Empire Club Speeches, Volumen9

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William Briggs., 1913

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Página 124 - The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth; Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale anew. And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, And as the firelight fell, He read aloud the book wherein the Master Had writ of "Little Nell.
Página 124 - Nell, on English meadows. Wandered and lost their way. And so in mountain solitudes — o'ertaken As by some spell divine — Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken From out the gusty pine. Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire ; And he who wrought that spell ? Ah, towering pine and stately Kentish spire, Ye have one tale to tell ! Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story Blend with the breath that thrills With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish...
Página 75 - Is it well that while we range with Science, glorying in the Time, City children soak and blacken soul and sense in city slime ? There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet, ' Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street. There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread, There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead. There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor, And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens...
Página 124 - With hop-vines' incense all the pensive glory That fills the Kentish hills. And on that grave where English oak and holly And laurel wreaths...
Página 75 - ... sense in city slime? There among the glooming alleys Progress halts on palsied feet, Crime and hunger cast our maidens by the thousand on the street There the Master scrimps his haggard sempstress of her daily bread, There a single sordid attic holds the living and the dead. There the smouldering fire of fever creeps across the rotted floor, And the crowded couch of incest in the warrens of the poor. Nay, your pardon, cry your 'forward...
Página 122 - ... monstrous. All children ought to love him. I know two that do, and read his books ten times for once that they peruse the dismal preachments of their father. I know one who, when she is happy, reads Nicholas Nickleby...
Página 122 - Nicholas Nickleby ; when she is unhappy, reads Nicholas Nickleby ; when she is tired, reads Nicholas Nickleby ; when she is in bed, reads Nicholas Nickleby ; when she has nothing to do, reads Nicholas Nickleby ; and when she has finished the book, reads Nicholas Nickleby over again. This candid young critic, at ten years of age, said : ' I like Mr. Dickens's books much better than your books, papa ; ' — and frequently expressed her desire that the latter author should write a book like one of Mr.
Página 123 - ABOVE the pines the moon was slowly drifting, The river sang below ; The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting Their minarets of snow. The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted The ruddy tints of health On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted In the fierce race for wealth ; Till one arose, and from his pack's scant treasure A hoarded volume drew, And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure To hear the tale...
Página 118 - It was an age in which the English character seemed bent on exhibiting all its grossest and meanest and most stupid characteristics. Sheer ugliness of everyday life reached a limit not easily surpassed ; thickheaded national prejudice, in consequence of great wars and British victories, had marvellously developed ; aristocracy was losing its better influence, and power passing to a well-fed multitude, remarkable for a dogged practicality which, as often as not, meant ferocious egoism. With all this,...
Página 122 - The foul Satyr's eyes leer out of the leaves constantly : the last words the famous author wrote were bad and wicked — the last lines the poor stricken wretch penned were for pity and pardon. I think of these past writers and of one who lives amongst us now, and am grateful for the innocent laughter and the sweet and unsullied page which the author of " David Copperfield

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