A Blot in the 'scutcheon: And Other Dramas

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Harper & Brothers, 1895 - 245 pages
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Page 241 - The historical decoration was purposely of no more importance than a background requires; and my stress lay on the incidents in the development of a soul: little else is worth study.
Page 241 - I only meant by that title to indicate an endeavour towards something like an alternation, or mixture, of music with discoursing, sound with sense, poetry with thought ; which looks too ambitious, thus expressed, so the symbol was preferred. It is little to the purpose, that such is actually one of the most familiar of the many Rabbinical (and Patristic) acceptations of the phrase ; because I confess that, letting authority alone, I supposed the bare words, in such juxtaposition, would sufficiently...
Page 42 - I know nothing that is so affecting, nothing in any book I have ever read, as Mildred's recurrence to that "I was so young — I had no mother." I know no love like it, no passion like it, no moulding of a splendid thing after its conception, like it. And I swear it is a tragedy that must be played; and must be played, moreover, by Macready.
Page 29 - Be it that my unseasonable song Come out of Time, that fault is in the Time ; And I must not do virtue so much wrong As love her aught the worse for others
Page 30 - He is to me a theatre large enow, And his applause only sufficient is ; All my respect is bent but to his brow ; That is my all, and all I am is his. And, if some worthy spirits be pleased too, It shall more comfort breed, but not more will. But what if none ? It cannot yet undo The love I bear unto this holy skill : This is the thing that I was born to do ; This is my scene ; this part must I fulfil.
Page 81 - Farewell ! Stay, Henry . . . wherefore ? His foot is on the yew-tree bough ; the turf Receives him : now the moonlight as he runs Embraces him — but he must go — is gone. Ah, once again he turns — thanks, thanks, my Love ! He 's gone. Oh, I 'll believe him every word ! I was so young, I loved him so, I had No mother, God forgot me, and I fell.
Page 232 - I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale. What is he but a brute Whose flesh hath soul to suit, Whose spirit works lest arms and legs want play? To man, propose this test — Thy body at its best, How far can that project thy soul on its lone way?
Page 76 - And her noble heart's the noblest, yes, and her sure faith's the surest: And her eyes are dark and humid, like the depth on depth of lustre Hid i' the harebell, while her tresses, sunnier than the wildgrape cluster, Gush in golden-tinted plenty down her neck's rose-misted marble: Then her voice's music . . . call it the well's bubbling, the bird's warble!
Page 240 - Bells and Pomegranates,' and I take the opportunity of explaining, in reply to inquiries, that I only meant by that title to indicate an endeavour towards something like an alternation or mixture of music with discoursing, sound with sense, poetry with thought ; which looks too ambitious, thus expressed, so the symbol was preferred.

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