Autobiography of Seventy Years, Vol. 1-2

by George Frisbie Hoar

I stayed with him about twenty or thirty minutes. The topics of our conversation were, I believe, suggested by me, and the whole conversation was one which gave evidence of full understanding on his part of what we were talking about. It was not merely an old man's memory of the past, but the fresh and vigorous thought on new topics which were suggested to him in the course of the conversation. I think he exhibited a quickness and vigor of thought and intelligence and spoke with a beauty of diction that no man I know could have surpassed.

I asked him if he could account for the interest in historical study among the older Harvard graduates, and mentioned the fact that the principal historians of this country, including himself, Prescott, Sparks, Motley, Palfrey and Parkman, were all Harvard men and were eminent at a time when there were scarcely any other eminent historical scholars in America. He did not directly answer this question, but said that his own inclination toward history, he thought, was due very much to the influence of his father. He said his father would have been a very eminent historian, if he had had material at his command, and that he had a remarkably judicious mind.

He spoke of some clergymen, especially the Unitarian clergymen, so many of whom belonged to Harvard at his time. He said he had little sympathy for the Unitarianism of his day, "for its theology, no; for its spirituality, yes."

He asked me about the Election Bill pending in the Senate. I spoke of the great storm of abuse I had had to encounter for advocating it, but said I thought on the whole the feeling between the different sections of the country and different political parties was better than it ever had been before in this country, and much better than that which now existed between different political parties in foreign countries. He cordially agreed to this, and made some observations which I do not now recall, but which were interesting and bright.

After we had talked together for some time, he said: "My memory is very poor: I cannot remember your first name." I said: "It is the same as yours, Mr. Bancroft—George." He paused a moment with an amused and puzzled look, and said: "What is your last name?" He had evidently known me very well during most of the preceding part of the interview.

I told his son about this conversation the day after Mr. Bancroft's death. He said that the presence of a visitor acted in this way as a stimulant, but that he had not lately shown much intelligence in the family, seeming lost and feeble.

CHAPTER XIX VISITS TO ENGLAND [1860, 1868, 1871]

I was born within a mile of the spot where the War of the Revolution began. My ancestors and other kindred on both sides took an active and prominent part in the struggle with England. I am descended from the early Puritans of Massachusetts in every line of descent. So it will readily be believed that all my feeling and sympathy have been on the side of my country in the great controversy with England, which began with the exile of the Pilgrims in 1620 and continued, with little interruption, until our last great quarrel with her, which ended with the arbitration at Geneva. Yet I am a passionate lover of England. Before I ever went abroad, I longed to visit the places famous in her history, as a child longs to go home to his birthplace.

I have visited Europe six times. On each occasion I devoted the largest part of my time to Great Britain. The desire to see England again has increased with every visit. Certainly there is nothing like England, and there never has been anything like England in the world. Her wonderful history, her wonderful literature, the beauty of her architecture, the historic and poetic associations which cluster about every street and river and mountain and valley, her vigorous life, the sweetness and beauty of her women, the superb manhood of her men, her navy, her gracious hospitality, her courage and her lofty pride—although some single race of people may have excelled here in a single particular—make up a combination never equalled in the world. I am, of course, not to be understood to bring my own country into the comparison.

The first time I went abroad was in 1860. I had for a companion my friend from infancy, George M. Brooks, of Concord. We travelled like a couple of Bohemians, never riding where we could walk; lunching or dining where he happened to find ourselves when we were hungry; taking second or third class carriages on the railroads, and getting into conversation with anybody who would talk to us. I doubt whether I shall ever have in this world, or in another, a sensation more delicious than that I had when the old steamer, "America," steamed up the Channel toward the mouth of the Mersey, with the green shores of Ireland on one side and England on the other. I am afraid if I were to relate the story of that journey, it would be only to please myself by reviving its recollections, and not for the delight of my readers, so many of whom have a similar memory of their own.