Memoirs of the Life of Sir Walter Scott, Bart..

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Robert Cadell, Edinburgh. John Murray and Whittaker and Company, London., 1837
 

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Page 284 - My wits begin to turn. Come on, my boy : how dost, my boy ? art cold ? I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow ? The art of our necessities is strange, That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel. Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart That's sorry yet for thee.
Page 72 - There is a stone there, that whoever kisses, Oh ! he never misses to grow eloquent. 'Tis he may clamber to a lady's chamber, Or become a member of parliament : A clever spouter he'll sure turn out, or An out-and-outer, "to be let alone...
Page 256 - That young lady had a talent for describing the involvements, and feelings, and characters of ordinary life, which is to me the most wonderful I ever met with.
Page 313 - I am sensible, that if there be anything- good about my poetry or prose either, it is a hurried frankness of composition, which pleases soldiers, sailors, and young people of bold and active disposition.
Page 188 - I have walked my last on the domains I have planted — sate the last time in the halls I have built. But death would have taken them from me if misfortune had spared them.
Page 188 - I have planted — sate the last time in the halls I have built. But death would have taken them from me if misfortune had spared them. My poor people...
Page 256 - I ever met with. The Big Bow-wow Strain I can do myself like any now going ; but the exquisite touch, which renders ordinary commonplace things and characters interesting, from the truth of the description and the sentiment, is denied to me.
Page 163 - I could not help thinking, in the midst of the glee, what gloom had lately been over the minds of three of the company.
Page 204 - This was the man, quaint, capricious, and playful, with all his immense genius. He wrote from impulse, never from effort; and therefore I have always reckoned Burns and Byron the most genuine poetical geniuses of my time, and half a century before me. We have, however, many men of high poetical talent, but none, I think, of that ever-gushing and perennial fountain of natural water.
Page 317 - I wonder often how Tom Campbell, with so much real genius, has not maintained a greater figure in the public eye than he has done of late. The Magazine* seems to have paralyzed him. The author, not only of the Pleasures of Hope, but of Hohenlinden, Lochiel, &c., should have been at the very top of the tree.

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