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Updated: May 4, 2025
He styled it "an ingeniously absurd poem, with an ingeniously absurd title, written in a strange, namby-pamby sort of style, between the weakest of Shelley and the strongest of Barry Cornwall." The book "fell dead from the Press," far more dead than "Omar Khayyam." Nay, misfortune pursued it, Miss Stoddart kindly informs me, and it was doomed to the flames.
Who could have built such a place and worked for gold making a mine like this?" "I don't know," I said, "unless it was the ancient traders who used to go to Cornwall in their ships to get tin." "What! the Phoenicians?" said Denham. "Yes," I said. "They were big builders too. They built Tyre and Sidon." "Val," cried my companion, slapping me on the shoulder, "you've hit it right on the head.
Frederick constantly corresponded with both the king and Richard of Cornwall, and it was nothing but solicitude for the safely of the heir to the throne that led the English magnates to reject the emperor's request that Richard should receive a high command under him. Even Frederick's breach with the pope in 1239 did not destroy his friendship with Henry.
I was, I believe, a rather ordinary person with a rather more than ordinary power of concentration, and I got on. I built up a business and was extremely and very conventionally happy. I married and we had a little girl. And then, one summer, we came down to Cornwall for our holiday. It was St. Ives. I remember that first morning as though it were yesterday.
Cornwall stood apart from the general life of England: cut off from it not only by differences of blood and speech, but by the feudal tendencies of its people, who clung with a Celtic loyalty to their local chieftains, and suffered their fidelity to the Crown to determine their own.
Barry Cornwall. The reference is to "A Dream," a poem in Barry Cornwall's Dramatic Scenes, 1819, which Lamb greatly admired. See his sonnet to the poet in Vol. IV., where it is mentioned again.
The weaving of ethnologic Britain would take more skill to unravel than the most learned can now attain to; it is a weft of many strands, strangely inter-knitted, and its result is infinite variety of personality. But it may be that here in Cornwall some of its earliest elements have lingered longer than in parts of the kingdom more exposed to invasion and immigration.
"Neither Christian priest nor Druid would dare set a prince of Cornwall in an unhallowed grave. Tell me the truth." "Ay, I lied," he said, speaking in a strange voice that seemed to come from him against his will. And then he spoke quickly, without faltering or excuse.
"Cornwall," said Jan, tranquilly, his mouth full of raw turnip. "Then you ought to want to go back to it." "I mean to, one of these fine days." "I shouldn't put it off too long, if I were you," advised Linnet, candidly. "You're getting up in years, and the next thing you'll be dead." "But didn't your father ever want to go back?" asked Matthew Henry, sticking to his point. "No fear." "Why?"
When Isoude of the White Hands consented that the queen of Cornwall should be sent for, she had not known all the reasons which she had for fearing the influence which renewed intercourse with that princess might have on her own happiness. She had now learned more, and felt the danger more keenly.
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