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Holliday's grandfather was the biographer of Tarkington's grandsire, also a pioneer preacher of the metaphysical commonwealth of Indiana. Mr. Holliday traces with a good deal of humor and circumstance the various ways in which the gods gave Mr. Tarkington just the right kind of ancestry, upbringing, boyhood and college career to produce a talented writer.
But it hadn't been harmful to either of them. Holliday, it appeared, had been quite content to let it go along that way from round to round, though it was the style of fighting best suited to his opponent. And he had proved himself faster at it, cleverer, than Perry had expected. Yet it was not Holliday's cleverness, but his bounding, surging strength which compelled his thoughts.
Holliday's success in putting himself within Tarkington's dashing checked kuppenheimers is a fine achievement of projected psychology. He knows Tarkington so well that if the latter were unhappily deleted by some "wilful convulsion of brute nature" I think it undoubtable that his biographer could reconstruct a very plausible automaton, and would know just what ingredients to blend.
"Do I understand do you mean that you wish me to accept Cousin Holliday's retainer?" Emily paused. "Why," she answered, after an instant's hesitation, "I I really don't see why my wish one way or the other should be very strong. But but as a friend of yours of course we are all your friends, Mr. Kendrick as one of your friends I we, naturally, like to see you rise in your profession."
Bennie found comfort in Holliday's smile, and felt toward him as a child does toward its mother. They neared shore and ran alongside a ramshackle pier, up the slippery poles of which Bennie was instructed to clamber. Then, dodging rotten boards and treacherous places, he gained the sand of the beach and stood at last on Labrador.
In the spring of 1865 the Indians seemed more determined than ever to wage a relentless war along the line of the Overland Stage. A regular army officer in his journal says: During the time when we were guarding Ben Holliday's stage-coaches, and when attacks on them were of frequent occurrence, I had an adventure which I think is worth relating.
Holliday's lively and tender essay is worthy to stand among the great memorials of brotherly affection that have enriched our speech. To say that Kilmer was not a Keats is not to say that the friendship that irradiates Mr. Holliday's memoir was less lovely than that of Keats and Severn, for instance. The beauty of any human intercourse is not measured by the plane on which it moves.
It is both pleasure and pain, of a very noble sort, that the reader will find in Robert Cortes Holliday's memoir, which introduces the two volumes of Kilmer's poems, essays, and letters. The ultimate and eloquent tribute to Kilmer's rich, brave, and jocund personality is that it has raised up so moving a testament of friendship. Mr.
The earl touched a hand bell. "Fetch in Master Holliday's retainer; you will find him without. Make him at home in the servant's hall. Send a messenger down to the Bell at Bishopsgate, fetch hither the mails of Master Holliday; he will remain as my guest at present." Rupert now entered upon a life very different to that which he had led hitherto.
The study is one of surpassing interest, not merely as a service to native criticism but as a revelation of Holliday's ability to follow through a sustained intellectual task with the same grasp and grace that he afterward showed in the memoir of Kilmer in which his heart was so deeply engaged. Of a truth, Mr.
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