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That it is the duty of women, even under disadvantageous circumstances, to prove their purpose by labor, to "verify their credentials," is true enough; but this moral is only part of the moral of Mrs. Somerville's book, and is cruelly incomplete without the other half. What a garden of roses was Mrs. Somerville's life, according to some comfortable critics!
He looked after his own horse, for he had no servant, and after all his little establishment of clothes and necessaries, with all the accuracy of a petit-maître. He was one of the best-dressed men, and his horse was in equally fine condition as if he had had a dozen of grooms. I met him at Lord Somerville's, and liked him much.
Much activity was called for, from all who chose to take part in supplying the children; the young ladies' baskets of buns were rapidly emptied, and Mr. Somerville's great pitcher of tea frequently drained, although he pretended to be very exclusive, and offer his services to none but the children of St. Austin's, to whom Winifred introduced him.
Somehow that picture gives a measure of the remoteness. Stephen's Green was not then a place of square-set granite pavement, tram-rails and large swift-moving electric trams; it was a leisurely promenade where large slow-moving country gentlemen turned out in tall hats and frock-coats. We of Miss Somerville's generation depend on our imagination, not on memory, to reconstruct the scene.
He then began to pray, and while his eyes were shut, two of Somerville's men threw a cord with a running loop round his body, and bound him to the stake. The fire was then kindled, and at the sight of the smoke the multitude uttered a shriek of anguish, and many ran away, unable to bear any longer the sight of that woful tragedy.
An English lady was present, learned in art, who, with a volubility worthy of an American, rushed into every little opening of Mrs. Somerville's more measured sentences with her remarks upon recent discoveries in her specialty.
Harry Somerville's letters were numerous and long. He had several from friends in Red River, besides one or two from other parts of the Indian country, and one it was very thick and heavy that bore the post-marks of Britain.
She must be over sixty years old. In reality she was seventy-seven. He spoke with admiration of Mrs. Somerville's 'Physical Geography, said it was excellent because so concise. 'A German woman would have used more words. "Humboldt asked me if they could apply photography to the small stars to the eighth or ninth magnitude.
We had been taking a bit of wedding-cake to Frank Somerville's old nurse, and Kitty told her I was her maiden aunt, and we had such fun -her uncle's wife's sister, you know. 'We sent a great piece of our wedding-cake to the Whites, put in Valetta. 'Fergus and I took it on Saturday afternoon, but nobody was at home but Mrs. White, and she is fatter than ever.
Justin McCarthy, John Redmond, Willie Redmond these were some of the wolves who presumably wanted to tear Miss Somerville's kindred to pieces. That is where the change must come; there must be among the gentry some generous understanding of Nationalist leaders before the grave has closed over them.
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