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The reproach, now for the first time acquainting Stackpole with the injury he had, though so unintentionally and innocently, inflicted upon his benefactress; and the sight of her, lying apparently half-dead at his feet, wrought up the feelings of the worthy horse-thief to a pitch of desperate compunction, mingled with fury.
Carleton, "which must fail of pleasing many minds, because of their wanting the corresponding key of nature or experience. Some literature has a hidden free-masonry of its own." "Very hidden, indeed!" said Mr. Stackpole; "the cloud is so thick that I can't see the electricity." "Mr. Carleton," said Mrs.
The name Stackpole was not entirely unknown to Cuthbert, since it had been mentioned by several people when speaking of the Far Northwest and those who were to be met with there and if his recollections were correct he was of the impression that the same Stackpole had been held up as an example of a somewhat lawless character, who made a pretense of cruising about looking for valuable timber in places where the lumbermen, soon to come, could float the logs down a river to a market; but who was suspected of other practices of a less honest character.
Why must women have nothing to do with books? what harm do they do, Mr. Stackpole?" "Not needed, Ma'am; a woman, as somebody says, knows intuitively all that is really worth knowing." "Of what use is a mine that is never worked?" said Mr. Carleton. "It is worked," said Mr. Stackpole. "Domestic life is the true training for the female mind.
The agents of Hull & Stackpole were in the market, of course, in the front rank of the scrambling, yelling throng, taking up whatever stock appeared at the price they were hoping to maintain.
Her uncle never left his apartment till the afternoon, but he received his cronies, as he said, in his dressing-room. Isabel had quite taken her place in the class so designated, which, for the rest, included the old man's son, his physician, his personal servant, and even Miss Stackpole. Mrs.
You find it everywhere; and to ascribe it everywhere to education would be but shifting the question back one generation." "It is a root of barbarous ages," said Mr. Stackpole "a piece of superstition handed down from father to son a set of false ideas which men are bred up and almost born with, and that they can hardly get rid of."
"You do me great injustice," said Miss Stackpole with dignity. "I've never written a word about myself!" "I'm very sure of that; but it seems to me one should be modest for others also!" "Ah, that's very good!" cried Henrietta, seizing her pen again.
Stackpole was entertaining himself with a long dissertation upon the affairs of America, past, present, and future. It was a favourite subject; Mr. Stackpole always seemed to have more complacent enjoyment of his easy chair when he could succeed in making every American in the room sit uncomfortably.
Stackpole was an Englishman, of certainly not very prepossessing exterior but somewhat noted as an author and a good deal sought after in consequence. At present he was engaged by Mrs. Evelyn. Mr. Carleton and Constance sauntered up towards them and paused at a little distance to look at some curious plants. "Don't try for that, Mr.
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