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Updated: May 28, 2025
And well for them, for the love where God is not, be the lady lovely as Cordelia, the man gentle as Philip Sidney, will fare as the overkept manna.
In the present case the publick has decided. Cordelia, from the time of Tate, has always retired with victory and felicity. And, if my sensations could add any thing to the general suffrage, I might relate, that I was many years ago so shocked by Cordelia's death, that I know not whether I ever endured to read again the last scenes of the play till I undertook to revise them as an editor.
"I don't want to go to school any more." Aunt Cordelia looked shocked. Aunt Louise looked stern. Uncle Charlie looked at Emmy Lou. "That sounds more natural," said Uncle Charlie, but nobody listened. "She's been missing," said Aunt Louise. "She's growing too fast," said Aunt Cordelia, who had just been ripping two tucks out of Emmy Lou's last winter's dress; "she can't be well."
She had fainted the terror and excitement had been too great the reaction was too powerful it had overwhelmed her, and she lay insensible across his arms, her fair head hanging back, her white garments streaming in the air, her golden locks floating, her witching eyes closed, and her blue lips apart and rigid on her glistening teeth so she lay like dead Cordelia in the arms of old Lear.
"I want to buy Nap," he said in a sepulchral tone, "but that is not the only thing I want. I want you too, ma'am. I'm tired of being a cross old bachelor. I think I'd like to be a cross old husband, for a change. Do you think you could put up with me in that capacity, Miss Cordelia, my dear?" Miss Cordelia gave a half gasp and then she had to laugh. "Oh, Mr.
"B," said Emmy Lou, "and e?" "Be," said Aunt Cordelia. If B was Be, it was strange that B and e were Be. But many things were strange. Emmy Lou accepted them all on faith. After dinner she approached Aunt Katie. "What does it read?" asked Emmy Lou, "m and y?" "My," said Aunt Katie. The rest was harder. She could not remember the letters, and had to copy them off on her slate.
In Shakespeare you will meet them in Miranda, Juliet, Desdemona, Virginia, Ophelia, Cordelia, Imogen; but they abound also in the others; and it is a characteristic of the race to have furnished them, as it is of the drama to have represented them. By a singular coincidence the women are more of women, the men more of men, here than elsewhere. This is an old German instinct.
The canon of Aristotle would exclude as proper themes for tragedy the character and fate, say, of Richard III the absolutely bad man suffering his appropriate desert; or of Kent and Cordelia the absolutely good, brought into unmerited affliction; and that not merely because such themes offend the moral sense, but because by so offending they destroy the proper pleasure of the tragic art.
For a time the watching sister was absorbed in King Lear; then she fell to wondering whether Cordelia was not unkindly stiff toward her old father, but perceived at length that, with such sisters listening, she could not have spoken otherwise. Then she wondered whether there could be women so bad as Goneril and Regan, concluding that Shakspere must know better than she.
Miss Cordelia and Miss Patty always made him particularly welcome, listening with approval to his chatter of Boston society, and feeling themselves refreshed as at some Hebian spring at hearing the broad a's and the brilliant names he uttered. "If I were you, Helen," said Mary when lunch was over, "I think I'd go on teaching Wally that dance."
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