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Mary Anne Wellington, the Soldier’s Daughter, Wife and Widow. With plates
By Richard COBBOLD
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zans. At the steady approach of the allied army, Burgos was deserted, the castle was blown up; and it is said that the town itself, with all its innocent inhabitants, were doomed to similar destruction, but that the hurried retreat of the French caused the works to be neglected, and the trains were not fired. If so, God’s providence and protection overruled the wickedness of man.

Lord Wellington had been gradually concentrating his forces upon Vittoria, for he had ascertained that Joseph Buonaparte had determined to give him battle before that place. The mock king had sent forward all his baggagemaggons; and whilst the town was illuminated inhonour of his presence, he himself was ordering all his stolen goods to be moved forward towards the frontiers. Never was there a greater proof of the rapacious nature of the French invasion, than that which the retreat of Joseph from Madrid exhibited. Every public relic of value that could possibly be carried off, was hoisted on to the baggage-waggons of this King Log. Even the imperials of his own travelling carriage were stuffed with rolls of the most valuable pictures, cut from their gilt frames, out of the collections of all the Spanish galleries. Plunder, direful plunder, of every species of valuable property which Frenchmen could lay their hands upon, from the highest to the lowest, found an easy conveyance in the long train of vans, of which there seemed to be no end, from the high hills of the Zadorra to the beautiful range along the valley of Irun.

N o powers of description are adequate to convey a just idea of the

‘ imposing effect presented to the eye of our heroine, on the morning of the 21st of J unc, 1813, as she sat upon the lofty summit of the Sierra, in company with a party of poor sick soldiers and campfollowers, who, with a few peasants of the country, had collected to see the awful battle which was there and then to take place.

These guides of the country had conducted the party, by gentle and gradual ascents, up to a height beneath which the.clouds played fantastic revels; and there, upon a projecting point, whose top was formed of moss-covered fragments, sat our heroine, watching the bright sun rising amidst a flood of glory, to look herself upon a scene of grandeur such as few eyes could behold and forget. He rose in majesty; he lifted the curtain of darkness, and dispelled with his beams the foggy vapours of the valleys. The mists rolled away, and long before the two leaders of those armies could see each other, they were descried from ‘the height, beyond the reach of cannon, but scarcely out of the flapping of the eagle’s mng.

On the hills of the Zadorra, opposite to the Sierra, stood Marshal Jourdan and King Joseph Buonaparte, anxiously awaiting the attack upon their long line of defence, which was spread through the valley of the Zadorra; whilst just beneath our heroine’s party stood the unassuming Commander of the allies, in his grey coat and with telescope in hand, surveying, as the curtain was withdrawn, the immense battle-field upon which his operations were to be displayed.

Vittoria lay before them; and in the distance might still be seen, winding along the high road, those royal incumbrances, which were never exceeded in extent, never included a greater mass of wealth, and never were so much in every one’s way, as upon that memorable morning.

What must have been the feelings of the soldier’s wife, as she saw before her eyes, in all the splendour of the nations to which they belong, the finest race of men, the best-trained soldiers, the best equipped forces that the sun of Spain ever shone upon! Private feelings were swallowed up in the imposing public spectacle; and thoughts, thoughts too solemn for language to describe, arose in her soul, as she saw the enemy of Spain and her deliverer confronted with such terror-speaking troops and tongues as mortal powers cannot unfold. She lifted up her heart to God; and, if she forgot her husband and her friend, it was only in that general breathing of a prayer for the preservation of the whole British army.

The battle began at the extremity of the line, by the attack of Sir Rowland Hill upon the heights of La Puebla. What pigmies did the little creatures look from the lofty summit where our heroine was placed! The guns which first opened their desultory fire, seemed but pop-guns with little wreaths of smoke curling over their months. But, as the masses advanced, and the steady firing of the line succeeded, then the sounds began to reverberate along the Sierra; and with varied feelings of hope and fear did the eye of the soldier’s wife witness the advance, repulse, re-attack, and success of that first position of the battle, which caused the death of Oadogan, who had counted with vivacity on that morn which saw his destruction.

Hill’s division was watched with intense anxiety, because our heroine’s heart was with old Dan and the 48th. She more than once thought she could distinguish the black charger in the rear of the regiment, and saw, as she imagined, many of her friends stretched upon the ground. It appeared a singular sight to behold men and horses falling dead before the reports of the destructive fire which prostrated them could be heard. Hundreds were seen from that eagle height falling without apparent cause. The effect was so sudden, and the distance so great, that individual red, black, or green spots distinguished masses, who appeared to be smitten, as it were, with sudden sleep. Here and there, indeed, might be seen a single flying steed, appearing no larger than a lady’s lap dog, galloping without a rider, and stopping only at the brink of the river. The smoke from the booming cannon and all the different parks of artillery, looked like small white clouds, which curled up the sides of the mountains, and did not, for any lengthened period, hide the moving masses of soldiers.

From her lofty height, it appeared to our heroine for a long, long time, as if neither side had gained any advantage. The most impoaing troop, seeming like a long line of men clad in gold, was a body of French heavy dragoons, dressed in dark green, with’ brass helmets. From the heights, these helmets seemed to cover their bodies; and, when they rushed to the fight, our heroine’s breath was suspended, as she saw them resisted at the point of the British bayonet. The gold was tarnished, the bright line destroyed, and scattered; and by two’s, three’s, four’s, and six’s, the golden line formed again, and appeared but half its former length. The centre of the enemy appeared to give way. The red-coats steadily advanced. At last she saw Lord Wellington change his position, and Joseph and his staff move off, the whole of the troops aiming at one point to reach Vittoria.

At the latter part of the day, it became distinctly evident that the victory was decided; the mighty masses of France appeared to join each other in a confused flight, while the columns of the allies kept steadily advancing.

The peasants now conducted our heroine and her companions down the lofty sides of the mountain, every turn affording a nearer view of the still contending forces; but the distance apparently greater to them, as they reached a corresponding level with the combatants.

It was night, and a brilliant night it was when our heroine reached the battle-field. She was directed to Hill’s brigade, and found her husband in the act of removing his Colonel from the scene into the village of Snbijana do Alava.

‘ You are arrived just in time to help me,’ said the assistantsurgeon Macauley. ‘ Colonel White is desperately wounded; we must get him a quiet berth, and you, my dear, must attend him. Never mind the plunder. It is, I hear, immense; but duty calls both you and me away from scenes of predatory discord, which must degrade the glories of victory.’

Immense indeed was the plunder of Vittoria. Independently of the one hundred and fifty-one pieces of cannon, the four hundred and fifteen caissons, the fifty-six forage waggons, and the immense stores of ammunition which fell into the hands of our victorious troops, the Staff of the French Marshal was sent to the victor, and J oseph’s carriage, baggage, and military chest were captured. The extraordinary exhibition of that night is scarcely to be credited. At every regimental bivouac, some chosen man put up to auction the plunder of his companions; and, had Jew dealers from Portugal been there, cent. per cent. might have been realized, even for the current coin of the country; for it is a positive fact that Spanish dollars, on account of their incumbranoe, fetched only half their real price, in exchange for gold.

Our heroine, however partook of none of these things, nor her husband either. They were engaged in attending upon the wounded, and at this time upon the Colonel of their own regiment. To them the plunder was an accursed thing; they honestly thought their preservation and glorious victory were more worthy matters of thankfulness and exultation, than any spoils obtained from the plunderers of Spain.

Our heroine was engaged to attend upon Colonel White, and faithfully did she perform her duty; gratefully were her services acknowledged : should these pages reach the eye of that brave officer, he will remember his last words of gratitude to the soldier’ s wife :

‘ If ever you should want a friend, apply to me; and, if God blesses me with the means, you shall not want.”

The battle of Vittoria made Wellington Field-Marshal and Marquis of Wellington, K.G., and raised the quality of the British army to a standard of excellence which it had never till then enjoyed.

Old Dan and the band of the 48th played a triumphant march within the walls of Vittoria, and then marched forward to other victories, to the glory and honour of old England, the release of Spain, and the ultimate confusion of the enemies of mankind.

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CHAPTER XXV. i

‘ THE PYRENEES. I new #’ – ,iv Tun battle of Vittoria was succeeded by all the disastrous laxities which the unfortunate possession of rich plunder is so apt to produce.” ‘- omqu on: arms 0.1 qu The spirit of plunder is a great drawback to the efficiency of an army. It ruins thousands; and whilst it now seemed to baffle the efl’orts of the officers to counteract it, so bold and vexatious an evil had it grown that it even became a matter of high and glorious principle in a common soldier to resist it. There were some regiments, however, conspicuous for hostility to this predatory madness; one of thesewas the gallant 48th, whose officers were ably seconded by the non-commissioned officers, in their decided enmity to this prevalent disorder. nod: ‘ Ifa fellow will desert for the sake of plunder,’ said old Dan, ‘ he deserves to have his head cut off by the guerillas, and his illgotten store divided among banditti. I hate this system of plunder. We hear of these disasters every day; and until some strong example shall be made, the evil will not be checked. Painful as it is to witness the punishment of a man who has fought bravely in the day of battle; yet, if he has fought merely for the sake of plunder, he is not a good soldier, he is no better than a robber.’ ! ‘ I agree with you, Dan. Our swords are drawn only to preserve lawful owners of property, and the enjoyment of the civil rights and privileges of a people against those who usurp all those blessings, and turn them into ruin. And if we take a leaf out of their book we deserVe to meet with their reward. To be taken out of the way of temptation is a good thing; but to resist it when most inviting is better still. Thank God, we are supported in both situations. I fear, however, examples will have to be made, or we shall have

The widow married: A sequel to “The Widow Barnaby”.
By Frances Milton Trollope
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induce her, or her beloved Mr. 0’D.,to utter a word that might influence her; for, excellent as the connection was, they were quite determined, on this and every other occasion, to let their only darling consult her own pure heart, and nothing else !

In the midst of all this contradictory variety, Patty, while endeavouring to look mysterious to both father and mother, and saying little on the subject to either, took to hating Jack in her very heart of hearts, most thoroughly and sincerely, and she would have gone very considerable lengths, as she confessed to her friend, to plague him as he deserved. A feeling in no degree less hostile had also, very naturally, supplied, in the breast of the tender Matilda, the place of all other sentiments towards Mr. Foxcroft; and it is probable that nothing but their wholesome fear of Mr. O’Donagough kept either fair one within the bounds of moderate rudeness, whenever their faithless swains approached them. Nevertheless Patty had her flirtations, and Miss Matilda did her very best to have hers too, so that there was not wanting between them a constant fund of confidential secrets which nourished and sustained their friendship in all its pristine warmth and purity.

Having ascertained the affronting indifference of her husband respecting General and Mrs. Hubert, Mrs. O’Donagough called him not again to her councils respecting them, but quietly settled in her own mind how to indulge herself, by fully displaying to them, and to all their daughters and sons, the spectacle of her greatness.

Amongst other simulations of fashionable manners adopted by the prosperous adventurer and his family, was their ignorance and independence of each other’s occupations and engagements before dinner. Mrs. O’Donagough was blessed by having at her command one of the most showy carriages in London. Arms, embellished by a prodigious number of splendid quarterings, adorned the panels, the hammer-cloth hung stiff with embroidery of the same, blinds of crimson silk aided the glowing complexions within, and tags, tassels, and silver lace decorated those without. Let those who best know Mrs. O’Donagough, judge what her feelings were in driving to the door of Mrs. Hubert in such an equipage as this.

With care and skill she chose that hour for her visit at which ladies are most certainly visible at home; namely, the interval between the two o’clock luncheon, and the three o’clock sortie for shopping.

Mrs. O’Donagough watched with some emotion the colloquy between the servants at the door, but all her doubts and fears were speedily put to the rout by the throwing wide the door of her carriage, and the presentation of the arm that was to assist in her descent from it.

” You will sit in the carriage, and wait for us, my dears,”

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said the swelling lady, with condescending dignity, to the two Miss Perkinses, who occupied the back of the carriage.

” Oh! yes, ma’am! we shall be quite amused, I’m sure,” returned Miss Matilda.

” Pray do not think of us!” meekly ejaculated her sister.

” No, no, no,—of course not, my dear ; you will do very well I dare say; take care about drawing up and down the windows. What do you poke that beautifully-laced pockethandkerchief into your bag for, Patty ? I did not buy it for that, I promise you.”

” And that’s true, and no lie,” said Patty, winking at her friend, as she prepared in her usual style to precipitate herself out of the carriage after her mamma, but at the same time obeying the maternal behest, and drawing forth the handkerchief with a flourish that sent it into the eyes of the simpering Louisa.

There were several persons in Mrs. Hubert’s drawing-room when Mrs. and Miss O’Donagough were ushered into it. At a small table apart, near a window, sat two very lovely girls, each occupied before a little desk, one copying a page of MS. music, and the other drawing. Behind the chair of the latter stood a tall and graceful young man, whose head was bent forward as in the act of criticising the performance. He started as the servant distinctly pronounced the words ” Mrs. and Miss O’Donagough,” but did not immediately look up.

On a sofa near a loo-table at the upper end of the room sat Mrs. Hubert, and beside her an elegant-looking little woman, apparently some few years older than herself, but whose black eyes, neatly-cut little features, and fine teeth, still gave her a right to be called a pretty woman. In a deep chair on the opposite side of the table, another lady, about the same age, perhaps, but infinitely less well-looking, employed herself by incessantly twitching a green ribbon, which being attached to the collar of a poodle lap-dog, occasioned from time to time a sharp little bark that seemed to delight her. Mrs. O’Donagough had observed a carriage waiting at the door, aud the dress of these last-mentioned ladies showed that it was for them it waited, and that they, too, were morning visitors.

If satin, feathers, and a profusion of the finest lace, could have made Mrs. O’Donagough look elegant, she would have looked elegant then, for she was dressed like a duchess; nor was her daughter Patty much less splendid; and even had their names been unknown to all the party, their appearance was altogether such as imperiously to have commanded attention. Hut their names were not unknown to any individual there.

It is possible that Mrs. Hubert was not particularly delighted by this early visit from her remarkable aunt, but most certainly she felt considerable consolation from perceiving that hermanners, though affectionately familiar, were less vehemently caressing than formerly. In feet, Mrs. O’Donagough felt, and thanted God for the same, that there was no longer any occasion for it; besides, it was impossible to press anybody to her heart now, without risking the injury of her exquisite toilet, so she only stretched out one arm as she advanced, saying with a good deal of her most elegant lisp, ” How do, Agnes, dear ? What an age, isn’t it ? You would hardly know Patty, would you ? How are the children ? ”

Mrs. Hubert stepped forward, and received the large offered hand very gracefully, giving a smiling answer to each question. Patty followed after, and notwithstanding her anti-Hubert prejudices, stretched out her hand too, which was also received by Mrs. Hubert with a smile, while she turned her head towards the two young ladies at the window, saying, ” Here is your cousin Martha, my dear Elizabeth.” Thus called upon, a tall, slight, lovely girl rose from the place she occupied, laid her pencil on her desk, and came forward.

” My goodness! Are you Elizabeth ? ” exclaimed Patty, really too much engaged by staring at her, to perceive her offered hand. ” Well, I’m sure I should never have known you again—I wonder if I’m as much altered as you ? ”

” I do not think you are at all altered,” replied Elizabeth, sitting down beside her. ” But you are looking very well.”

” Yes, I am always very well, and you know I have always got a fresh colour,” replied Patty, who was frequently apt to suspect, when people told her she looked well, that they might, perhaps, be thinking she had helped herself to a little of her mamma’s rouge. ” Hardly anybody has got as much colour as I have ; I am sure I often wish I hadn’t so much, people stare so. But my goodness! is that Emily ? ”

” Oh no ! Emily still looks quite like a little girl; that is Miss Seymour.”

As she said this, the tall young man stood upright, and stepping forward, extended a hand to Mrs. O’Donagough, while at the same time he paid his compliments to her daughter, by inquiring very civilly after her health.

” Soh! you are here, are you, Sir Henry. How d’ye do ? ” said Mrs. O’Donagough, thrusting a hand towards the young man over her shoulder, and throwing her plumed head on one side, with a sort of lolloping affectation that was intended to indicate great intimacy.

” I hope Mr. O’Donagough is quite well, ma’am? ” said the young baronet, with a considerable augmentation of colour.

” Quite well, dear Seymour,” replied the great lady; ” I hope we shall see you to-night ? How late we kept it up, Tuesday, didn’t we ? But Lord Mucklebury is always so delightful! ”

While this was passing, the lady seated on the sofa by Mrs. Hubert, looked and listened with great appearance of interest

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and amusement, but said nothing. At length Agnes, who had been watching her with a laughing countenance, addressed Mrs. O’Douagough: ” You do not remember these ladies, aunt ? ” and as she spoke, she pointed to both her bonneted visitors.

” Remember them ? No, really! have I ever met them before ? I live iu such a round of company, that, upon my honour, it is perfectly impossible to remember one face from another. You must excuse me, ladies, if I have the honour of your acquaintance, but I have not the slightest recollection of you.”

” My name is Henderson,” said the lady on the sofa,—” but formerly it was Mary Peters.”

” Mary Peters! ” ejaculated the energetic Mrs. O’Donagough, almost with a shriek, ” Mary Peters! my own dear first husband’s own niece! Gracious heaven! Well, to be sure, this is a most extraordinary discovery ! And this? ” turning to the plain-looking, middle-aged mistress of the lap-dog, “this must be, yes, to be sure, this must be Elizabeth ? ”

” Very true, indeed, I certainly am Elizabeth,” replied the lady she addressed; ” but I am sure I do not wonder at your not knowing me at first, for I had not the least notion who you was. I never saw anybody grow so large in my life.”

“You are so dreadfully thin yourself, my dear, that I have no doubt I do look rather large to you;” then turning her back in rather a marked manner to her former ally, she addressed an almost interminable string of questions to her sister.

“And so you are married, Mary, are you? Well! that’s well. I can’t say I am any great friend to old-maidism—it spoils people’s tempers. I have had three—God bless me!—I mean I have had two husbands, both first-rate, quite first-rate men in their way, and I can’t say I think I should have had the tine temper that I believe everybody allows I have got, if I had

civil to say so just now. Are neither of your sisters married, my dear Mary ? ”

” Oh yes! Lucy has been married many years, and has a very large family! ”

” Poor thing ! ” said Mrs. O’Donagough with a deep sigh; ” then I do pity her! There certainly is nothing so pitiable as having a large family!”

” Is it worse than being an old maid? ” said Miss Elizabeth Peters, with a sneer.

” No, my dear!” replied Mrs. O’Donagough, turning sharply round upon her ; ” nothing, of course, can be so bad as that. And how is your mother, Mary ? and your father ? and James, I dare say he is married, isn’t he ? ”

” Yes, ma’am, he is married also.”

” And what sort of style are you all living in ? comfortable, I hope ? We must not mind your being a little humdrum, if

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However, perhaps it is not quite

you are comfortable; but let that be as it may, you must come and see me ; I think my drawing-rooms will please you. But, dear me! how everything depends upon comparison! I remember as well as if it was but yesterday, thinking your drawing-rooms in Rodney-place quite beautiful, but when you come to see mine, my dear, you won’t expect me to think so any longer. In fact, my dear Mr. O’Donagough has so very superior a taste that I must not talk of comparing what he orders to anything else ; I really want you to see my new carriage, Agnes— it will strike you, as something quite out of the common way.”

Mrs. Hubert smiled, and bowed, and looked at Sir Henry Seymour, and then at her lovely daughter, as if to consult them both as to what her aunt was talking about, being herself quite at a loss to decide whether she were in jest or earnest. But she did not venture to speak, for fear of making some blunder, and Mrs. O’Donagough, increasing every moment in the delightful consciousness of causing unbounded astonishment, began again.

“And pray, Agnes dear, who is that?” she said, nodding her plumes in the direction of Miss Seymour; ” it is not one of Frederic Stephenson’s girls, is it ? ”

” That young lady is Miss Seymour,” replied Mrs. Hubert, gravely.

” A sister of youre, my dear Sir Henry, eh ? Pray introduce her,—I shall be quite delighted.”

Caroline Seymour, who was several years younger than her brother, and one of the most timid creatures that ever existed, started up the moment these words were spoken, and before her brother could perform the ceremony demanded of him, was already, though trembling and covered with blushes, close to Mrs. O’Donagough, and extending her hand with an air that gave her the appearance of being eagerly impatient to make the acquaintance.

Mrs. Hubert looked at her with astonishment, while Elizabeth Hubert, not too well knowing what she herself intended, rose also, and seizing the other hand of her young friend, endeavoured to draw her away, convinced that she was acting under some delusion, and that she fancied Mrs. O’Donagough had some claim upon her acquaintance which it was necessary she should acknowledge.

