no prescribed schedule, doing work in the garden when I felt like it, writing when the mood was upon me, and watching the ants hard at work on their little colonies.
Neighbors and friends provided my provisions. In return, I labored for them wherever I could be of use. My social life consisted of the woodchucks, squirrels, ducks, and owls, as well as freethinking Transcendentalists who came to exchange ideas. Imagine the joy of communing with Hawthorne, Alcott, Fuller, and Carlyle when he came to America and visited Mr. Emerson.
I was arrested for refusing to pay a poll tax. It was my contention that it was wrong to pay money to arm men who would kill others. I was somewhat contemptible about the government. Perhaps that and not the desire for solitude is what drove me to the woods. Of politics, I stated, the best government is not that which governs least, but that which governs not at all.
For years, while nourishing my mind and spirit, I neglected my body. Food was often a few berries or a piece of fruitcake a kindly wife of a friend would insist I take with me after a visit. The cold winters in the cabin did nothing to better my condition.
During my lifetime, I had only a few pieces of writing published. I did not write for the people but for myself. To me, the greatest living writer of the time was Walt Whitman. I suppose one could say he awed me.
I considered myself a naturalist. I loved all of nature, and it was said that I saw God in most things. Tis true, while I had no use for churches or sermons, I believed all the earth was my church, and life foretold more than the mere words of a preacher.
I passed on at an early age, 44, but oh how I had lived those years. How much fulfillment I had, most of all, I had contentment.
If you wish to quote me on life, say that I believed that man is the only tool or vehicle. Mind alone is immortal! The thought is the thing!
///////////////////////////////
Harriet Beecher Stowe
My upbringing was in a strict Protestant family. With a father like Lyman Beecher, who was considered one of the leading religious orators of the times, I had no recourse but to be bestowed the heritage of religious ethics. Our entire family was imbued with holy rights and unholy wrongs.
Father was most adamant about his views. He was strongly pro Calvinism and believed firmly in the equality of all men. Another ethic I embraced at an early age was work. No one ever put in longer hours helping around the house, studying, writing, and teaching than I. My sister Catherine relied on me to assist her at the school for girls, which she founded.
When I married Professor Calvin Stowe, the widower of one of my dearest friends, I had already seen several of my short stories published in magazines. For me, writing was a compulsion. It was not unusual for a friend or relative to receive 10 or 20-page letters from me. I poured out my feelings with intensity.
My brother, Henry Ward, who, like my father, also became a renowned minister, was bombarded with my epistles of soul rendering prose. Within me screamed the Muse who could not be stilled. I wrote until my hand ached, my mind wearied, and my thoughts finally stilled by pure exhaustion.
I was deeply disturbed by the slavery issue. My father convinced me at an early age that all men are created equal. This conviction led to his ultimate ouster from the Church he loved so dearly. The prevailing attitude in many Protestant churches was that there were classes of society, and each should act accordingly.
This attitude was unthinkable to me. In my later years, I realized that people are classed by their attitudes, perhaps brought on by society’s prevailing mode, but another should never enslave another.
Race, creed, economics, or academic quality should not be used to denigrate any of God's creations. I firmly believed that education was the primary means of ending this injustice.
My joy in life was always my family. My children were my priority, and the loss of two sons devastated me. Each time I buried myself in my work and wrote with unceasing vigor. In my writing, I could lose myself and ease the pain.
Many of the stories I wrote had been serialized in magazines before they were published in books. I became known as a writer of essays and articles prior to Uncle Tom's Cabin, which I wrote and sent chapters weekly to the National Era magazine.
I had planned to complete the story in six may months, but it grew and grew and was finished in a year. I never expected it to make such an impact. That it was ultimately printed in forty languages overwhelms me. I frequently stated that I could not control the story, it wrote itself. In my heart, I believed God, using me as an instrument, wrote it.
As a published author, I was afforded the opportunity to travel to England and the Continent. I made several sojourns there and delighted in the hospitality. I had never been in robust health, and the sea voyage always rallied me. Perhaps it was the sea air, or perhaps it was the time away from the continual demands of my life.
My son Charles claimed that President Lincoln looked down at me with his coal nugget eyes and said, So this is the lady who started the Great War! I don't recall the incident, but Charles was with me the day I met Mr. Lincoln. If it was said, it is a terrible accusation to put on anyone. True, my book, Uncle Tom's Cabin, did stir up the hornet's nest, but the seeds of unrest were planted, and a divided nation had been the harvest before it had been written.
I never felt that I had a hand in bringing about the Civil War. The only contribution I might have made was in my letters to some of England’s noted women, enlisting their help to bring about Britain's support for President Lincoln’s government. I was not anti the South. I thought the people were kind and genteel and that the practice of slavery occurred because it had been part of their heritage.
To be politically minded was never my first cause. My religious values were paramount in all of my novels. I believed that God is all love, and thus all are loved by God. That we should treat each other with humanity, justice, and love was my foremost philosophy.
