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Updated: July 13, 2025
Novel-writers and others have so much abused descriptions of sunrise, on mountains and on the ocean, that I shall say little about this one, although it is not a common thing to see the horizon on fire below the clouds. The finest Venetian paintings could alone give an idea of the luxuriant tones of the heaven that we saw.
Look at your fashionable novel-writers, he! he! and, above all, at your newspaper editors, ho! ho! 'You will, of course, except the editors of the from your censure of the last class? said I. 'Them! said the man in black; 'why, they might serve as models in the dirty trade to all the rest who practise it.
Were these Memoirs not characterised by truth, and did I deign to utter a single word for which my own personal experience did not give me the fullest authority, I might easily make myself the hero of some strange and popular adventures, and, after the fashion of novel-writers, introduce my reader to the great characters of this remarkable time.
Juliet's first and only love came to her only eleven years after she had been weaned, "come Lammas." Save that the "Age of Love" may be said to be "Youth" for Love aye rejuvenates there is nothing to be said. Wherefore the German gentleman who protested against the cliches of novel-writers in the matter of the eternity of passion was well within the wilderness of the subject.
Sam's method of telling a story was as leisurely as that of some modern novel-writers. He would take his time for it, and proceed by easy stages.
THE MISTRESS. Don't you think the Count of Monte Cristo is the elder brother of Rochester? THE FIRE-TENDER. One is a mere hero of romance; the other is meant for a real man. MANDEVILLE. I don't see that the men novel-writers are better than the women. HERBERT. That's not the question; but what are women who write so large a proportion of the current stories bringing into literature?
Masters stung her, not as novel-writers say "almost to madness," for there was no such irregularity in Diana's round, sound, healthy nature, but to pain that seemed unbearable. No confusion in her brain, and no dulness now; on the contrary, an intense consciousness of all that her position involved. She had made a mistake, like many another; unlike many, she had found it out early.
Edinburgh was a literary center, and you could not throw a stone in Princess Street, any more than you can in Tremont Street, Boston, without hitting a poet and caroming on two novel-writers and an essayist. Thomas Carlyle, five years older than Macaulay, and who was to live and write for twenty-five years after Macaulay's passing, had not yet struck twelve.
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