Elizabeth Hubert was partly right. Poor Caroline knew that the terrible-looking woman before whom she stood and trembled, had a claim upon her acquaintance, which, let her hate it ever so much, she would have acknowledged in church or market, in court or city, in public or in private. Clinging to her brother as her protector and only relative, loving him beyond all things, and knowing herself, all childish as she was, to be his only confidante and adviser in the unfortunate secret, to the preservation of which he attached so much importance, she

Spinster’s dogs (Google Books)

The Village Spinster
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Laura Matthews – 1993 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
I’d keep him in the house if it were me. Perhaps your mother would like a lap dog.” The two young men regarded the terrier happily scratching at his shoulder. Though small and golden, the dog did not look quite like a comfortable house pet.
Dickens: Barnaby Rudge – Page 97
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Charles Dickens – 1890 – ‎Read
Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up; there a darkeyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than her charge; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lap-dog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong looks …
Barnaby Rudge – Volume 1 – Page 175
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Charles Dickens – 1868 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up ; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than her charge ; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lap- dog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong …
Barnaby Rudge: Sketches – Part 2 – Page 175
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1875 – ‎Read
Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than her charge ; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lap- dog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornfu sidelong …
The Spinsters’Journal. By a Modern Antique [i.e. Miss Byron?] Etc
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1816 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
Lapdogs, parrots, cats, monkeys, and squirrels, passed before my mind’s eye; “ nature has provided CLOTHING for these creatures,” said I; “ and nature has appointed their proper stations too,” whispered common sense; then why should I …
The Literary Companion to Dogs: From Homer to Hockney – Page 660
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Christopher Hawtree – 1993 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
By the code of all well-born dogs it is money that counts. … for the foreign mails and keeps carefully under lock and key a casket full of depressing agricultural intelligence; like all spinsters she is accompanied everywhere by an ageing lap-dog.
The Magnificent Spinster: A Novel
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May Sarton – 2014 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
But still she recounted some hilarious thing that had happened that day at school and I drank it in, while Nana, beside herself with joy, tried to get into Jane’s lap. So it always ended in laughter while Jane put on a big apron and let the dog …
Anne Judge, Spinster – Volume 2 – Page 85
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Frederick William Robinson – 1867 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
Ned followed the dog, who turned into a small cottage garden, and sat down to feel his head with his paw, as though doubtful of the damage that had been perpetrated, but catching sight of Ned again gave a growl of disgust and trotted into the …
The Journal of English and Germanic Philology – Volume 57 – Page 260
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1958 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
It has pushed out the older French loanword Ami, which survived with the meaning ‘friend’ mostly as the name of spinsters’ lap dogs and had otherwise degenerated in meaning (Kiipper). In Heidelberg, girl friends of American soldiers are …
Spinster Farm – Page 46
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Helen Maria Winslow – 1908 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
And Ladybird is so dainty and careful of herself that I would rather, by far, take care of her than wash Mrs. Jenkin Jones’s lap-dog, as she does, or comb fleas out of Miss Swampscott’s Angora cats.” There were glorious drives in all weathers, …

The New Monthly Magazine, Volume 70

SOCIAL NUISANCES.

THE LAP-DOG.

Using the word dog as the Turks and Persians do when they say, “dog of a Jew,” or ” dog of a Christian,” we take leave to style the lap-dog the dog of dogs, in order to mark the antipathy we bear to the most intolerable variety of the canine species. We assert with the utmost deliberation and solemnity, that we would infinitely prefer to have the country over-run again with bears and wolves, as it was in the days of the Heptarchy, than infested, as it now is under the House of Hanover, with those venomous little domestic nuisances, yclept lapdogs. The bear and the wolf were only to be met with in the woods and wilds, where it was a man’s own fault if he went to meet them; but the lap-dog is a wild-beast which you must fly to the woods and wilds to avoid, for he haunts the drawing-room and the boudoir; the hearthrug is his jungle; the sofa his lair; he maketh his den of embroidered cushions, and ” imitates the action of the tiger,” even in the soft situation from which he derives his name. More lively by many degrees is our dread of a London lap-dog than of a Bengal tiger. A general battue of the race of pugs and poodles, Shocks, Snaps, and Fidos, would be a splendid service to the public; and if the British sportsman is a patriot, this hint will not be given in vain. Hitherto, the diminutive size of this ferocious animal has screened him from the stroke of justice; but it ought to protect him no longer. The flea is minuter a great deal, yet chambermaids are expressly commissioned to make war upon the flea, and extirpate it from bed and blanket. In fact, the smaller a mischievous creature is, the more difficult is it to guard against its attacks, and it is consequently formidable in an inverse proportion to its corporal dimensions. There is nothing so spiteful as the lap-dog; in no animal in creation are all the bad passions so completely developed or so shockingly conspicuous. Rancour, envy, jealousy, treachery, are amongst its “minor morals,”—the smallest graces of its character. It possesses a forty-spinster power of malice and all uncharitableness.

To give a mythological account of the origin of the breed, we should suppose the first lap-dog to have been the pet of those three virulent old maids, the Furies, and to have followed their heels, with a collar of snakes round its pretty neck, as its odious decendants wear pink ribbons. Perhaps the ” Stygian pug,” kept by the great wizard Agrippa, was the identical darling of Miss Tisiphone and her sisters.* Or, it is easy to conceive Cerberus to have been the Fido of Queen Proserpine, and a charming little dear no doubt he was, sporting about the Pandemonian drawing-room, and occasionally drawing ” iron tears down Pluto’s cheek,” by snapping at his sable majesty’s nose, or biting his royal thumb.

We never see a lady and her lap-dog without thinking of Beauty and the Beast. It is observable that dogs of this description are actually prized for their ill-temper, for the fierceness of their bark,

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and their alacrity of biting,—the very qualities for which, in a wellgoverned country, they would infallibly be hanged or drowned. Often have I been scared out of my wits by the wicked, vindictive snarl of one of these social plagues, and then seen the creature caressed and. fondled, nay, presented with plum-cake and Naples biscuit, to reward his ” vivacity,” his ” spirit,” or his ” playfulness.”

What would the Belindas think if for every Shock they harbour in their drawing-rooms, the Barons and Sir Plumes were to cherish tarantulas, and visit with favourite adders, and pet scorpions in their pockets. I have often thought of at least trying the effect of a lapmouse or a lap-spider, and requesting my fair friends to admire its “spirit,” its ” playfulness,” the ” vivacity” of the ” dear little” creeping-thing,” or the ” poor sweet” reptile!

Barbarous as fashionable life is in many a particular, it has no more savage custom than this of turning our saloons into kennels, and training a breed of dogs for the express purpose of frightening, worrying, snarling, and snapping at our guests and acquaintance. There are hare-hounds, fox-hounds, deer-hounds, but the lap-dog is a manhound. He hunts me out of society. From one house I am hunted by a villanous Dutch pug; from another chased by a King Charles towards whom I feel an ungovernable propensity to act the part of a Cromwell; from a third I am terrified by a treacherous vixen of an Italian greyhound, whose notorious perfidy has earned him the appellation of Fidele. There is one drawing-room in May Fair into which I have sworn on holy books never again to set my foot, without a dose of Prussic acid disguised in a biscuit, to bribe the lady’s pet Cerberus, just as Virgil’s Sybil appeases his great original at the gates of hell with a cake of honey and morphine.

Instead of committing the care of Belinda’s Shock to Ariel, or any “delicate spirit,” I would make Caliban its guardian, or all the imps in Orcus.

” Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock 1″ Well, we certainly do see many a nuisance in this world in the enjoyment of august patronage, and under high protectorates, and so let it be with lap-dogs. I would not be on better terms with them if they had all the daintiest sprites in Faery-land in their interest.

Their selfishness is detestable; they engross the snuggest chairs in the room, and secure the best morsels on the table, and drink up all the cream at breakfast without the least regard to the duties of hospitality, or the commonest principles of politeness. Notwithstanding the high society they move in, I really think them the worst-bred dogs in the kingdom. If you want to see a genuine specimen of” Low life Above Stairs,” just observe the behaviour of Lady Dogberry’s amiable pet, Cayenne, or Miss Curry’s Weasel! The former is the dear innocent whom I propose to treat some early day to plum-cake and Prussic acid. If ever a dog was possessed by Beelzebub, that dog is Cayenne. He is just one little round lump of fiery red pepper, with the irritability of a wasp, the pugnacity of a bull-dog, and the animus of a musquito. He bit my toe to the bone one evening without the slightest provocation in life. By the merest accident, while conversing with his mistress, I placed my heedless foot on the edge of the stool where he was apparently reposing like a bishop, or mitred abbot after refection.

“Gnrrrllrr—gnrrllrrr—” then a snap and a bite that went through boot, stocking, skin, flesh, right to the bone. I think he has earned the Prussic acid! He shall have it, by the hatred I bear his entire race; he shall have it before the present season is over, or may the next bite of a lap-dog snap off my head.

My Lady Dogberry, I must further acquaint the reader, acted upon the occasion I refer to, in the usual way in which ladies act, who keep mischievous curs in collars to torment and worry their acquaintance. Not a pang did my sufferings cost her; not one expression of regret did she utter, except for the execrable whelp, who having pierced my foot through and through with his fangs, fled with the instinct of a cowardly assassin, and took shelter under a table, still uttering his hideous ” Gnrrlllrrrll—gnrrrllrrr.”

“My poor Cayenne! how frightened he is! he never could endure patent leather. Come, poor fellow! Come, Cayenne!” And Cayenne came at length, with another “Gnrrrllr,” from forth his sanctuary, and had lots of Naples biscuit and cream to encourage and console him.

There is another charge which I have to bring against these fourfooted pests of society. From all that I have seen and heard of their habits and practices, I am fully convinced that avarice is one of their vices, if not their ruling passion. People may smile at the notion of an avaricious poodle, or a covetous Italian greyhound, but observation has assured me that these offensive cubs are as sordid and self-interested as dog or man can be. The fact is that being frequently remembered in the wills and codicils of their fond mistresses, like all greedy expectants of such posthumous favours, they entertain the utmost spite against rivals of all descriptions, whether a servant or a squirrel, a maid or a magpie, the parson or the parrot, the grandchild or the guest. Why, I have known a lap-dog made residuary legatee! And when a gentlewoman’s property goes to the dogs, one sees no reason why a dog should not be even her executor, or obtain letters of administration.

I myself looked forward for many years to be remembered in the last will and testament of an ancient female relative in Berkshire; but I have long renounced every hope of such good-luck, her lap-dog is so keen a fortune-hunter, and has acquired such a complete ascendancy over her. 1 know I shall be cut out by Tartar; he will be left a handsome legacy, some fair annuity for life, and I shall probably inherit the family Bible, with ten pounds for a mourning ring. The old lady believes Tartar to be an angel in the shape of a bloated pug, whereas I know him to be the most worldly-minded whelp that ever lapped cream out of a china saucer, although he waddles to church twice on Sundays and once on the Wednesdays and holidays, just as regularly as his mistress, who is a pattern of devotion, but a little Puseyitically given. Tartar has just as much idea of Christianity as a blue fox in Nova Zembla, yet he never barks during divine service, and seldom sleeps, let the sermon be ever so tedious, which, I am perfectly certain, is to show his superiority to me, who am occasionally caught napping when the discourse runs.’to a sixteenth or seventeenth head. Nothing; can injure me more in the good lady’s opinion, and she never omits contrasting my somnolency with Tartar’s apparent attention. She pats him on his odious fat sides and says, ” Good little dog, best of little

April.—Vol. Lxx. No. Cclxxx. 2 M

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dogs, you didn’t sleep in church to-day, you didn’t think Mr. Drawlington’s sermon too long.”

Yet, if I were Mr. Drawlington, I would infinitely prefer passing an hour, like the prophet Daniel, in a lion’s den, than venture the tip of my finger within reach of this same Tartar, when he is at his chicken, or his sweetbread. He would snap off the nose of Dr. Pusey himself, yet this wretched little canine Tartuffe will assuredly oust me out of a good hundred a year.

And now, abominable breed of lap-dogs, whatever climes produce you, whatever collars you wear, whatever mistresses cocker and doat on you for your hateful qualities, whatever maids comb you, footmen follow you, or parsons preach unto you,—I have expressed my sentiments,—waddle off to your plum-cake or partridge with what appetites you may. 2.

The Living Age …, Volume 49 (Google Books)

my seat, stood like a statue. The Duke of G— was petrified into a moment’s silence. Then he exclaimed in a voice whose accent of wounded pride Ishall never forget—“You know him, then, madam; and I am the victim of a base deception?” I recalled my scattered senses, and asked the name of the person who had thus openly mentioned me. It was he, and my exclamation saved me the trouble of owning that I had known him. I told, in a simple and truthful way, the exact story of my childhood, and how I had met with Montague; how ignorant of the world I was; how he had won my girlish heart; how suddenly he had left Audley End; how I had concluded him dead. “But could he, did he add, to the cruelty of leaving me thus, the meanness to boast of my love for him? Why did he desert me? Where is he? Let me see him, and he must repent’ ” Thus I exclaimed in my bewildered frenzy. “He is beyond repentance, no doubt, madam. We met this morning an hour ago, and I shot the villain through the heart, never dreaming that he told the truth. Is it £ that you, the chaste and pure, still eel an interest in this wretch? Do you know what he was ”’ “I know only that he was a man who professed to love me; that he was a scholar, and taught me; that he was a traitor, and left me… But you — what is this pallor—you are bleeding * * “Yes—I am wounded—I had not thought it so deep as I feel it. Tell me, for Heaven’s sake, that you knew nothing of this man’s antecedents.” “I have told you so. I swear it to content ou… But let me call assistance, you are leeding so fast.” “What matters? My honor—your honor is mine – has been assailed, let me bleed on. This Montague, Helena, was the vilest wretch in Europe—a man married twenty times over, if vows of love held good in law — a gamester—a profligate—the son of your mother’s tempter * 5 “Do you know her sad story?” I groaned. “Yes, and had overcome disgust for your sake, O, Helena, you have given me my death-blow !” With or without his permission I was comlled to call for help. He was laid on my ether’s bed and a surgeon was summoned immediately. The bleeding was very great and was difficult to stay. Life seemed halting between this world and the next. His high sense of honor, so quickly wounded on my behalf, gave him a new interest in my eyes; his very pride, contrasted with Montague’s want of princi le, became a virtue. I watched over him and prayed for his life.

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shudder when I thought of Montague’s fate, but the base cruelty with which he had flung me aside, and the meanness which had revealed my love for him, had effectually cured me of any tender sentiment. The Montague I had loved was forever buried with the past — he was the creature of my own imagination. The Duke could not be moved for many weeks, and my position as his affianced wife gave me a right to see and watch over him. I discovered that this man — this idolater of his own grandeur – had yet one soft place in his heart—he could love and he could pity me… This I found from the lanuage of his delirium. One blessed morni he regained his senses. He was pale and weak, but he knew me. His illness had changed us both. He called me to him. “Helena | * I sat down by the bed and took his hand. “Poor child!” he said tenderly, as he felt my hand tremble, “do not be afraid of me; I am not going to blame you. Lord Evesham was very wrong to leave you so poorly protected. But I have often seen that I am not the man you can love; and now, Helena, having avenged you, I will be generous— how generous, you can never know. I cannot : much; but you are free, my dearest ove.” I was dumb for several minutes. When I had a little collected my sensations, I said: “Do not cast me off without hearing that ever since that fatal morning I have looked to your protection as a safeguard from every ill of life; that your delirious wanderings have told me you once loved me; that your suffering from this frightful wound – incurred for my sake — has won my interest, my pity, a’ my love. Free you cannot make me, unless you restore to me the heart which indeed your pride and high principle does too well to scorn; for I am all unworthy of the honor you once destined for me.” “What do I hear?” he cried, struggling to speak; “my Helena loves me? Come nearer — no, you shall not kneel; rise, my love: I command you to rise. Have you been nursing me? Tell me again.” “O, I have, and so anxiously?’” replied I, kissing the cheek he held towards me: “but — ” “Dearest Helena, trust me, trust my love: forget the past, as I forgive it. We will be one forever and ever!” In compliance with his earnest wish, our

marriage was privately celebrated within a But I often shudder to think in what posiweek or two ; and every day shows me some tion a few more months of neglect at Deansfresh trait of tenderness and excellence in dale, with Montague’s presence, might have the man I once thought so cold and proud. found me.

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Osman FOR THE Surrnsssroiv or VAGRANCY, A. D. 1650-51. — At a time when the question of “What is to be done with our vagrant children?” is occupying the attention of all men of philanthropic minds, it may be worth while to give place in your pages to the following order addressed by the Lord Mayor of London to his aldermen in 1650-51, which applies, amongst other things, to that very subject. It will be seen that some of the artifices of beggary in that day were very similar to those with which we are now but too familiar. The difference of treatment between vagrant children over and under nine years of age, is worthy of observation.

“BY THE Mares.

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“ Forasmuch as of late the constables of this city have neglected to put in execution the severall wholesome laws for punishing of vagrants, and passing them to the places of their last abode, whereby great scandall and dishonor is brought upon the government of this city; These are therefore to will and require you, or your deputy, forthwith to call before you the several constables within your ward, and strictly to charge them to put in execution the said laws, or to expect the penalty of forty shillings to be levyed upon their estates, for every vagrant that shal be found begging in their several precincts. And to the end the said constables may not pretend ignorance, what to do with the several persons which they shal find offending the said laws, these are further to require them, that al

or impotent persons who are not fit to work, be passed from constable to constable to the parish where they dwel; and that the condable in whose ward they are found begging, shal give a passe under his hand, expressing the place where he or she were taken, and the place whither they are to be passed. And for children under five years of age, who have no dwelling, or cannot give an account of their parents, the parish where they are found are to provide for them; and for those which shall bee found lying under stalls, having no habitation or parents (from tive to nine years old), are to be sent to the Wardrobe House, to be provided for by the corporation for the re; and all above nine’years of age are to be sent to Bridewel. And for men or women‘ who are able to work and ‘ goe begging with young children, such persons for the first time to be passed to the place of their abode as aforesaid; and being taken againe, they are to be (:rrryed to Bridewel, to be corrected according to the discretion of the governors. And for those persons that shal be found to hire children, or go begging with children not sucking, those children are to be sent to the several parishes wher they dwel, and the persons so hiring them

to Bridewel, to be corrected and passed away, or kept at work there, according to the governor‘s discretion. And for al other vagrants and beggars under any pretence whatsoever, to be forthwith sent down to Bridewel tobeimployed and corrected, according to the statute laws of this commonwealth, except before excepted; and the president and governors of Bridewel are hereby desired to meet twice every week to see to the execution of this Precept. And the steward of the workehouse called the Wardrobe, is authorized to receive into that house such children as are of the age between five and nine, as is before specified and limited; and the said steward is from time to time to acquaint the corporation for the poor, what persons are brought in, to the end they may bee provided for. Dated this four and twentyeth day of January, 1650. Swarm.”

A woman by Louis Gallait, Jeanne La Folle, has excited the greatest enthusiasm in Brussels. From two o’clock till four every day Gallait’s studio has been filled with artists and amateurs, all eager to have a view of the painting before it is sent oil’ to Holland, to the gallery of the King, whose property it is. Jeanne La Folle, whose devoted love for her husband is a matter of history, is represented as having just entered the sleeping apartment of Philip, in a rich morning dress, with bare feet and flowing hair. She finds her husband lying perfectly still, his face covered, unbroken silence reigns around, and he seems sunk in a deep sleep. His prayer-book lies closed on the desk beside the bed, and the royal sceptre has fallen to the ground. She bends over the sleeping figure, gently raises the covering from his face, and presses one of his hands to her beating heart, whilst the other falls powerless by the side of the bed. She is eagerly waiting fozgthe opening of his eyes, and for the loving and tender looks which she know so well would greet her. She watches, however, in vain; a strange color seems spread over his cheeks, his eyes remain closed, his mouth is tightly compressed, and his hand cold and heavy. The dreadful truth is dawning upon her; her eyes are full of love, but have at the same time an anxious, bewildered expression. Gallait has chosen the moment when the struggle takes place: love, doubt, and horror, the wavering intellect, and the coming madness, all the indescribable workings of a soul in the fearful moment of transition, are clearly expressed in this beautiful face. Gallait has surpassed himself in this his greatest work. -— Literary Gazette.

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OUR readers are well acquainted with the

ition of Dr. Kin in reference to the mnklin search, as tie one man whose unheeded foresight certain information has since com letely justified. \Ve claimed for him the no attention, when attention to him would have been of use; and we have since more than once spoken of the confirmation of his views. It is enough, therefore, now to say that he has just published the story of the Franklin Ex ‘tion from First to Inst, or rather of the polemics connected with it, and that what he writes. is, so far as concerns himself individuall , very true, though we could almost wish t at the little book had not been published. We dislike tlie tone in which it wrangles with the blunders of the Admiralty, and we regret that Dr. King should be found in it saying ungenerous things of Dr. Rae. The book is not in the true, calm, Arctic temper, and contains too little of the Arctic virtue of endurance. No doubt Dr. King’s temper has been tried, but it was unwise to write a book while irritated.

The practical object of the volume, however, we have yet to state. On Montreal Island there is a caché established formerly by Dr. King, called the King Caché, the existence of which was known to Franklin. For what purpose, Dr. Kin asks, “ did an oflicor and four men of the ost crew, as the Esquimaux said the did, crom over from Point Ogle to visit it ontreal Island? ” The iron coast of an inhospitable little island is the last place to which an Arctic traveller would resort for provisions. The visit must, therefore, have had some other object. We quote his opinion on this subject, and his consequent ofl’er, lately addressed to the Secretary of the Admiralty, with the oflicial answer.