On the occasion of my seventy-first birthday in 1882, at a party in my honor, I reticently gave a speech where I stated my feelings about life with the comment,
“Let us never doubt. Everything that ought to happen is going to happen. And so it did in my life, so it does in yours”.
If I were to live in these times, I would implore you to be mindful of the good in your neighbor so that your neighbor will find the good in you.
Elizabeth Barrett and Robert Browning
Robert:
Ba, my sweet, I must tell the readers that had I not met and loved you, my life would never have become complete, nor would I have reached some degree of success. You, my darling, beautiful girl, with the sweet face surrounded by the mass of curls, released someone in me I could never have been without you.
Elizabeth:
Robert, my darling, hush. It was you who rescued me from my darkened room, raised me from my bed to go into the world. No, no, my darling love, it is I who worship you and hold fast to your eternal love.
Before you came into my life Robert, my love, I had become an invalid, sentenced to a lifetime of darkness and lying pitifully on my bed. My father convinced me that I was ill. The Doctor agreed and I was not allowed to leave the confines of my room. It was there that I poured out my soul in verse. Sometimes I translated in Greek to stimulate my mind. I was bedridden; sure I would be leaving this earth in but a short time.
Robert:
My darling Ba, how I wish I had known you before I had squandered so many years in foolishness, living off of my father’s dole. I regret the time spent in idleness and folderol. My sweet, for years my writing was scorned by publishers. Potential readers claimed they could not discern my heartfelt poetry. Even my father despaired of my future. I am indebted he continued to support me until my sweet love, I met you.
Elizabeth:
Robert, my dearest, we pursued our paths as the Divine conspired. Had we not lived as we did, our paths might never have crossed and a love so sublime would have been lost to the world. Hush now my darling, I have been asked to present my early life for the readers of this work.
For a time, I lived a life of grandeur. My father was extremely wealthy as a plantation owner in Jamaica. His utmost desire was to live in England, where I was the first of his family to be born in his motherland. Our home was one of elegance, run very smoothly by servants.
Alas, my poor mother was not well for many years of my life. When she passed I tried to take on the duties of matron of the household. My utter dismay is I never achieved that role. A lung condition sent me to my bed, where I languished under the spell of morphine administered by a Doctor my father held in great esteem.
The servants were commanded to keep my room dark. I was dissuaded from any attempt to remove myself from my bed. It was the life of a prisoner. It was a life that led me to deep depression, released only when I could pursue my love of learning. I was still a child when I learned Hebrew. The classics entranced me, and I was enthralled to be able to translate works of the Greek masters.
My greatest defeat was in not convincing my father of the atrocities of slavery. His wealth was dependent on slaves working on the family plantations in Jamaica. Could he not see the wrong committed by enslaving another? Was it wrong for me to be secretly happy when the enslaved revolted and father was forced to sell his property at a loss? God bless those who worked for a pittance so my father could live in great ease. I rejoiced in their freedom.
Oh, but reader, I dare not dwell upon the sadness of my life, only the joy. You, my darling Rob, brought me my greatest joy, even more than my fame as a poet. Writing poetry was a result of my desire for love. I still remember, with a bit of trembling, when we eloped to wed. I returned to my father’s house, fearful he would banish me back to my room. A long, terrifying week ensued before I steeled my way from the house, and we quickly embarked on our future, beginning in France.
I am saddened now to recall how short our life together was, only fifteen years. My sweet, they were the most blissful years one could ever dream of living. We had our son, Robert Wideman Browning, who brought us both delight. Tis true, I was desolate that my father refused to read my letters and returned them unopened. You held me when I wept. You dried my tears and assured me my father loved me. Thank you for that.
I loved our home in Florence. It gave me a sense of peace in spite of my constant turmoil over social issues like children working long hours and the oppression of women. Oh my dearest, I tried so hard to bring attention to the plight of those denied their rights as humans.
My concern for the rights of others diminished my popularity with those who preferred my romantic poetry. My darling, I felt inspired to help those who could not help themselves.
Were I to live in this age, I would continue my fight for the poor, the hungry, and the needy but only for those oppressed by others, not for those who have chosen the path of their own enslavement.
Please, my darling husband, take me from these dismal thoughts. Present your thoughts and the tale of your life before I became your wife.
Robert:
I wish not to dwell on my life before I met you, my darling. It was not one of which I can take pride. In my youth, I was a rebel, a fighter, and a discontent. I was turned from school to tutor and from tutor to my mother, whom I adored. She was frail, not well. Some have said my attraction to you in your ill condition was because you reminded me of my mother. It matters not, my darling, how you came into my life under any circumstance I would have loved you like no other.
My youth was spent in idleness due to a very generous father who knew early in my young manhood that I was not destined to any labor suggestion. It was expected that I would follow my father and grandfather into the banking business. I could not envision sitting behind a desk, wearing stogie clothes, and presenting a prim and proper attitude. No, I believed firmly in myself as a poet. Alas, publishers did not agree. Again my father enabled me to live my dream life. He bought copies of my works and gave them to family and friends who decried an understanding of them. I let that not dissuade me. I pursued my dream, my destiny.
