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Readings in English Prose of the Eighteenth Century
Raymond Macdonald Alden
Vista de fragmentos - 1911
acquaintance admiration Æneid affected ancient appear Bargrave beauty believe called character Church Church of England Colley Cibber Coriolanus cried criticism death Dryden Duke of Bedford edition endeavor England English entertainment essay eyes fancy genius gentleman give hand heart honor hope HORACE WALPOLE House of Hanover human Hylas idea Iliad imagination JAMES MACPHERSON Johnson kind king lady language learning Leslie Stephen letters live look Lord Lord Chesterfield mankind manner ment mind nation nature never observed occasion opinion passion perceived perhaps person Philonous pleasure poem poet poetry political Pope present pretend principles reader reason religion Samuel Johnson seems sense sensible sentiments Shakespeare spirit suppose taste tell things thou thought tion told Torman tragedy true truth Veal virtue Whig whole words writing
Página 545 - It was at Rome, on the 15th of October 1764, as I sat musing amidst the ruins of the Capitol, while the barefooted friars were singing vespers in the temple of Jupiter,* that the idea of writing the decline and fall of the city first started to my mind.
Página 546 - It was on the day, or rather night, of the 27th of June 1787, between the hours of eleven and twelve, that I wrote the last lines of the last page in a summer-house in my garden. After laying down my pen, I took several turns in a berceau, or covered walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the country, the lake, and the mountains.
Página 46 - Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day. Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness ; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday.
Página 498 - As I darkened the little light he had, he lifted up a hopeless eye towards the door; then cast it down, shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction. I heard his chains upon his legs, as he turned his body to lay his little stick upon the bundle. He gave a deep sigh. — I saw the iron enter into his soul! — I burst into tears. — I could not sustain the picture of confinement which my fancy had drawn.
Página 376 - I believe there is, in every nation a style which never becomes obsolete, a certain mode of phraseology so consonant and congenial to the analogy and principles of its respective language as to remain settled and unaltered; this style is probably to be sought in the common intercourse of life, among those who speak only to be understood, without ambition of elegance.
Página 362 - Dictionary was written with little assistance of the learned, and without any patronage of the great; not in the soft obscurities of retirement, or under the shelter of academic bowers, but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in sorrow...
Página 406 - Of genius, that power which constitutes a poet, that quality without which judgment is cold and knowledge is inert, that energy which collects, combines, amplifies, and animates, — the superiority must, with some hesitation, be allowed to Dryden.
Página 383 - If there be any fallacy, it is not that we fancy the players, but that we fancy ourselves unhappy for a moment; but we rather lament the possibility than suppose the presence of misery, as a mother weeps over her babe when she remembers that death may take it from her. The delight of tragedy proceeds from our consciousness of fiction ; if we thought murders and treasons real, they would please no more.
Página 193 - As I looked upon him he applied it to his lips, and began to play upon it. The sound of it was exceeding sweet, and wrought into a variety of tunes that were inexpressibly melodious, and altogether different from any thing I had ever heard. They put me in mind of those heavenly airs that are played to the departed souls of good men upon their first arrival in Paradise, to wear out the impressions of their last agonies, and qualify them for the pleasures of that happy place.
Página 388 - In this poem there is no nature, for there is no truth; there is no art, for there is nothing new. Its form is that of a pastoral, — easy, vulgar, and therefore disgusting; whatever images it can supply are long ago exhausted; and its inherent improbability always forces dissatisfaction on the mind.