“I think there can be no doubt that the leader, knowing of the existence of my Cache, and trusting that it would be searched ere long by friends from home, would strain every nerve, before he ceased to live, to deposit in this place of safety, not only the memorial of his visit, which he crossed from the mainland for the purpose of placing there, but also the history, which he would most unquestionably have carried with him, of the endurance and the sufferings of that devoted band, and of the heroic constancy with which the oilicers had sustained the flagging courage of their men, in the speedy hope of receiving that succor which, by a horriblc fatality, had been directed to every point of the Polar Sens, except the precise spot on which they then stood. And the fact that no papers were found in the hands of the Esqui maux, is in itself a strong presumption that the records of the Expedition had been deposited in a place of safety before the death of our hapless countrymen. ‘

THE FRANKLIN EXPEDITION, FROM FIRST TO LAST.

“ In the olficial report of the leader of the last searching party, my Cache is not mentioned, and, as he would scarcely have omitted to search it, or have forgotten to refer to it in his report, if he had been aware of its existence, I cannot but conclude that, by some further and unexplained misfortune, he started on his journey without being aware that Montreal Island contained any particular spot in which there would unquestionably be found some traces of the missing Expedition.

“ From these facts, I can only draw the deduction that, in all human probability, a history of The Franklin Expedition still lies buried in my Caché, beneath the rocky shore of Montreal Island, and that it is within the bounds of sibility that this record may be recovered, an that the discoveries of the ill-fated Exped’h tion may yet be published for the advancement of science, and the narrative of their probably unexampled sufferings be made known to the world. Under these circumstances, I feel assured that the people of England will not consent that the search for the missing Expedition shall rest in its present position. More than two millions sterling has already been uandered in expeditions, which have brought ome no tidings of the lost navigators, beyond a few silver forks and other relics, and an apocryphal story, interpreted from the vague signs of the Esquimaux, too revolting in its details to be worthy of implicit belief‘.

“ A further Land Journey down Great Fish River may be performed at a cost of about £1,000, and this Journey, if your Lordship: will give me the command of a party, I offer, for the fifth time, to undertake, in the confident hope that I may yet, at the eleventh hour, he the means of recovering a record of the Expedition, the recital of whose sufferings will otherwise be buried in everlasting oblivion. -— I have the honor to be, my Lords, &c.,

“ RICHARD Kiss.”

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Part of the Spectator‘s Review of Glcam’n gs after “ Grand Tour “-isls.

SOUTHERN CLIMATE-TORTURE IN AUSTRIA.

SOUTHERN climate, from all that has been turning up for the last quarter of a. century, seems the merest delusion possible. Either gople have pronounced upon the subject

om too short an experience, or the idea of its salubrity was at about by strong men, who, taken with e novelty of the clearness and brightness, jumped to the conclusion of

niality, which interested parties did their

t to uphold. What efi’ect a residence in the Canary or other Atlantic Islands, or in some of the Mediterranean provinces of Spain, might have in strengthening the constitution where consumption was apprehended, by enabling the patient to pass much of his time in the open air throu bout the winter, may be worth a trial. To send a person laboring under disease to the South of France or Italy, seems a piece of useless cruelty; for not only is the climate more dan rous than that of England, but there is t e want of English appliances, home comforts, and the presence of friends.

“ ‘ Dear me ! why do you take those things? are you not going to the South. of France?’ was a query directed to one warm greatcoat, and two cloaks ditto, which formed part of the equipment of my daughters and myself for our journey’n ‘ The South of France ’ stands, to the imagination of some people, as an alias for the Torrid zone! and yet I do atiirm, that in no season or climate did I ever experience more intense and piercing cold than in our transit to and through this Southern region, and this in the season which poets call ‘ spring.’ In our day, the Lyons railway (now of course complete) ceased at Tonnerreyand, as we crossed the high grounds to Dijon, at night, and through deep-lying snow, we felt all the rigor of an Alpine winter transit. ” ‘ ‘ ‘

“ However, we were soon over this range of high land; and, when we got to Ch‘alons next morning, we found sunshine again, with little more than a hour-frost on the ground. This was once more varied, as we approached Marseilles, by the bias wind which blew steadily oh” the Pyrenees, and sent us to our wrappings with renewed congratulations on our foresight in having brought them; and, when we arrived in that extremity of the vaunted ‘ South of France,’ we found the inhabitants felicitating themselves upon a piercing wind, which was cutting us Northcrns to the bone! becauso–‘ it would avert the mosquito plague for a month or six weeks longer.’

“ This variableness and quick change of temperature seems to belong to every region of ‘ the sunny South ‘ : its sunniest day will close with asharpness of cold most trying to a delicate

constitution. Woe betide the invalid who, tsmpted by a ‘ burning noon,’ exposes himself without winter appliances to the sudden chill which comes, not with twilight, for there is none, but with the instantaneous darkness which follows sunset, with his pores open, and his poncho lying in the depths of his portmanteau ! Th9 chances are much in favor of his pulmonary delicaey becoming a pleuritie ‘ sickness unto death.’ And then, as to hint aught against the salubrious South would be flat heresy, his case is pronounced one which ‘ must have been hopeleQ from the first, since the delicious climate of Italy proved of no avail.’ Even at Nice, so freely prescribed in England as a great pulmonary hospital, a denizen assured me that I might look for a variation of as much as twenty degrees of the thermometer between the back and front rooms of the same house ! At Naples, they told us of the deadly dan er of remaining at a certain season in the vicinity of the Tufi’a Rock behind our lodgings on the ‘ Chiatamone.’ At Rome, they rste lodgings higher or lower as the sun does or does not shine on the side of the street at which you live; and everything every where bespeaks an inequality in the climate, of which invalids are as seldom aware as thq ought to be specially forewarned.”

The days of torture and the brutalized feelings it indicates are supposed to be post, Strange stories of doings in Italy within these few years throw a doubt upon that fact as regards Germans and Italians. A book, lately published anonymously by an Italian patriot, but with very respectable vouchers for his respectability, told some frightful tales of Austrian doings in Italy during the insurrection of 1848. Here isa stor in which the Church and the Austrians are oth implicated:

” The attributes of the priesthood are made inherent at ordination, but their exercise depends on the granting of ‘ faculties,‘ these being tantamount to the ‘ bishop’s license ’ to 0thoiate in his diocese. A tale of cruelty of the Revolution of 1848 reminds me that it might be more correct to say that the sacerdotal attribntes are held to be adherent rather than inherent. Ugo Bassi, a Barnabite priest of B0logna, having joined the Milanese revolt, fell into the hands of the Austrians. Roman canon law holds the priesthood inviolate from the hands of the laity, and yet Ugo Bassi must die ! But how? The Inquisition solved the difficulty‘ they skinned the palms, forcfinyers, and thumbs (y both hands,’ and, pretending thus to have divested him of his sacred character, do livered him to the Austrians. He walked to the side of a prepared hole, and, lifting his eyes to heaven, said ‘Viva Gesu ! Viva l’Ita–’ six balls silenced him, and he fell into his open grave ! ”

From Chambers’ Journal. DAME NODLEKINS’ WORK-BOX.

OUR relations, the gay, prosperous Passymounts, did not think it worth while to trouble themselves about an old spinster cousin of theirs and ours, generally known as Dame Nodlekins, though her visiting-cards designated their owner as “Miss Deborah S. M. Nodlekins.” The Passymounts were aware of the fact, that our cousin’s comfortable annuity was only a life one; and, therefore, it seemed highly improbable that Dame Nodlekins would have aught to bequeath on her decease, save personalities, which were of small comparative value, as she was a liberal almsgiver, and, in a moderate way, enjoyed every luxury. The garniture of Dame Nodlekins’ house, indeed, was faded and antique; the spinet was cracked; the linen was well-darned; the plate scanty, and worn thin with use and furbishing; and the books, torn and dusty, might easily be counted on a couple of shelves. Dame Nodlekins had neither diamonds nor pearls, nor trinkets of any description; her days were passed in a dreamy state of tranquillity; stitching, stitching, stitching forever, with her beloved huge work-box at her elbow. That wanted no plenishing; that was abundantly fitted up with worsted, cotton, tape, buttons, bodkins, needles, and such a multiplicity of reels and balls, that to enumerate them would be a tedious task. Dame Nodlekins particularly excelled and prided herself on her darning; carpets, house-linen, stockings, all bore unimpeachable testimony to this branch of industry. Holes and thin places were hailed with delight by Dame Nodlekins; and it was whispered — but that might be a mere matter of scandal – that she even went so far as to cut holes in her best table-cloths, for the purpose of exercising her skill and ingenuity in repairing the fractures. Be that as it may, the work-box was as much a companion to her as dogs or cats to many other single ladies; she was lost without it ; her conversation always turned on the subject of thread-papers and needle-cases; and never was darning-cotton more scientifically rolled into meat balls, than by the taper fingers of Dame Nodlekins.

The contents of that wonderful work-box would have furnished a small shop. As a child, I always regarded it with a species of awe and veneration; and, without daring

to lay a finger on the treasures it contained, my prying eyes greedily devoured its mysteries, when the raised edge revealed its mountains of cotton, and forests of pins and needles. And I have no doubt that Dame Nodlekins first regarded me with favor, in consequence of being asked by my mother to give me a lesson in darning – a most necessary accomplishment in our family, as I was the eldest of many brothers and sisters, and, though very happy among ourselves, the circumstances of our dear parents rendered the strictest industry and frugality absolutely indispensable in order to make “both ends meet.” However, it was a wholesome, honest poverty, and we did not envy our gay relations, the Passymounts; though, as we all grew mp, it was impossible on straitened means to educate us so completely as our fond father and mother would have aspired to do, had they possessed the ample means of these relatives. There were three Misses Passymount, and one Master Passymount; the young ladies cultivated various accomplishments, such as drawing, dancing, playing on the harp and piano, and talking, dressing, and flirting; but as to the one accomplishment – “the one accomplishment needful for women,” as Dame Nodlekins called it — they, the dashing, rich Misses Passymount, knew nothing of it. Nay, Miss Laura Passymount blushed, and Miss Arabella tittered, when Dame Nodlekins asked them if they could darn a stocking, and even offered to give them a lesson on hearing their disdainful confession of utter ignorance. “Our stockings do not require darning, cousin Nodlekins,” said Miss Passymount, tossing her head; “we are not accustomed to the thing at all — we have been differently brought up; ” and Miss Passymount looked to my mother and myself— for we were present at this conversation—as much as to say: “We leave darned stockings and tablecloths to such poor folks as you.” Dame Nodlekins took no notice of the rebuff, but went on with her work, and continued to scold me at intervals for idleness and skipping stitches; though, on the whole, she was proud of me as her pupil; and, between us, it is impossible to say how many pairs of stockings and socks we made whole in the course of the year. We resided near our cousin Deborah, and midway between her house and ours was the fine mansion in

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Jane’s Fame: How Jane Austen Conquered the World
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Jane’s Fame tells the fascinating story of Jane Austen’s renown, from the years of rejection the author faced during her lifetime to the global recognition and adoration she now enjoys.
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Though not pretending to the Muse’s crown so far, the little dog had qualities to entrance the spinster sex. His mistresses talked of him ; of his readiness to go forth ; of the audible first line of his hymn or sonnet ; of his instinct telling him that …
Romance and Exemplarity in Post-war Spanish Women’s Narratives
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Nino Kebadze – 2009 – ‎Snippet view
It is a kind of appendage of spinsters and matrons who, having no one to love, become besotted with a lapdog. Adulteration of something as elevated as love!) (Ayala 1054-5) Doubts about Evangelina’s character are introduced as soon as her …
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R. S. O’Loughlin, ‎H. F. Montgomery, ‎Charles Dwyer – 1905 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
And so it happened almost daily that the Spinster herself sponged off Ladybird’s face and “pedicured hel hoofs. … by far, take care of her than wash Mrs. Jenkin Jones’s lapdog, as she does, or comb fleas out of Miss Swampscott’s Angora cats.
The Agatha Christie companion: the complete guide to Agatha …
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Dennis Sanders, ‎Len Lovallo – 1984 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Clearly there was more behind Miss Arundell’s letter than “some upset to her fat lapdog.” The late spinster was heir to a sizeable fortune left to her by her father, General Arundell. It had always been assumed in Market Basing that the Arundell …
An Earl Like You: The Wagers of Sin
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Charles Dickens – 1881 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had letter eyes for Templars than her charge ; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lapdog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong looks …
Barnaby Rudge – Volume 1 – Page 121
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Charles Dickens – 1866 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up ; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than her charge ; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lapdog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong …
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1875 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
Every day we see venerable spinsters who , delight in the moral murder of scandal, and guillotine a “reputation between … fondle lapdogs like Couthon ——in short, while the masculine attributes of humanity seem obliterated, we shall find him …
The Works of Charles Dickens ; with Introductions, General Essay, …
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Charles Dickens – 1897 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than her charge ; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lapdog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong …

Barnaby Rudge: A Domestic Drama, in Three Acts
By Charles Selby, Charles Melville
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were soothing Nature in her sleep. By little and little they ceased talking, and rode on side by side in a pleasant silence. “The Maypole lights are brilliant to-night,” said Edward, as they rode along the lane from which, while the intervening trees were bare of leaves, that hostelry was visible. “Brilliant indeed, sir,” returned Joe, rising in his stirrups to get a better view. “Lights in the large room, and a fire glimmering in the best bedchamber Why, what company can this be for, I wonder 1″ “Some benighted horseman wending towards London, and deterred from going on to-night by the marvellous tales of my friend the highwayman, I wuppose,” said Edward. “He must be a horseman of good quality to have such accommodations. Your bed too, sir—l” “No matter, Joe. Any other room will do for me. But come—there’s nine striking. We may push on.” They cantered forward at as brisk a pace as Joe’s charger could attain, and presently stopped in the little copse where he had left her in the morning. Edward dismounted, gave his bridle to his companion, and walked with a light step towards the house. A female servant was waiting at a side gate in the garden-wall, and admitted him without delay. He hurried along the terrace-walk, and darted up a flight of broad steps leading into an old and gloomy hall, whose walls were ormamented with rusty suits of armour, antlers, weapons of the chase, and suchlike garniture Here he paused, but not long; for as he looked round, as if expecting the attendant to have followed, and wondering she had not done so, a lovely girl appeared, whose dark hair next moment rested on his breast. Almost at the same instant a heavy hand was laid upon her arm, Edward felt himself thrust away, and Mr. Haredale stood between them. He regarded the young man sternly without removing his hat ; with one hand clasped his niece, and with the other, in which he held his riding-whip,

motioned him towards the door. The young man drew himself up, and returned his gaze. “This is well done of you, sir, to corrupt my servants, and enter my house unbidden and in secret, like a thief ” said Mr. Haredale. “Leave it, sir, and return no more.” “Miss Haredale’s presence,” returned the young man, “and your relationship to her, give you a license which, if you are a brave man, you will not abuse. You have compelled me to this course, and the fault is yours—not mine.” “It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man, sir,” retorted the other, “to tamper with the affections of a weak, trusting girl, while you shrink, in your unworthiness, from her guardian and protector, and dare not meet the light of day. More than this I will not say to you, save that I forbid you this house, and require you to be gone.” “It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man to play the spy,” said Edward. “Your words imply dishonour, and I reject them with the scorn they merit.” “You will find,” said Mr. Haredale, calmly, “your trusty go-between in waiting at the gate by which you entered. I have played no spy’s part, sir. I chanced to see you pass the gate, and followed. You might have heard me knocking for admission, had you been less swift of foot, or lingered in the garden. Please to withdraw. Your presence here is offensive to me and distressful to my niece.” As he said these words, he passed his arm about the waist of the terrified and weeping girl, and drew her closer to him ; and though the habitual severity of his manner was scarcely changed, there was yet apparent in the action an air of kindness and sympathy for her distress. “Mr. Haredale,” said Edward, “your arm encircles her on whom I have set my every hope and thought, and to purchase one minute’s happiness for whom I would gladly lay down my life ; this house is the casket that holds

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‘gentleman’s despondency with tenfold aggravation. They rode back to the Maypole without exchanging a syllable, and arrived at the door with heavy hearts. | Old John, who had peeped from behind the red curtain as they rode up shouting for Hugh, was out directly, and said with great importance as he held the young man’s stirrup, “He’s confortable in bed—the best bed. A thorough gentleman ; the smilingest, affablest gentleman I ever had to do with.” * Who, Willet 2″ said Edward carei lessly, as he dismounted. “Your worthy father, sir,” replied John. “Your honourable, venerable father.” | “What does he mean : ” said Edward, looking with a mixture of alarm and doubt at Joe. “What do you mean t’” said Joe. “Don’t you see Mr. Edward doesn’t understand, father ” “Why, didn’t you know of it, sir?” said John, opening his eyes wide. “How very singular ! Bless you, he’s been here ever since noon to-day, and Mr. Haredale has been having a long talk with him, and hasn’t been gone an hour.” “My father, Willet!” “Yes, sir, he told me so—a handsome, slim, upright gentleman, in greenand-gold. In your old room up yonder, sir. No doubt you can go in, sir,” said John, walking backwards into the road and looking up at the window. “He hasn’t put out his candles yet, I see.” Edward glanced at the window also, and hastily murmuring that he had changed his mind—forgotten something | —and must return to London, mounted his horse again and rode away; leaving the Willets, father and son, looking at each other in mute astonishment.

CHAPTER XV.

At noon next day, John Willet’s guest sat lingering over his breakfast in his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts, which left the Maypole’s highest flight and utmost stretch of accommodation at an infinite distance behind, and suggested comparisons very much to the disadvantage and disfavour of that venerable tavern. In the broad old-fashioned windowseat—as capacious as many modern sofas, and cushioned to serve the purpose of a luxurious settee—in the broad old-fashioned window-seat of a roomy chamber, Mr. Chester lounged, very much at his ease, over a wellfurnished breakfast-table. He had exchanged his riding-coat for a handsome morning-gown, his boots for slippers; had been at great pains to atone for the having been obliged to make his toilet when he rose without the aid of dressing-case and tiring equipage ; and, having gradually forgotten through these means the discomforts of an indifferent night and an early ride, was in a state of perfect complacency, indolence, and satisfaction. The situation in which he found himself, indeed, was particularly favourable to the growth of these feelings; for, not to mention the lazy influence of a late and lonely breakfast, with the additional sedative of a newspaper, there was an air of repose about his place of residence peculiar to itself, and which hangs about it, even in these times, when it is more bustling and busy than it was in days of yore. There are, still, worse places than the Temple, on a sultry day, for basking in the sun, or resting idly in the shade. There is yet a drowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dullness in its trees and gardens; those who pace ‘ts lanes and squares may yet hear the echoes of their footsteps on the sounding stones, and read upon its gates, in passiug from the tumult of the Strand

or Fleet Street, “Who enters hero leaves noise behind.” There is still the plash of falling water in fair Fountain Court, and there are yet nooks and corners where dun-haunted students may look down from their dusty garrets, on a vagrant ray of sunlight patching the shade of the tall houses, and seldom troubled to reflect a passing stranger’s form. There is yet, in the Temple, something of a clerkly monkish atmosphere, which public offices of law have not disturbed, and even legal firms have failed to scare away. In summer time, its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers, springs cooler, and more sparkling, and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the freshness, and, sighing, cast sad looks towards the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter on, despondent. It was in a room in Paper Buildings—a row of goodly tenements, shaded in front by ancient trees, and looking, at the back, upon the Temple Gardens—that this, our idler, lounged; now taking up again the paper he had laid down a hundred times; now trifling with the fragments of his meal; now pulling forth his golden toothpick, and glancing leisurely about the room, or out at window into the trim garden walks, where a few early loiterers were already pacing to and fro. Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up; there a darkeyed nursery-maid had better eyes for Templars than her charge ; on this hand an ancient spinster, with her lapdog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong looks; on that a weazen old gentleman, ogling the nursery-maid, looked with like scorn upon the spinster, and wondered she didn’t know she was no longer young. Apart from all these, on the river’s margin two or three couple of business-talkers walked slowly up and down in earnest conversation; and one young man sat thoughtfully on a bench, alone. “Ned is amazingly patient 1” said Mr. Chester, glancing at this lastnamed person as he set down his teacup and plied the golden toothpick, “immensely patient . He was sitting i. when I began to dress, and as scarcely changed his posture since. A most eccentric dog l’” As he spoke, the figure rose, and came towards him with a rapid pace. “Really, as if he had heard me,” said the father, resuming his newspaper with a yawn. “Dear Ned l’” Presently the room-door opened, and the young man entered ; to whom his father gently waved his hand, and smiled. “Are you at leisure for a little conversation, sir?” said Edward. “Surely, Ned. I am always at leisure. You know my constitution.— Have you breakfasted ” “Three hours ago.” “What a very early dog 1″ cried his father, contemplating him from behind the toothpick, with a languid smile. “The truth is,” said Edward, bringing a chair forward, and seating himself near the table, “that I slept but ill last night, and was glad to rise. The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to you, sir; and it is upon that, I wish to speak.” “My dear boy,” returned his father, “confide in me, I beg. But you know my constitution—don’t be prosy, Ned.” “I will be plain, and brief,” said Edward. “Don’t say you will, my good fellow,” returned his father, crossing his legs, “ or you certainly will not. You are going to tell me.” “Plainly this, then,” said the son, with an air of great concern, “that I know where you were last night— from being on the spot, indeed—and whom you saw, and what your purwas.” “You don’t say so I ” cried his father. “I am delighted to hear it.

