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All sorts of inconsequential novels flit through the mind in recalling that bygone period. There was a gentleman whose atrociously written, but marvellously constructed "thrillers" were to be found in every deck chair at the noon hour on transatlantic steamers of thirty years ago. That was the late Archibald Clavering Gunter.
With a few exceptions, chiefly among her own sex, Lady Huntingdon was not very successful in her attempts to affect, to any practical purpose, the class to which she belonged; but she was marvellously successful in persuading the most distinguished persons in the intellectual as well as the social world to come and hear her favourite preachers.
The work, setting duly forth "that the executions of priests in England were not for religion but for treason," was "marvellously liked" in the Netherlands.
There was nothing to do but let the child sleep. She busied herself about the few household cares, studied the weather and the signs of spring. Oh, was that a bird! Surely he was early with his song. The river went rushing on joyously, leaping, foaming as if glad to be unchained. The air had softened marvellously. Ah, why should one be ill when spring had come! The kindly Mère repeated her dose.
The propagation of the human species, indeed, flourished marvellously, no less than seventy-eight children having been born in the course of that single year. There were a few deaths, only one among the adults, the result of an accident, the health of the colony having been excellent.
His thoughts grew marvellously vivid, and image after image rose before the wide eyes of his soul, not at his own behest, but as if summoned by a secret will outside of his consciousness.
This marvellously candid, but painful acknowledgment, occurs in the recently-published work, Sketches of European Capitals, by W. Ware, M.D., the well-known author of those charming historical romances, Letters from Palmyra, Aurelian, &c.
"Because, much as I own I should like to go with you, I like better to stay at home." "You really are the spirit of contradiction, Ellen. What did you sigh for?" "Not for the Opera, Emmeline." "Then why?" "Because I cannot bear to feel my aunt has lost all her confidence in me." "You are marvellously silly, Ellen; mamma is just the same to you as usual, I have observed no difference."
The green carpet, studded with yellow and white, that we saw from the shores, resolved itself into a marvellously beautiful and varied vegetation.
Her ears were so tiny, so fine, so finished and so delicate, that the least modest of men could never have dared to breathe into them any but the most innocent of speeches. In the whole of Ver-vigbole no virgin inspired so much respect, and none had greater need to do so, for she was marvellously simple, credulous, and defenceless.
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