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Updated: May 11, 2025
Medwin has been published, and commended in Bulwer's magazine. Therefore it is probable enough that my trouble, excepting as far as my own amusement went, has been in vain. But papa means to try Mr. Valpy, I believe. He left us since I began to write this letter, with a promise of returning before Christmas Day. We do miss him. Mr.
No one ever dreamed of buying an original painting! I fear Bulwer's heroine is at a discount now, and often wonder as I see those old residences turning into shops, what has become of the seven white elephants and all their brothers and sisters that our innocent parents brought so proudly back from Italy! I have succeeded in locating two statues evidently imported at that time.
Another coaeval of those days calls him handsome an epithet I should hardly apply to him later slight, not tall, sharp featured, with dark hair well tended, always modishly dressed after the fashion of the thirties, the fashion of Bulwer's exquisites, or of H. K. Browne's "Nicholas Nickleby" illustrations; leaving on all who saw him an impression of great personal distinction, yet with an air of youthful ABANDON which never quite left him: "He was pale, small, and delicate in appearance," says Mrs.
I have said it, and heard it many times, and occasionally met with something like it in books, somewhere in Bulwer's novels, I think, and in one of the works of Mr. Olmsted, I know. Of course the particular odors which act upon each person's susceptibilities differ. O, yes! I will tell you some of mine. The smell of PHOSPHORUS is one of them.
Pinkerton, I can only say: 'Go on with your work in your own way. The innocent have nothing to fear, and the guilty deserve no mercy." "Amen," said both the other gentlemen. "What is your plan?" asked Mr. Gordon. "Well, gentlemen," I replied, "I have been struck with some strong points of resemblance between Drysdale and one of Bulwer's characters, Eugene Aram.
But worse than that, I was longing for something to read, when I remembered Frank told me he had sent to Alexandria for Bulwer's "Strange Story" for me, and then I unconsciously said, "How I wish it would get here before the Yankees!" I am very anxious to read it, but confess I am ashamed of having thought of it at such a crisis.
It casts the shadow of its genius upon Bulwer's "Pompeii" as the wing of the condor shades the crow. Byron's "sound of revelry by night" is the throbbing of a snare drum drowned in Hugo's thunders of Mont St. Jean. Danton's rage sinks to an inaudible whisper, and even Aeschylus shrivels before that cataclysm of Promethean fire; that celestial monsoon.
One of these precious volumes was Bulwer's "Rienzi"; another was Miss Porter's "Scottish Chiefs"; a third was a little red volume of "Marmion" which an aunt had given her. She probably never read any of them through she had not a particle of industry or method in her composition but she lived in them.
Keally is a mechanist, and says he discovered this force by accident. It is curiously like the one in Bulwer's novel, which everyone was possessed of and could destroy anything in a moment. Mrs. A. B is going to take us a drive this afternoon. At present my letters to Newport have only produced an invitation to dine with Mrs. Belmont on Saturday, which we are unable to accept.
Again Ian turned to her: was it possible there were tears in her voice? But her black eyes were flashing in the starlight! "Did you ever read Zanoni?" he asked. "I never heard of it. What is it?" "A romance of Bulwer's." "My father won't let us read anything of Bulwer's. Does he write very wicked books?"
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