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33 cents adventure American Anthony Hope artistic attractive beautiful Bismarck Boston bound boys century character Charles charming Christmas clever cloth colored plates Cover Design critic Cyrano de Bergerac E. W. Kemble edition England English entitled excellent Fairy famous fiction France Frank Frederic Remington French full-page George German Gertrude Atherton gilt top girl give Harold Frederic Henry Henryk Sienkiewicz humor illus Illustrated interesting James John King lished literary literature living London lovers magazine mail 80 cents Mary ment Miss modern novel paper Paris photogravure play poems popular portrait present Price 33 Price 75 Price 90 cents printed Prisoner of Zenda published readers Richard Romance says scenes Siegel-Cooper sketches song Spain story style success tion Translated vols volume William William Le Queux writer written York young
Página 16 - O MAY I JOIN THE CHOIR INVISIBLE" Longum illud tempus, quum non era, magis me movet, quam hoc exiguum. — Cicero, Ad Att., xii: 18. O may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence: live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues.
Página 16 - This is life to come, Which martyred men have made more glorious For us who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty, Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world.
Página 434 - I am the true vine, and my Father is the husbandman. Every branch in me that beareth not fruit he taketh away : and every branch that beareth fruit, he purgeth it, that it may bring forth more fruit.
Página 16 - And all our rarer, better, truer self. That sobbed religiously in yearning song, That watched to ease the burthen of the world, Laboriously tracing what must be, And what may yet be better — saw within A worthier image for the sanctuary, And shaped it forth before the multitude Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mixed with love...
Página 362 - ... am. If you see fit to kriticise my Show speak your mind freely. I do not object to kriticism. Tell the public, in a candid and graceful article, that my Show abounds in moral and startlin cooriosities, any one of whom is wuth dubble the price of admission. I hav thus far spoke of myself excloosivly as a exhibiter. I was born in the State of Maine of parents. As a infant I attracted a great deal of attention. The nabers would stand over my cradle for hours and say, " How bright that little face...
Página 189 - Art is a human activity, consisting in this, that one man consciously, by means of certain external signs, hands on to others feelings he has lived through, and that other people are infected by these feelings, and also experience them.
Página 415 - I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thou shouldst lead me on; I loved to choose and see my path; but now lead thou me on. I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears, pride ruled my will: remember not past years. So long thy power hath blest me, sure it still will lead me on, o'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till the night is gone, and with the morn those angel faces smile, which I have loved long since, and lost awhile.
Página 442 - The Story of the Railroad. By CY WARMAN, author of "The Express Messenger," etc. With Maps and many Illustrations by B. West Clinedinst and from photographs.
Página 215 - Philistinism ! — we have not the expression in English. Perhaps we have not the word because we have so much of the thing. At Soli, I imagine, they did not talk of solecisms ; and here, at the very head-quarters of Goliath, nobody talks of Philistinism.
Página 23 - They cannot feel my spirit's spell, Since life is sweet and love is long, I sing my song, and all is well. My days are never days of ease ; I till my ground and prune my trees. When ripened gold is all the plain, I put my sickle to the grain. I labor hard, and toil and sweat, While others dream within the dell ; But even while my brow is wet, I sing my song, and all is well.