American Prose: Hawthorne: Irving: Longfellow: Whittier: Holmes: Lowell: Thoreau: EmersonHoughton, Mifflin, 1880 - 424 стор. |
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... NOTES BY HORACE lisha SCUDDER FIFTEENTH EDITION BOSTON HOUGHTON , MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 11 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET , NEW YORK The Riverside Press , Cambridge By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE . Copyright , 1879 and 1882 ,. AMERICAN PROSE.
... NOTES BY HORACE lisha SCUDDER FIFTEENTH EDITION BOSTON HOUGHTON , MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 11 EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET , NEW YORK The Riverside Press , Cambridge By NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE . Copyright , 1879 and 1882 ,. AMERICAN PROSE.
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... Prose the IN principle which controlled in American Poems has been followed . The book does not profess to be representative of the authors included , but com- plete papers or stories have been taken of a length permitting a fair ...
... Prose the IN principle which controlled in American Poems has been followed . The book does not profess to be representative of the authors included , but com- plete papers or stories have been taken of a length permitting a fair ...
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... prose , as the mother tongue of all , affords a material which is never strange . It is worth while , therefore , to show the young what fine qualities exist in that which all men are using . The more expanded character of prose makes ...
... prose , as the mother tongue of all , affords a material which is never strange . It is worth while , therefore , to show the young what fine qualities exist in that which all men are using . The more expanded character of prose makes ...
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American Prose: Hawthorne, Irving, Longfellow, Whittier, Holmes, Lowell ... Horace Elisha Scudder Обмежений попередній перегляд - 2023 |
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Andalusia Astorga bank beautiful birds Cacabelos Cape character cloaca maxima companion cried Dame Van Winkle door dress Drowne Drowne's Dutch England Ernest eyes father feet fiery furnace figure Fort Christina Gathergold hand Hawthorne head heard heart human Indian Irving kind kingdom of Leon Knickerbocker light light-house Little Britain living look manners mind morning mother mountain nature neighborhood neighbors never night once pair passed person poet poetry poor Praise of Folly private heavens prose province Province House Rip Van Winkle Rip's round sand seemed seen side snow snow-image Spain spirit Stone Face stood story strange street termagant thought tion told took traveller tree Twice-Told Tales valley village Violet and Peony voice Washington Irving weather whole wild window woods writings young
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Сторінка 116 - WHOEVER has made a voyage up the Hudson must remember the Kaatskill mountains. They are a dismembered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble height, and lording it over the surrounding country. Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, every hour of the day, produces some change in the magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect barometers.
Сторінка 117 - At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh green of the nearer landscape.
Сторінка 110 - There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, but none that Rip recollected. The very character of the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed phlegm and drowsy tranquillity.
Сторінка 111 - A Tory! a Tory! a spy! a refugee! hustle him! away with him!" It was with great difficulty that the selfimportant man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the unknown culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some of his neighbors, who used to keep about the tavern. "Well — who are they? — name them.
Сторінка 128 - what excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle ?" He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, welloiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, and the stock worm-eaten.
Сторінка 127 - ... were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rumbling peals of thunder. As Rip and his companion approached them, they suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange,...
Сторінка 119 - It could not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance ; for he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, even though he should not be encouraged by a single nibble.
Сторінка 126 - They were dressed in a quaint outlandish fashion; some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous breeches, of similar style with that of the guide's. Their visages, too, were peculiar ; one had a large head, broad face, and small piggish eyes; the face of another seemed to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a white sugarloaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail.
Сторінка 126 - What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that though these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure he had ever witnessed.
Сторінка 124 - ... green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening between the trees he could overlook all the lower country for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, or the sail of a lagging bark,* here and there sleeping on its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue highlands.