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Updated: May 21, 2025
I told you so! thar he is, coming this way, too, all by himself, sober, and his face a-shining. Tennessee! Pardner!" And so they met. Here ends No. Three of the western classics, Being Tennessee's Partner by Bret Harte, the introduction by William Dallam Armes. The photogravure frontispiece by Albertine Randall Wheelan.
"He goes to the well, And he stands on the brink, And stops for a spell Jest to listen and think: Let's see well, that forty-foot grave wasn't his, sir, that day, anyhow." Bret Harte. Everywhere in the foothills of the Sierras there are still evidences of gold mining.
It was after my settlement at Boston that Mark Twain, of Missouri, became a figure of world-wide fame at Hartford; and longer after, that Mr. Bret Harte made that progress Eastward from California which was telegraphed almost from hour to hour, as if it were the progress of a prince. Miss Constance F. Woolson had not yet begun to write. Mr. James Whitcomb Riley, Mr.
The wily Persian had doubtless solicited a present from the travellers for me, obtained, perhaps, a couple of kerans, and watching a favorable opportunity, offers me the half-keran piece; the wily ways of these people are several degrees more ingenious even than the dark ways and vain tricks of Bret Harte's "Heathen Chinee."
If our soil is new, yet it may produce fruits which will bear a rich flavour of their own, and may please the palate of even those surfeited with the hothouse growth of older lands. Hawthorne, Emerson, Howells, Bret Harte, Sam Slick, are among many writers who illustrate the raciness and freshness of American production.
"My friend here," turning to the policeman who had voiced his amazement at the suggestion that Hilton Fenley was a murderer, "was in the position of Bret Harte's negro lecturer on geology, while this other stalwart thought he had been kicked by a horse. We soon recovered, but had to grope for each other. Then I called the heavens to witness that I was dished."
Startling as the assertion may be, I believe it to be strictly true. Be that as it may, I cannot read the stories of your western men, the writings of Bret Harte, or Colonel John Hay, for instance, without feeling at every turn that there are the old Norse alive again, beyond the very ocean which they first crossed, 850 years ago.
The latter ejaculated, "Bret Harte! Where?" M. pointed to the window, and instantly the sturdy Yorkshireman sprang from his seat, and seizing Harte by the shoulders, forced him back into his seat, whilst he thrust himself half out of the window, and eagerly searched the platform for the missing celebrity.
The best way of distinguishing Bret Harte from the rest of American humour is to say that if Bret Harte had described that scene, it would in some subtle way have combined a sense of the absurdity of the incident with some sense of the sublimity and pathos of the theme. You would have felt that the organist's tune was funny, but not that the Prodigal Son was funny.
On, page 50, however, we read: "In 1858 or thereabouts, Bret Harte was teaching school at Tuttletown, a few miles north of Sonora." It would seem that this statement is erroneous, apart from the fact that it conflicts with the prior date in reference to Alamo. Mrs.
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