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I was pleased with my new view, but my friends were naturally offended at a novel line of argument which substituted a sort of methodistic self-contemplation for the plain and honest tokens of a divine mission in the Anglican Church. In spite of my ingrained fears of Rome, in spite of my affection for Oxford and Oriel, yet I had a secret longing love of Rome, the Mother of English Christianity.
Much has been written about Defoe, but, curiously enough, the least part of what has been written about him has concerned the very part of him that is read his novels. Nay, occasional eccentrics, and not only these, have shown a sort of disposition to belittle him as a novelist: indeed the stock description of Richardson as the Father of the English Novel almost pointedly rules Defoe out.
Each of these actions may be the object of desire and will. No novel, however realistic, however prolix in its descriptions, can give us more than the barest outlines of the course of life followed by the personages it attempts to portray. A touch here, a touch there, and a character is indicated. No more, for more would be intolerable.
I first thought of starting a servants' agency; but the inconvenience I experienced from having no brothers to take me about suggested a novel idea to me. I was wondering if other girls felt as I did, when it flashed upon me that young men who, from any reasons, are in want of money, might let themselves out as brothers to well-to-do damsels possessing no fraternal relations.
If he could have looked at his own work with the impartiality, and perhaps the good taste, that he would have exercised on that of a stranger, he would have saved himself a good deal of expense and vexation and we should have been spared the painful necessity of contrasting the ambitious pretensions of his volume with its very moderate literary merit. Vanity Fair; a Novel without a Hero.
Mrs Kilbannon, definitely given over to caps and curls as they still wear them in Bross, Mrs Forsyth at once formed a great opinion of. She might be something, Mrs Forsyth thought, out of a novel by Mr Crockett, and made you long to go to Scotland, where presumably everyone was like her.
If, for example, you could get inside the covers of a Mrs. ALFRED SIDGWICK novel, what would you expect to find? Probably a large and pleasantly impecunious family, with one special daughter who combines great practical sense with rare personal charm.
He was ready, cheerful, and obliging; he lacked nothing but a little more reluctance and a Seaside Library novel to be a perfect elevator-boy.
My suggestion is that the rise of the belief is not due to the introduction of a novel practice, but to a new way of looking at an existing practice. It is due in the first instance to the fact that the practice is regarded with disapproval as far as its consequences are concerned and without regard to the means employed to produce them.
Was there, then, anyone really available except that kind Mr. Randolph? So Basil Randolph, after remembering Amy with a rich and handsome present, had taken on a paternal air, had stepped forward at the right moment, and was now recovering from his novel experience. The two, as they sat there, said little, though they looked at each other with half-veiled, questioning glances.
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