Thus it has happened in my own case also in some but not in many instances, in which I have had to express an opinion respecting the character of works which appeared after 1860, and which to some extent influenced my judgment on the years immediately preceding them. But this was from fifteen to eighteen years ago when I was working at my History. It might perhaps be expected that I should remove all such expressions of opinion from the work before it is translated. In some few cases, in which this could be effected by simply drawing the pen through a few lines, I have so done; but it appeared to me that to alter with anxious care every sentence which I should put into a different form at the present day would serve no good
McCray regarded it grimly. He went back in his memory with meticulous care. Had he not looked at, this very spot a matter of moments before? He had. And had there been an open door then? There had not. There hadn't been even a shadowy outline of the three-sided, uneven opening that stood there now.
"For the love of God, my children, stand you still—stand you still!" screamed old Colin, and not a man moved.
"And, Shonaidh," he went on, after a little, "just when your heart fails you is the time to play the soldier as truly as if you had a broadsword in your hand. Homesick you'll be—I'd be sorry for you if you were not—but remember, I went through it all before you, and, though I have done nothing for it, my time in the old Scots College was the best gift my father ever gave me. If God wills it, you will be a priest, but neither I nor yet the Rector will force you. You are going under the care of one of the best of men, a nobleman and one whose slightest word you should be proud to treasure; and, remember, the first duty of a gentleman who would some day command is to learn to obey."
But neither Monro nor Abercrombie, greatly gifted and earnest in their work though they be, fulfils one’s conception of a poetic personality. There is no mystery about them, no glamour; they do not arouse wonder or surprise. John Masefield, on the other hand, has an invincible picturesqueness—a picturesqueness that stamps him at once as different from his fellows. He is tall, straight and blue-eyed, with a complexion as clear as a child’s. His eyes are amazingly shy, almost furtive. His manner is shy, almost furtive. He speaks to you as though he suspected you of hostility, as though you had the power to injure him and were on the point of using that power. You feel his sensitiveness and you admire the dignity that is at once its outcome and its protection.
"You wouldn't accept anything, not even a thousand pounds, for instance?" Turner asked.
"Tell him I want to see him," he said; "tell him to try and come over this afternoon."
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