It was like the last feeble echo
of a sound made long and long ago.
Not a latent echo
in the house, not a squeak and scuffle from the mice behind the panelling, not a drip from the half-thawed water-spout in the dull yard behind, not a sigh among the leafless boughs of one despondent poplar, not the idle swinging of an empty store-house door, no, not a clicking in the fire, but fell upon the heart of Scrooge with a softening influence, and gave a freer passage to his tears.
As I walked to and fro daily between Southwark and Blackfriars, and lounged about at meal-times in obscure streets, the stones of which may, for anything I know, be worn at this moment by my childish feet, I wonder how many of these people were wanting in the crowd that used to come filing before me in review again, to the echo
of Captain Hopkins's voice
what art thou, that darest to echo
my words in a tone like that of the night-raven?
Miss Wilson's conscience, already smitten by the coarseness and absence of moral force in the echo
of her own "You are impertinent," from the mouth of Mr.
I believe the silly fellows must have thought they would break their shins over treasure as soon as they were landed, for they all came out of their sulks in a moment and gave a cheer that started the echo
in a far- away hill and sent the birds once more flying and squalling round the anchorage.
He becomes an echo
of some one else's music, an actor of a part that has not been written for him.
behind them seemed to repeat the word after her.
The beats of her heart grew fainter and fainter, and vaguer, like a fountain giving out, like an echo
dying away;--and when she exhaled her last breath, she thought she saw in the half-opened heavens a gigantic parrot hovering above her head.
As we appeared, he uplifted a tin trumpet, four or five feet long, and blew a tremendous blast, either in honor of our arrival or to awaken an echo
from the opposite hill.
Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold -- Some vault that oft hath flung its black And winged pannels fluttering back, Triumphant, o'er the crested palls, Of her grand family funerals -- Some sepulchre, remote, alone, Against whose portal she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone -- Some tomb fromout whose sounding door She ne'er shall force an echo
more, Thrilling to think, poor child of sin
And these--the dreams--writhed in and about taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo
of their steps.