masculine and a feminine influence on the characters of the plot.
Of all this nocturnal element in her nature she was very conscious, and was disposed, of course, to give it as fine names as it would carry, and to draw advantage from it.
Attica, she said to a friend,
is your province, Thessaly is mine: Attica produced the marble wonders of the great geniuses; but Thessaly is the land of magic.
I have a great share of Typhon to the Osiris, wild rush and leap, blind force for the Attica produced the marble wonders of the great geniuses; but Thessaly is the land of magic.
I have a great share of Typhon to the Osiris, wild rush and leap, blind force for the sake of force.
Dante, thou didst not describe, in all thy apartments bf Inferno, this tremendous repression of an existence half unfolded; this swoon as the soul was ready to be born.
Every year I live, I dislike routine more and more, though I see that society rests on that, and other falsehoods.
The more I screw myself down to hours, the more I become expert at giving out thought and life in regulated rations,—the more I weary of this world, and long to move upon the wing, without pro
l, than a warrior for her battles, or an advocate to win her cause.
The works of M. de Vigny having come in my way, I have read quite through this thick volume.
I read, a year since, in the London and Westminster, an admirable sketch of Armand Carrel.
The writer speaks particularly of the use of which Carrel's experience of practical life had been to him as an author; how it had tempered and sharpened the blade of his intellect to the Damascene perfection.
It has been of like use to de Carrel's experience of practical life had been to him as an author; how it had tempered and sharpened the blade of his intellect to the Damascene perfection.
It has been of like use to de Vigny, though not in equal degree.
De Vigny passed,—but for manly steadfastness, he would probably say wasted,—his best years in the army.
He is now about forty; and we have in this book the flower of these best years.
It is a night-blooming Cereus, for his days were passed in the duties of his profession.
These duties, so tiresome and unprofitable in time of peace, were the ground in which the seed sprang up, which produced these many-leaved and calm night-flowers.
The first portion of
e mie sventure, A schivo ed in orrore avro il sembiante. Temero me medesmo; e da me stesso Sempre fuggendo, avro me sempre appresso. La Gerusalemme Liberata, C. XII. 76, 77.
to R. W. E.
Dec. 12, 1843.—When Goethe received a letter from Zelter, with a handsome superscription, he said, Lay that aside; it is Zelter's true hand-writing.
Every man has a daemon, who is busy to confuse and limit his life.
No way is the action of this power more clearly shown, than in the hand-writing.
On Zelter's true hand-writing.
Every man has a daemon, who is busy to confuse and limit his life.
No way is the action of this power more clearly shown, than in the hand-writing.
On this occasion, the evil influences have been evaded; the mood, the hand, the pen and paper have conspired to let our friend write truly himself.
You may perceive, I quote from memory, as the sentences are anything but Goethean; but I think often of this little passage.
With me, for weeks and months, the daemon works his will.
Nothing succeeds with me. I fall ill, or am otherwise interrupted.
At these times, whether of frost, or sultry weather, I would gladly neither plant nor reap,—wait fo
