The Writings of James Russell Lowell, Band 8

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Houghton, Mifflin, 1896

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Seite 78 - I cannot praise a fugitive and cloistered virtue, unexercised and unbreathed, that never sallies out and sees her adversary, but slinks out of the race, where that immortal garland is to be run for, not without dust and heat.
Seite 10 - There warn't no stoves (tell comfort died) To bake ye to a puddin'. The wa'nut logs shot sparkles out Towards the pootiest, bless her, An' leetle flames danced all about The chiny on the dresser.
Seite 212 - An' she looked full ez rosy agin Ez the apples she was peelin'. 'T was kin' o' kingdom-come to look On sech a blessed cretur, A dogrose blushin' to a brook Ain't modester nor sweeter. He was six foot o...
Seite 11 - An' on which one he felt the wust He couldn't ha' told ye nuther. Says he, "I'd better call agin," Says she, "Think likely, Mister;" Thet last word pricked him like a pin, An' — wal, he up an
Seite 66 - An' into nobody's tater-patch pokes; But John P. Robinson he Sez he wun't vote fer Guvener B. My ! ain't it terrible? Wut shall we du? We can't never choose him o...
Seite 274 - It is a shameful and unblessed thing to take the scum of people, and wicked condemned men, to be the people with whom you plant; and not only so, but it spoileth the plantation; for they will ever live like rogues, and not fall to work, but be lazy, and do mischief, and spend victuals, and be quickly weary, and then certify over to their country to the discredit of the plantation.
Seite 46 - Trainin' round in bobtail coats, — But it's curus Christian dooty This 'ere cuttin' folks's throats. They may talk o' Freedom's airy Tell they're pupple in the face,^ It's a grand gret cemetary Fer the barthrights of our race; They jest want this Californy So's to lug new slave-states in To abuse ye, an' to scorn ye, An
Seite 103 - Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets, Thet peace, to make it stick at all, Must be druv in with bagnets. In short, I firmly du believe In Humbug generally, Fer it 'aa thing thet I perceive To hev a solid vally ; This heth my faithful shepherd ben, In pasturs sweet heth led me, An' this '11 keep the people green To feed ez they hev fed me.
Seite 273 - Judge not the preacher; for he is thy judge. If thou mislike him, thou conceiv'st him not. God calleth preaching, folly. Do not grudge To pick out treasures from an earthen pot. The worst speak something good. If all want sense, God takes a text, and preacheth patience.
Seite 245 - Perhaps it was right to dissemble your love, But why did you kick me down stairs...

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