It saves us the worry, and terrible wear and tear of a long explanation, and is a great relief for both. At the very house ! Why didn’t you come up I should have been charmed to see you.” “I knew that what I had to say would be better said after a night’s reflection, when both of us were cool,” returned the son. “’Fore Gad, Ned,” rejoined the father, “I was cool enough last night. That detestable Maypole ! By some infernal contrivance of the builder, it holds the wind, and keeps it fresh. You remember the sharp east wind that blew so hard five weeks ago I give you my honour it was rampant in that old house last night, though out of doors there was a dead calm. But you were saying” “I was about to say, Heaven knows how seriously and earnestly, that you have made me wretched, sir. Will you hear me gravely for a moment : * “My dear Ned,” said his father, “I will hear you with the patience of an anchorite. Oblige me with the milk.” “I saw Miss Haredale last night,” Edward resumed, when he had complied with this request; “her uncle, in her presence, immediately after your interview, and, as of course I know, in consequence of it, forbade me the house, and, with circumstances of indignity which are of your creation I am sure, commanded me to leave it on the instant.” “For his manner of doing so, I give you my honour, Ned, I am not accountable,” said his father. “That you must excuse. He is a mere boor, a log, a brute, with no address in life. —Positively a fly in the jug. The first I have seen this year.” Edward rose, and paced the room. His imperturbable parent sipped his tea. “Father,” said the young man, stopping at length before him, “we must not trifle in this matter. We must not deceive each other, or ourselves. Let me pursue the mauly open

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have rendered them

limit. The idea of wealth has been familiarised to me from my cradle. I have been taught to look upon those means, by which men raise them

‘selves to riches and distinction, as

being beyond my heeding, and beneath my care. I have been, as the phrase is, liberally educated, and am fit for nothing. I find myself at last wholly dependent upon you, with no resource but in your favour. In this momen. tous question of my life we do not, and it would seem we never can, agree. I have shrunk instinctively alike from those to whom you have urged me to pay court, and from the motives of interest and gain which in your eyes visible objects for my suit. If there never has been thus much plainspeaking between us before, sir, the fault has not been mine, indeed. If

“My dear fellow,” interrupted his I seem to speak too plainly now, it is, father with a compassionate smile, believe me father, in the hope that there

“you do nothing of the kind. You don’t know anything about it. There’s no such thing, I assure you. Now, do take my word for it. You have good sense, Ned, great good sense. I wonder you should be guilty of such amazing absurdities. You really surprise me.” “I repeat,” said his son firmly, “ that I love her. You have interposed to part us, and have, to the extent I have just now told you of, succeeded. May I induce you, sir, in time, to think more favourably of our attachment, or is it your intention and your fixed design to hold us asunder if you can ” “My dear Ned,” returned his father, taking a pinch of snuff and pushing his box towards him, “that is my purpose most undoubtedly.” “The time that has elapsed,” rejoined his son, “since I began to now her worth, has flown in such a dream that until now I have hardly once paused to reflect upon my true position. What is it From my childhood I have been accustomed to luxury and idleness, and have been bred as though my fortune were large,

may be a franker spirit, a worthier reliance, and a kinder confidence between us in time to come.” “My good fellow,” said his smiling father, “you quite affect me. Go on, my dear Edward, I beg. But remember your promise. There is great earnestness, vast candour, a manifest sincerity in all you say, but I fear I observe the faintest indications of a tendency to prose.” “ U am very sorry, sir.” “I am very sorry too, Ned, but you know that I cannot fix my mind for any long period upon one subject. If you’ll come to the point at once, I’ll imagine all that ought to go before, and conclude it said. Oblige me with the milk again. Listening, invariably makes me feverish.” “What I would say then, tends to this,” said Edward. “I cannot bear this absolute dependence, sir, even upon you. Time has been lost and opportunity thrown away, but I am yet a young man, and may retrieve it. Will you give me the means of devoting such abilities and energies as I possess, to some worthy pursuit Will you let me try to make for myself an

and my expectations almost without a honourable path in life For any term

The Charles Dickens Edition: Barnaby Rudge a tale of the riots of …, Volume 4
By Charles Dickens
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kéifi£fll’lig Do”). 6 1″ could be—that she didn’t care for him—that he was wretched for life—and that the only congenial prospect left him, was to go for a soldier or a sailor, and get some obliging enemy to knock his brains out as soon as possible.

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JOE WILLET rode leisurely along in his desponding mood, picturing the locksmith’s daughter going down long country-dances, and poussetting dreadfully with bold strangers—which was almost too much to bear—when he heard the tramp of a horse’s feet behind him, and looking back, saw a well-mounted gentleman advancing at a smart canter. As this rider passed, he checked his steed, and called him of the Maypole by his name. Joe set spurs to the grey mare, and was at his side directly.

“ I thought it was you, sir,” he said, touching his hat. “ A fair evening, sir. Glad to see you out of doors again.”

The gentleman smiled and nodded. “What gay doings have been going on to-day, Joe? 15 she as pretty as ever? Na , don’t blush, man.”

“ If I coloured at all, Mr. Edward,” sai Joe, “ which I didn’t know I did, it was to think I should have been such a fool as ever to have any hope of her. She’s as far out of my reach as~as Heaven is.”

“ \Vell, Joe, I hope that’s not altogether beyond it,” said Edward, goodhumouredly. “ Eh P”

“ Ah!” sighed foe. “ It’s all very fine talking, sir. Proverbs are easily made in cold blood. But it can’t be helped. Are you bound for our house, sir P”

“ Yes. As I am not quite strong yet, I shall stay there to-night, and ride home coolly in the morning.”

“ If you’re in no particular hurry,” said Joe after a short silence, “ and will bear with the pace of this poor jade, I shall be glad to ride on with you to the \Varren, sir, and hold your horse when you dismount. It’ll save you having to walk from the Maypolc, there and back again. I can spare the time well, sir, for I am too soon.” ‘

“ And so am I,” returned Edward, “though I was unconsciously riding fast just now, in compliment I suppose to the pace of my thoughts, which were travelling post. \Ve will keep together, joe, willingl *, and be as good company as may be. And cheer up, cheer up, think of the locksmith’s daughter With a stout heart, and ou shall win her yet.”

Joe shook his head ; but there was something so cheery in the buoyant hopeful manner of this speech, that his spirits rose under its influence, and communicated as it would seem some new impulse even to the grey mare, who, breaking from her sober amble into a gentle trot, emulated the pace of Edward Chester’s horse, and appeared to flatter herself that he was doing his very best. _

It was a fine dry night, and the light of a young moon, which was then Just rising, shed around that peace and tranquillity which gives to evening time its most delicious charm. The lengthened shadows of the trees, softened as if reflected in still water, threw their carpet on the path the travellers pursued, and the light wind stirred yet more softly than before, as though it were soothing Nature in her sleep. By little and little they ceased talking, and rode on side by side in a

_leasant silence. “ The Maypole lights are brilliant to-night,” said Edward, as they rode along the lane from which, while the inteivening trees were bare of leaves, that hostelry was visible.

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“ Brilliant indeed, sir,” returned J’oe, rising in his stirrups to get a better view. “ Lights in the large room, and a fire glimmering in the best bed-chamber? \Vhy, what company can this be for, I wonder ! ”

“ Some benighted horseman wending towards London, and deterred from going on to-night by the marvellous tales of myfriend the highwayman, I suppose,” said Edward.

“ He must be a horseman of good quality to haVe such accommodations. Your bed too, sir— l”

“ No matter, Joe. Any other room will do for me. But come—there’s nine striking. We may push on.” ‘

They cantered forward at as’ brisk a pace as Joe’s charger could attain, and presently stopped in the little copse where he had left her in the morning. Edward dismounted, gave his bridle to his companion, and walked with a light step towards the house.

A female servant was waiting at a side gate in the garden-wall, and admitted him without delay. He hurried along the terrace-walk, and darted up a flight of broad steps leading into an old and gloomy hall, whose walls were ornamented with rusty suits of armour, antlers, weapons of the chase, and such-like garniture. Here he paused, but not long ; for as he looked round, as if expecting the attendant to have followed, and wondering she had ,not done so, a lovely girl appeared, whose dark hair next moment rested on his breast. Almost at the same instant a heavy hand was laid upon her 21m, Edward felt himself thrust away, and Mr. Haredale stood between them. ‘\ .

He regarded the young man stemly without removing his hat; with one hand clasped his niece, and with the other, in which he held his riding-whip, motioned him towards the door. The young man drew himself up, and returned his gaze.

“This is well done of you, sir, to con’u t my servants, and enter my house unbidden and in secret, like a thief!” saig Mr. Haredale. “Leave it, sir, and return no more.”

“ Miss I-Iaredale‘s presence,” returned the young man, “ and your relationship to her, give you a license which, if you are a brave man, you will not abuse. You have compelled me to this course, and the fault is yours—not mine.”

“ It is neither generous, nor honourable, nor the act of a true man, sir,”retorted the other, “to tamper with the affections of a weak, trusting girl, while you shrink, in your unworthiness, from her guardian and protector, and dare not meet the light of day. More than this I will not say to you, save that I forbid you this house, and require you to be gone.”

“ It is neither generous. nor honourable, nor the act of a true man to play the spy,” said Edward. “ Your words imply dishonour, and I reject them with the scorn they merit.”

“ You will find,” said Mr. Harcdale, calmly, “ your trusty go-between in waiting at the gate by which you entered. I have played no spy’s pan, sir. I chanced to see you pass the gate, and followed. You might have heard me knocking for admission, had you been less swift of foot, or lingered in the garden. Please to withdraw. Your presence here is offensive to me and distressful to my niece.” As he said these words, he passed his arm about the waist of the terrified and weeping girl, and drew her closer to him ; and though the habitual severity of his manner was scarcely changed, there was yet apparent in the action an air of kindness and sympathy for her distress.

“Mr. Haredale,” said Edward, “your arm encircles her on whom I have set my every hope and thought, and to purchase one minute’s happiness for whom I

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would gladly lay down my life; this house is the casket that holds the precious jewel of my existence. Your niece has plighted her faith to me, and I have plighted mine to her. \Vhat have I done that you should hold me in this light esteem, and give me these discourteous words P”

“You have done that, sir,” answered Mr. Haredale, “ which must be undone. You have tied a lover’s-knot here which must be cut asunder. Take good heed of what I say. Must. I cancel the bond between ye. I reject you, and allot your kith and kin—all the false, hollow, heartless stock.”

“ High words, sir,” said Edward, scornfully.

“ \Vords of purpose and meaning, as you will find,” replied the other. “ Lay them to heart.”

” Lay you then, these,” said Edward. “Your cold and sullen temper, which chills every breast about you, which turns affection into fear, and changes duty into dread, has forced us on this secret course, repugnant to our nature and our wish, and far more foreign, sir, to us than you. I am not a false, a hollow, or a heartless man ; the character is yours, who poorly venture on these injurious terms, against the truth, and under the shelter whereof I reminded you just now. You shall not cancel the bond between us. I will not abandon this pursuit. I rely upon your niece’s truth and honour, and set your influence at nought. I leave her with a confidence in her pure faith, which you will never weaken, and with no concern but that I do not leave her in some gentler care.”

\Vith that, he pressed her cold hand to his lips, and once more encountering and returning Mr. Haredale’s steady look, withdrew.

A few words to Joe as he mounted his horse sufficiently explained what had passed, and renewed all that young gentleman’s despondency with tenfold aggravation. They rode back to the Maypole without exchanging a syllable, and arrived at the door with heavy hearts.

Old John, who had peeped from behind the red curtain as they rode up shouting for Hugh, was out directly, and said with great importance as he held the young man’s stirrup,

“ He’s comfortable in bed—the best bed. A thorough gentleman; the smilingest, affablest gentleman I ever had to do with.”

“ \Vho, \Villet ?” said Edward carelessly, as he dismounted.

“ Your worthy father, sir,” replied John. “ Your honourable, venerable father ?”

“ What does he mean P” said Edward, looking with a mixture of alarm and doubt, at Joe.

“ \Vhat do you mean P” said Joe. “ Don’t you see Mr. Edward doesn’t understand, father P”

“ Why, didn‘t you know of it, sir P” said John, opening his eyes wide. “ How very singular! Bless you, he’s been here ever since noon to-day, and Mr. Haredale has been having a long talk with him, and hasn’t been gone an hour.”

“ My father, Willet ! ”

“ Yes, sir, he told me so—a handsome, slim, upright gentleman, in green-andgold. In your old room up yonder, sir. No doubt you can go in, sir,” said John, walking backwards into the road and looking up at the window. “ He hasn’t put out his candles yet, I see.”

Edward glanced at the window also, and hastily murmuring that he had changed his mind—forgotten something—and must return to London, mounted his horse again and rode away; leaving the \Villets, father and son, looking at each other in mute astonishment.

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AT noon next day, john Willet’s guest sat lingering over his breakfast in his own home, surrounded by a variety of comforts, which left the Maypole’s highest flight _ and utmost stretch of accommodation at an infinite distance be ind, and suggested comparisons very much to the disadvantage and disfavour of that venerable tavern.

In the broad old-fashioned window-seat—as capacious as many modern sofas, and cushioned to serve the purpose of a luxurious settee—in the broad oldfashioned window-seat of a roomy chamber, Mr. Chester lounged, very much at his case, over a well-furnished breakfast-table. He had exchanged his riding-coat for a handsome morning-gown, his boots for slippers ; had been at great pains to atone for the having been obliged to make his toilet when he rose without the aid of dressing-case and tiring equipage; and, having gradually forgotten through these means the discomforts of an indifferent night and an early ride, was in a state of perfect complacency, indolence, and satisfaction.

The situation in which he found himself, indeed, was particularly favourable to the growth of these feelings ; for, not to mention the lazy influence of a late and lonely breakfast, with the additional sedative of a newspaper, there was an air of repose about his place of residence peculiar to itself, and which hangs about it, even in these times, when it is more bustling and busy than it was in days of yore.

There are, still, worse places than the Temple, on a sultry day, for basking in the sun, or resting idly in the shade. There is yet a drowsiness in its courts, and a dreamy dulness in its trees and gardens ; those who pace its lanes and squares may yet hear the echoes of their footsteps on the sounding stones, and read upon its gates, in passing from the tumult of the Strand or Fleet Street, “Who enters here leaves noise behind.” There is still the plash of falling water in fair Fountain Court, and there are yet nooks and corners where dun-haunted students may look down from their dusty garrets, on a vagrant ray of sunlight patching the shade of the tall houses, and seldom troubled to reflect a‘ passing stranger’s form. There is yet, in the Temple, something of a clerkly monkish atmosphere, which public offices of law have not disturbed, and even legal firms have failed to scare away. In summer time, its pumps suggest to thirsty idlers, springs cooler, and more sparkling, and deeper than other wells; and as they trace the spillings of full pitchers on the heated ground, they snuff the freshness, and, sighing, cast sad look; towards the Thames, and think of baths and boats, and saunter on, despon ent.

It was in a room in Paper Buildings—a row of goodly tenements, shaded in front by ancient trees, and looking, at the back, upon the Temple Gardens—that this, our idler, lounged ; now taking up again the paper he had laid down a hundred times ; now trifling with the fragments of his meal; now pulling forth his golden toothpick, and glancing leisurely about the room, or out at window into the trim garden walks, where a few early loiterers were already pacing to and fro. Here a pair of lovers met to quarrel and make up ; there a dark-eyed nursery-maid d better eyes for Templars than her charge ; on this hand an ancient spinster, her lapdog in a string, regarded both enormities with scornful sidelong looks ; on that a weazen old gentleman, ogling the nursery-maid, looked with like scorn” upon the spinster, and wondered she didn’t know she was no longer young. Apart from all these, on the river’s margin two or three couple of business-talkers l walked slowly up and down in earnest conversation; and one young man sat ‘ thoughtfully on a bench, alone.

“Ned is amazingly patient!” said Mr. Chester, glancing at this last-named

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person as he set down his tea-cup and plied the golden toothpick, “immensely patient! He was sitting yonder when I began to dress, and has scarcely changed his posture since. A most eccentric dog ! ” _ I

As he spoke, the figure rose, and came towards him With a rapid pace.

“ Really, as if he had heard me,” said the father, resuming his newspaper with a yawn. “ Dear Ned!” I _

Presently the room-door opened, and the young man entered; to whom his father gently waved his hand, and smiled.

“ Are you at leisure for a little conversation, sir ? ” said Edward.

“ Surely, Ned. I am always at leisure. You know my constitution.—Have you breakfasted P”

“ Three hours ago.”

“What a very early dog !” cried his father, contemplating him from behind the toothpick, with a languid smile.

“The truth is,” said Edward, bringing a chair forward, and seating himself near the table, “ that I slept but ill last night, and was glad to rise. The cause of my uneasiness cannot but be known to you, sir; and it is upon that I wish to s eak.” ”

p“ My dear boy,” returned his father, “confide in me, I beg. But; you know my constitution—don’t be prosy, Ned.”

“ I will be plain, and brief,” said Edward.

“Don‘t say you will, my good fellow,” returned his father, crossing his legs, “ or you certainly will not. You are going to tell me”

“ Plainly this, then,” said the son, with an air of great concern, “ that I know where you were last night—from being on the spot, indeed—and whom you saw, and what your purpose was.” ,I

“ You don’t say so ! ” cried his father. “I am delighted to hear it. It saves us the worry, and terrible wear and tear of a long explanation, and is a great relief for both. At the very house ! Why didn’t you come up P I should have been charmed to see you.” ‘

“I knew that what I had to say would be better said after a night’s reflection, when both of us were cool,” returned the son.

“ ’Fore Gad, Ned,” rejoined the father, “ I was cool enough last night. That detestable Maypole ! By some infernal contrivance of the builder, it holds the wind, and keeps it fresh. You remember the sharp east wind that blew so hard five weeks ago? I give you my honour it was rampant in that old house last night, though out of doors there was a dead calm. But you were saying”

“ I was about to say, Heaven knows how seriously and earnestly, that you have made me wretched, sir. \Vill you hear me gravely for a moment?”

“My dear Ned,” said his father, “I will hear you with the patience of an anchorite. Oblige me with the milk.”

“ I saw Miss Haredale last night,” Edward resumed, when he had complied with this request ; “ her uncle, in her presence, immediately after your interview, and, as of course I know, in consequence of it, forbade me the house, and, with

gnstances of indignity which are of your creation I am sure, commanded me

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ve it on the instant.” _, “ or his manner of doing so, I give you my honour, Ned, I am not accountable,” said his father. “ That you must excuse. He is a mere boor, a log, a lirute, with no address in 1ife.–Positively a fly in the jug._ The first I have seen t llS year.

Edward rose, and paced the room. His iinperturbable parent sipped his tea.

“ Father,” said the young man, stopping at length before him, “ we must not trifle in this matter. \Ve must not deceive each other. or ourselves, Let me

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temper at that earlier period of my life, from insinuating the question how a man of so delicate a refinement, and so happy a turn for innocent poems in the style of “ Gentil Bernard,” could ever have been led away into a participation of what I mildly termed “the excesses of the Revolution.”

