In This Issue
Explore the November 1943 print edition below. Or to discover more writing from the pages of The Atlantic, browse the full archive.
FOREWORD. — The story of Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes is the story of his country. The narrative cannot begin with the Hat date of his birth — 1841. This was a man whose presence carried tradition; over his shoulder one catches sight of his ancestors His roots reached deep into American earth; it was the strength of these roots that permitted so splendid a flowering.
To know Judge Holmes at eighty — courtly, witty, scholarly, kind — it is well to have acquaintance with his Calvinist grandfather Abiel Holmes, with his handsome, worldly great-grandfather, Judge Wendell, with his mother from whom he inherited he said, “a trace of melancholy.”Above all, it is well to know his father, the sturdy Yankee who wrote bad verse and good books — professor of anatomy, talkative five-foot-three Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table, who lived on applause and said so with engaging frankness, and who looked down his nose at his son’s choice of a profession.
» How much freedom does your commentator have on the air? What do the network, the sponsor, and the FCC do to his opinions?
In a series of penetrating studies, of which this is the first, Edmund Wilson introduces us to the beautiful intricacies of the Russian language, and to those Russian authors who are masters of their own tongue.