Pen and Ink: Papers on Subjects of More Or Less Importance

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Books for Libraries Press, 1888 - 229 psl.
Essays on humor, plagiarism, Civil War songs.

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97 psl. - Our love was like most other loves, — A little glow, a little shiver, A rosebud and a pair of gloves, And "Fly Not Yet," upon the river; Some jealousy of some one's heir, Some hopes of dying broken-hearted; A miniature, a lock of hair, The usual vows, — and then we parted.
78 psl. - He will be wise, no doubt, to make a very moderate use of the privileges here stated, and, especially, to mingle the Marvellous rather as a slight, delicate, and evanescent flavor, than as any portion of the actual substance of the dish offered to the public.
80 psl. - Mr. Hawthorne's distinctive trait is invention, creation, imagination, originality — a trait which, in the literature of fiction, is positively worth all the rest. But the nature of the originality, so far as regards its manifestation in letters, is but imperfectly understood. The inventive or original mind as frequently displays itself in novelty of tone as in novelty of matter. Mr. Hawthorne is original at all points.
38 psl. - Her feet beneath her petticoat Like little mice stole in and out, As if they feared the light: But, oh ! she dances such a way— No sun upon an Easter day Is half so fine a sight.
224 psl. - I behold like a Spanish great galleon and an English man-of-war. Master Coleridge, like the former, was built far higher in learning, solid, but slow in his performances. CVL, with the English man-of-war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention.
102 psl. - PICCADILLY ! Shops, palaces, bustle, and breeze; The whirring of wheels, and the murmur of trees ; By night or by day, whether noisy or stilly, Whatever my mood is, I love Piccadilly. Wet nights, when the gas on the pavement is streaming, And young Love is watching, and old Love is dreaming, And Beauty is whirling to conquest, where shrilly Cremona makes nimble thy toes, Piccadilly! Bright days, when...
103 psl. - What colour were the eyes when bright and waking ? And were your ringlets fair, or brown, or black, Poor little Head ! that long has done with aching ? It may have held (to shoot some random shots) Thy brains, Eliza Fry! or Baron Byron's; The wits of Nelly Gwynne, or Doctor Watts,— Two quoted bards.
24 psl. - But there is, I fear, a prosaic set growing up among us, editors of booklets, book-worms, index-hunters, or men of great memories and no imagination, who impute themselves to the poet, and so believe that he, too, has no imagination, but is for ever poking his nose between the pages of some old volume in order to see what he can appropriate. They will not allow one to say ' Ring the bell ' without finding that we have taken it from Sir P. Sidney, or even to use such a simple expression as the ocean...
125 psl. - There is place and enough for the pains of prose; — • But whenever a scent from the whitethorn blows, And the jasmine-stars to the casement climb, And a Rosalind-face at the lattice shows, Then hey!
115 psl. - SEASONS. When Spring comes laughing By vale and hill, By wind-flower walking And daffodil, — Sing stars of morning, Sing morning skies, Sing blue of speedwell, And my Love's eyes. When comes the Summer, Full-leaved and strong, And gay birds gossip The orchard long, — Sing hid, sweet honey That no bee sips ; Sing red, red roses, And my Love's lips.

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