Charles LambSimpkin, Marshall, & Company, 1867 - 216 страници |
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Addison admirers afterwards Ayrton beauty became become Bernard Barton Blackwood called character Charles Charles Lamb Christ's Hospital Coleridge confesses correspondence Covent Garden dead death delighted Della Cruscans Elia Essay farce favorite feeling felt French revolution friends gave genius George Dyer Gifford hand hated Hazlitt heart human humor Hunt ideas imitation intellect Isaac Walton John Woodvil kind Lamb Lamb's Leigh Hunt Lepaux less letters literary literature lived London look Magazine manner matter means mind Montaigne nature Nether Stowey never night opinion Pantisocracy passions perhaps philosophy poems poetical poetry poets political popular principle prose published readers reputation Rosamond says scene seemed Shakspere side sister society soul Southey specimen spirit sympathy tale Talfourd taste Theophilanthropist things thought took Tory turned verse volume weak Welsh rabbit Whig words Wordsworth writes wrote young
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Страница 123 - ... may be said that they do not play at cards, but only play at playing at them. Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She detested them, as I do, from her heart and soul ; and would not, save upon a striking emergency, willingly seat herself at the same table with them. She loved a thorough-paced partner, a determined enemy. She took, and gave, no concessions. She hated favours.
Страница 164 - O the corroding torturing tormenting thoughts, that disturb the Brain of the unlucky wight, who must draw upon it for daily sustenance. Henceforth I retract all my fond complaints of mercantile employment, look upon them as Lovers
Страница 142 - Now, my friends emerge Beneath the wide wide Heaven — and view again The many-steepled tract magnificent Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles Of purple shadow...
Страница 151 - All these emotions must be strange to you ; so are your rural emotions to me. But consider what must I have been doing all my life, not to have lent great portions of my heart with usury to such scenes?
Страница 113 - What a careless, even deportment hath your borrower! what rosy gills ! what a beautiful reliance on Providence doth he manifest — taking no more thought than lilies ! What contempt for money — accounting it (yours and mine especially) no better than dross...
Страница 117 - ... path. You cannot make excursions with him, for he sets you right. His taste never fluctuates. His morality never abates. He cannot compromise or understand middle actions. There can be but a right and a wrong. His conversation is as a book. His affirmations have the sanctity of an oath. You must speak upon the square with him. He stops a metaphor like a suspected person in an enemy's country. "A healthy book...
Страница 184 - Godwin will make something of it. And as to Judas Iscariot, my reason is different. I would fain see the face of him, who, having dipped his hand in the same dish with the Son of Man, could afterwards betray him. I have no conception of such a thing ; nor have I ever seen any picture (not even Leonardo's very fine one) that gave me the least idea of it.
Страница 142 - Tis well to be bereft of promised good, That we may lift the soul, and contemplate With lively joy the joys we cannot share. My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook Beat its straight path along the dusky air Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) Had crossed the mighty Orb's dilated glory, While thou stood'st gazing; or, when all was still, Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom No sound is dissonant...
Страница 142 - Yes! they wander on In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad, My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined And hungered after Nature, many a year, In the great City pent, winning thy way With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun! Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds! Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves! And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my...
Страница 163 - Throw yourself rather, my dear Sir, from the steep Tarpeian rock slap-dash headlong upon iron spikes. If you had but five consolatory minutes between the desk and the bed, make much of them, and live a century in them, rather than turn slave to the Booksellers. They are Turks and Tartars, when they have poor authors at their beck. Hitherto you have been at arm's length from them.