The infancy of youth, the youth of
manhood, the entire past of age.
There is no steady unretracing progress in this life; we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one pause: --through infancy's unconscious spell, boyhood's thoughtless faith, adolescence' doubt (the common doom), then scepticism, then disbelief, resting at last in
manhood's pondering repose of If.
George Willard, the Ohio village boy, was fast growing into
manhood and new thoughts had been coming into his mind.
Into the
manhood of the race: for I, for my own part cannot think that these latter days of weak experiment, fragmentary theory, and mutual discord are indeed man's culminating time!
Drink was the badge of
manhood. So I drank with them, drink by drink, raw and straight, though the damned stuff couldn't compare with a stick of chewing taffy or a delectable "cannon-ball." I shuddered and swallowed my gorge with every drink, though I manfully hid all such symptoms.
1-16) I will tell of Dionysus, the son of glorious Semele, how he appeared on a jutting headland by the shore of the fruitless sea, seeming like a stripling in the first flush of
manhood: his rich, dark hair was waving about him, and on his strong shoulders he wore a purple robe.
Nor, to this day can I permit my
manhood to look back upon those events and feel entirely exonerated.
The universal experience of ages, showing that children do grow imperceptibly from the cradle to
manhood, did not exist for the countess.
Mugambi from childhood had eaten no meat until it had been cooked, while Tarzan, on the other hand, had never tasted cooked food of any sort until he had grown almost to
manhood, and only within the past three or four years had he eaten cooked meat.
All of virtue and chivalry and true
manhood which his old guardian had neglected to inculcate in the boy's mind the good priest planted there, but he could not eradicate his deep-seated hatred for the English or his belief that the real test of
manhood lay in a desire to fight to the death with a sword.
I had believed in the best parlour as a most elegant saloon; I had believed in the front door, as a mysterious portal of the Temple of State whose solemn opening was attended with a sacrifice of roast fowls; I had believed in the kitchen as a chaste though not magnificent apartment; I had believed in the forge as the glowing road to
manhood and independence.
Immoral, licentious, anarchical, unscientific -- call them by what names you will -- yet, from an aesthetic point of view, those ancient days of the Colour Revolt were the glorious childhood of Art in Flatland -- a childhood, alas, that never ripened into
manhood, nor even reached the blossom of youth.