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Updated: May 17, 2025
You have not seen my prize-books yet. When are you coming to Brook, Bessie?" "The first time I have a chance. What are the books, Harry?" "All standard books poetry," Harry said. The young people's voices, chiming harmoniously, sounded in Mrs. Moxon's room.
In the letter from Lamb to Moxon dated October 24, 1831, Lamb says, referring to Moxon's announcement that the periodical would cease: "Will it please, or plague, you, to say that when your Parcel came I damned it, for my pen was warming in my hand at a ludicrous description of a Landscape of an R.A., which I calculated upon sending you to morrow, the last day you gave me."
I suppose that it will be published, for I observe that the "not published" is written, not printed, and that Moxon's name is on the title-page. It is called "The Castilian," is on the story of a revolt headed by Don John de Padilla in the early part of Charles the Fifth's reign, and is more like Ion than either of his other tragedies.
They trust him absolutely, and we would be fools to spoil their confidence. Only, if we can find out Moxon's methods, we can arrange to use them ourselves and send noos in his name which isn't quite so genooine. Every word he dispatches goes straight to the Grand High Secret General Staff, and old Hindenburg and Ludendorff put towels round their heads and cipher it out.
In the sky beyond the crest of a hill toward which I groped my way along precarious plank sidewalks and across miry, unpaved streets I could see the faint glow of the city's lights, but behind me nothing was visible but a single window of Moxon's house. It glowed with what seemed to me a mysterious and fateful meaning.
Thence by coach with Sir W. Batten to the city, and his son Castle, who talks mighty highly against Captain Tayler, calling him knave, and I find that the old Boating father is led and talks just as the son do, or the son as the father would have him. 'Light and to Mr. Moxon's, and there saw our office globes in doing, which will be very handsome but cost money.
We have before us two little volumes of what he entitles poetry one dated 1826, and the other 1829 which, though more laughable, are not in substance more absurd than his new production. From the first of these we shall extract two or three stanzas of the introductory poem, not only on account of their intrinsic merit, but because they state, pretty roundly, Mr. Moxon's principles of poetry.
Moxon's not being in a hurry, than in the excessive virtue of my patience, or vice of my indolence. Miss Mitford says, as you do, that she never heard of so slow-footed a book. My very dear Friend, Have you expected to hear from me? and are you vexed with me? I am a little ambitious of the first item yet hopeful of an escape from the last.
I had feelings of the strongest fraternal affection for Edward, and if the reader cares to see his likeness, he has only to look at the engraved portraits of Shelley, especially the one in Moxon's double-column edition of 1847. The likeness there is so striking that, for me, it supplies the place of any other. Edward died at the age of seventeen.
English mechanics seem early to have distinguished themselves as improvers of the lathe; and in Moxon's 'Treatise on Turning, published in 1680, we find Mr. Thomas Oldfield, at the sign of the Flower-de-Luce, near the Savoy in the Strand, named as an excellent maker of oval-engines and swash-engines, showing that such machines were then in some demand.
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