“ Ah,” quoth this velvet-pawed tiger, “ que voulez-vous ?— I always obey my heart ! I sympathiselvitli‘whatever goes on before me. Am 1 today with people who’WA-Zzas les Wm me nlmz/te la téte ! pa m’échmlfe le sang / * Icry out with them, ‘ A has les aristocrates! ’ Am I tomorrow with people who cry ‘ A has la guillotine! ’—eh bien I my eyes moisten ; I embrace my enemies—I sob out, ‘A bus la guillotine ! ’ MW of my nature. Ah, if you .hadknomMgnsieur RobespierreT”\~”

“ Hem ! ” said I ; “ thatisafiqhonour I should not have coveted if I had lived in his day. But I have hitherto supposed that Monsieur Robespierre was somewhat unsocial, reserved, frigid 3 was he, nevertheless, a man whose sins against his kind are to be imputed to thediveliness of his sym athies? ”

“”‘ 1r, pardon me if I say that you would not have asked that question if you had studied the causes of his ascendancy, or read with due attention his speeches. How can you suppose that a man not eloquent, as compared with his contemporaries, could have mastered his audience, except by Wthising with them? When they were for blood, he sympathised with them ; when they began to desire the reign of blood to cease, he sympathised also. In his desk were found David’s plans of academics for infancy and asylums for age. He was just about to inaugurate the Reign of Love, when the conspiracy against him swept him down the closing abyss of the Reign of Terror. He was only a day too late in expressing his sympathy with the change in the public mind. Can you suppose that he who, though ambitious, threw up his profession rather than subscribe to the punishment of death—he whose favourite author was Jean Jacques, ‘ le plus almant ales hommes ’ 1‘— that he had any inherent propensity__to_qr_u\elty? N0! Cruelty had become thespirit of the time, with which the

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impressionability of his nervous temperament compelled him to sympathise. And if he were a sterner exterminator than others, it was not because he was more cruel than they, but more exposed to danger. And as he identified himself with his country, so self-preservation was in his mind the rigorous duty of a patriot. Wherever you had placed him, Monsieur Robespierre would always have been the man of his day. If he had been an Englishman, sir, he would have been at the head of all the philanthropical societies— come in for a large constituency on philanthropieal principles -—and been the most respectable, as he was always the most incorruptible, of public men. ‘ Ge pauvre llI. Robespierre/ comme il est me’comml’ * If he had but lived a month or two longer, he would have revived the age of gold! ”

Certainly, during that excitable epoch, tenderness of sentiment and atrocity ofucgnduct were not combined’i’n “ ce pmwre M. Robespierre ” allifi‘élw‘l‘he favourite amusement of one of the deadliest of his fellow-murderers was the rearing of doves. He said that the contemplation of their innocence made the charm of his existence, in consoling him for the wickedness of men. Couthon, at the commencement of the Revolution, was looked upon as the mildest creature to be found out of a pastoral. He had a figure d’ange, heavenly with compassionate tenderness. Even when he had attained to the height of his homicidal celebrity, he was carried to the National Assembly or the Jacobite Club (I say carried, for, though young, he had lost the use of his limbs) fondling little lapdogs, which he nestled in his bosom. An anecdote is told of one of his confréres, who was as fatal to men and as loving to dogs as himself, that when a distracted wife, who had pleaded to him in vain for her husband’s life, in retiring from his presence, chanced to tread on his favourite spaniel’s tail, he exclaimed, “Good heavens, madame! have you then no humanity? ”

In these instances of tenderness for brutes we see the operation of that sympathy which, being diverted from men, still must have a vent, and lavishes itself on the inferior races, to whom its sentimental possessor shows all kindness, because from them he apprehends no mischief. We need not, however, resort to the annals of the French

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Revolution for examples of this warped direction of pity or affection. Every day we see venerable spinsters who

, delight in the moral murder of scandal, and guillotine a “reputation between every cup of tea, y‘et’full of’b’eniguant

charities to parrots, or dogs, or cats, or monkeys. Those venerable spinsters were, no doubt, once fond-hearted little girls, and, while in their teens, were as much shocked at the idea of assassinating the character of pretty women, and poisoning the honour of unsuscepting hearths, as they are now at the barbarity of pinching Fidcle’s delicate paw, or singeing Tabitha’s inofiensive whiskers.

There is, thenJ_a_kind of morbid sensibility which is not affectatien—nor_hypocrisym 0 teemed, but is as perfectly genuine’as any other symptom of irri ble nerves, and is wholly distinct from healthful goodness of heart; and this kind of sensibility is often united with a temperament that is impressionable, through the nerves, to the influences immediately and sensuously brought to bear on it, and is so far sympathetic ; but from that very impres_ sionability is easily subjected to morbid or even criminal misdirections; for, as Adam Smith‘has very well argued in his ‘ Theory of Moral Sentiments ’—“ Sympathy, though its meaning was, perhaps, originally the same as pity or compassion, is a word that may now Without much impropriety be made use of to denote our fellow-feeling with any passion whatever.” And the reader will have observed that it is in that sense that I employ the word. A person thus nervously impressionable may, from the very intensity of his regard for himself, easily transport his fancy to the situation of others, so long as he can picture himself in those situations, or so long as they appear to affect his comfort or safety. And what with the impressionability, what with the fancy, what with the self-regard, he will be peculiarly susceptible to fear, and fear will render him peculiarly prone to cruelty. Yet, with all that evinces hardness of heart, he may retain to the last a certain softness and sensibility of nerves——weep like the tyrant of Pheraea at the sorrow in a play, fondle lapdogs like Couthon ——in short, while the masculine attributes of humanity seem obliterated, we shall find him human through a morbidity of sentiment which belongs to the humanity of Women.

Still, though this impressionable organisation is not therefore necessarily an index of goodness, it is much more frequent in the good than in the bad. I have hitherto glanced only at its diseased conditions. In its healthful development and action it imparts to virtue that exquisite tenderness which distinguishes the archetype of beautified humanity from that artificial mechanism by which the stoic sought to fashion forth a compassionless, emotionless, ethical machine.

When the beneficent man seems to feel not only for but wgfllmeatnmbenefitgrenters-Mhisheart, s eals awaythepride that might otherwise reject a charity, whispers hope to the grief that might otherwise despair of comfort, makes himself one with his brother man, through sympathy, before soaring aloft from him as the dispenser of favours through a principle of the duty which the prosperous owe to the afliicted—then Virtue indeed seems clad in the alluring beauty which Plato says she would take in the eyes of man, could her image be rendered visible.

Beneficence in itself is godlike 3 but beneficence alone is but a godlike statue—an efiigies embodying a divine idea, but an effigies in marble. Add to beneficence sympathy, and the statue takes bloom and life. Nor in beneficence alone has sympathy its heavenly charm. In the equal commerce of life the benefactor is needed seldom, the sympathiser is longed for always. Be our joy but in a momentary sunbeam, be our sadness but the gloom of a passing cloud, how that sunbeam lights up the whole landscape when refiected in the sympathiser’s smile, and how the cloud, when its shadow falls on the sympathiser’s brow, “turns forth its silver lining on the night! ” Happy, thrice happy he who has secured to his life one who feels as if living in it! And perhaps this is not an uncommon lot, except to uncommon natures. Did Shakespeare and Milton find hearts that understood the mysterious depths mam well enough to sympathise? If so, it does not appear in their scant, Mfor such knowledge perhaps) their sufiicing biographies. But Shakespeares and Miltons are as medals, by which Nature celebrates her most signal triumphs, and of which she coins no duplicates. Doubtless there are millions of excellent Browns and Smiths who may find second selves in other Browns and other Smiths. Goethe, speaking of himself says, with that manly yet somewhat mournful self-dependence which forms one of his most impressive characteristics, “ To desire that_ others should sympathise with usisagreat folly. I never desired any such thing. I always considered man, in his individual 7 capacity, a being to be inquired into and observed in all his peculiarities, but I certainly did not expect any sympathy.” Folly or not the desire of sympathy may be, but perhaps it is the desire strongesf’afi‘dnnost common in youthful Their ideal of love is indeed, for the most part, {shaped and coloured by their craving for that sympathy which they imagine the beloved one alone can give. Yet certainly Goethe, speaking as Goethe, is right. No one has a right to expect sympathy for himself as poet, as author, or artist; for, in that capacity, his life is in a world of his own, with which no other is familiar—into which no other can find a home. In that world there goes on a perpetual movement—a rapid succession of scenes and images, of incidents and events, of which he is as sole a spectator, as if to him alone were vouchsafed the vision of all that inhabit and interest the star which was ascendant at his birth, and influences the structure of his mind and the mysteries of his fate.

But no one is all poethauthor, artist; every demigod of genius has also his side as man. And as man, though not as poet, anthor,rartist, he may reasonably yearn for sympathy. Such a sympathy, so restricted, will probably not be denied to him. It has been said that the wife of Racine had so little participation in the artistic life of her spouse, that she had never even read his plays. But as Racine was tenderly attached to her, and of a nature too sensitive not to have needed some sort of sympathy in those to whom he attached himself, and as, by all accounts, his marriage was a very happy one, so it is fair‘ to presume that the sympathy withheld from his artistic life was maintained in the familiar domestic everyday relationship of his positive existence, and that he did not ask the heart of Madame Racine to beat in unison with his own over the growing beauties of those children whom she was not needed to bring into the world. Why ask her to shed a mother’s tears over the fate of Britannicus, or recoil with a mother’s horror from the guilt of Phédre f—they were no offspring of hers. Men of action have, however, this decided advantage over men of letters and contemplation,

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How many eulogized monkeys, parrots, and lapdogs have I seen turn ingrates at the moment of enhanced expectation— the lazy, capricious brute, discrediting its mistress’s veracity, or provoking an exposure of temper it were always wise to …
Victorians and Their Animals: Beast on a Leash
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of Woman, that women often paid more attention to their lapdogs than they did their children.11 Laura Brown’s analysis of … apparent (to Flegel 2015) when so many spinsters and widows coddled their lapdogs as if they were children (10).
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the one who’d first thought of making Miss Martingale the object of tattle, he reminded himself. Mayhap it was time he was taking charge of things, instead of playing the obedient lapdog. “Then I take leave to tell you I do not take well to threats.
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“I’m actually only here today because Erik had lapdog duties.” “Erik sent you?” “The pretty blond that just threw you in here.” “I know who he is, and he is pretty, but why send you now?” “It’s my job to keep the Spinsters happy and fed, so pretty …
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Venerable spinsters relish the spitefulness and loquacity of parrots, and admire a gaudiness of plumage according with … and the man of the ring, the brisk terrier and the London gamin, the peevish lapdog and the listless woman of fashion.
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l There is a curious likeness between certain social ‘ gamin, the peevish lapdog and the listless woman ‘ 4 l i I Twice I myself … Venerable spinsters relish the spitefulness and loquacity of parrots, and admire a gaudiness of plumage according …
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SPINSTERS. AND. MOTHERS. CELIA Burleigh, one of the most talented and finished writers and lecturers of the da;, and … or a lapdog, but which is enough to drive any women, with an active mind and a healthy body, into a lunatic asylum.
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William Robertson (of Rochdale.) – 1889 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
A lady (evidently a spinster) was one of his fellow-passengers on board. She made a particular fuss and manifested a great deal of anxiety about her lapdog, which was nursed with a motherly care, and which received from her the most lavish …
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THE

SPINSTER’s JOURNAL.

•ereeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeer-reveree-4,
– – –

..}/Ayr 13–My young companion will, to a certainty, effect an entire revolution in my habits; and what is strange, I find the utmost pleasure in accommodating myself to her wishes. This is no trivial trait of suavity in a spinster of my standing. I believe I had blushed on reperusing the compliments of Burleigh, as recorded in my yesterday’s diary. I now think they must be applicable in a degree, so they shall stand. It may be, that in my previous pursuits after happiness, I have found so little to VOL. III. .B.

flatter my judgment as a projector, that my present tractability will appear only a new approach to this desired goal. But what an approach l ah, my dear fellow-martyrs’ do me justice if this is really the fact; consider my plan, and ask yourselves if there is not something more flattering to the heart and the understanding, in being won to the practice of social habits by an intelligent fellow-creature, than wasting one’s hours in cheerless ruminations, or lavishing the affections on those dumb tyrants, which are, in truth, Our masters. How many eulogized monkeys, parrots, and lapdogs have I seen turn ingrates at the moment of enhanced expectation— the lazy, capricious brute, discrediting its mistress’s veracity, or provoking an exposure of temper it were always wise to conceal! I do not deny that a RATIONAL retainer may not offer similar opportunities for displaying the powers of her patroness. This is possible, but not very common. The

compacts between parties thus situated are so purely worldly, the power of the EMPLOYER is so effectually guaranteed by the servility of the EMPLOYED, that a domestic fracas is rarely to be dreaded. Thank Heaven, I have excluded this exhilarating chance from my system of patronage! My companion, from being independent, need not stoop to any infirmities of temper I may be so unfortunate as to exhibit. We MAY separate, and the world, with its usual regard to circum- * stances, may denounce her, while it deplores the misplaced generosity of your humble servant. But entre nous, pity is not the incense best adapted to woman’s feelings; and though it is sometimes accepted graciously, and as a matter of right, I am convinced there is a silent monitor within, that often invalidates the collective testimony 6f adulation, come under what form it will. Each new exposure of our temporal poverty sinks us in our own esteem. Then is it possible to believe THAT poverty of

spirit which inculcates injustice, engenders pride, and makes us the slaves of temper, ean be quieted, soothed by external quackery? I deny it, and for this simple reason, that with all our seeming reliance on the “ outward ornaments” of character, no human being was ever satisfied with himself unless he carried in his bosom “that peace which the world cannot give.” But I was speaking of the gentle influence my young friend has already acquired over my almost-unconscious habits. She saw me regularly turn to my writing-table after perusing the newspaper. , “This is a very injurious custom, my dear Miss Singleton,” said she. “I know ladies in your station of life must have frequent occasion for writing, but would your applying yourself to this position an hour later prove inconvenient?” “I believe not, my dear,” said I; “but you have yet to learn that I cannot sit idle, Celina, and until I have given my orders for the day, it is useless to take up a book.”

“I should like to rob you of this hour daily,” smiled my reasonable little friend; “suppose we were to make it a rule to walk in the park for an hour when the weather will permit.” I instantly assented, self-convinced that the plan was judicious, and only overlooked because there had been no one sufficiently interested in my welfare to lead me to the exertion. I now find myself equipped for my rambles as it were by magic. Celina throws my scarf over my shoulders, chooses the bonnet I shall wear, and, as Ilean on her arm, listening to her cheerful sallies, I feel every disposition to forgive those weaknesses in the parental character I have occasionally condemned. Distinct as the matron and the spinster’s feelings are supposed to be, I scarcely think there is a mother whose heart glows with a more chastened pride than mine does, as I see this amiable young creature sedulously endeavouring to increase my happiness, without forfeiting her own re

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erne to my thought a new and deeper meaning in tiie text than I had ever perceived.

“Christ is the living vine,” the preacher said, learning forward again, and resting his arm on the ynlpit as before. “He called the wine of the Passover, which lie drank with His disciples, His blood, and said unto them, ‘Drink ye all of it.’ And in another place, ‘Except ye eat the flesh of the Son of Man, and drink His blood, ye have no life in you/ 1 fear the brother, of whom I spoke Just now, did not understand how it is that the blood of Christ cleanses from sin. I think he had some vague idea of external washing, instead of inward purification. The blood symbolised by wine must be drank, and go into the spiritual circulation, and, with the body of the Lord that is eaten, oroate a new man under the process of spiritual assimilation.

“The remarkable vine-symbol of our text in in perfect harmony with this symbol of our Lord’s body and blood that must be taken as spiritual food and drink. Wo must be engrafted into the living vine. ‘I am the vine, ye are the branches.’ Now, in what relation does a branch stand to a vine? In that of a recipient of life. If the Lord be as a vine, and we the branches, then the Lord’s life most flow into our souls, as the life of the vine flows into its branches. If we eat and drink, spiritually, the Lord’s body and blood, then we grow into His likeness and image through the reception of divine food— become new creatures—He in us and we in Him. And it is the same if we are engrafted onto the Living Vine. In these two beautiful symbols, so full ut divine meanings, like things are signified.

“I will not dwell upon this. I am sure its force and significance are clear to every one now under the sound of my voice. Its practical bearing on each of us is the solemn consideration of the hour. “Are you, my brother, my sister, a branch of the Living Vine, organically united and receiving life from the Vine?—or, only adjoined, holding on by external filament and bandings, and drawing your life as of old from the world? If the Lord’s life be in you, through a perfect union, it will be a pure, a loving, a sweet life of charity. You will be more concerned about others than yourself; aud the spiritual interest of all mankind will lie near your heart, as they are ever near to the Lord in whom you live and move and have your being; and the fruit you bear will be good deeds; not constrained, not to be seen of men, not from duty even, but from love.

“There aro three kinds of union with this Vine— ecternal only, partial, and perfect. I have already referred to the first and last. Let me dwell for a few moments on the other, for I think we, as professing Christians, are most concerned here. The partial union is that in which a few fibres of the soul have made a connection with the Vine, while it itill draws its chief nutrition from the old unre

generate source. By means of these fibres, the life of the Vine flows in but feebly and inadequately, causing the branch to blossom, it may be, and give promise of fruit. And now it is that the old life and the new life meet in momentous conflict; the new trying to subdue the old, and make the wild branch now grafted upon the Living Vine bear heavenly fruit. Alas for you! alas for me! if the old life prevail, and the branch remain barren. If it bear not fruit, it will be ‘taken away,’ ‘cast forth,’ ‘burned!’ No faith in a risen Saviour; no trust in the redeeming blood; no reliance on a heart-change dating from a wellremembered hour, will, avail us anything, if, for lack of fruit, we are severed from the Vine! If the Lord’s life be not in us, we are none of his; and his life is not a selfish life, but a lifo of love, perpetually going out of himself and seeking to bless all living things.”

I can give but feebly the force of that sermon. All the power of the preacher’s voice and manner is lost in my weak transfer of a part of the discourse. The people went out, at its close, with thoughtful faces, silent, or speaking to e*ch other in subduod voices. He had struck a key that rang out to many a note of warning — startling them from a pleasant dream of false security.

I called in the evening to see a friend, the member of the ehurch to whom I referred in the beginning, and found him much disturbed in mind. He was alone in his parlor, walking the floor, when I entered.

“I saw you at church this morning,” he said, almost abruptly, after a few words of greeting.

“Yes, I was there.”

“What did you think of the sermon?”

“The preacher gave us true doctrine,” I answered.

The light went out of his face.

“Then,” he said, in a solemn, half-frightened way, “I have been building my house on sand! The hope that was in me has died. The Saviour in whom I trusted has hid himself from me, and I am of all men most miserable. I called myself an heir of God, and joint heir with Jesus Christ; but this doctrine of an organic union with the Living Vine, and a new lifo therefrom, shows mo that I am still an alien, and not a son. Looking down Into my heart, as I have looked to-day, and in all honesty to myself reading its feelings and purposes, scanning its ruling ends of life, I find that I love myself more than I love my neighbor. I find that I am not a new man in Christ Jesus our Lord, but, nnder all my professions and outward observances of religious duties, unchanged in my love for the things of this world, and as eager in their pursuit from selfish ends as I ever was. Ah, my friend! this is a sad discovery for one to make, after resting for twenty years, as I have done, in the vain belief that I had washed my robes and made them white in the blood of the L«tmb.”

“You write bitter things against yourself,” I answered.

“Not so. The Lord has given me a revelation of myself—has opened a window through which I cam look into my heart and see its unchanged condition. And at the same time he has made the fact that I am not drawing my life from Him as the Living Vine clear as the sun at noonday. Can I ever forget these words of the preacher, that smote upon my heart like a sentence of condemnation from Heaven: ‘If the Lord’s life be in you through a perfect union, it will be a pure, a loving, a sweet life of charity. You will be more concerned about others than yourself; and the spiritual interests of all mankind will be near your heart, as they are ever noar to the Lord, in whom ye lire and move and have your being; and the fruit you bear will be good deeds, not constrained nor to be seen of men, nor from duty even, but from love.’ Not so am I conjoined to the Lord, bnt only adjoined, as a branch newly grafted, and not yet in union with the vine and drawing its life therefrom.

“‘ I am the vine/ he went on. ‘Ye are the branches. He that nbideth in me and I in him the same bringeth forth much fruit; for without me ye can do nothing. If a man abide not in me he is cast forth as, a branch and is withered.’ Hundreds of times have I read these sentences, but never saw their meaning until now. If I am tfuly engrafted onto the living Vine a new and heavenly life will pervade my whole being. I will be changed as to my inmost desire, and the fruit I bear will be the fruit of justice, for the Lord is just, and of mercy, for he is merciful.”

He paused and walked the room again, his manner still greatly disturbed.

“Are you not a just and a merciful man?” I asked.

“No !” he answered, almost passionately, turning upon mo a faco so full of pain and self-accusation that I was moved at his state of mind.

“No !” he repeated. “I have been all over it since I heard that sermon. Just! Why, sir, only yesterday I sold a customer an article at a fair living profit, as the phrase is, and cheated him in the transaction.”

He looked stern and angry. “Yes, sir,” he added, “cheated him! I had blundered in buying the goods, and I let him, in his ignorance, repeat the blunder, and suffer the loss I should have borne. Was that just? Was it from tho Lord’s life in me, or from the old, selfish, unregenerate life that I did this? Merciful! A poor struggling tradesman, whom I had known whon wo were boys, ploaded with me last week to consider his oaso nnd abate in his favor a business custom of our house. But I answered, ‘No, John, I’m sorry for you, but there are no friendships in busi

ness.’ And he went away looking »o sad and disappointed that his face haunted me in sleep all the next night Would the Lord have so turned away from one of his poor, weak, pleading creatures? I think not.

“Ah, my friend,” he went on, his voice fallrag to a mournful strain, “if this were all. If only in these two instances I had failed in being just and merciful, my case would not show so bad si aspect But in the whole of my business and social life I see self and the world dominant, ami the Lord and the neighbor put down to a lower place. I seek justice and mercy for myself, but am little concerned how it fates with another. This daily life in the world, this conflict of interests, this buying and selling, and getting gainhere it is that we most look for the test of diwipleship i If we are Chsist’s, then the spirit of Christ will be in us, and we will be just in all otr dealings with men, as He is just, merciful as He is merciful, pure as He is pure. Religion will not be a thing kept for Sunday, nor worship the mere singing of hymns and saying of prayers. The very essence of- our religion will be a life squared by the Golden Rule, and our worship the sacrifice of selfish desires on the altar of daily use.”

Then, after a long pause, and with a deep inspiration, my friend said, with a solemnity I shall not soon forget:

“God helping me, I will seek for a true and more perfect union with the Living Vine. In the mere adjunction I am in perpetual danger of being cast off as unfruitful. I would have an organir union, that the Lord’s life may flow in perpetually, changing the old, mean, selfish life into a pure and generous and loving life.”

