Ever memorable is the day on which I first took a volume of Shakspeare in my hand to read.
It was on a Sunday.
—This day was punctilonly eight years old—I took from the book-shelf a volume lettered Shakspeare.
It was not the first time I had looked at it, but before I had en my father looked up and asked what I was reading so intently.
Shakspeare, replied the child, merely raising her eye from the page.
ShakspShakspeare,—that won't do; that's no book for Sunday; go put it away and take another.
I went as I was bid, but took no other.
Returning to my seaid to her quoth my aunt.
What are you reading?
said my father.
Shakspeare was again the reply, in a clear, though somewhat impatient, tone.date know not yet, but must learn.—
My attention thus fixed on Shakspeare, I returned to him at every hour I could command.
Here was a cou
Thou art to us still more the Man, though less the Genius, than Shakspeare; thou dost not evade our sight, but, holding the lamp to thine o
to me,——, and little—— who had not the use of his eyes.
I taught him Latin orally, and read the History of England and Shakspeare's historical plays in connection.
This lesson was given every day for ten weeks, and was very interesting, though verius and independent character.
In the evening we had a long conversation upon Woman, Whigism, modern English Poets, Shakspeare,—and, in particular, Richard the Third,—about which we had actually a fight.
Mr. Neal does not argue quite fairly, forin this truly animated being.
Mr. R. H. Dana has been giving us readings in the English dramatists, beginning with Shakspeare.
The introductory was beautiful.
After assigning to literature its high place in the education of the human soul, he , are unspeakably more just than are those of Serlo in Wilhelm Meister.
I regret that the whole course is not to be on Shakspeare, for I should like to read with him all the plays.
I never have met with a person of finer perceptions.
h letters, memoirs, and novels, and was a dear student of Dante and Petrarca, and knew German books more cordially than any other person, she was little read in Shakspeare; and I believe I had the pleasure of making her acquainted with Chaucer, with Ben Jonson, with Herbert, Chapman, Ford, Beaumont and Fletcher, with Bacon, and Sithy crystal sphere.
Thou hast all of them, and that ample surge of life besides, that great winged being which they only dreamed of. There is none greater than Shakspeare; he, too, is a god; but his creations are successive; thy fiat comprehends them all.
Last summer, I met thy mood in nature, on those wide impassioned plainsre is a kind of undulation in the popularity of the great writers, even of the first rank.
We have seen a recent importance given to Behmen and Swedenborg; and Shakspeare has unquestionably gained with the present generation.
It is distinctive, too, of the taste of the period,—the new vogue given to the genius of Dante.
ehold, When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou seest the twilight of such day, As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away,— Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou seest the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie; As the death-bed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. Shakspeare.
Aber zufrieden mit stillerem Ruhme, Brechen die Frauen des Augenblick's Blume, Nahren sie sorgsam mit liebendem Fleiss, Freier in ihrem gebundenen Wirken, Reicher als er in des Wissens Bezirken Und in der Dichtung unendlichem Kreiz. Schiller
Not like to like, but like in difference; . Yet in the long years liker must they grow,— The man be more of woman, she of man; He gain in sweetness and in moral height, Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world; She m
gh much more brilliant than on the former evening, grew wearisome to me, who disclaimed and rejected almost every.
thing he said.
For a couple of hours, he was talking about poetry, and the whole harangue was one eloquent proclamation of the defects in his own mind.
Tennyson wrote in verse because the schoolmasters had taught him that it was great to do so, and had thus, unfortunately, been turned from the true path for a man. Burns had, in like manner, been turned from his vocation.
Shakspeare had not had the good sense to see that it would have been better to write straight on in prose;–and such nonsense, which, though amusing enough at first, he ran to death after a while.
The most amusing part is always when he comes back to some refrain, as in the French Revolution of the sea-green. In this instance, it was Petrarch and Laura, the last word pronounced with his ineffable sarcasm of drawl.
Although he said this over fifty times, I could not ever help laughing when Laura woul