Americanliterature. By Edgar Allan Poe The Cask of Amontillado and the accompanying illustration by Harry Clarke were published in 1919 in Edgar Allan Poe'sTales of Mystery and Imagination. THE thousand injuries of Fortunato I had borne as I best could, but when he ventured upon insult I vowed revenge. You, who so well know the nature of my soul, will not suppose, however, that gave utterance to a threat. At length I would be avenged; this was a point definitely, settled --but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved precluded the idea of risk.
I must not only punish but punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when retribution overtakes its redresser. It must be understood that neither by word nor deed had I given Fortunato cause to doubt my good will. He had a weak point --this Fortunato --although in other regards he was a man to be respected and even feared. It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness of the carnival season, that I encountered my friend. "How? " "Amontillado! " Americanliterature. By Mark Twain You have heard from a great many people who did something in the war, is it not fair and right that you listen a little moment to one who started out to do something in it but didn't? Thousands entered the war, got just a taste of it, and then stepped out again permanently. These, by their very numbers, are respectable and therefore entitled to a sort of voice, not a loud one, but a modest one, not a boastful one but an apologetic one. They ought not be allowed much space among better people, people who did something.
Out west there was a good deal of confusion in men's minds during the first months of the great trouble, a good deal of unsettledness, of leaning first this way then that, and then the other way. In that summer of 1861 the first wash of the wave of war broke upon the shores of Missouri. I was visiting in the small town where my boyhood had been spent, Hannibal, Marion County. That is one sample of us. Another sample was Smith, the blacksmith's apprentice. Americanliterature. By Nathaniel Hawthorne Young Goodman Brown came forth at sunset into the street at Salem village; but put his head back, after crossing the threshold, to exchange a parting kiss with his young wife. And Faith, as the wife was aptly named, thrust her own pretty head into the street, letting the wind play with the pink ribbons of her cap while she called to Goodman Brown.
"Dearest heart," whispered she, softly and rather sadly, when her lips were close to his ear, "prithee put off your journey until sunrise and sleep in your own bed to-night. A lone woman is troubled with such dreams and such thoughts that she's afeard of herself sometimes. Pray tarry with me this night, dear husband, of all nights in the year. " "My love and my Faith," replied young Goodman Brown, "of all nights in the year, this one night must I tarry away from thee.
"Then God bless you! " "Amen! " "Poor little Faith! " "You are late, Goodman Brown," said he. "Sayest thou so? " "Too far! "Can this be so? " "Ha! "The devil! " Americanliterature. By Nathaniel Hawthorne "My Kinsman, Major Molineux" was written in 1831 and first published in 1832. It was later included in the 1852 edition of The Snow-Image, and Other Twice-Told Tales, the final short story collection of short stories that was published while Hawthorne was still living. I have characterized it with its original publication date of 1832, but belonging to his final collection.
AFTER the kings of Great Britain had assumed the right of appointing the colonial governors, the measures of the latter seldom met with the ready and generous approbation which had been paid to those of their predecessors, under the original charters. It was near nine o'clock of a moonlight evening, when a boat crossed the ferry with a single passenger, who had obtained his conveyance at that unusual hour by the promise of an extra fare. He resumed his walk, and was glad to perceive that the street now became wider, and the houses more respectable in their appearance.
``What have we here? '' The Tell-Tale Heart. By Edgar Allan Poe Illustration of "The Tell-Tale Heart" by Harry Clarke, from Edgar Allan Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination, 1919. TRUE! -NERVOUS--very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am! But why will you say that I am mad? It is impossible to tell how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Now this is the point. I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out: "Who's there? " I kept quite still and said nothing. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little--a very, very little crevice in the lantern. But even yet I refrained and kept still. Americanliterature. By Louisa May Alcott Chapter 1 "COME out for a drive, Harry? " "Too cold. " "Have a game of billiards? " "Too tired.
" "Go and call on the Fairchilds? " "Having an unfortunate prejudice against country girls, I respectfully decline. " "What will you do then? " "Nothing, thank you. " And settling himself more luxuriously upon the couch, Lennox closed his eyes, and appeared to slumber tranquilly. "Scarlet stockings, Harry!
" "Where? " "I thought that would succeed! "Not a bad manoeuvre. "I'm glad any thing does interest you," said Kate, petulantly, "though I don't think it amounts to much, for, though you perch yourself at the window every day to see that girl pass, you don't care enough about it to ask her name. " "I've been waiting to be told. " "It's Belle Morgan, the Doctor's daughter, and my dearest friend. " "Then, of course, she is a blue-belle? " "Don't try to be witty or sarcastic with her, for she will beat you at that. " "Not a dumb-belle then? " "A Canterbury belle in every sense of the word then? " "How odd? " Americanliterature. By Herman Melville Bartleby, the Scrivener.
A Story of Wall-street. I AM a rather elderly man. The nature of my avocations for the last thirty years has brought me into more than ordinary contact with what would seem an interesting and somewhat singular set of men, of whom as yet nothing that I know of has ever been written:--I mean the law-copyists or scriveners.
I have known very many of them, professionally and privately, and if I pleased, could relate divers histories, at which good-natured gentlemen might smile, and sentimental souls might weep. But I waive the biographies of all other scriveners for a few passages in the life of Bartleby, who was a scrivener the strangest I ever saw or heard of. While of other law-copyists I might write the complete life, of Bartleby nothing of that sort can be done. Imprimis: I am a man who, from his youth upwards, has been filled with a profound conviction that the easiest way of life is the best.