He grew calmer after this. Tho painful convictions and Btcrn judgments of himself, through which he had passed, closed in a deep and earnest resolution to seek for a truer union with the Lord as the Living Vine.

I have met him often since then. The words of the preacher fell upon good ground, and though be knows it not, they have brought forth a precious harvest. T- *•l’

ao^Co-c

TnE Bright Sins:.—Look on the bright sideIt is the right side. The times may be hard, hot it will make them no easier to wear a gloomy and sad countenance. It is the sunshine, and not the cloud, that makes the flower. The Bky is blue ten times where it is black once. You have trouble!, Bo have others. None are free from them. Troubles give sinew and tone to life—fortitude and oourage to man. That would be a dull sea, «J>d the sailor would never get skill, where there wai nothing to disturb tlfc surface of the ocean. V”* though things look a little dark? the lane will turn, and night will end in broad day. There”

) more virtue in ono sunbeam than a whole beffli-*

( phere of clouds and gloom.

BOYS’ AND GIELS’ TREASURY.

THAT PHEIAN BOY.

1IY MRS. C. E. K. DAVIS.

TADDT nu a Daughty boy that day. Not even grandma could make an excuse for him, though she dropped a great many stitches in the bright little stocking she was knitting, and was seen to wipe her spectacles over and over again, and all because she felt so badly about her naughty little grandson.

Well, perhaps I had better tell you the whole story.

Mrs. Ives—that was Taddy’s mother’s namo—sat sewing in the parlor, and it was such a fine day that the window was thrown open to let in the sweet breath of the apple blossoms in the orchard, and the English violets that grew by the front door. Grandma sat knitting in her easy chair, and Rose was painting a bunch of trailing arbutus, that looked so like the real flowers it seemed as though you could pick them up from their bed of soft green moss. It was so quiet in the room that they all heard what Taddy said, and saw what he did, though he neither heard nor saw them. Ue was sitting on the grass plot just in front of the parlor window, this little five-year-old Taddy, eatiDg buns, and singing to himself a song that he bad caught from his college brother Tom, and his mother, listening to the pleasant voice, thought within her heart My Taddy in a darling / when the gate opened, and Jimmy Pbelan came whistling up the walk, with his old straw bat perched on the back of his head. Jimmy was the fourth son of Mike Phelan, who worked in gentlemen’s gardens up and down the street.

“I wish that boy wouldn’t come here,” said Rose, glancing up from her painting, as she heard the click of the gate. “I shouldn’t think you would allow it, mother. Just hear Taddy call out,’ Hullo!’ He is getting so rude that I am really ashamed of him, and that Phelan boy is horrid!”

“Hullo !” said Jimmy, quite unconscious of the young lady’s criticism; and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets, he stood facing Taddy and the open parlor window. He was a wretchedlooking Utile ragamuffin, there was no denying it, but then you could not wonder if you would only bear iu mind that there were eleven more at home as like him as the peas in the pod are like each other, to be fed and clothed; and the best that Mike and his wife could do, the feeding and clothing were of the poorest and scantiest kind. Indeed I suppose there was seldom a day that Jimmy’s stout little bread-basket was comfortably filled.

vol* xxxvin.—20.

“What is it ye’re eatin’, Taddy ?” asked Jimmy, after the salutations.

“Buns,” said Taddy, “with turrents in ’em!”

“Gi’ me a bite?”

Taddy shook his curly head. “I tan’L They’d make you awful sick!”

“I’ll risk it,” said Jimmy, holding out a very dirty hand. “Just one small, little bit, Taddy?”

“No, Jiiv /” answered Taddy, his month crammed full. “My mother puts pi ton in her buns, an’ if you eat just a tcenty tinty bit it’ll make you sick so you’se have to have the doctor, and take palegolic.”

“That’s a lie!” said Jimmy, stoutly. “Why don’t they make you sick, if they’re pizon?”

“Ob, tause—tause—tause I’m my mother’s boy, and—whit did you tome in here for, Jimmy Phelan? Nobody told you to, an’ I don’t want you, ‘n I wish you’d go off where you b’long!”

“I want something to eat,” said Jimmy.

“Then go ‘n ask your mother, way as I do.”

“She’s off a-washing, and there ain’t nothing in the cupboard, ’cause I looked;” and Jimmy sat down on the grass. “Just le’ me have one bite, Taddy.”

“No, I shall not! My mother don’t ‘low me to give buns to Paddies!”

“Theodore Ives, you naughty boy, come into the house this minute!” cried Rose, putting her head out of the window.

“No I sha’n’t,” answered Taddy composedly.

“Then I will come and fetch you,” said Rose.

“You tan’t do it,” rejoined Taddy, planting his heels in the grass, and throwing a defiant look over his shoulder.

“Just one mite of a piece,” coaxed Jimmy, in a whisper; “there’s such a splendid currant.”

“I won’t do it,” said Taddy, very red in the face, ” ‘nd if you don’t go off I’ll—I’ll—I’ll double up my fist to you, I will, just like that /” and I am ashamed to say that he hit Jimmy a blow on the side of his head that knocked off his old straw hat.

“Taddy, I want you!” It was Mrs. Ives that spoke this time, sorrowfully enough you may bo sure, and the little boy, hastily swallowing the last remaining bit of his last bun, got up reluctantly.

“What’ll she do to ye?” asked Jimmy, under his breath.

Taddy shook his head.

“Is it because ye boxed my ears, d’ye s’pose?”

“Yes; and I guess—I guess she heard me say pizon and Paddy I”

“That’s nothin’.”

“Yes it is; my mother don’t ‘low me to say wrong stories, and call names.”

(295)

Taddy came into the parlor hanging his head so low that the curls fell over hia face like a yellow veil. Rose looked at him, and said, severely : ” If you were my boy, I would punish you with a stick, Taddy Ives!”

Mamma did not speak, but held out her band to her naughty boy. Grandma almost always had an excuse ready fur bis little misdemeanors, but, loot in* askance through the veil of curls, Taddy saw ber kind face quite turned away from him, and not a single word did she speak in hia defence.

“Rose, tell Jimmy Phelan to go to the kitchen door, and ask Jane for pome dinner,” said Mrs. Ives. Then the took a white handkerchief out of her pocket and put it over Taddy’s mouth—that naughty mouth that had told lies and called names. Taddy stood quite atill while she tied the corners, but bis heWt beat very loud and fast, and tears gathered in his blue eyes. He bad never been punished like this before, and it aeerued the very worst punishment in the world. After the knot was tied, Mrs. Jves pointed to “Taddy’s naughty corner,” and thitber the little culprit went, and sat down on a cricket, with his face to the wall.

“That Phelan boy won’t go for bis dinner, mother; he says be wants to come in and speak to you.”

Before tbe words were out of her mouth, Jimmy Phelan had pushed past Rose, and thrust his un- I combed red head in at the parlor door.

It was a grand room compared with the old! smoky kitchen where the tribe of Phelan cooked, i ate, and slept. Jimmy had seldom seen a grander,! but that was nothing so long as poor Taddy sat ( sobbing in a corner of it. I

“If you plaze, mum,” he stuttered; “if you plaze—”

“What is it, my boy?”

“If you plaze, mum, I’d wish ye wouldn’t tie up his mouth with a ban’kerchy; be didn’t mean no harm, Taddy didn’t; and I’d just’s lieve he’d call me Paddy’s not!”

Now I call that noble and generous in Jimmy Phelan, who had never been taught either good manners or morals, and whose veins were full of hot Irish blood. But, in spite of his pleading, Taddy had to be punished as be deserved. Ho was kept in the corner until the tea-bell rung, and as soon as tea was over Margaret took him up stairs. When bis mamma went, as usual, to get a good-night kiss from her boy, she found him sitting up in bis bed, as penitent and disconsolate a speck of humanity as you ever saw.

“I’ve been a-tbinking, mother,” he said, with a pitiful sob, as she sat down beside him; “I’ve been a-thinking.”

“Of what, my child?”

“Why, s’posin’ if that Phelan boy was your boy, an’ I was Mike’s boy, how I’d like it if he

doubled up his fist to me, and—” Here was «nother sob.

“And what, Taddy?”

“And I’ve been a-tbinking what if your boj wouldn’t gi’ me just one little least speck of hw with turrents in ’em, and said they was piron, when they was smacking good, and called mt Pad—Pad—Pad-dy, I don’t b’lieve I’d ask you to take off tbe pot-han’ktsif off his mouth, not if he had it on twenty weeks’.”

“Then you are sorry that you were so unkind to Jimmy t”

“Yes, I am—honeat and true!” and the bite eyes looked straight up into mamma’s face.

“And whit about the wrong stories, Taddy V

“I told God all ’bout that ‘fore you came cp stairs; we’ve got it all settled, an’ I’m goin’ to give Jimmy Phelan my cent piece to buy somefh’ that’s lots better’n buns—TORPEDOES!” sii<i Taddy ducked bis head under the sheet with the biggest sob you ever heard.

So that was the way he made friends with Jimmy Phelan, and even sister Rose thought it good and sufficient proof of repentance, for it was tbe same as if Taddy bad given up all claim to Fourth of July.— Christian Union.

THE LITTLE KED ROSE.

BY GOETHE.

ABOT caught sight of a rose in a bower— A little rose, slyly hiding Among the boughs; oh ! the rose was bright And young, and it glimmered like morning light; The urchin sought it with baste; ’twas a flour A child, indeed, might take pride in— A little rose, little rose, little red ro.-c, Among the bushes hiding.

The wild boy shouted, ” I’ll pluck tbe rose, Little rose, vainly biding Among the boughs;” but tbe little rose spoke— “I’ll prick thee, and that will prove no joke; Unhurt, oh ! then I will mock tby woes, Whilst thou thy folly art chiding.” Little rose, little rose, little red rose, Among the bushes biding I

But the rude boy laid his hands on the flower, The little rose vainly hiding Among the boughs; oh! the rose was caught! Bnt it turned again, and prieked and fought, And left with its spoiler a smart from that boor, A pain forever abiding; Little rose, little rose, little red rose, Among the bushes hiding.

Search thine own heart. What paineth thee

In others in thyself may be;

All dust is frail, all flesh is wca’.;

Be thou the true man thou dost seek I *

THE HOME CIRCLE.

EDITED BY A LADY.

SPINSTERS AND MOTHERS.

CELIA Burleigh, one of the most talented and finished writers and lecturers of the da;, and one who never utlers a sentence unbecoming a true woman, has an excellent article in a recent number of the Woman’i Journal, bearing the title with which we head this article. We quote the following from it:

“In one of our large western cities lives an unmarried woman, who has adopted and filled the place of mother to more than twenty children, and in her care and training of them shown a selfsacrificing tenderness, a devotedness and wisdom, which no mother could have surpassed. To train children was her natural vocation; from childhood she had shown an aptitude for it, and attaining womanhood, this was the one strong desire of her heart. The brother, a successful business man, with whom she lived, had large means, and a life filled with varied interests. She had a handsome room in bis house, plenty of money for the gratification of her personal wants, and an aimless life. ‘I wish I were a man,’ she exclaimed impatiently, one day aa he was unfolding some new project that was sure to result in a golden harvest. ‘No, I don’t, either,’ she added; ‘but I wish I had a man’s opportunities for making money.’

“‘ Why, Mary,’ exclaimed her brother in a tone of grieved surprise,’ don’t you have all the money you want? I am sure I wish you to have.’

“He was one of those large-brained, active men, who, had he been doomed to a life of dependence and inaction, would have gone mad or committed suicide; and here was his sister, only a year or two younger than himself, sharing the same nature, and he was astonished that, being sumptuously housed and clothed, she was still unsatisfied.

“‘ No, Ilarry,’ she replied,’I don’t have all the money I want. I want enough to do a work in the world, and have something to live for, instead of having everything provided for me, and the days left so dark and empty that when I wake in the morning I wonder how I shall manage to exist till night. I am bored to death with an existence that is fit only for a canary bird or a lapdog, but which is enough to drive any women, with an active mind and a healthy body, into a lunatic asylum.’

“The brother was an exceptional man, for he neither laughed at her, nor asked her why she Hid not get married and have a bouse and children to occupy her; bat he asked the much more sensible question,’ What would you like to do T’

‘”I would like to have a large house and fill it with children who need a home, and be a mother

to them. That would interest me as much as great business enterprises do you.’

“The brother made no reply. He walked the length of the room and back again, went to the window, and with both hands thrust in his pockets as if he hoped to find at the bottom the solution of the difficulty, stood looking out. Suddenly his face brightened, he turned on his heel, and went briskly out of the house.

“• Well, Molly,’ he exclaimed gayly, as he met her at the tea-table, ‘ I have bought you a house, and you can begin to gather your flock of vagabonds as soon as you like! And it was no joke. His sister’s words had set him thinking. He had gone back to the time when, hardly more than children, they were thrown, a pair of penniless orphans, upon the world; of all she had been to him during those years when the conflict with fortune seemed so unequal, and more than once his heart failed him, and but for her lovo and trust he would have been ready to despair. Never during these years had she failed or doubted him, never added to his discouragement and weariness the weight of her own; and now that fortune bad smiled on him) and he had won success, now that his life was enriched by the love of wife and children, why should he not see to it that she, too, had the means of being happy in her own way? So the house Was bought and furnished, and a sum appropriated to meet its demands. One after another the rooms were filled with homeless waifs and the life of the lonely woman, before so purposeless and barren, blossomed with loving interest and beneficent cares. And what a family gathered about her—made up of all ages, from the week-old baby to the girl on the verge of womanhood; of all nationalities and every shade of color,, but harmonized and attuned by the strong will and loving heart of the genius of the home!

“‘Aunt Mary’ was not the slave of tradition, she had no inflexible thoeries about government. She managed one child this way, and another that. A self-satisfied, obstreperous boy was sent to the public school to find his level and learn subordiuation, while a shy, sensitive little fellow was sent to be cuddled and made much of at a little private school, kept by another spinster with a warm, motherly heart As the years went by some were fitted for college, and others apprenticed to learn trades ; some of the girls fitted themselves to be housekeepers and nurses, while others learned horticulture and telegraphy. To develop each one according to the bent of his genius, to find out what was in him, and make the most and’ best of his powers, this was the purpose kept steadily in view. The only two things that Miss Mary set her face resolutely against were sowing

Life and Times of the Right Hon. John Bright
By William Robertson (of Rochdale.)
About this book

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our illustrious countrymen who has not either first beheld the light within its walls, pursued his avocations within its circuit, or laid his bones to rest beneath its soil. Our statesmen, our most celebrated wits and scholars, our men of science, poets, and philanthropists, have almost all of them left some memory of their existence within the boundaries of the metropolis; indeed, Mr. Bright would rather become a resident of that city where Hampden and Pym defended the cause of the people, and where Russell bled, and where Milton warbled the rapturous soul of song and sovereign ecstasy, than be an inhabitant of the country in which Virgil sang and Brutus struck for liberty. As he gazed from a distance upon the sombre majesty of the atmosphere above the proud metropolis of Britain, through which he saw dimly, rearing themselves like shadowy giants, her thousand domes and spires, he could not but think how insignificant is man, lost amid the stupendous work of his own hands. A moment’s reflection must have given birth to the thought as to what are its riches or its beauty compared to the moral grandeur reaped through many an age of strife and turmoil and revolution. Her aspect was new to him. He was a stranger to her walls, but names which occurred to his mind recalled vividly the scenes of past history, which till then he had contemplated but in the lifeless pages of the historian.

When Mr. Bright was a young man and a bachelor he manifested a warm sympathy for Ireland. Her deplorable history, from savage barbarism and feudal outrages into the atmosphere of dawning civilisation, was to him a very attractive study. The annals of Ireland he even then considered were a disgrace not only to its natives but to human nature, for it had been cursed with savage chieftains and rebellious slaves, who had rendered her fields little less than the transcript of their crimes, and her history was the story of a people unable or unwilling to sway their own sceptre; and yet too froward or too proud to allow it in the hands of others. They were bad subjects and worse rebels, yet he thought the amelioration of their condition was possible by just legislation rather than by coercion. At this time amongst other Irishmen working at his father’s mill was one named Michael Cavannagh, who, after many years’ residence in Rochdale, wished to return to his native country to spend a few years with his relatives. During the last week of Michael’s sojourn in Rochdale he and one of his fellow-work men quarrelled, in the card-room of Greenbank Mill, whereupon he took off his clog, and when raising it in a striking attitude, accidentally struck two panes of glass behind him, which arrested

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the intended blow. Two shillings were entered against him to be deducted from his earnings, but Mr. John Bright was paying the wages when it came to Cavannagh’s turn to present himself, and upon learning the particulars of the affray, he pointed out to the Irishman the impropriety of resorting to brute force. The cost of replacing the panes of glass, however, was not deducted, and his week’s earnings were supplemented with an addition to assist him on his journey homeward. The usual benediction which Celts seem unable to withhold when they meet with some largehearted friend, was poured forth; but Michael’s was somewhat original and bordering on the prophetic. “Sir,-I wish you luck,” said Cavannagh; adding, “may you be king when I return again, and may marrow remain long in your shin bones.”

In April, 1833, Mr. John Bright and a number of his friends formed a society, to which they gave the name of ” The Rochdale Literary and Philosophical Society.” At the first meeting each member signed his name in the minute book; that of Mr. John Bright heads the list. The society became very popular, most of the gentlemen in the town joining it. The rules forbade the introduction of any doctrinal point in religion, or any local party polities for discussion at the meetings. The first meeting was presided over by Mr. John Bright. Mr. John Holgate was appointed secretary, Mr. John Grindrod treasurer, and “the council” for the remainder of the first year were Messrs. John Bright, William Mann, James Ecroyd, G. Craven, J. H. Sellers, R. T. Heape, Joseph Moore, George Morris, William Moore, and the Rev. G. Heaviside. For many years the meetings were held in the Rev. George Heaviside’s private schoolroom, which was situated in Baron Street, between Water Street and Kenion Street. The building is now occupied as a machinist’s shop. The meeting on the 12th of September was presided over by Mr. John Bright, when Mr. Morris lectured “On Optics,” and explained the properties of light, and in the presence of his audience dissected a human eye. At the meeting on the 26th of September Mr. Morris was in the chair, and Mr. John Holgate brought on for discussion, “Is a legal provision of subjects for dissection expedient?” Mr. John Bright took part in the discussion, and the meeting decided (only one voting against it) “That a legal provision of subjects is expedient if confined to the bodies bequeathed for dissection, subject to the relatives’ consent, and the bodies of the unclaimed poor who do not express a contrary wish previous to their decease; or, in other words, that the provision made by Government was and is expedient.” At the

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meeting on the 10th of October, Mr. G. Craven in the chair, Mr. John Bright brought forward as a subject for debate, “From our study of history, ancient and modern, what form of government appears the best suited to promote the happiness of mankind?” The discussion was long and spirited. At last Mr. John Bright submitted the following motion :—” That a limited monarchy is best suited for this country at the present time.” The debate, however, was adjourned to the meeting held on the 7th of November; the Rev. G. Heaviside was in the chair. After the subject was further discussed Mr. Bright’s motion was put to the meeting, when the votes in its favour numbered eighteen, and against it four. At the next meeting, November 2lst, presided over by Mr. J. Littlewood, Mr. Benjamin Heape introduced the subject, ” Whether painting, poetry, or music gives more enjoyment to mankind.”’ On a division being taken, one voted for painting, nine for poetry, and ten for music. At the meeting on January 26th, 1834, Mr. James Eeroyd in the chair, Mr. John Bright brought forward the subject, “Is Alfred or Alexander more entitled to the appellation of ‘The Great’?” He submitted as his opinion that Alexander did not earn, and therefore was not entitled to, and that Alfred did earn, and therefore had a just claim to, the appellation of Great. No one present dissented from Mr. Bright’s opinions, and the meeting unanimously decided in favour of Alfred. The next meeting, on the 18th of February, 1834, was presided over by Mr. O. Ormerod, and a lengthy discussion took place ” On the policy or impolicy of laws for the restriction of the importation of corn.” Mr. James Ecroyd moved and Mr. Norris seconded, “That laws for restricting the importation of grain are impolitic;” and those present at the meeting were unanimous in the opinion. On March 13th, 1834, Mr. John Holt in the chair, Mr. John Holgate introduced the question, “Is defensive war justifiable on Scriptural grounds?” Making in his remarks a quotation of a doctrinal kind from Scripture, he thus violated a rule of the society; and consequently Mr. John Ormerod submitted a motion, “That the debate on that subject be discontinued.” Mr. Thomas Bright seconded the motion, but it was negatived by a majority of fifteen, and the debate was resumed. The motion submitted by Mr. John Holgate was, “That it is justifiable on Scriptural grounds to defend ourselves against the attacks of our enemies.” Mr. John Bright maintained, “That it is not justifiable.” The Rev. G. Heaviside seconded the amendment, which was carried by a majority of six. Mr. S. Heape was in the chair at the meeting on the 5th June, 1834, when the Rev. G. Heaviside lectured “On the universal education of the lower classes,” and proposed, “That it is the opinion of the meeting that the universal education of the people is necessary.” Mr. John Holgate seconded this resolution, which was supported by Mr. Johu Bright, and unanimously agreed to by the members present. On the 3rd of July the subject of “The moral tendency of public amusements, such as the theatre, circus, &c.” was introduced by Mr. John Bright, who submitted the following motion:—” That the moral tendency of public amusements, such as the theatre, circus, &c., is injurious.” Mr. James Ecroyd seconded the motion, which was passed.

