DOI Seite / Zitierlink:
https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.68288#0122
86 MEMORIES OF A SCULPTOR’S WIFE
in one way or another, intelligent, owing, I suppose to the
constant coming together of so many brilliant minds. In
fact, some one said — I believe that it was Secretary
Boutwell — upon being asked if there was any business in
the town, ‘Oh, no, Concord is a place where the inhabit-
ants support themselves by writing for the “Atlantic
Monthly.’”
I remember how they gathered at the Bartlett house on
a Sunday evening, played games and told stories and
talked, the kind of talk that used to be called ‘conversa-
tion.’ Both George Bartlett and Ripley, his brother, were
wits. I cannot remember what any one said, but I do re-
member that I laughed until I was tired. Sometimes there
were glimpses of gossip and mimicry. Miss Martha spoke
of them as ‘Sunday night reviles.’
And the games — of course in those days young people
played games much more than they do now — but the
games of wit and intellect were brought to perfection in
Concord at that time — at least, so they seemed to me, be-
ing utterly devoid of any such facility. There was ‘ capping
poetry,’ and a wonderful game of being asked why a person
who sat near you was like an object, usually a wild animal,
an elephant, or more often an object in the room. I remem-
ber one answer which greatly pleased us. A very hand-
some man, a successful banker in Boston, Albert B-,
happened to be present, and the question was:
‘Why is Albert [the handsome young banker] like that
fern ? ’ pointing to a large and showy fern in a bay win-
dow.
With scarcely a hesitation, the answer came: ‘Because
he has been transplanted from the bank where he belongs
to the parlor which he adorns.’
in one way or another, intelligent, owing, I suppose to the
constant coming together of so many brilliant minds. In
fact, some one said — I believe that it was Secretary
Boutwell — upon being asked if there was any business in
the town, ‘Oh, no, Concord is a place where the inhabit-
ants support themselves by writing for the “Atlantic
Monthly.’”
I remember how they gathered at the Bartlett house on
a Sunday evening, played games and told stories and
talked, the kind of talk that used to be called ‘conversa-
tion.’ Both George Bartlett and Ripley, his brother, were
wits. I cannot remember what any one said, but I do re-
member that I laughed until I was tired. Sometimes there
were glimpses of gossip and mimicry. Miss Martha spoke
of them as ‘Sunday night reviles.’
And the games — of course in those days young people
played games much more than they do now — but the
games of wit and intellect were brought to perfection in
Concord at that time — at least, so they seemed to me, be-
ing utterly devoid of any such facility. There was ‘ capping
poetry,’ and a wonderful game of being asked why a person
who sat near you was like an object, usually a wild animal,
an elephant, or more often an object in the room. I remem-
ber one answer which greatly pleased us. A very hand-
some man, a successful banker in Boston, Albert B-,
happened to be present, and the question was:
‘Why is Albert [the handsome young banker] like that
fern ? ’ pointing to a large and showy fern in a bay win-
dow.
With scarcely a hesitation, the answer came: ‘Because
he has been transplanted from the bank where he belongs
to the parlor which he adorns.’