íta is a sensible fellow, you see. He knows whom to love. So don't you go and fret, my jewel. We'll not take him away, and we won't marry him. No, we'll let him stay on, if you'll only oblige us with a little money.ANÍSYA. All I know is, that I could not live if Nikíta went away. MATRYÓNA. Naturally, when one's young it's no easy matter! You, a wench in full bloom, to be living with the dregs of a man like that husband of yours. ANÍSYA. Mother Matryóna, would you believe it? I'm that sick of
en, the cabinets for many years of his lonely meditations. Every path about his home, every field and hedgerow had dear and friendly memories for him; and the odor of the meadowsweet was better than the incense steaming in the sunshine. He loitered, and hung over the stile till the far-off woods began to turn purple, till the white mists were wreathing in the valley.Day after day, through all that August, morning and evening were wrapped in haze; day after day the earth shimmered in the heat,
such Romance, thrice refined of dross, as only he knows whohas wooed his Art with passion passing the love of woman.Far away, above the acres of huddled roofs and chimney-pots, thestorm-mists thinned, lifting transiently; through them, gray, fairy-like,the towers of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament bulked monstrousand unreal, fading when again the fugitive dun vapors closed down upon thecity. Nearer at hand the Shade of Care nudged Kirkwood's elbow, whisperingsubtly. Romance was indeed
Iheard a cracked voice somewhere in the ring say, 'My name isHawkyard, Mr. Verity Hawkyard, of West Bromwich.' Then the ringsplit in one place; and a yellow-faced, peak-nosed gentleman, cladall in iron-gray to his gaiters, pressed forward with a policemanand another official of some sort. He came forward close to thevessel of smoking vinegar; from which he sprinkled himselfcarefully, and me copiously.'He had a grandfather at Birmingham, this young boy, who is justdead too,' said Mr. Hawkyard. I
es sleep because it has a dormitive virtue. The virtues or moral uses of things, according to Socrates, were the reason why the things had been created and were what they were; the admirable virtues of opium defined its perfection, and the perfection of a thing was the full manifestation of its deepest nature. Doubtless this moral interpretation of the universe had been overdone, and it had been a capital error in Socrates to make that interpretation exclusive and to substitute it for natural
ld be intimately known to every man engaged in the hardpractical work of American political life. It is difficult tooverstate how much it means to a nation to have as the twoforemost figures in its history men like Washington and Lincoln.It is good for every man in any way concerned in public life tofeel that the highest ambition any American can possibly havewill be gratified just in proportion as he raises himself towardthe standards set by these two men.It is a very poor thing, whether for
else, why are you a priest, and why do you wear long hair and a cassock?PRIEST. But we are not asked ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Not asked, indeed! Why, I am asking you! He told me yesterday that the Gospels say, "Give to him that asketh of thee." But then in what sense is that meant? PRIEST. In its plain sense, I suppose. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. And I think not in the plain sense; we have always been taught that everybody's position is appointed by God. PRIEST. Of course, but yet ...
nup and a glorious day wehad. We followed a stream higher up into the mountains and the air wasso keen and clear at first we had on our coats. There was a tang ofsage and of pine in the air, and our horse was midside deep inrabbit-brush, a shrub just covered with flowers that look and smelllike goldenrod. The blue distance promised many alluring adventures, sowe went along singing and simply gulping in summer. Occasionally abunch of sage chickens would fly up out of the sagebrush, or a
íta is a sensible fellow, you see. He knows whom to love. So don't you go and fret, my jewel. We'll not take him away, and we won't marry him. No, we'll let him stay on, if you'll only oblige us with a little money.ANÍSYA. All I know is, that I could not live if Nikíta went away. MATRYÓNA. Naturally, when one's young it's no easy matter! You, a wench in full bloom, to be living with the dregs of a man like that husband of yours. ANÍSYA. Mother Matryóna, would you believe it? I'm that sick of
en, the cabinets for many years of his lonely meditations. Every path about his home, every field and hedgerow had dear and friendly memories for him; and the odor of the meadowsweet was better than the incense steaming in the sunshine. He loitered, and hung over the stile till the far-off woods began to turn purple, till the white mists were wreathing in the valley.Day after day, through all that August, morning and evening were wrapped in haze; day after day the earth shimmered in the heat,
such Romance, thrice refined of dross, as only he knows whohas wooed his Art with passion passing the love of woman.Far away, above the acres of huddled roofs and chimney-pots, thestorm-mists thinned, lifting transiently; through them, gray, fairy-like,the towers of Westminster and the Houses of Parliament bulked monstrousand unreal, fading when again the fugitive dun vapors closed down upon thecity. Nearer at hand the Shade of Care nudged Kirkwood's elbow, whisperingsubtly. Romance was indeed
Iheard a cracked voice somewhere in the ring say, 'My name isHawkyard, Mr. Verity Hawkyard, of West Bromwich.' Then the ringsplit in one place; and a yellow-faced, peak-nosed gentleman, cladall in iron-gray to his gaiters, pressed forward with a policemanand another official of some sort. He came forward close to thevessel of smoking vinegar; from which he sprinkled himselfcarefully, and me copiously.'He had a grandfather at Birmingham, this young boy, who is justdead too,' said Mr. Hawkyard. I
es sleep because it has a dormitive virtue. The virtues or moral uses of things, according to Socrates, were the reason why the things had been created and were what they were; the admirable virtues of opium defined its perfection, and the perfection of a thing was the full manifestation of its deepest nature. Doubtless this moral interpretation of the universe had been overdone, and it had been a capital error in Socrates to make that interpretation exclusive and to substitute it for natural
ld be intimately known to every man engaged in the hardpractical work of American political life. It is difficult tooverstate how much it means to a nation to have as the twoforemost figures in its history men like Washington and Lincoln.It is good for every man in any way concerned in public life tofeel that the highest ambition any American can possibly havewill be gratified just in proportion as he raises himself towardthe standards set by these two men.It is a very poor thing, whether for
else, why are you a priest, and why do you wear long hair and a cassock?PRIEST. But we are not asked ... ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. Not asked, indeed! Why, I am asking you! He told me yesterday that the Gospels say, "Give to him that asketh of thee." But then in what sense is that meant? PRIEST. In its plain sense, I suppose. ALEXÁNDRA IVÁNOVNA. And I think not in the plain sense; we have always been taught that everybody's position is appointed by God. PRIEST. Of course, but yet ...
nup and a glorious day wehad. We followed a stream higher up into the mountains and the air wasso keen and clear at first we had on our coats. There was a tang ofsage and of pine in the air, and our horse was midside deep inrabbit-brush, a shrub just covered with flowers that look and smelllike goldenrod. The blue distance promised many alluring adventures, sowe went along singing and simply gulping in summer. Occasionally abunch of sage chickens would fly up out of the sagebrush, or a