In the summer months of 1835, Mr. John Bright with Mr. King (manufacturer of Rochdale) went on a tour to the Holy Land, a country he had long wished to explore, for its mysteries, and sublime desolate regions. They visited Gibraltar, Malta, and Egypt on the way, and returning by Smyrna, Constantinople, and Athens, passed through Italy, France, and Belgium homewards. The first meeting he attended on his return was held on the 14th April, 1836, Mr. Bright himself occupying the chair. Mr. Davidson read a paper on Phrenology, and, after a discussion, concluded by moving, “That it is the opinion of this meeting that the system of Phrenology, as promulgated by Gall and Spurzheim, is the only sure basis yet discovered on which to form a correct system of intellectual philosophy.” Mr. Chadwick spoke against the motion, and moved an amendment to the effect that the “Science of Phrenology has not been established.” Mr. James Petrie strongly opposed the motion, and Mr. Henry Armitage spoke in its favour; Dr. Morris opposed and Mr. Ormerod supported the motion. Upon the votes being taken, six were for the amendment and six for the motion, but it was not stated in the minutes whether Mr. John Bright gave a casting vote one way or the other. At the meeting held on the 5th of May, 1836, presided over by Mr. Ormerod, Mr. John Bright introduced the subject ” Of the decline and fall of nations,” concluding an interesting lecture by a motion—” That there are causes to which the decline of nations may be attributed without having recourse to the argument that ‘ nations are subject to the same laws as individuals/ &c.” Messrs. Scott, Armitage, and Ecroyd took part in the discussion, and the general opinion was in favour of the resolution.

At the meeting on the 2nd of June Mr. John Bright gave an interesting account of the countries he had visited, and it is to be regretted that a reporter was not present to record his description

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of the towns ho passed through, his impressions, and the amusing anecdotes he related. A few of the anecdotes are still fresh in the remembrance of some of those who were present, and we shall repeat them. At that time Mr. Bright was a great admirer of the works of Lord Byron, and visited most of the noted places mentioned in that noble monument of genins, ” Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage.” Byron’s muse dwells amongst wild scenery, roaming in a region of gloomy grandeur, amongst Alpine precipices and cloud-capped mountains, and Mr. Bright loved to penetrate such regions too. He had not prepared the lecture, nor had he any notes before him; he gave the lecture from memory, and often introduced beautiful passages from Byron.

“Adien, adien! my native shore
Fades o’er the waters blue;
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar,
And shrieks the wild sea-mew.

Yon sun that sets upon tho sea

We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,

My native land—Good Night 1”

During Mr. Bright’s voyage in the Mediterranean an amusing incident occurred, of which he was an eye-witness. A lady (evidently a spinster) was one of his fellow-passengers on board. She made a particular fuss and manifested a great deal of anxiety about her lapdog, which was nursed with a motherly care, and which received from her the most lavish affection. One day while the passengers were in the saloon at dinner it was found that the heat was oppressive and unbearable; so, to admit a little fresh air, a window looking on the deck was suddenly opened, when down fell the lapdog, which had been basking in the sun above, into the soup-tureen on the dining-table. On this unexpected downfall and addition to their soup, the passengers, notwithstanding the splash which accompanied the sudden advent, were unable to suppress their mirth, and hearty roars of laughter resounded throughout the saloon, whilst the lady, the darling of whose solicitude had thus suddenly disappeared, on hearing of the sad mishap to her little pet became almost frantic, and poured out a wail of lamentation. Fortunately for her future happiness, it turned out that her favourite was not much the worse for its warm immersion in the tureen.

Another anecdote related by Mr. John Bright can hardly fail to produce the impression that our sailors are not the best authorities to initiate foreigners into the art of speaking the

Old maids and toy dogs (Google Books and Archive.org)

Young Maids and Old – Page 52
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Clara Louise Burnham – 1889 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
“I do believe the dog’s the worst part of it all ! ” groaned Polly. ” Didn’t her mother ask you if Susan might bring a toy dog from whom she could not bear to be parted ? ” asked Phineas, bubbling over with merriment. ” Yes, but of course I thought …
When the Little Toy Dog Was New – Page 198
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Warren R. B. Dixon – 2010 – ‎Preview
“He was as much an old maid as you about it. For example, he hated the word `fuck.’ To him our use of it was a badge of our servitude. He called it a white-trash word. He blamed us for our merde-mouthed ways. But tell me this, pilgrim.
Cat Lady Old Maid
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Stories of an Old Maid: Related to Her Nephews and Nieces – Page 174
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Mme Emile de Girardin – 1856 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
… red, lilac ; there were enough upon this plant to furnish all the dolls of a toy-warehouse with a hood ; and the display which … which, as it would appear, opened all sorts of locks, ” go and open the golden niche, and bring hither the flying dog.
The Pug – A Complete Anthology of the Dog
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Various Authors – 2013 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
As a fact at the present day the pug is the most popular and the commonest of our toy dogs. … might have been originally intended—the patient follower of a ruminating philosopher, or the adulating and consolatory companion of an old maid.
Twice Around the Clock: Or, The Hours of the Day and Night in London
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George Augustus Sala – 1862 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
many cases might with as much propriety answer to the name of dog- stealers — forbidding-looking gentry, in coats of velveteen, with large … Here is the delightful little toy English terrier, with his jet-black coat, erect neck, and tan paws ; and here the genuine Skye, gray or … useless little dog, that, a quarter of a century since, was the treasure of our dowagers and our old maids 1 Where is the Dutch pug ?
Math plus Reading, Grades 2 – 3: Summer Before Grade 3 – Page 186
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American Education Publishing – 2011 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
Play “60 Fish” Jump ‘”°I>’a Play “Old Maid” Play ball Classifying Directions: Read each animal story. Then look at … Write an H for horse, P for panda,or D for dog next to each fact. … Some people have special, small doors for their dogs to use.
Toy Dogs: The History, Points and Standards of English Toy Spaniels, …
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Lillian C. Raymond-Mallock – 1907 – ‎No preview – ‎More editions
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2014 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
Lee likes to play a card game called “Old Maid. … Both Ann Lee Play “Go Fish” Jump rope Play ball Play “Old Maid” Page 150 Classifying: Watch Out for Poison Ivy! Poison ivy is … Some people have special,small doors for their dogs to use.
Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine … – Volume 61 – Page 675
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1901 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
But the dog, weak from vigil and fright, was already asleep; and the old maid’s heart failed her before the sight: she could not do it; she let him stay. After one small sigh of ecstasy, the little being had subsided from his terror and his torment …

Young Maids and Old
By Clara Louise Burnham
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was what her mother had told her to say when she should meet her hostess.

“Will he bite?” gasped Miss Thorne, extending a reluctant hand, and keeping an eye on Bijou, who, unconscious of inspiring fear, now gave a prodigious yawn after the fatigues of the day, causing Polly to jump back to a safer distance.

Susan laughed, and administered a pat on the little muzzle. “Shame on you!” she said. “How many times have I told you to put your paw over your mouth when you do that!—No, indeed, Miss Thorne, you could not make him bite. I frankly confess that / am starving, but will you let me go up stairs and wash my face and hands? I feel so soiled!”

Miss Thorne replied as cordially as she was able, and pulled herself up stairs by the slender banister, followed by her guest. When she had shown the latter her room, and set a lighted lamp on the bureau, she moved down stairs again like one in a dream. At sight of her brother standing with twinkling eyes in the middle of the parlor, she became animated, and rushed into the room with both hands uplifted.

“Phineas, Phin-e-as! Sh! Sh! Sh!” for his laughter threatened to burst forth. “I do believe the dog’s the worst part of it all!” groaned Polly.

“Didn’t her mother ask you if Susan might bring a toy dog from whom she could not bear to be parted?” asked Phineas, bubbling over with merriment.

“Yes, but of course I thought it was a woolly plaything dog, such as any Christian child enjoys,” replied his sister, in an agonized whisper. “Phineas — Phineas Thome I” she added, pinching his arm until he cringed.

“What’s the matter now?”

“I’ve left a picture-book on her stand! It’s naming red and yellow. I bought it at the village today. Oh, do go up and get it. No you can’t, of course.”

Phineas wiped his eyes. “She won’t notice it, perhaps. She’ll be in a hurry to come down to tea, and then you can slip up and get it.”

“I’ve learned a lesson,” said Polly, turning stern. “It’s this. Don’t be too obliging. We’re in for it now. Oh, Land! Comfort’s gone for us, Phineas!”

“Oh, perhaps not. A friend came with her on the train, and has gone to Miss Trowbridge’s. Perhaps they will spend a good deal of time together.

“A lady?”

“Yes.”

Polly shook her head mournfully. “This is bad, bad, Phineas. You must stand by me.”

Then, with sudden recollection, she hurried into the dining-room, and seizing the silver mug and small knife and fork from the table, she put them out of sight in a closet.

B

CHAPTER V.

A FOND AUNT.

ETWEEN the time of receiving Miss Trowbridge’s unexpected invitation and the moment of starting for Proctor, Irene wrought herself into an unusual state of warm and sympathetic feeling toward her unknown entertainer. She knew by experience what a woman might be made to suffer who loved Richard Flanders, and it might really be, as he had coarsely suggested, that this woman loved him still. Irene loyally leaned toward the belief that he was right, and this idea gave her unknown friend a tender interest for her.

Her heart beat fast as the stone walls of The Eyrie loomed stately and tall through the darkness. The stolid Moses clucked to the horse to encourage him up the last and steepest part of the winding road that approached the house, and as he stopped beneath a porte-cochere Irene saw, under a jewelled lantern that hung in the vestibule, the tall figure of her hostess waiting. As the girl stepped from the phaeton she was conscious of trembling with excitement. It was to her in her lonely life a supreme moment thus to come face to face with a woman utterly strange, yet bound to her by a tender tie; the woman, too, to whom she felt gratitude for stretching out a helping hand to her in the time of need.

She felt scarcely able to speak, and welcomed with relief the frank cordiality with which Miss Trowbridge took both her hands and kissed her cheek. There was no shade of embarrassment in the manner of her hostess as she led her guest into a reception room and looked curiously and kindly into the girl’s face.

“Two privileges I want you to grant me at once,” she said; “one is to call you by your first name, and the other is to let me stare at you for a minute.”

“The first by all means, and the second under protest,” replied Irene; “for I am soiled, and first impressions are so important!”

“I can make allowance for cinders. H’m! you do not resemble your father.”

Irene colored violently.

“Your mother, I suppose. I never saw her. Thank you, my dear!” Here Miss Trowbridge released the girl’s hands. “So you are twenty years

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Belmont, Parsons, Fleck, Mortimer, and other gentlemen importing, breeding, and exhibiting these dogs, have taken first premiums. … The pug may be tugged about by silly girls or old maids who can find no better company, but even then they run the risk of having their morals or … The King Charles, Dandy Dinmont, Italian greyhound, and other mere toy dogs, are matters of taste rather than of use.
Brentano’s Aquatic Monthly and Sporting Gazetteer
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1880 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
Belmont, Parsons, Fleck, Mortimer, and other gentlemen importing, breeding, and exhibiting these dogs, have taken first premiums. … The pug may be tugged about by silly girls or old maids who can find no better company, but even then they run the risk of having their morals or … The King Charles, Dandy Dinmont, Italian greyhound, and other mere toy dogs, are matters of taste rather than of use.
The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine – Volume 61 – Page 675
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1901 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
But the dog, weak from vigil and fright, was already asleep; and the old maid’s heart failed her before the sight: she could not do it; she let him stay. After one small sigh of ecstasy, the little being had subsided from his terror and his torment …
The Century – Volume 61 – Page 675
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Making of America Project, ‎Richard Watson Gilder – 1901 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
But the dog, weak from vigil and fright, was already asleep; and the old maid’s heart failed her before the sight: she could … And there was no mistake about his gender; he was the most positively masculine little creature, for a toy-dog, that ever …
The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine – Volume 61 – Page 675
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Josiah Gilbert Holland, ‎Richard Watson Gilder – 1901 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
But the dog, weak from vigil and fright, was already asleep; and the old maid’s heart failed her before the sight: she could … And there was no mistake about his gender; he was the most positively masculine little creature, for a toy-dog, that ever …
The Century – Volume 61 – Page 675
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Blackwood’s Magazine – Volumes 255-256 – Page 19
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1944 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
The moment the hare disappeared behind the sacking the dogs lost all interest and pulled up. … noticing this, intimated by loudspeaker that it proposed to hold a race, half-way round the course, for toy dogs—nothing bigger than foxterriers, … There were men and women, old and young, including several sporting old maids.
Hygeia – Volume 23, Issues 7-12 – Page 900
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1945 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Cuddle toys, preferably of slip skin type Soft dolls: rag, stocking, character of cotton stuffed type Blocks: commercial … child will imitate parents in caring for pets — dog, cat and rabbits Dancing lessons Toy musical instruments The child is a great imitator. The 12 month old baby quickly imitates expressions of elders as well as treatment of toys, as shown in loving of … Soft dolls and cuddle toys Wagons Marbles Wagons Tricycle Dominoes Dishes Jingo game Old maid ) BRASSIERES …
A Little Maid of Old Connecticut
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Alice Turner Curtis – 1996 – ‎Full view – ‎More editions
In 1776 a young Connecticut girl, unaware that her hat box contains a mysterious package from a Tory prisoner, travels by stagecoach to visit her grandmother.
Trade Names Dictionary – Page 1197
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1988 – ‎No preview – ‎More editions

Brentano’s Aquatic Monthly and Sporting Gazetteer, Volume 3
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there had been any necessity for it. Their time was 8m. 20^5. No. 2, 8m. 41^5.; No. 3, 8m. 475. Nos. i and 4 did not finish.

The second race was for the single scull championship of the club, and a handsome emblem, the challenge belt; distance, two miles straightaway; four members were entered, but only three came into line—G. F. Krapp, J. B. Gibson, Jr., and H. F. Spitzka. After a good contest Krapp won in i6m. 2ij^s.; Gibson was second, in 17111. O2%s.; Spitzka, 17111. 07^5.

The third race was one mile, for four-oared gigs, prize challenge plate. The competing crews were: No. i—Edward Young, bow; M. L. Sutton, 2; Alfred M. Hearn, 3; W. C. Taggard, stroke; Augustus Winters, coxswain. No. 2—H. F. Kennedy, bow; W. H. Smith, 2; H. F. Spitzka, 3; John Reiffel, stroke; F. Pfannkuchen, coxswain. No. 3—P. E. Dolan, bow; W. M. Dean, 2; E. Featherstone, 3; Charles Earwicker, stoke; D. Cunningham, coxswain. No. 3 won in 6m. 39^8; No. i was second, in 6m 49^5.; and No. 2 last, in 7m. o8^s.

The fourth and last race was between eight-oared barges for a set of colors. Two crews were entered, as follows: John H. Dolan, bow; D. Cunningham, No. 2; Thomas Worman, No. 3; Thomas Cosgrove, No. 4; H. P. Gibson, No. 5; Henry Hoyt, No. 6; H. C. Hynard, No. 7; H. F. Kennedy, stroke; James Brice, coxswain. C. A. Port, bow; J. H. Corwin, No. 2; Charles Kundahl, No. 3; C. B. Keyes, No. 4; W. H. Smith, No. 5; E. J. Atkinson, No. 6; H. R. Mills, No. 7; Charles Hazelton, stroke; Harbeck Mills, coxswain.

The regatta committee were Messrs. John Neville, Chairman; Edward J. Atkinson, Thomas Cosgrove, Philip E. Dolan, William M. Dean, John Kyle, Charles Kundahl, Alfred M. Hearn, and W. H. Smith. The Reception Committee consisted of Messrs. H. C. Hynard, James Veitch, Frank Hopper, H. A. Palmstine, J. H. Jackson,

A. T. Bridgman, A. C. Jenkins, C. H. Wilcox and C. B. Nicholson. M. J. Murray, of the Friendship Boat Club, was the referee.

President Charles Earwicker, who is one of the oldest boating men on the Harlem, was justly congratulated on his victories as stroke, in both the pair-oared and four-oared gig races. The belt rowed for in the two-mile single scull champion race was made many years since, and is a good specimen of the skill of Mr. Murray, the well-known boating man who officiated as referee. It was presented to the club, during the earlier years of its organization, by ex-President Charles

B. Zachmann, who was one of its founders. Among the auld-langsyne Gramercys present were Messrs. Sutton, Atkinson, Palmstein, Wilcox, Hynard, Dean, etc.

The Four-oared Race between the Sylvans of Moline and Davenports has been postponed for a few weeks on account ‘of the low stage of water on the course of the former, at Moline, 111., where the race was to have occurred.

R. W. Boyd has accepted the challenge of William Elliott of Blyth, to row a match in February next over the Tyne course, England, for |5oo or $1,000 a side.

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This wonderfully sagacious little dog is a cross between the foxhound and the bull-terrier. The blood of these progenitors was commingled centuries ago; and the progeny have been so constantly inbred to this primal cross, forming the fox-terrier of to-day, that his reduced standard weight, at from one to two years, averages from 14 to 20 pounds. High condition only enables him to reach the latter.

Gipp, the subject of the cut given above, was drawn from life by our artist, and engraved for this article. She is “the gem of the kennel.” She is of the choicest English breed called Belvoir. At eleven months she took first prize at Westminster Kennel Club Bench Show, held at Gilmore’s Garden, New York, April, 1880.

Dam—Imported Suss; very highly commended by the Westminster Kennel Club, New York, 1879, out of Right-at-Last, by Sir Charles, out of Lady Lorton, by Sir Edward. All prize-winners in England. Gipp is owned by Mr. F. W. Fleck, 139 Cedar street, New York.

Sire—Clinchy, out of Kate by Champion Tyke, out of Flint by Prince, from Duke of Rutland’s kennel, Belvoir Castle, Nottinghamshire, England.

Kate took first prize at Nottingham. Prince and Kate belong to Mr. Parsons, 505 Fifth Avenue, New York. Prince was imported by Mr. Parsons direct from kennels.

Most of the fox-terriers are white, with a patch or blotch of black or tan on the face, forehead, ear and neck, shoulder or rump; their eyes are well set, black, sparkling, and dance with a lustrous gleam of wide-awake vivacity, with intelligence beaming from their expressive countenances; the ear should be just big enough to form a close and perfect protection to the auditory orifice thin, and so active as to be erected or pricked instantaneously on the slightest perception of sound; the head should be long, lean, bony and shapely, with a hard, powerful jaw 5 the lips tight, thin, compressed, giving the muzzle a cunning foxy expression; the forehead flat, teeth level, and the whole expression that of determination, courage, dignity and character; the neck long and well set; the back long and round; ribs deep, shoulders oblique and strong; legs straight as darts, supple, and expressive of fleetness; feet small, compact and cat-like; the stern strong and straight; tail tapering, fine, active and expressive; the coat hard, short and smooth.

These are the points of a perfect fox-terrier, to which may be added nigged health, cobby, snug build, and great endurance. His carriage is proud, high, firm, and noble. The first impression, on seeing a fox-terrier, is that he is well-bred, and of striking mien.

Few or no dogs excel the fox-terrier in sagacity. Having the entree of the house, he picks up a great deal of information, learns words, sentences and sounds, knows individual foot-falls and voices, understands expressions of pleasure, displeasure, anger and reproach. These he acknowledges with beaming face, wagging tail and pricked ears, when looks, words or expressions of pleasure come from his master or his friends But when displeasure or reproof comes from those he faithfully loves, his countenance and ears fall, his eye is cast down, his tail droops, and his whole expression is one of humility, regret and sorrow. But indignity deeply wounds his feelings, though he is but a dog. He is high-toned from good associations, and cannot therefore bear an insult. An unnecessary or unjust kick or cuff from a stranger offends his honor, and his pluck compels resentment. When roused to defiance, he is an antagonist worthy of respect.

His long, inbred characteristics have fixed them so firmly that they are always transmitted to his progeny; and his long association with human refinement and intelligence has completely obliterated the wild and base instincts of the ill-bred dog. It is this fact that renders him the most valuable dog for the farm, on account of his never joining mongrel curs in the midnight chase and destruction of sheep. Millions of dollars would be saved to the sheep industry annually, if these beautiful creatures were substituted for the average worthless curs, whose sheep-killing instincts make them almost a bar to one of the most valuable industries of the United States.

As a ratter, and other vermin destroyer, he pays for his keeping, and saves to the farmer a hundred dollars a year in preventing the destruction of grain and poultry to fully that amount by vermin.

He will execute any task to which his size renders him capable of performing. He will learn tricks with the poodle, fetch and carry with the Newfoundland, and take to water as readily—though he will not remain so long on account of his short coat—hunt with spaniel or fox-hound, and fight with a dog ten times his weight, till “all’s blue.”

