The Catholic Spirit in Modern English LiteratureMacmillan, 1922 - Всего страниц: 365 |
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admirable Alice Meynell Anglican artist beauty believe Belloc Benson born Cardinal Catholic Spirit Catholicism Celtic character charming Chesterton Christendom Christian Church concern Coventry Patmore criticism divine doctrine dream Dublin Review England English literature essay Europe fact faith Father fiction Francis Thompson French G. K. Chesterton genius gifted heart Hilaire Belloc human idea ideal influence instinct intellectual interest Ireland Irish Kenelm Digby letters LIBRARIES STANFORD Lionel Johnson literary living matter mediæval medieval melody ment Meynell mind modern mood moral mystic narrative nature never Newman novel novelist Oxford Oxford Movement pagan past Pater Patmore philosophy poems poet poetic poetry popular prose reality reason religion religious rhythm Robert Hugh Benson romantic Rome Saint scarcely seems sense Shane Leslie simple social society song soul STANFORD UNIVERSITY story strong things thought tion tradition truth verse vision voice words writing written
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Стр. 182 - Does the road wind up-hill all the way? Yes, to the very end. Will the day's journey take the whole long day? From morn to night, my friend. But is there for the night a resting-place? A roof for when the slow dark hours begin. May not the darkness hide it from my face? You cannot miss that inn.
Стр. 59 - To consider the world in its length and breadth, its various history, the many races of man, their starts, their fortunes, their mutual alienation, their conflicts ; and then their ways, habits, governments, forms of worship ; their enterprises, their aimless courses, their random achievements and acquirements, the impotent conclusion of long-standing facts, the tokens so faint and broken, of a superintending design, the blind evolution of what turn out to be great powers or truths, the progress...
Стр. 6 - It was at Rome, on the 15th of October 1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of the Capitol, while the barefooted friars were singing vespers in the temple of Jupiter,* that the idea of writing the decline and fall of the city first started to my mind.
Стр. 59 - ... final causes, the greatness and littleness of man, his far-reaching aims, his short duration, the curtain hung over his futurity, the disappointments of life, the defeat of good, the success of evil, physical pain, mental anguish, the prevalence and intensity of sin, the...
Стр. 142 - The universe is his box of toys. He dabbles his fingers in the day-fall. He is golddusty with tumbling amidst the stars. He makes bright mischief with the moon. The meteors nuzzle their noses in his hand. He teases into growling the kennelled thunder, and laughs at the shaking of its fiery chain. He dances in and out of the gates of heaven; its floor is littered with his broken fancies. He runs wild over the fields of ether. He chases the rolling world.
Стр. 83 - And, since the thoughts and reasonings of an author have, as I have said, a personal character, no wonder that his style is not only the image of his subject, but of his mind.
Стр. 276 - O! the Erne shall run red With redundance of blood, The earth shall rock beneath our tread, And flames wrap hill and wood, And gun-peal, and slogan cry, Wake many a glen serene, Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, My Dark Rosaleen!
Стр. 84 - ... intellect. Aristotle, in his sketch of the magnanimous man, tells us that his voice is deep, his motions slow, and his stature commanding. In like manner, the elocution of a great intellect is great. His language expresses, not only his great thoughts, but his great self. Certainly he might use fewer words than he uses ; but he fertilizes his simplest ideas, and germinates into a multitude of details, and prolongs the march of his sentences, and sweeps round to the full diapason of his harmony,...
Стр. 347 - Philosophy bids us to see that we are not so pretty as rose-pink, not so repulsive as dirty drab ; and that, instead of everlastingly shifting those barren aspects, the sight of ourselves is wholesome, bearable, fructifying, finally a delight.
Стр. 262 - I never get between the pines But I smell the Sussex air; Nor I never come on a belt of sand But my home is there. And along the sky the line of the Downs So noble and so bare. A lost thing could I never find, Nor a broken thing mend; And I fear I shall be all alone When I get towards the end. Who will there be to comfort me Or who will be my friend?