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ster streets, apparently as well as ever in his life and his many friends rejoice to have him again with them. Mr. and Mrs. Henry Estabrook and daughter, Miss Blanche Estabrook, were in Omaha a few days last week to attend the wedding of Mise Squires and Mr. Clark. Mise Estabrook will make her debut in Chicago on the 22nd of this month. Mrs. M. F. Hollowbuch left yesterday for Raleigh, North Carolina. She was accompanied as far as St. Louis by her daughter, Miss Henrietta. The f reedmen and sophomore classes of the high school were entertained at the home of Mrs. Gilbert Lahr, Friday evening, November 9. Mis. May Mallalieu of Newark, Ohio, is visiting friends in the city. Mrs. A. S. Raymond has returned from Chicago. Died— Mrs. Frederick W. Hill, daugh ter of Mr.and Mrs. Daniel Baum of Omaha, at her residence, 2723 Jackson street, on Thursday, November 8th, after a brief illness. The operation she had bravely decided upon resulted fatally. Mrs. Hill was the youngest sister of Mr. J. E. Baum and Messrs. David and Dan Baum, Jr., of the Baum Iron company, in which establishment Mr. Hill was employed as credit man. Mee. Hill was well known in Omaha and Lincoln as Sara Margaret Baum, a favorite in society and possessing a lova ble character. She leaves besides her husband a baby daughter, but a few months old. Her sister, Mrs. J. W. Raynolds, arrived from Las Vegas, and Mrs. Frank Hill, Mr. Hill's mother, from Decatur, Illinoia, after her death. The funeral services were held in All Saints’ church Sunday afternoon. BEAUTY 15 MEMORY. LAPCADIO HEARN. “Our thinking is gone, but our thoughts continue. Reasoning ceases but knowledge remains.” Buddah, the Darkmoeda. Lafcadio Hearn. Mysterious name. Whence this magician at whose word rise myriads of visions rich, glowing, un speakable crowding multitudinously upon our senses,—stimuli strange yet not unfamiliar. Bathed in a new gold en atmosphere strangely joyful, we hear, vocalized now, the voice which shatter ed the air of the desert into crystal fragments, when Sarah spoke with Abraham under the Syrian stare. Be fore our inner vision flashes the rich beauty which made glad the hearte of the old kings of the earth who long since made boast of their wisdom and went their way.—Yet as their lives re main,in the very life cells of their children, the essential. The same vi bration which struck through the heart of the Semite when he looked on the king’s daughter, strikes through the gon of his race today when he sees his vision of beauty. For all sense life is Karma and Beauty is memory—race memory. The composite of uncount able millions of memories amassed through unthinkable eons of time, by those who have gone before you— “countless fragments of prenatal re membrance crystalized into one com posite image within organic memory— where like the viewless image on a photographic plate awaiting develop ment, it remains awhile in darkness absolute.” This is Hearn’s definition of the beauty ideal. It would take many books wrought cunningly to explain to the unmystical mind the meaning of ths powerful little casay, half evolu tional psychology, half Buddhistic doc tine, and then they would be like the noted lady, of Burne Jones and Kip ling’s joint creation,—they would never understand. Lafcadio Hearn was born and cracked in the arma of the sea, and its mystery is in all his work. Its strong eyllabled song, of which no man knows the mean ing, plsates through even these scien tifically imaginative essays. The depth of meaning in them is as abysmal as the deep places of the sea. THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A QUIET GIRL. No one, excepting my parents ever thought me remarkable, and they only at first, during the short period when as the first child I enjoyed the distinction which is the first child's heritage. The Acta of the first three years of my life are recorded in my mother’s journal with as much care and evident pride as if I had been the first child in the world who stuck her fists to her mouth, or smiled a three-cornoered smile on such a day, or cut her first teeth on such an other. No doubt it was all very in teresting, but an examination in the light of reason, fails to discover any thing in the annals of these first years to indicate any latent genius. Except that I never had the colic and rarely cried, I was exactly like any other little human animal. With all gratitude to my mother for the love that never fail ed, I must ever believe that as she viewed my commonplaceness through that love it became magnified into great goodness. She had her moments of lucidity however as this extract from her diary shows. “January 12, 1870—I could even wish that Marie were a noisy child. People are constantly saying to me: ‘Marie is #0 quiet; she gives you no trouble what ever. One would never know she were in the house. If I have one fault to find with her it is just this—she is never in sight. Today I missed her. After an hour of frenzied searching I found her, down at the river. She had climbed into an old skiff, and pushed it off some how. The long moving rope kept her from drifting away. But the water was ten feet deep beneath the skiff. She was rocking herself gleefully. Yester day I found her in the old well-bucket ready to tip over the brink. She steals about so quietly I never know where she is. I am in terror all day, and at night when she sleeps I find my only peace.” At this time I was past three. Soon after this my first brother made his ap pearance and the marvel of his ways fill my mother’s diary for the most part, though I find her frequently speaking of me, quite incidentally, as a good, quiet child. My own personal recollections begin with an incident which occurred when I was about five. There are thick clouds all about. Only this one event stands clear. I went with my grand father, far, far down the river, in a skiff. The sun blazed down from a brilliant blue sky. The high, high hills sloped steeply up from either bank of the river until they touched the sky. They were 80 very green, these hills, I have never seen anyeo green since. We came at last to a little wharf where we moored our skiff. Then we went up a flower bordered path and grandfather pulled the big brass knocker on the great door, of the big white house that stood at the end of the path. We were let in by a rosy-cheeked girl with a white cap, and waited for a long time in a big dim room I sat on a very slippery chair. It was so hard to keep from sliding off I had to put both hands down at the edges of the chair and hold on very hard. There were big red roses on the carpet, and a big solemn man in a frame on the wall.
Newspaper Details
Lincoln Courier
Lincoln, Nebraska, US
Sat, Nov 17, 1900
Page 12
Full Page
Clipped by
David C.
USA 05 Feb 2026
Other Publications Near Lincoln, Nebraska
Lincoln Evening Journal
Lincoln Daily Star
Lincoln Daily News
Lincoln Star
Lincoln Nebraska State Journal