For thorough gameness, united with obedience, good temper and intelligence, he surpasses every breed of dog. He is small, short in coat, cleanly in habit, and of a discriminating temper, which makes him the ” pet of the petticoats,” the idol of the children, the companion of his master, and fast friend of the household.

He is fast gaining the respect and confidence of the public; and the public is appreciative and generally right.

In 1860, at the Birmingham Dog Show, there were only four foxterriers. At the same place in 1864 there were 37 entries. In 1867, double that number; and in 1871, at the Crystal Palace, there were over too shown. In this country, and at our bench shows at the Madison Square Garden, there have been a large number of foreign and home-bred fox-terriers shown for the past few years.

The dogs belonging to Messrs. Belmont, Parsons, Fleck, Mortimer, and other gentlemen importing, breeding, and exhibiting these dogs, have taken first premiums.

In commending this dog to farmers and other gentlemen, I most especially advise the breed to be kept pure; for upon this important consideration depends his surpassing qualities and his marked negative excellence—not a sheep-killer.

There is so little reliable literature on the subject of the fox-terrier, that I scarcely know to whom to give credit for whatever I may have borrowed. There seems to be an indisposition on the part of writers, or rather compilers, to seek for reliable information, as it is easier and less trouble to copy without question or thought.

If the farmer or any other gentleman requires a dog, it is a matter of considerable importance to possess the one having the most and best recommendation for the situation, the same as any other servant. There are a few very important duties devolving upon a good dog for the farmer or gentlemen. First, he should be a good and faithful watcher; he should be kind in disposition; he should be gentle to persons, and stock of all kinds; he should be obedient; he should be a good ratter; he should be intelligent, so as to know his master’s family, premises, and stock. A dog possessing these qualities is a suitable servant for any person requiring one. The mastiff and Dalmatian are perhaps the noblest of their race. They are lordly fellows, but too large for the farmer or private gentleman. The Newfoundland is a grand animal, but too much of a gentleman of leisure for proper attention to business. The St. Bernard is romantic, and given to serve others besides his master. The Siberian or Ulm is too much of a churl and cruel soldier and a gormandizer; he would have no scruples in eating an ox or a horse, or even a man. The greyhound, though exquisitely beautiful, is too fleet, headlong, fickle and foolish for any one master or locality. As I am speaking of the most valuable dog for the farm and homestead, I must pass over, but not slightingly, the pointers, setters, deerhounds, foxhounds, spaniels, cockers, and all mere sporting dogs, for they are all out of place and order on the farm and at the homestead, for they continually make sport out of the serious business of these staid places, which they would repeatedly turn topsy-turvy. Bull-do gs are sullen, sulky, and savage beasts, and only fit companions for low, vulgar, and brutal men. The bull-terrier, in character and morals, is near akin to the ugly bull, though very valuable as a vermin exterminator and guard, though dangerous if confined to the imprisoning chain. The pug may be tugged about by silly girls or old maids who can find no better company, but even then they run the risk of having their morals or garments soiled by too great intimacy with vulgar company. The King Charles, Dandy Dinmont, Italian greyhound, and other mere toy dogs, are matters of taste rather than of use. But the black-and-tan terriers, the Scotch and Skye are useful, intelligent and companionable dogs anywhere. They make war on rats and vermin pests. They are watchful at night, and good company in the day time. The latter dogs are valuable with sheep, and some like them in the dairy, but I do not think that their presence is conducive to wool-growing or productive dairying. I may be regarded as fastidious in my notions of the best dog for the country home, the farm or the city; but I find in the fox-terrier so many excellent qualities that I am perforce compelled to be partial to him. He is active, intelligent, kind, vigilant, obedient, cleanly, beautiful, sprightly, heroic, honest, faithful, healthy, and capable of performing his work in a most prompt and satisfactory manner. No stray animal can invade the premises with impunity day or night. Every unusual noise must be accounted for. The derangements of the house or barns are learned and reported by him in a business way. Foxes, skunks, rats, weasels, stray cats and other marauders are expelled from the premises on pain of death. He is a gentlemanly dog, and despises the trickery and the worthlessness of the low and vulgar cur. He loves his master, and is honestly attentive to his interests and wishes. Look at his intelligent head, his bright eyes, his muscular shoulders, his firm and sinewy limbs, his well-formed body, his resolute and amiable expression; behold his self-respect and reliance in his attitude and bearing; and I doubt not you will admire, appreciate, and love him for his many virtues. I love this elegant, frisky little spright because of his beauty, his airs and his gaiety, and I have long ago satisfied myself of his genuine worth. He is neither a laggard nor a runaway, a thief nor a sheep-killer. In this last commendation he far surpasses every other kind of dog. Every breed of dog, doubtless, has its special fitness and uses, but I can honestly commend the fox-terrier to any honest, sober, respectable person who is worthy of a good dog and true friend.

“Old dog Tray is ever faithful,
Grief cannot drive him away,

He’s gentle and he’s kind,

You’ll never, never find
A better friend than old dog Tray.”

Toy Dogs and Their Ancestors:

It has been stated that only childless women and dis-

lo

INTRODUCTION

appointed spinsters care for dogs. It is true that those
to whom fate has been unkind sometimes find comfort in
the unselfish love of a dog whose affection subsists re-
gardless of worldly considerations, but I would point out
that the man who thoroughly dislikes animals will gen-
erally make an indifferent sort of father, and a fondness
for animals often goes with understanding and fondness
for children. Say what you will, a nature which dislikes
animals is almost invariably hard and selfish or, at the
very least, cold and unsympathetic.

Let no one, therefore, sneer at the keeping of dogs,
but let us all rather be thankful that the world holds
creatures so unselfish and tmworldly-wise, so blind to
their own interests, and so devoted to our own.

The Works of Eugene Field Vol. I: A Little Book of Western Verse
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Eugene Field – 2012 – ‎Preview
To the careless observer the immense array of weird dolls and absurd toys in his working-room meant little more than an … each “ spinster doll,” each little toy dog, each little tin soldier, played its part in the poems he sent out into the world.
A Library of the World’s Best Literature – Ancient and Modern – Vol. …
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Charles Dudley Warner – 2008 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
To the careless observer the immense array of weird dolls and absurd toys in his working-room meant little more than an … each ‘spinster doll,’ each little toy dog, each little tin soldier, played its part in the poems he sent out into the world.
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Lady Wentworth – 1911 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Including the History and Management of Toy Spaniels, Pekingese, Japanese and Pomeranians Lady Wentworth. terfly lived to more … It has been stated that only childless women and dis- appointed spinsters care for dogs. It is true that those …
A Little Book of Western Verse
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Eugene Field – 2012 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
To the careless observer the immense array of weird dolls and absurd toys in his working-room meant little more than an … each “spinster doll,” each little toy dog, each little tin soldier, played its part in the poems he sent out into the world.
The Annual Register: Or a View of the History, Politics and …
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1863 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
… contained a “toy” dog, of smallest size and priceless value, and from many climes; the English black tan, the shivering … but, perhaps, many an advanced spinster was shocked to find that she was entertaining a “sporting dog” on her quiet …
The Annual Register, Or, A View of the History and Politics of the …
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1863 – ‎Read – ‎More editions
… contained a “toy” dog, of smallest size and priceless value, and from many climes; the English black tan, the shivering … but, perhaps, many an advanced spinster was shocked to find that she was entertaining a “ sporting dog” on her quiet …
The diminished self: Orwell and the loss of freedom – Page 138
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Mark Connelly – 1987 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
George Bowling, dismayed by his false teeth and obesity, determines to prove that there is “life in the old dog yet” though … they pass into premature middle age and become frustrated, cranky spinsters who make a fuss over tea and toy dogs.
The Living Age – Volume 280 – Page 381
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1914 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Yet ordinary observation shows that it is not the childless matron and the spinster alone who decorate their pets with … A Toy dog may not respond intelligently to endearments, but it will at least accept passively the emotions that must The …
The Living Age – Volume 280 – Page 381
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Eliakim Littell, ‎Robert S. Littell – 1914 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Yet ordinary observation shows that It Is not the childless matron and the spinster alone who decorate their pets with … A Toy dog may not respond Intelligently to endearments, but it will at least accept passively the emotions that must The …
VM/SAC, Veterinary Medicine/small Animal Clinician
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1981 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
An astute practitioner once asked me, “Do many people come in with a toy breed of dog in their arms and refuse to put it on the exam table?” “Yes,” I replied … Many spinsters own large male dogs that give them a sense of security. But some of …

Veterinary Medicine, Small Animal Clinician: VM, SAC. – Page 438
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1968 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
Head-Shrinking for Veterinarians s – Many dogs are convulsion-prone Primidone Raises the seizure … In my practice there are several spinsters who own large male dogs made ferocious by their owners’ inability to dominate them in their role of “husband” substitute. Recently, I heard a veterinarian say that, to him, the person who sleeps with and constantly carries a small toy dog in his arms is reverting to …
The Intelligence of Dogs: A Guide to the Thoughts, Emotions, and …
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Stanley Coren – 2006 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
Can you teach on old dog new tricks? How smart is your dog? Psychologist Stanley Coren answers these questions and more in this enlightening resource for dog owners, potential dog owners, and anyone who loves a good dog story.
The chihuahua
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Thelma Gray – 1961 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
The Throwback
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Tom Sharpe – 2011 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
When Lockhart Flawse is catapulted out of his upper-class and rapunzel-esque life with the curmudgeonly Flawse Senior, he must enter the world of suburbia, and marriage.
The Saturday Review of Politics, Literature, Science and Art
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1913 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
But the average male, loving dogs of most types, harbours a secret dislike for the Toy. … Yet ordinary observation shows that it is not the childless matron and the spinster alone who decorate their pets with jewelled collars, clothe them in …
The Saturday Review of Politics, Literature, Science and Art
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John Douglas Cook, ‎Philip Harwood, ‎Walter Herries Pollock – 1913 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
But the average male, loving dogs of most types, harbours a secret dislike for the Toy. … Yet ordinary observation shows that it is not the childless matron and the spinster alone who decorate their pets with jewelled collars, clothe them in …
The Academy – Volume 74 – Page 919
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1908 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
SmyBqea’riis t era 82: News and Nonsense _ _ 9,9 woman carrying a toy-dog. … the mental destruction of Bayswater and the Shavian female, and we may see what we see in the shape of processions and shouting spinsters in consequence.
Saturday Review of Politics, Literature, Science and Art
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1913 – ‎No preview – ‎More editions
Dog Tags
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David Rosenfelt – 2010 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
A German Shepherd police dog witnesses a murder and if his owner–an Iraq war vet and former cop-turned-thief–is convicted of the crime, the dog could be put down.
Foreign Affairs: A Novel
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Alison Lurie – 2013 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
This Pulitzer Prize–winning novel follows two American academics in London—a young man and a middle-aged woman—as they each fall into unexpected romances.

The Academy and Literature – Volume 74 – Page 919
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1908 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
The second was a man carrying a baby ; the third was a woman carrying a toy-dog. … mental destruction of Bayswater and the Shavian female, and we may see what we see in the shape of processions and shouting spinsters in consequence.
Gentlemen Prefer Spinsters
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Samantha Holt – 2018 – ‎No preview
The first rule of the Spinsters Club is: You do not talk about the Spinsters Club.The second rule of the Spinsters Club is: You do not talk about the Spinsters Club.The third rule.
Spinster: Making a Life of One’s Own
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Kate Bolick – 2015 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
From the Hardcover edition.
Nobody’s Darling
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Teresa Medeiros – 2013 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
He always gets his lady… Billy Darling doesn’t enjoy being a wanted man until the day a duke’s prim and proper granddaughter comes marching into the Tumbleweed Saloon and points her derringer at his heart.
How to Talk to Your Cat About Gun Safety: And Abstinence, Drugs, …
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Zachary Auburn – 2016 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
Written in a simple Q&A format, How to Talk to Your Cat About Gun Safety answers crucial questions such as, “What is the right age to talk to my cat about the proper use of firearms?” and “What are the benefits of my cat living a …
Last of the Saddle Tramps: One Woman’s Seven Thousand Mile …
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Messanie Wilkins – 2001 – ‎No preview – ‎More editions
“Last of the Saddle Tramps” is thus the warm and humorous story of a humble American heroine bound for adventure and the Pacific Ocean. The classic tale is amply illustrated with photographs.
Dogdom: Monthly – Volume 19 – Page 62
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1918 – ‎Snippet view – ‎More editions
puppy show, under VV. E. Baker … Spinster is now in whelp to a good local dog, Cole, and we are looking for something extra good. — E. R. … Mrs. W. C. Thompson, New York, N. Y. — Yorkshire terriers, toy black and tan terriers. Messrs.
The Spinster Sisters
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Stacey Ballis – 2007 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
Their futures have never been brighter-until Jill turns out the lights on Jodi by announcing her engagement. Jodi is stunned. How can they be the Spinster Sisters if one of them is married?
Will’s True Wish
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Grace Burrowes – 2016 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
True Gentlemen series: Tremaine’s True Love (Book 1) Daniels’ True Desire (Book 2) Will’s True Wish (Book 3) Praise for Tremaine’s True Love: [A] fast-paced love story with nuances of humor and poignancy, astute dialogue, passion and …
The Dog Walker
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Lesley Thomson – 2017 – ‎Preview – ‎More editions
Brand new from the #1 bestselling author of The Detective’s Daughter.

The Academy and Literature, Volume 74

His wife he greeted uplifted with hat. The second was a man carrying a baby; the third was a woman carrying a toy-dog. The juxtaposition struck the philosopher. ‘Look there’ said he, ‘only one baby in the procession, and that carried by a man; only one dog and, that carried by a woman! Oh, what would Father Vaughan say if he were to see it?’

Old maids; their varieties, characters, and conditions (Google Books)

Dear amiabilities ! can we wonder that you are
kind nurses—or that you are fond of cats, dogs,
b
60 OLD MAIDS IN GENERAL.
parrots and Chinese monsters ? Is it not thus that
you are forced to display your pent-up sensibili
ties? Something you must love—your hearts
are overflowing with milk and honey ; but man
kind, blind to your amiable qualities, meet your ad
vances, as if their most deadly enemies were making
covert approaches to destroy their sanctuaries.
This is prejudice—fatal and perverse preju
dice—and it is our task to display you in your
natural colors; we will show you as beings
to be loved and cherished ; the screen that
has separated you from the world shall be re
moved—you shall assume your place in society,
stainless and pure as you are, ‘ les sceurs de la
chastite” ;’ old and young shall welcome you, and
henceforward, no tinge of shame shall steal over
your cheeks at being greeted as Old Maids

We had the satisfaction of finding that our
harangue had recalled the amiable sisterhood to
their senses. After the first few sentences, the
array of dogs and monkeys, whose white teeth
glittered like the show in a dentist’s window, was
withdrawn, next the advanced termagants fell
back upon the main body, and, at its conclusion,
the whole were in disarry.

” Coquettish airs, I thought, would level me
with ‘the donkey playing lapdog;’ therefore I
would neither flirt nor romp, dance nor sing, drees
immodestly for parties, nor masculinely for rides,
talk of passions, nor do platonic. From the first I
treated all my male acquaintance as if I had been
their sister, I might rather say their brother; and
never being asked to marry, believed that no worthy
man had felt more than a fraternal sentiment for
me; though I was once disgraced by being admitted
into the million, on whom a monkey thrust the
insult of what he miscalled his love.

We ventured to hint, very remotely indeed,
that a little envy might make them unjust. It
was well for us that this insinuation was but a
very distant one, or we verily believe, that much as
they admired us, we should have been annihilated.
Brows were bent ominously upon us—stocking
needles were sharpened, buttonhole scissors slipped
within their sleeves, ivory daggers smiled upon,
and a whole army of poodles and monkeys held
in leash, ready for immediate action.

Stories of an Old Maid: Related to Her Nephews and Nieces
By Mme Emile de Girardin
About this book

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190 – 194

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possessing a marvel, to suffer anxiety on account of it: a beautiful object is always in danger.

Madame de Cherville kissed her son tenderly on his return.

“At last,” she said, “you have come back; I began to be uncomfortable about your long absence. Now, tell me, have you been much amused? what have you been doing at the princess’s?”

Leon was at a loss to answer this question, because he could not do so openly and frankly.

“I breakfasted,” he replied.

“Well, and after that?—you have not been breakfasting all day?”

“I have had tea and coffee.”

“From nine o’clock in the morning till five in the afternoon! you must have had two or three dozen cups then, at least,” said Madame de Cherville with a smile.

“0, I have not been so long at breakfast as all that,” Leon replied; “we walked about the conservatories and in the garden—and I have been running about—and playing—”

“What nasty dog is that ?” interrupted Madame de Cherville; “it surely is not the one you have chosen? Dear me, how ugly he is! my poor Leon, the princess has been making fun of you.”

As Leon could not mention all the talents his dog possessed, he would have greatly preferred not talking about him at all; but when he heard his mother speak of the extraordinary animal so insultingly, he could not bear it.

“0, mamma, if you could only see how he— runs!” he exclaimed, “you would no longer think him ugly. If you could only see him as I saw him!—And then he is so clever, so intelligent; he is a most remarkable, a most extraordinary dog: in fact, I do not believe there is another in the whole world like him!”

“0, don’t be alarmed, my dear; you may rest assured I shall not go to hunt after his equal; the sight of him alone is quite enough for me.”

And Madame de Cherville, in spite of herself, could not help laughing at the miserable figure the animal cut; and, in truth, as we have observed, the dog had very little pretension to beauty.

Leon was on thorns; he could not, without great annoyance, hear Madame de Cherville laugh at his dog,—that wonderful dog, whose merit he himself knew so well. He could not bear to see a creature so worthy of admiration thus despised. His selflove suffered for his poor dog, of which he had now become so fond; with which he had risen so high above the earth; with which he had soared among the clouds far above the world and the dwellings of men :—have him thus insulted! 0, it was impossible!

“Come, my good Faraud,” said Leon, addressing the flying dog, “come into my room: there at least nobody shall laugh at you.”

“In your own room !” cried Madame de Cherville; “no, indeed, my love; you must take him into the stable.”

“The stable !” repeated Leon in an angry tone; “put into the stable a dog which—” At these words he stopped short, for he felt his secret was about to escape him; but his indignation and grief were too much for him, so he burst into tears.

Madame deCherville felt pity for her son’s despair.

“Come, come, my dear,” she said, “don’t cry; take your dog into your own room if you like, and then come and have your dinner; I have been waiting for you some time.”

Leon, consoled by these words, led Faraud into his room, put down a cushion out of one of the armchairs for him to lie on, and in an easier frame of mind went into the dining-room to his mamma.

CHAPTER X.

WHAT HE LIKES.

Leon ate his dinner with good appetite, for his aerial trip had made him somewhat hungry; but the whole of dinner-time he was tormented but with one idea.

“I forgot to ask the princess what I ought to feed my dog on. Must I treat him as a bird or a dog? give him birdseed or a bone to pick? If I had him here, I should soon see whether he would eat bread; I would try.”

Whilst in the midst of these reflections, a great uproar was heard in the house; every servant seemed to be up in arms.

“Rascal! thief!” they cried out, “will you be

off? nasty creature!” and all sorts of hard words besides.

Madame de Cherville rang the bell to learn the cause of all this confusion.

“Madame,” said the footman, “cook is in a dreadful rage; Mr. Leon’s dog has just stolen two cutlets.”

“0, I’m so glad!” cried Leon; “I know now what he likes; and I—”

“Why, I could have told you that, you silly boy,” cried Madame de Cherville, laughing; “and if you had asked me, we might have saved the cutlets into the bargain.”

Leon, observing that they were running after his dog about the courtyard, hastened to the rescue; and having caught him, shut him up in his room, and locked the door, so as to prevent his getting out a second time.

Thus enlightened about what the flying dog would eat, Leon from that time no longer thought of treating him like a canary. He took, great care of him, and liked him better every day.

He waited with impatience for the coming of autumn; he was desirous of seeing the days draw in, so as not to be seen when taking his flight into the clouds. The fairy had particularly recommended him not to fly during the daytime, unless at her own palace; and even there only from the lawn round the pavilion. In that vast and solitary garden, and where besides he was protected by the fairy’s power, he was sheltered from all eyes; but any other spot would have been dangerous.

N

Leon, therefore, went almost daily to the princess’s, followed by the flying dog;, which was the subject of the most disagreeable remarks from people on the road.

“What an ugly wretch!” some would say; “did you ever see an uglier creature in your life?”

“Well, there’s no accounting for tastes!” another would observe; “when there’s such a quantity of pretty dogs, to have a thing like that!”

“Why, my child’s mongrel is prettier than he is I”‘

“It’s a kind of poodle,” said a countryman with contempt.

“You’re a poodle!” answered his wife; “Tom’s is a poodle; but it’s a very different thing- to that ugly beast.”

Leon consoled himself for these humiliating remarks on his arrival at the fairy’s: scarce had he mounted his dog, and risen with him into the air, when he forgot all these petty insults; he was too high to hear them any longer.

By degrees he accustomed himself to see his treasure unknown and overlooked; and his dog, whose merit he alone was acquainted with, only became dearer to him from that circumstance.

CHAPTER XI.

A FRIEND.

But Leon’s friend Henry, the young gentleman who boasted a stick-up collar and boots, was ex