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"Oh I took a little liberty with our friend Mr. Buxton's name; and wrote it down to a receipt that was all." Mrs. Browne's face showed that the light came but slowly into her mind. "But that's forgery is not it?" asked she at length, in terror. "People call it so," said Edward; "I call it borrowing from an old friend, who was always willing to lend." "Does he know? is he angry?" asked Mrs. Browne.
Accordingly, one afternoon, late in the autumn, he rode up to Mrs. Browne's. The air on the heights was so still that nothing seemed to stir. Now and then a yellow leaf came floating down from the trees, detached from no outward violence, but only because its life had reached its full limit and then ceased.
We're supposed to die with the Asiatic plague, not to not to " "Not to live with it! Ho, ho, I see, by Jove!" roared Deppingham amiably. "Splendid! Harem! I get the point. Ripping!" "They're not so bad, are they, Bobby?" asked Lady Agnes coolly, going to Browne's side at the railing.
"There is a tree near Denis Browne's house that used to be used for hanging men in the time of '98, he being a great man in that time, and High Sheriff of Mayo, and it is likely the gentlemen were afeared, and that there was bad work at nights.
But it was the student of seventeenth-century theology who went on: they were "heightened to a great excess by the subtilty of the Devil, co-operating with the Malice of these which we term Witches, at whose Instance he doth these Villanies." No doubt Browne's words confirmed the sentiment of the court room and strengthened the case of the prosecution.
But Browne's temperament was not of the kind to hold and mould men together, while his doctrine of equality in church government was too strong food for people who, for generations, had been subservient to a system that demanded only their obedience. His church soon disintegrated.
There is, however, one side of Browne's work upon which it may be worth while to dwell at somewhat greater length. Mr. Gosse, who has so much to say on such a variety of topics, has unfortunately limited to a very small number of pages his considerations upon what is, after all, the most important thing about the author of Urn Burial and The Garden of Cyrus his style. Mr.
'Read where I first cast my anchor, said John Knox to his wife, sitting weeping at his bedside. At which she opened and read in the Gospel of John. Sir Thomas Browne is neither more nor less than the very prose-laureate of death. He writes as no other man has ever written about death. Death is everywhere in all Sir Thomas Browne's books.
So that was Violet's line! I surveyed the Sympathetic Intelligence with a smiling interest. "Really, how nice! And of course you feel quite sure that on your side you thoroughly understand Miss Higglesby-Browne?" Miss Browne's hair was rather like a clothesbrush in her mildest moods. In her rising wrath it seemed to quiver like a lion's mane.
Browne's 'brushwork' is certainly unequalled in English literature, except by the very greatest masters of sophisticated art, such as Pope and Shakespeare; it is the inspiration of sheer technique.
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