American LiteratureB. F. Johnson publishing Company, 1914 - 415 oldal |
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American literature appeared artistic beauty became born Boston Bret Harte Bryant Carolina century character Charles Brockden Brown Charles Egbert Craddock charm classic College colonial color Concord Cotton Mather critic death edition editor Emerson England English essayist essays famous father fiction friends Harvard Hawthorne Hawthorne's heart Henry Holmes human humor idealism Indian interest Irving James John Jonathan Edwards Lanier later letters literary lived Longfellow Lowell lyric magazines Mark Twain Massachusetts moral musical nature novelist novels orators patriotic period Philadelphia poems poet poetic poetry political popular prose published Puritan reader romance satire scenes sentiment short stories Simms sketches social song South South Carolina Southern Southern Literature speech spent spirit stanzas style thee theme Thoreau thought tion transcendentalists Uncle Remus verse Virginia volume Washington Washington Irving William William Dean Howells writers written wrote York young
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269. oldal - A skilful literary artist has constructed a tale. If wise, he has not fashioned his thoughts to accommodate his incidents ; but having conceived, with deliberate care, a certain unique or single effect to be wrought out, he then invents such incidents — he then combines such events as may best aid him in establishing this preconceived effect.
135. oldal - White are his shoulders and white his crest. Hear him call in his merry note: Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Look, what a nice new coat is mine, Sure there was never a bird so fine. Chee, chee, chee. Robert of Lincoln's Quaker wife, Pretty and quiet, with plain brown wings, Passing at home a patient life, Broods in the grass while her husband sings : Bob-o'-link, bob-o'-link, Spink, spank, spink ; Brood, kind creature; you need not fear Thieves and robbers while I am here. Chee,...
134. oldal - There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way along that pathless coast, The desert and illimitable air, Lone wandering, but not lost.
85. oldal - I had never before seen any of them. I bought it, read it over and over, and was much delighted with it. I thought the writing excellent and wished if possible to imitate it.
163. oldal - We will walk on our own feet ; we will work with our own hands ; we will speak our own minds.
86. oldal - I took some of the tales and turned them into verse; and, after a time, when I had pretty well forgotten the prose, turned them back again. I also sometimes jumbled my collections of hints into confusion, and after some weeks endeavored to reduce them into the best order, before I began to form the full sentences and complete the paper.
167. oldal - DAUGHTERS of Time, the hypocritic Days, Muffled and dumb like barefoot dervishes, And marching single in an endless file, Bring diadems and fagots in their hands. To each they offer gifts after his will, Bread, kingdoms, stars, and sky that holds them all. I, in my pleached garden, watched the pomp, Forgot my morning wishes, hastily Took a few herbs and apples, and the Day Turned and departed silent. I, too late, Under her solemn fillet saw the scorn.
57. oldal - God's excellency, his wisdom, his purity, and love, seemed to appear in every thing; in the sun, moon, and stars; in the clouds, and blue sky; in the grass, flowers, trees; in the water, and all nature; which used greatly to fix my mind.
221. oldal - Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
300. oldal - ... autumn leaf That trembles in the moon's pale ray. Its hold is frail — its date is brief, Restless — and soon to pass away! Yet, ere that leaf shall fall and fade, The parent tree will mourn its shade, The winds bewail the leafless tree — But none shall breathe a sigh for me! My life is like the prints which feet Have left on Tampa's desert strand; Soon as the rising tide shall beat, All trace will vanish from the sand...