Word: whether
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Dates: during 1870-1879
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...however, that it is not universally acknowledged that the line "Remote, unfriended, melancholy, slow," is by Shakespeare. Some persons contend that it is the first line of a lost work, "The Traveller," by an obscure poet named Goldsmith. We are in perfect sympathy with the Beacon, and only doubt whether it praises sufficiently the institution which it represents. It is absurd for the Argus to speak of local pride and petty conceit. When a great and famous University, situated within a stone's toss of Boston Common, and having a magnificent view of the State House, enjoying the inestimable advantage...
...book-case than he has any idea of. First there is the book-case itself, by which we can estimate his sense of the aesthetic, the amount of his allowance, and by a careful examination of the corners, for the dents left by Indian clubs, we can tell whether he is kindly disposed towards athletics. We can even go beyond himself, and by taking the depth of the dust on the top, we can make a pretty fair estimate of his goody. Then there are the books themselves, their condition, number, and bindings. And here let me warn...
...comer fail at once to notice the wide discrepancy between his pronunciation and that of educated people, if, of course, he be of ordinary intelligence? His only safe course is to turn to his Worcester and abide by that pronunciation which has the balance of authority, whether it involves a revision of his own style of speech...
...unlike anything I ever heard before, and has to be heard from the lips of a genuine up-country Yankee to be understood. Duty, tune, lucid, blue, etc., become dooty, toon, bloo, etc. Past, fast, last, etc., invariably parst, farst, larst, only the r is not distinct. Whether he is right in saying demand, command, castle, example, I won't undertake to decide; he certainly has much authority on his side. Perhaps, however, the safest way to shun the extremities represented by the Western haff and laff and the Yankee's parst and larst is to follow the medio tutissimus...
...which novel-writers nowadays give to their heroes. On marking the difference, one involuntarily feels almost proud of his century for being in this particular a little less ridiculous than bygone times, although it may outrun them in a thousand other absurdities. To whatever quality it may be due, whether to common-sense, or lack of deference, or indolence, we no longer find the lover addressing his mistress in metaphors, the far-fetchedness of which would put to shame the worst of college puns, nor does he, at the critical moment, lay an exposition of his feelings before the lady...