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The Proceedings in Commemoration of the One Hundredth Anniversary of the ...
Ingen forhåndsvisning - 2016
American Anne appears artist beauty become born Boston Bray brother called celebration character City College Concord course dark daughter DEAR early Elizabeth Emerson England English equally eyes father FOUNDATIONS genius gift gives going hand Hawthorne's Henry honor Hopes House imagination influenced interest Italy John John Hathorne JOSEPH June kind lands leaving Letter light living Loaned London looked Maine Major Mass mean mind Miss mother Nathaniel Hawthorne nature never occasion painted passing person Phi Beta Kappa photograph portrait possession present proved PUBLIC LIBRARY ASTOR Puritan RANTOUL Raymond Richard Robert romance Salem Scarlet Letter scene seems sense sister spirit story Street taken things Thomas thought to-day town turn uncle wife William wish writing YORK PUBLIC LIBRARY
Side 9 - I sat down by the wayside of life, like a man under enchantment, and a shrubbery sprung up around me, and the bushes grew to be saplings, and the saplings became trees, until no exit appeared possible, through the entangling depths of my obscurity.
Side 16 - It is not granted me to pardon. I have no such power as thou tellest me of. My old faith, long forgotten, comes back to me, and explains all that we do, and all we suffer. By thy first step awry thou didst plant the germ of evil; but since that moment, it has all been a dark necessity. Ye that have wronged me are not sinful, save in a kind of typical illusion; neither am I fiend-like, who have snatched a fiend's office from his hands. It is our fate. Let the black flower blossom as it may! Now go...
Side 52 - No author, without a trial, can conceive of the difficulty of writing a romance about a country where there is no shadow, no antiquity, no mystery, no picturesque and gloomy wrong, nor anything but a commonplace prosperity, in broad and simple daylight, as is happily the case with my dear native land.
Side 18 - IT is not, I apprehend, a healthy kind of mental occupation, to devote ourselves too exclusively to the study of individual men and women. If the person under examination be one's self, the result is pretty certain to be diseased action of the heart, almost before we can snatch a second glance.
Side 25 - Androscoggin, or shooting pigeons or gray squirrels in the woods, or bat-fowling in the summer twilight, or catching trout in that shadowy little stream which, I suppose, is still wandering riverward through the forest, though you and I will never cast a line in it again ; two idle lads, in short (as we need not fear to acknowledge now), doing a hundred things that the Faculty never heard of, or else it would have been the worse for us — still, it was your prognostic of your friend's destiny that...
Side 35 - I, who listened attentively to all the fine things that were said, was for some time scarcely aware of a man who sat upon the edge of the circle, a little withdrawn, his head slightly thrown forward upon his breast, and his bright eyes clearly burning under his black brow.
Side 44 - Are you all satisfied ? Then wipe your mouths, my good friends ; and, while my spout has a moment's leisure, I will delight the town with a few historical reminiscences. In far antiquity, beneath a darksome shadow of venerable boughs, a spring bubbled out of the leaf-strewn earth in the very spot where you now behold me on the sunny pavement. The water was as bright and clear and deemed as precious as liquid diamonds. The Indian sagamores...
Side 13 - ... business in life, what mode of glorifying God or being serviceable to mankind in his day and generation, may that be ? Why, the degenerate fellow might as well have been a fiddler ! " Such are the compliments bandied between my great-grandsires and myself, across the gulf of time!
Side 11 - FATHER, thy wonders do not singly stand, Nor far removed where feet have seldom strayed : Around us ever lies the enchanted land, In marvels rich to thine own sons displayed. In finding thee are all things round us found...
Side 35 - Webster might have looked, had he been a poet, — a kind of poetic Webster. He rose and walked to the window, and stood quietly there for a long time, watching the dead white landscape. No appeal was made to him, nobody looked after him, the conversation flowed steadily on as if every one understood that his silence was to be respected.