Word: delightfully
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Dates: during 1870-1879
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...Wake early, but not bright. Drizzling rain. Suggest to Freshman that we take it easy. Freshman acquiesces with ill-concealed delight. Says he has rich uncle (who dotes on him) living three miles ahead. Time to uncle's gate, two hours. Servant won't let us in; has orders to keep out tramps. Freshman implores and raves, but with no avail. Finally sends in pocket-Bible in lieu of card, and is admitted. Uncle cordial; cousins, Sophs at Vassar. Welcome breakfast. Rain increases; have to spend the day. Luncheon. Dinner. Bezique and forfeits in the sitting-room. Rain ceases. Cousins...
Some are content to stroll along the gold-arched avenues in quiet contemplation of the beauty of the scene; other robust natures require the exhilaration of the sharp gallop through the crisp, invigorating air; while to some the sweet-scented woods are a delight, where the whirr of the partridge or the soft whistling of the quail, followed by the quick crack of the fowling-piece and the dead thud of the victim, announce the unerring aim of the sportsman and the plumpness of the game...
...literary career with a proper regard for their own integrity. In the opening poem they show their taste for German literature and their familiarity with the language by giving, as the fruit of their own or a contributor's genius, a very pretty translation from Uhland, which was the delight of our childhood, and which we have never forgotten. The last verse will be familiar to most of our readers...
...reviewers. But Kenelm Chillingly shows neither of these faults. It has all the vigor and novelty of a first attempt, and all the gracefulness and ease which only come after the writing of many books. In its hero Bulwer seems to be thoroughly at home, taking as much delight in him as any reader will do, and through him giving expression to the choicest bits of learning and wisdom which he had himself acquired throughout his long, busy, and thoughtful life. There is a picture in Punch of a little girl, discovering that her doll is stuffed with sawdust, exclaiming...
...generally admitted that all educated men, at some time in their lives, write poetry. Many acquire the habit at an early age, and go about shedding blotted scraps of paper from their pockets with an infantile-Byronic air, to the delight of their mothers and to the horror of all reasonable people; others stave off the evil hour until they fall in love, when, inspired, I suppose, by the object of their sonnets, they often astonish every one but themselves by the excellence of their verses, just as madmen have been known to develop powers of which their hours...