LITERARY FRIENDS AND ACQUAINTANCE1901 |
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acquaintance afterwards American asked Atlantic Monthly Autocrat Bayard Taylor beautiful began believe Boston Cambridge charm Concord confessed consul criticism Dante Club dare say dinner Doctor Holmes doubt editor Emerson England English eyes fame fancy feel felt Fields Fitz James O'Brien gave hand Hawthorne heard heart humor imagined Italian John Brown Julia Ward kind knew letters literary Boston literature lived Longfellow looked Lowell Lowell's magazine Marble Faun ment mind Motley never novel Ohio once paper perhaps person pleasure poem poet poetry praise remember romance Rose Terry Cooke Saturday Press seemed sense slavery sort speak spoke Stoddard Street suppose sure T. B. Aldrich talk things Thoreau thought tion told Trieste Venice verse West Whittier whole wholly wished word write wrote York young youth
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Стр. 147 - Some natural tears they dropped, but wiped them soon; The world was all before them, where to choose Their place of rest, and Providence their guide. They, hand in hand, with wandering steps and slow, Through Eden took their solitary way.
Стр. 156 - From the crown of my head to the sole of my foot, I'm alive, I'm alive I" CHAPTER XIX THOREAU AT WALDEN HENRY THOREAU had built a hut at Walden.
Стр. 292 - This New and Revised Edition comprises additional material and hitherto Unpublished Letters, Sketches, and Drawings, derived from the Author's Original MSS.
Стр. 251 - ... always to a clear expression of what was noblest and loveliest in itself at the supreme moments, in the divine exigencies. I believe neither in heroes nor in saints ; but I believe in great and good men, for I have known them, and among such men Lowell was of the richest nature I have known. His nature was not always serene or pellucid ; it was sometimes roiled by the currents that counter and cross in all of us ; but it was without the least alloy of insincerity, and it was never darkened by...
Стр. 209 - I claim in no wise to have been his intimate; such a thing was not possible in my case for quite apparent reasons; and I doubt if Longfellow was capable of intimacy in the sense we mostly attach to the word. Something more of egotism than I ever found in him must go to the making of any intimacy which did not come from the tenderest affections of his heart. But as a man shows himself to those often with him, and in his noted relations with other men, he showed himself without blame. All men that...
Стр. 86 - I remember how he leaned back in his chair, and reached out his great hand to me, as if he were going to give it me for good and all. He had a fine head, with a cloud of Jovian hair upon it, and a branching beard and mustache, and gentle eyes that looked most kindly into mine, and seemed to wish the liking which I instantly gave him, though we hardly passed a word, and our acquaintance was summed up in that glance and the grasp of his mighty fist upon my hand.
Стр. 16 - I remember the black wharves and the slips, And the sea-tides tossing free; And Spanish sailors with bearded lips, And the beauty and mystery of the ships, And the magic of the sea. And the voice of that wayward song Is singing and saying still: "A boy's will is the wind's will, And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.
Стр. 86 - I fancied a conspiracy among them to shock the literary pilgrim, and to minify the precious emotions he had experienced in visiting other shrines; but I found no harm in that, for I knew just how much to be shocked, and I thought I knew better how to value certain things of the soul than they. Yet when their chief asked me how I got on with Hawthorne, and I began to say that he was very shy and I was rather shy, and the king of Bohemia took his pipe out to break in upon me with "Oh, a couple of shysters!
Стр. 39 - Ah, well ! I don't know that you will ever feel you have really met him. He is like a dim room with a little taper of personality burning on the corner of the mantel.
Стр. 86 - Romance, and the House of Seven Gables, and the Scarlet Letter, and had perhaps carried his name higher than all the rest, and certainly farther. Everybody was reading it, and more or less bewailing its indefinite close, but yielding him that full honor and praise which a writer can hope for but once in his life. Nobody dreamed that thereafter only precious fragments, sketches more or less faltering, though all with the divine touch in them, were further to enrich a legacy which in its kind is the...