How fortunate I was my dear, to acquire your acquaintance through a mutual friend. He was one of the few visitors your father allowed into your room. He believed we would benefit in our work through each other. I adored your poetry, even though it made me realize how inept mine was. Your genius enthralled me. Your mind pursued the classics, and yet you could reach those not endowed with a great education, such as myself.
I want to continue my darling, but my life was of nothing until you became one with me and gave me the bounty of your love and genius.
I held you as you breathed your last breath and joined those who were waiting for you in the great beyond. I was naught to let you be taken from me and dreamed only when we would be together again.
Elizabeth:
As we are now my darling Robert, as we always will be.
////////////////
Garibaldi
I am Giuseppe Garibaldi, born in humble circumstances in 1807. My father was a seaman, but then what more can one desire to be living in Nice, so near the sea? For a while, it too was my destiny. I sailed, traded, and sometimes it has been noted that I ‘pirated’, but never without good reason or cause.
Looking back on my life and times, I suppose I was a militant. I wonder if it was because I believed in a ‘cause’ such as the unification of Italy, my homeland, or a need to do battle. It is written that I believed in liberty of all more than religion, which I felt enslaved men; or garnering great wealth, or even the love of a beautiful woman. Tis true; I believed in liberty and freedom enough to fight and die for it.
‘Cause’ was always my first thought prior to major action. It was while docked in Taganrog, Russia, I first became acquainted with Giuseppe Mazzini, a great patriot who inflamed my hatred of despots, or any figure attempting to enslave another.
My first expedition into battle was when I traveled to Brazil, where I honorably joined the gaucho rebels fighting for the rights of the poor, the farmers who were struggling against a dictatorial regime. Sad to say, it was a lost cause. I suffered defeat, but it was there I met Ana Riberio da Silva. For her, my Anita, I was content to give up my quest to overthrow tyranny and be content raising a family in Montevideo, Uruguay.
It was a futile attempt to be at peace for a lifetime. It was back to the sea as I gathered countrymen from Italy to fight in the Uruguayan Civil War, and for six years, I defended Montevideo.
Always the news from my homeland disturbed me. I soon took my legion of Italians and returned to help defend Italy, not only from French invaders but from revolutionary citizens of Milan, after the rebellion against Austrian occupation. Eventually, my compatriot legion of fighters entered Rome to battle the French invaders.
I again faced defeat when a truce was negotiated, allowing the French Army to enter Rome and reestablish the Holy See as the governing power.
I am saddened now to think of the disgrace, fleeing with my men, and even more sadden to lose my beloved Anita, who followed me through battle and defeat. She died on our way to San Marino, along with our fifth child. I regret that I allowed her to be with me, but I never wanted to be without her. She was my strength.
I was without funds and desolate when blessed by the kindness of a wealthy merchant, Francesco Carpanetto, who suggested I captain a merchant ship that was bought in the United States. I traveled to New York to take command of the vessel, only to learn the funds had never been presented. Destitute, I accepted residence with various successful Italian men of the city. For a time, I was employed on Staten Island to work in a candle factory.
My restlessness was overpowering, and in 1851, I went to Central America as a companion to an Italian businessman, using an assumed name Giuseppe Pane. There I was recruited to Captain a vessel sailing from Peru to China. I was born to be at sea. I was sure that would be my lasting lifetime destiny.
Strange as it may seem, even to me, I became a farmer on the Island of Caprera after the death of my brother. At least I attempted farming until I was appointed major general leading a volunteer force against the Austrians. My victories were diminished by the surrender of Nice, my city of birth, to Napolean’s French force.
Yes, you would say I was a militant, fighting for causes, some won, some lost, some futile. Battle after battle after battle, I led my volunteer troops fighting from city to city until I could be victorious liberating my Italia.
There was a time I almost became a Major General in President Lincoln’s war in the United States. I had a stipulation that the war would be declared as the abolition of slavery. The President declined, so I did not accept the offer. This was most unfortunate since I eventually was shot in the foot, taken prisoner, and sent by steamship to prison in Varignano.
After being restored to good health, I was allowed to go back to Caprera. I did not stay there long before my restlessness took me to London. I soon returned to again lead my Hunters of the Alps, now about 40,000 of them to defeat the Austrians. This major victory was insufficient to acquire victory, and an armistice was signed with the Austrians giving Venetia to Italy.
My demise came in 1882 when I was interred in Caprera. My militant spirit accompanied me to the grave.
////////////////////////
I hope you enjoyed reading these quick glimpses of some of my favorite great men and women who left their legacy for future generations. If so, please share them with others, especially younger people who, in this fast-paced world of few words and quick sound bytes might not have time to read longer biographies.
Perhaps one of these shorter bios will encourage them to look for more than just,
