The Bookman, Volume 26 (Google eBook)

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Dodd, Mead and Company, 1908 - Literature
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Page 290 - And he went up from thence unto Beth-el: and as he was going up by the way, there came forth little children out of the city, and mocked him, and said unto him, "Go up, thou bald head...
Page 365 - There, in a lonely room, from bailiffs snug, The muse found Scroggen stretch'd beneath a rug. A window, patch'd with paper, lent a ray, That dimly...
Page 420 - SHUT, shut the door, good John ! fatigued, I said, Tie up the knocker, say I'm sick, I'm dead. The Dog-star rages ! nay 'tis past a doubt, All Bedlam, or Parnassus, is let out : Fire in each eye, and papers in each hand, 5 They rave, recite, and madden round the land.
Page 215 - The tough think of the tender as sentimentalists and soft-heads. The tender feel the tough to be unrefined, callous, or brutal. Their mutual reaction is very much like that that takes place when Bostonian tourists mingle with a population like that of Cripple Creek. Each type believes the other to be inferior to itself; but disdain in the one case is mingled with amusement, in the other it has a dash of fear.
Page 652 - THE BALLAD OF BOUILLABAISSE. A STREET there is in Paris famous, For which no rhyme our language yields, Rue Neuve des Petits Champs its name is The New Street of the Little Fields. And here's an inn, not rich and splendid, But still in comfortable case ; The which in youth I oft attended, To eat a bowl of Bouillabaisse.
Page 120 - See you now; Your bait of falsehood takes this carp of truth; And thus do we of wisdom and of reach, With windlasses, and with assays of bias, By indirections find directions out: So by my former lecture and advice Shall you my son. You have me, have you not? Rey. My lord, I have. Pol. God be wi
Page 420 - All fly to Twit'nam, and in humble strain Apply to me, to keep them mad or vain. Arthur, whose giddy son neglects the...
Page 665 - Yea, we hear their voice, And we may guess their minds from ours, their work. Some taste they have like ours, some tendency To wriggle about, and munch a trace of scum." He floated up on a pin-point bubble of gas That burst, pricked by the air, and he was gone. One was a barren-minded monad, called A positivist ; and he knew positively : " There is no world beyond this certain drop. Prove me another ! Let the dreamers dream Of their faint gleams, and noises from without, And higher and lower : life...
Page 101 - Letters are my bedside books. If I wake at night, I have one or other of them to prattle me to sleep again. They talk about themselves for ever, and don't weary me. I like to hear them tell their old stories over and over again. I read them in the dozy hours, and only half remember them.
Page 485 - San Francisco is a mad city inhabited for the most part by perfectly insane people whose women are of a remarkable beauty.

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