London Society, Том 56A. Andrews, 1889 |
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answered arms Asenath asked bamboo lounge beautiful Béhuard better Blanche Brinkman Campbell Carresford Charlie charm cold colour course cried dark date palms dear Derwentwater door dream dress Eileen Eric Dare eyes face fancy father feel felt Fitzallan Geoffrey girl glance grey hair hand happy head hear heard heart honour hour husband knew Lady Lancaster Gate laughed Lepel Levison light lips live looked Loriat Lotty marriage married mind Miss Matsey morning mother Müller Munich never night Noel Hill once pale passion Paul Paul Raven Pharamond poor precentor replied Rhoda robin song Rockleigh round seemed Sheba sleep smile soprano soul speak Spenthorpe stood Stormont strange suppose sure talk tell thing thought told took turned voice walk wife Wilkie Collins wish woman wonder words young
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Сторінка 567 - tis true. Look here, lago ; All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven : 'Tis gone. Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow cell ! Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne To tyrannous hate ! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught, For 'tis of aspics
Сторінка 519 - We were six of one, and half a dozen of the other. How it was I don't understand, but we always seemed to be getting, with the best of motives, in one another's way. When I wanted to go upstairs, there was my wife coming down; or when my wife wanted to go down, there was I coming up. That is married life, according to my experience of it.
Сторінка 515 - I have always held the old-fashioned opinion that the primary object of a work of fiction should be to tell a story; and I have never believed that the novelist who properly performed this first condition of his art was in danger, on that account, of neglecting the delineation of character...
Сторінка 567 - It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul. Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars! It is the cause. Yet I'll not shed her blood, Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow And smooth as monumental alabaster.
Сторінка 517 - ... life, that not even a theatrical thief can find anything in it to steal — will nevertheless be a work that wins (and keeps) your admiration, if it has humor which dwells on your memory, and characters which enlarge the circle of your friends. I have myself always tried to combine the different merits of a good novel, in one and the same work ; and I have never succeeded in keeping an equal balance.
Сторінка 498 - Silva's ; and the time is great. (What times are little ? To the sentinel That hour is regal when he mounts on guard...
Сторінка 516 - D'Artagnan locking up General Monk in a box, or almost succeeding in keeping Charles the First's head on. It was the prisoner of the Chateau d'lf cutting himself out of the sack fifty feet under water (I mention the novels I like best myself — novels without love or talking, or any of that sort of nonsense, but containing plenty of fighting, escaping, robbery, and rescuing) — cutting himself out of the sack and swimming to the island of Monte Cristo.
Сторінка 601 - ... In every sense a father. He never levied troops, but when He raised the target, calling then His men. He did not widen his estates Beyond their proper measure; A model of all potentates, His only code was pleasure. And 'twas not till the day he died His faithful subjects ever sighed Or cried. This wise and worthy monarch's face Is still in preservation, And as a sign it serves to grace An inn of reputation. On holidays, a joyous rout Before it push their mugs about And shout, Ho! ho! ho! ho!
Сторінка 600 - THIS exceedingly celebrated song, written in 1813, takes its title from an old tavern sign in the Norman town of Yvetot. There was a King of Yvetot, Who, little famed in story, Went soon to bed, to rise was slow, And slumbered without glory. 'Twas Jenny crowned this jolly chap With nothing but a cotton cap Mayhap. Ho! ho! ho! ho! ha! ha! ha! ha! What a famous king was he, oh la ! Within his thatched palace, he Consumed his four meals daily ; He rode about his realm to see Upon a donkey, gaily ; Besides...
Сторінка 515 - ... this plain reason, that the effect produced by any narrative of events is essentially dependent, not on the events themselves, but on the human interest which is directly connected with them. It may be possible in novel-writing to present characters successfully without telling a story; but it is not possible to tell a story successfully without presenting characters: their existence as recognisable realities being the sole condition on which the story can be effectively told.