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May 25, 1850.] ©3* **«>**» g13
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OUR FOREIGN MINISTER. «* Confound all Fr...
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VIVIAN UNMASKED. I cannot conceive by wh...
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MY POETS. I lived with the great poets e...
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CHILDHOOD. Ah ! sweet days of nay youth ...
Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
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Note: This text has been automatically extracted via Optical Character Recognition (OCR) software. The text has not been manually corrected and should not be relied on to be an accurate representation of the item.
Additionally, when viewing full transcripts, extracted text may not be in the same order as the original document.
The Apprenticeship Of Life. By G. H. Lew...
not an assassination ; but even that is repugnant to my feelings . My opinion , however , remains the same . Nothing can justify assassination . No cause remains sacred if it be stained with blood . " " I begin to think you are right , " said Adrienne . He looked down upon her to thank her for the sentiment . Their eyes met ; they had often met before ; but this time there was a light in them which rendered their meaning intelligible to each other—and that meaning was love ! Armand went home in a fever . Ardienne passed a sleepless night in tears .
May 25, 1850.] ©3* **«>**» G13
May 25 , 1850 . ] © 3 * **«>**» g 13
Our Foreign Minister. «* Confound All Fr...
OUR FOREIGN MINISTER . «* Confound all Frenchmen !* ' our wise Fathers said . That ancient wisdom shared by Whigs we see , Who in audacious terror , trembling , made A minister of—Marplot-OgiiEby !
Vivian Unmasked. I Cannot Conceive By Wh...
VIVIAN UNMASKED . I cannot conceive by what fatal error editorial that fellow Vivian obtained access to the Leader . You do not know him as well as I do , or it would not have been . I deny all he says , and indeed more ; and I protest against his false representation of the Englishman going forth to Europe uncontradicted . It is not true that men have ceased to write . I might appeal in proof to my own manuscripts of the last twenty years ; but I wait till I can find a publisher , and then the world will see from any of those productions whether some poor abilities do not remain . Indeed it is not owing to want of abilities in us that the public is defrauded , but to a cause described some twenty years ago—the " False Medium , " and I know well enough that even the discoverer of that
adamantine barrier overlooked one important fact . Vivian enumerates a host of ¦ writers who find access to the public , all ladies , and therefore charming and lovely , no doubt . He implies that his merits are overlooked by the Murrays and Longmans , the Bentleys and Colburns , the Smith and Elders , and the Chapman and Halls : enterprising publishers , unquestionably , and intelligent ; but does he forget that they are men ? That is the secret . The publisher ' s room is sacred to quiet and tete-a-tetes : a blushing maiden enters with a manuscript , surprising Longman , Brown , Green , and Longmans alone , and we know the result . The evil points out the remedy : authors , frustrated by the False Medium , should establish a true medium—should set up a publisheress ; and then
let Vivian do his worst . As for his attempt to inveigle women back to dumplings and tambour!—Repeal the Polka ' . —Restore the Heptarchy 1 No , thank Heaven , we are not going back to the days when the question asked before banns was , whether a young woman could make a shirt and a pudding . Because , while the only puddings you had were made by your wife , you had nothing but doughapple dumplings one Sunday , currant dumplings next Sunday ; whereas you now get a pudding for every day in the year . I do not know whence they come , still less their names : one I recognise as coming from Downing-street , and I cannot conceive how Carlyle can attack the native place of ?? Cabinet puddings . " I only conjecture that that person never ate one , or he would know what the Whigs have done for their country : but my wife tells me that they are only
seen at genteel tables . As to shirts , they used to cost much more and be much worse when they were made at home . I remember that , in measuring the wristbands , my first wife always confounded my knees with my wrists , and the collar used to scratch the corners of my eye . There has been a great improvement , both in make and price , since they were made by distressed needlewomen ; and I cannot imagine why Mr . Sidney Herbert brutally proposes to suppress that helpless class . I know it is much better since that class was invented . When I was courting my first wife , she was always sewing , and when I tried to insinuate her lips round to mine , she used to say she was " busy " ; and then she poked her needle over her shoulder into my cheek . Whereas , in courting my second , there were no such hindrances . All the work of stitching and crying is now done by the distressed needlewomen , who are paid for it , which gives additional employment for a class of the community . And so our darlings are