My chambers were up stairs at No. -- Wall-street. Americanliterature. By Edgar Allan Poe At Paris, just after dark one gusty evening in the autumn of 18 -- , I was enjoying the twofold luxury of meditation and a meerschaum, in company with my friend, C. Auguste Dupin, in his little back library, or book-closet, au troisime, No. 33 Rue Dunt, Faubourg St. Germain. For one hour at least we had maintained a profound silence; while each, to any casual observer, might have seemed intently and exclusively occupied with the curling eddies of smoke that oppressed the atmosphere of the chamber.
We gave him a hearty welcome; for there was nearly half as much of the entertaining as of the contemptible about the man, and we had not seen him for several years. "If it is any point requiring reflection," observed Dupin, as he forbore to enkindle the wick, "we shall examine it to better purpose in the dark. " "Very true," said Dupin, as he supplied his visitor with a pipe, and rolled toward him a comfortable chair. "And what is the difficulty now? " "Oh, good heavens!
"Ha! Americanliterature. By James Fenimore Cooper THE eclipse of the sun, which you have requested me to describe, occurred in the summer of 1806, on Monday, the 16th of June. Its greatest depth of shadow fell upon the American continent, somewhere about the latitude of 42 deg. I was then on a visit to my parents, at the home of my family, among the Highlands of Otsego, in that part of the country where the eclipse was most impressive. My recollections of the great event, and the incidents of the day, are as vivid as if they had occurred but yesterday. Lake Otsego, the headwaters of the Susquehanna, lies as nearly as possible in latitude 42 deg. Throughout the belt of country to be darkened by the eclipse, the whole population were in a state of almost anxious expectation for weeks before the event.
Many were the prophecies regarding the weather, the hopes and fears expressed by different individuals, on this important point, as evening drew near. But an object of far higher interest suddenly attracted my eye. Americanliterature. By Edgar Allan Poe In the consideration of the faculties and impulses -- of the prima mobilia of the human soul, the phrenologists have failed to make room for a propensity which, although obviously existing as a radical, primitive, irreducible sentiment, has been equally overlooked by all the moralists who have preceded them. In the pure arrogance of the reason, we have all overlooked it. We have suffered its existence to escape our senses solely through want of belief -- of faith; -- whether it be faith in Revelation, or faith in the Kabbala. The idea of it has never occurred to us, simply because of its supererogation. We saw no need of impulse -- for the propensity.
It would have been wiser, it would have been safer, to classify (if classify we must) upon the basis of what man usually or occasionally did, and was always occasionally doing, rather than upon the basis of what he took it for granted the Deity intended him to do. We stand upon the brink of a precipice. New Feature! Americanliterature. By Willa Cather IT often happens that one or another of my friends stops before a red chalk drawing in my study and asks me where I ever found so lovely a creature.
I have never told the story of that picture to any one, and the beautiful woman on the wall, until yesterday, in all these twenty years has spoken to no one but me. Yesterday a young painter, a countryman of mine, came to consult me on a matter of business, and upon seeing my drawing of Alexandra Ebbling, straightway forgot his errand. He examined the date upon the sketch and asked me, very earnestly, if I could tell him whether the lady were still living. When I answered him, he stepped back from the picture and said slowly: "So long ago?
"As to that, who can say -- about any one of us? " We returned to the object of his visit, but when he bade me goodbye at the door his troubled gaze again went back to the drawing, and it was only by turning sharply about that he took his eyes away from her. But I am anticipating. "Dull? Americanliterature. By Nathaniel Hawthorne THE SEXTON stood in the porch of Milford meetinghouse, pulling busily at the bell rope. The old people of the village came stooping along the street. Children, with bright faces, tripped merrily beside their parents, or mimicked a graver gait, in the conscious dignity of their Sunday clothes. Spruce bachelors looked sidelong at the pretty maidens, and fancied that the Sabbath sunshine made them prettier than on weekdays. When the throng had mostly streamed into the porch, the sexton began to toll the bell, keeping his eye on the Reverend Mr.
Hooper's door. The first glimpse of the clergyman's figure was the signal for the bell to cease its summons. "But what has good Parson Hooper got upon his face? " All within hearing immediately turned about, and beheld the semblance of Mr. "Are you sure it is our parson? " "Of a certainty it is good Mr. The cause of so much amazement may appear sufficiently slight. "I can't really feel as if good Mr. "Our parson has gone mad! " Americanliterature. By W. W. Jacobs "Be careful what you wish for, you may receive it. " --Anonymous Part I Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnum villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. "Hark at the wind," said Mr. "I'm listening," said the latter grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. "I should hardly think that he's come tonight, " said his father, with his hand poised over the board.
"Mate," replied the son. "That's the worst of living so far out," balled Mr. "Never mind, dear," said his wife soothingly; "perhaps you'll win the next one. " Mr. "There he is," said Herbert White as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came toward the door.
The old man rose with hospitable haste and opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. "Sargeant-Major Morris, " he said, introducing him. "Twenty-one years of it," said Mr. "He don't look to have taken much harm. " said Mrs. "Nothing. " said the soldier hastily. "Monkey's paw? " Mr.