London Society, Volume 53

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William Clowes and Sons, 1888
 

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Page 149 - I fancied an austere little Joan of Arc marching in upon us, and rebuking our easy lives, our easy morals. She gave me the impression of being a very pure, and lofty, and highminded person. A great and holy reverence of right and truth seemed to be with her always.
Page 150 - In like manner, the imagination foretells things. We spake anon of the inflated style of some writers. What also if there is an afflated style, — when a writer is like a Pythoness on her oracle tripod, and mighty words, words which he cannot help, come blowing, and bellowing, and whistling, and moaning through the speaking pipes of his bodily organ...
Page 65 - A jest's prosperity lies in the ear • Of him that hears it, never in the tongue Of him that makes it : then, if sickly ears, Deaf 'd with the clamours of their own dear groans.
Page 149 - ... the myriads of souls that have lived and died on this great earth — this great earth? — this little speck in the infinite universe of God, — with what wonder do we think of to-day, with what awe await to-morrow, when that which is now but darkly seen shall be clear...
Page 247 - ... how good and how pleasant a thing it is for brethren to dwell together in unity ;" and what they have learned they practise.
Page 151 - Of course he spoke with an Irish brogue. Of course he had been in the army. In ten minutes he pulled out an Army Agent's account, whereon his name was written. A few months after we read of him in a police-court.
Page 151 - may I offer you a glass of brandy-and-water? " "Bedad, ye may," says he, "and I'll sing ye a song tu.
Page 152 - But spurned in vain; youth waneth by increasing; Beauty, strength, youth are flowers but fading seen; Duty, faith, love are roots, and ever green. His helmet now shall make a hive for bees; And, lovers...
Page 152 - ... little printer's boy, with the last scratches and corrections on the proof, and a fine flourish by way of Finis at the story's end. The last corrections ? I say those last corrections seem never to be finished. A plague upon the weeds ! Every day, when I walk in my own little literary garden-plot, I spy some, and should like to have a spud, and root them out. Those idle words, neighbour, are past remedy. That turning back to the old pages produces anything but elation of mind. Would you not pay...
Page 633 - Whoso casteth a stone at the birds frayeth them away ; and he that upbraideth his friend, breaketh friendship. Though thou drawest a sword at a friend, yet despair not, for there may be a returning to favour. If thou hast opened thy mouth against thy friend, fear not, for there may be a reconciliation; except for upbraiding, or pride, or disclosing of secrets, or a treacherous wound ; for, for these things every friend will depart.

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