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Will you let me come with you?" Lottie did not know whether he was making fun of her or not, but she said, "Oh, it's a free country," and allowed him to go with her. His preface made the judge look rather grave; but when he came to the joke, Kenton laughed and said it was not bad. "Oh, but that isn't quite the point," said Mr. Breckon.
He had hinted that he should like to be buried in a certain spot near the grave of his mother. This is a weakness; but it is universally incident to humanity: 'tis at least a memorial for those who survive: for some indeed a slender memorial will serve; and the soft affections, when they are busy that way, will build their structures, were it but on the paring of a nail.
During these visits my interest in Schleiermacher was awakened, for his grave he died in 1834, three years before I was born lay near our lot, and we often stopped before the stone erected by his friends, grateful pupils, and admirers.
And what was the "burden"? It was not some special burden laid upon the Christian, some unique infliction that they alone must bear. It was what all men bear. It was simply life, human life itself, the general burden of life which all must carry with them from the cradle to the grave. Christ saw that men took life painfully.
Even partners sank into insignificance, and became only so many facilities for so much delight. Not so easily could her partners forget her, the girlish face, sometimes grave with its own enjoyment, and then 'bright as a constellation! declared Mr.
At the gates of the dun, the King who was a priest met them, and he was a grave man, and beside him stood his daughter, and she was as fair as the morn, and one that smiled and looked down. "These are my two sons," said the first King. "And here is my daughter," said the King who was a priest. "She is a wonderful fine maid," said the first King, "and I like her manner of smiling."
Between the island of Manhattoes and the Catskills the Hudson shores were plagued with spooks, and even as late as the nineteenth century Hans Anderson, a man who tilled a farm back of Peekskill, was worried into his grave by the leaden-face likeness of a British spy whom he had hanged on General Putnam's orders.
In February, 1821, he died, at the age of twenty-five years and four months. On the modest stone which marks his grave in the Protestant Cemetery in Rome, there was placed at his request: "Here lies one whose name was writ in water." His most appropriate epitaph is Shelley's Adonais. Poems.
"Come to dinner, the chicken it grows cold," but to herself she added, "He is an odd bird, this English hibou, but attractive when he is not so grave." Meanwhile Godfrey continued to ponder his mighty problem.
Well the Bantam was told to state what he had seen and the moment he began Rady who was close by me began to shake and he was laughing I knew though his face was as grave as Sir Miles. You never heard such a rigmarole but I could not laugh.
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