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Updated: June 17, 2025
At length an event occurred that promised to play an adagio upon Lord Ipsden 's mind. He fell in love with Lady Barbara Sinclair; and he had no sooner done this than he felt, as we are all apt to do on similar occasions, how wise a thing he had done!
"It is not necessary, my love," replied mamma; "she is rather eccentric, and I fear she is spoiling Lord Ipsden." "Poor Lord Ipsden," murmured the lovely Vere, "he used to be so nice, and do like everybody else. Mamma, I shall bring some work the next time." "Do, my love."
In Charles Reade, on the other hand, there is undoubtedly something of this permanent or transcendent element, though less perhaps than some fervent admirers of his have claimed. He was born on June 1814 at Ipsden in Oxfordshire, where his family had been some time seated as squires.
While he was coming up, Lord Ipsden was lecturing Marshal Saunders on a point on which that worthy had always thought himself very superior to his master "Gentlemanly deportment." "Now, Saunders, mind and behave like a gentleman, or we shall be found out." "I trust, my lord, my conduct "
Lord Ipsden had been so disheartened and piqued by this lady's conduct that for a whole week he had not been near her. This line of behavior sometimes answers. She met him with a grand display of cordiality. He asked for further particulars.
Ipsden. "Polkez-vous, madame?" Lady Barb. "Si, je polke, Monsieur le Vicomte." They polked for a second or two. "Well, I dare say I am wrong," cried Lady Barbara, "but I like you better now you are a downright ahem! than when you were only an insipid non-intellectual you are greatly improved." Ips. "In what respects?" Lady Barb.
"You do," answered she, very dryly; and so the dialogue went on, and Lord Ipsden found the pleasure of being with his cousin compensate him fully for the difference of their opinions; in fact, he found it simply amusing that so keen a wit as his cousins s could be entrapped into the humor of decrying the time one happens to live in, and admiring any epoch one knows next to nothing about, and entrapped by the notion of its originality, above all things; the idea being the stale commonplace of asses in every age, and the manner of conveying the idea being a mere imitation of the German writers, not the good ones, bien entendu, but the quill-drivers, the snobs of the Teutonic pen.
"Now go, in the name of God, and may He guide you." Hard Cash Charles Reade made his first appearance as an author comparatively late in life. He was the son of an English squire, born at Ipsden on June 8, 1814, and was educated for the Bar, being entered at Lincoln's Inn in 1843.
The long and narrow parishes in the reaches below Benson, Nuneham Morren, Mongewell, and Ipsden and South Stoke are not, however, examples of this tendency. They owe their construction to the same causes as have produced the similar long parishes of the Surrey and the Sussex Weald.
"My ancestor dashed forward, and, as the king's sword passed through one of them, he clove another to the waist with a blow." "Weel done! weel done!" Lord Ipsden looked at the speaker, her eyes were glittering, and her cheek flushing. "Good Heavens!" thought he; "she believes it!" So he began to take more pains with his legend.
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