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Updated: May 7, 2025
"Certainly," he said; "you were carried unconscious from a burning house Moxon's. Nobody knows how you came to be there. You may have to do a little explaining. The origin of the fire is a bit mysterious, too. My own notion is that the house was struck by lightning." "And Moxon?" "Buried yesterday what was left of him." Apparently this reticent person could unfold himself on occasion.
He wanted to read with me, but you understand I could not exactly receive him while Lord Rafferty and Mr. Duffer are in my house. So I sent him to poor Moxon, who is glad of a pupil when he can get one." "I wish Mr. Moxon better preferment. As for young Musgrave, he must have talent. I was driving through Brook yesterday, and I called at the manor-house.
The sales reported by Moxon were considered satisfactory; but of course the profits as yet were those of his wife's poems. "She is," he wrote to his publisher, "there as in all else, as high above me as I would have her." It was at Pisa that the highest evidence of his wife's powers as a poet came as an unexpected and wonderful gift to her husband.
He's been to see me at Claridge's and I've arranged that he shall know all my record. A darned bad record it is too, for two years ago I was violent pro-British before I found salvation and was requested to leave England. When I was home last I was officially anti-war, when I wasn't stretched upon a bed of pain. Mr Moxon Ivery don't take any stock in John S. Blenkiron as a serious proposition.
Guided by the infernal hubbub, I sprang to the rescue of my friend, but had hardly taken a stride in the darkness when the whole room blazed with a blinding white light that burned into my brain and heart and memory a vivid picture of the combatants on the floor, Moxon underneath, his throat still in the clutch of those iron hands, his head forced backward, his eyes protruding, his mouth wide open and his tongue thrust out; and horrible contrast! upon the painted face of his assassin an expression of tranquil and profound thought, as in the solution of a problem in chess!
Do you know Leigh Hunt's exquisite essays called 'The Indicator and Companion' &c., published by Moxon? I hold them at once in delight and reverence. May God bless you both. I am ever your affectionate BA. To Mrs. My dearest Mrs. Martin, I thank you much for your little notes; and you know too well how my sympathy answers you, 'as face to face in a glass, for me to assure you of it here.
Nor was that all, for a moment later it struck the table sharply with its clenched hand. At that gesture Moxon seemed even more startled than I: he pushed his chair a little backward, as in alarm.
Moxon would have thought it, unkind critic, did not, on the appearance of this first volume, confirm his own misgivings that he had been all this time, like the man in the farce, talking not only prose, but nonsense into the bargain: this disagreeable information the pretension of his recent publication obliges us to convey to him.
I wouldn't for the world interfere with their comfort and liberty. I want them to go on corresponding with their friends. I want to give them every facility. He burst out laughing at my mystified face. 'See here, Dick. How do we want to treat the Boche? Why, to fill him up with all the cunningest lies and get him to act on them. Now here is Moxon Ivery, who has always given them good information.
Hartley Coleridge, in a letter to Edward Moxon concerning Leigh Hunt's edition of Wycherley and Congreve, happily remarked: "Nothing more or better can be said in defence of these writers than what Lamb has said in his delightful essay ... which is, after all, rather an apology for the audiences who applauded and himself who delighted in their plays, than for the plays themselves.... But Lamb always took things by the better handle."
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