the freer to do all the rest . The wildest of all Vivian ' s assertions is that women can t write good letters . Not to him , I suppose . " When Julia writes to me , " he says . I don't believe Julia ever did write to him . But I join issue with him on every point . " Do we admire the composition of our aunts ? " he asks . I boldly declare that we do . My aunt will match Vivian any day . But the fact is that the dulness of this fellow is inconceivable . I happen to know that he does receive letters from the most able female pens ; but then , perhaps , the coxcomb knows that he could not venture to produce them . The force of style which I have seen in letters addressed to him must have gone to his conscience . I dare him to deny the ?? stops . "
Ah ! by the way , if women can t write letters , how is it that they write books so readily , and cut him out of the market ? " Julia , " he says , " writes to me four crossed pages of note paper , "—meaning you to understand that Julia writes tenderly—that ho receives his love letters with the rest of us . And then the fellow is simple enough to give us a sample of one . " She once wrote thus [—once wrote !—] ? Poor M breathed his last on Friday—his family in such distress , —mind you take caro Pincher has his cat ' s merit regularly . '" That is the sort of love-letter he gets . Now if it were fair to product ) literature of that order , I could But unfortunately it is not fair . Suffice it to say that for delicacy and animation of stylo , Madame do Sevignu her . self could not surpass—nor for force and clearness , Lady Mary Wortloy—nor for impassioned tenderness , Ilcloiso
But it really is awkward to deal with this subject , where one s own experience is hampered by considerations of reserve . Or 1 might cite examples , not only from the letters of I find it quite impracticable to pursue this theme , which is a pity , as it would be so easy to refute Vivian . Unluckily it can be of no use to dare him to look into his own experiences—that is clear .
And then as to letters not love-letters-have we not letters with every name in the sweet saints' kalender , from Abigail to Zoe , on every subject of charity and kindness , from blankets to watchmaking ? Always direct , full , and cordral . The secret is , that women do think less of the manner than of the matter , and most of the motive that stirs them . They talk with the pen , as they would talk with their lips—bless those soft instruments of persuasion ! They do not , as men will , send you essays , or statements , or manifestoes ; but the language is such as goes with the kind , dear , simple countenance , —p erchance witn a caress ; the writing carries with it the silver sound , — and if you can remember any stops but the one which stops the breathing words , Heaven help you . I'll tell you what :-No , I won ' t ; for if you do not guess it for yourself , there . , iv Jc LOJIIAN . is no use in telling you .
My Poets. I Lived With The Great Poets E...
MY POETS . I lived with the great poets evermore , "Yet evermore I felt their sway grow less : First Byron wrought in me a deep distress ; Then Shelley made me weep , smile , love , adore , And , feeling as he felt , I learnt to see What grace , what poesy , what wisdom crown'd The mystical sweet spirit and profound Of the melodious seer of Galilee . But now these poets speak not ; silent now Their old and magisterial command ; Shakspeare must soothe my age , for Spenser ' s brow I have no crown , who love not Fairyland . Two Poets are there only whom I know , Goethe the strong , the strong and sweet George Sand . M
Childhood. Ah ! Sweet Days Of Nay Youth ...
CHILDHOOD . Ah ! sweet days of nay youth ! Are ye vanish * d for aye ? 0 Beauty ! O Truth ! Did ye die in your May ? 1 was young , I was young , When the clouds spake of God , When the trees as they swung , Seemed to nod to his nod . When the summer shook balm From her blue glowing wings , When the sunsets slept calm In their purple , like kings . When the rainbow stood up Like a thing strangely born , And I drank of the cup From the red lips of morn . I was young , I was young , When I fled thro' the wood , While the little birds sung , And the world seemed so good . How I laugh ' d as I sped By the river ' s green , marge , How I lifted my head When my heart grew too large . How the cuckoo would sing As she flew down the breeze , Mid the odours of spring And the rustle of trees . 0 ! phantom-like bird , Full of love , full of awe , When the ear often heard But the eye never saw . Then the colours that stray'd On the roof , on the wall , Turn'd the room where I play'd To a magical hall . Then I slept in the grass , Lull'd in dreams of the skies , And sweet angels would pass Raining light from their eyes . Then I call'd , then I cried , To these sons of the blest , — But they smil'd when I sigh'd , And past on to their rest . Ah ! 'tis over ; but , still , When I feel like a child , From the lake , from the hill , From the wood and the wild , From the cloud and the bird , From the trees and the flowers , Come the voices I heard In the bright morning hours . And the birds sing again As in childhood they sung , And in heart and in brain 1 am young—I am young . M ,
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Citation
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Leader (1850-1860), May 25, 1850, page 21, in the Nineteenth-Century Serials Edition (2008; 2018) ncse.ac.uk/periodicals/l/issues/cld_25051850/page/21/
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