" That seemed to satisfy her
perfectly.
Mr. Frank B. Sanborn read his lecture on American Literature, and I
ventured to ask: "How would you define literature?"
He said: "Anything written that gives permanent pleasure." And then
as he was a relative, I inquired, but probably was rather pert: "Would
a bank check, if it were large enough, be literature?" which was
generally considered as painfully trifling.
Jones of Jacksonville was on the program, and talked and talked, but
as I could not catch one idea, I cannot report.
It was awfully hot on that hill with the sun shining down through the
pine roof, so I thought one day enough.
As I walked down the hill, I heard a man who seemed to have a lot of
hasty pudding in his mouth, say in answer to a question from the lady
with him: "Why, if you can't understand that, you can have no idea of
the first principles (this with an emphatic gesture) of the Hegelian
philosophy."
Alcott struck me as a happy dreamer. He said to me joyously: "I'm
going West in Lou's chariot," and of course with funds provided by his
daughter.
An article written by her, entitled "Transcendental Wild Oats," made a
great impression on my mind.
It appeared in a long-ago _Independent_ and I tried in vain to find it
last winter.
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