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Side 458 - It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page, in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the moon was reflected from the waters, and all nature was silent.
Side 480 - There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.
Side 360 - Dreams, books, are each a world ; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good : Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.
Side 469 - Tis as if a rough oak that for ages had stood, With his gnarled bony branches like ribs of the wood. Should bloom, after cycles of struggle and scathe, With a single anemone trembly and rathe...
Side 171 - But you're a naughty girl. Last holidays you licked the paint off my lozenge-box, and the holidays before that you let the boat drag my fish-line down when I'd set you to watch it, and you pushed your head through my kite, all for nothing." " But I didn't mean," said Maggie; " I couldn't help it." "Yes, you could," said Tom, "if you'd minded what you were doing. And you're a naughty girl, and you sha'n't go fishing with me to-morrow.
Side 174 - The great problem of the shifting relation between passion and duty is clear to no man who is capable of apprehending it : the question whether the moment has come in which a man has fallen below the possibility of a renunciation that will carry any efficacy, and must accept the sway of a passion against which he had struggled as a trespass, is one for which we have no master-key that will fit all cases.
Side 475 - Talk about conceit as much as you like, it is to human character what salt is to the ocean; it keeps it sweet, and renders it endurable. Say rather it is like the natural unguent of the sea-fowl's plumage, which enables him to shed the rain that falls on him and the wave in which he dips. When one has had all his conceit taken out of him, when he has lost all his illusions, his feathers will soon soak through, and he will fly no more. "So you admire conceited people, do you?
Side 369 - Hunt is a man of the most indisputedly superior worth ; a Man of Genius in a very strict sense of that word, and in all the senses which it bears or implies ; of brilliant varied gifts, of graceful fertility, of clearness, lovingness, truthfulness ; of childlike open character ; also of most pure and even exemplary private deportment ; a man who can be other than loved only by those who have not seen him, or seen him from a distance through a false medium.