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Updated: June 17, 2025
When I first took up Vanity Fair I could not let it out of my hands until I finished it." "That's more than I can say," said the curate. "I don't like Thackeray. He cuts up every one and everything. Is not that a cynic for you?" "Not everybody," said Min I cannot call her anything else now coming to my assistance, "not everybody, Mr Mawley.
Mawley, we want to see Sir James on important business," said the Terror with a truly businesslike air. Mawley had come to the Grange in the train of the Princess Elizabeth; and since he found the Deeping air uncommonly bracing, he had permitted Sir James to keep him on at the Grange after her return to Cassel-Nassau.
"And you, Mr Mawley?" continued our fair questioner. "We should not seek to understand the mysteries of the oracles of God," said the curate pompously. "My dear, I can tell you," said the vicar, who had slipped in quietly, unknown to us all, "`Eye hath not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God hath prepared for them that love him!"
In the first place, because Mawley was so antipathetical to me, that I dearly loved to combat his assertions; and, secondly, on account of his disparaging my beau ideal of all that is grand and good in a writer and in man. "You make a great mistake," I said, "for Thackeray is a satirist pur et simple.
What made it additionally provoking to me was, that Horner had contrived to get introduced to Mrs Clyde almost as soon as she had settled in the place, before I had returned from Paris; and there was Mr Mawley the curate, too, exercising the privilege of his cloth by continually frequenting her house.
When Mawley told him that she was in his drawing-room, he could scarcely believe his joyful ears. He had to put a constraint on himself to walk to its door in a decorous fashion fit for Mawley's eyes, and not dash to it at full speed. He entered the room with his eyes shining very brightly. Mrs. Dangerfield greeted him coldly, even a little haughtily. She was looking grave and ill at ease.
Old ladies and gentlemen seemed to have been rigidly tabooed, with the exception, naturally, of our host and hostess, the vicar and his sister; for Lady Dasher, owing to some fortunate conjuncture of circumstances, was unable to come: Miss Spight was busy at home, entertaining an elderly relative who had suddenly thrown herself on her hospitality; while Mr Mawley was at Oxford enjoying the season with sundry dogmatic Fellows of his own calibre.
Of course, we did not talk "Shakspeare and the musical glasses" always. Our discourse was generally composed of much lighter elements, especially when Mr Mawley and I did not come in contact argument being then, naturally, as a dead letter. Our conversation during these peaceful interregnums mainly consisted in friendly banter, parish news, and gossip.
"But," he continued, "if we talk of pathos, there's `the great master of fiction, Dickens; who can come up to him?" "Ah, yes! Mr Mawley," chorused the majority of the girls "we quite agree with you: there's nobody like Dickens!"
The large oak writing-table was neatly arranged with crimson leather blotting-book, despatch-box, old silver inkstand, and a pair of exquisite bronze statuettes of Apollo and Mercury, which seemed the presiding geniuses of the place. 'I don't believe Mr. Wendover could get on with his studies if those two figures weren't there, said Mrs. Mawley.
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