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Updated: June 27, 2025
"Dear Shank," she said, clasping both hands over his arm as they walked slowly down the path that led to the shore, "is it really all true that you have been telling us? Have you fixed to go off with with Mr Ritson to California?" "Quite true; I never was more in earnest in my life. By the way, sister mine, what made you colour up so when Ralph's name was mentioned? There, you're flushing again!
As bitter as gall, and as sharp as a razor, And feeding on herbs as a Nebuchadnezzar, His diet too acid, his temper too sour, Little Ritson came out with his two volumes more. But one volume, my friends, one volume more We'll dine on roast beef, and print one volume more." I am tempted to add a word or two of prosaic gossip and comment to the characteristics thus so happily hit off in verse.
"Why, you talk as if New York and Traitor's Trap were within a few miles of each other," said Charlie, smiling gently. "They are hundreds of miles apart." "Well, I suppose they are. But I feel so anxious about Shank when I think of the dear boy lying ill, perhaps dying, in a lonely place far far away from us all, and no one but Mr Ritson to care for him!
Just step down into the cabin, if you please, Mr Ritson, and give the mate a call; I don't half like this." In little more than a minute Mr Bowen was on deck and listening to George's statement of what had already passed, and of his uneasiness.
If we turn to the books of his opponent on this question, Joseph Ritson, we find him paid back in his own coin, and that so genuine, that, on reading about gross ignorance, falsehood, and folly, one would think he was still enjoying Pinkerton's own flowers of eloquence, were it not that the tenor of the argument has somehow turned to the opposite side.
They were very earnest, for the case under consideration was urgent, as well as very pitiful. Poor Mrs Leather's face was wet with tears, and the pretty brown eyes of May were not dry. They had had a long talk over the letter from Ritson, which was brief and to the point but meagre as to details.
May had turned at once, and the tears filled her eyes as she told the sad story. It was long, and the poor girl was graphic in detail. We can give but the outline here. Shank had gone off with Ritson not long after the sailing of the Walrus. On reaching America, and hearing of the failure of the company that worked the gold mine, and of old Ritson's death, they knew not which way to turn.
Smith, "if we make it agreeable to him." "You must positively introduce him to me," said Mrs. Dollimore. "I will, with great pleasure," said the good-natured Mr. Smith. "Is Sir Ralph a man of fashion?" inquired Mr. Ritson. "He's a baronet!" emphatically pronounced Mr. Smith. "Ah!" replied Ritson, "but he may be a man of rank, without being a man of fashion." "True," lisped Mrs. Dollimore.
Joseph Ritson, the antiquary, who, though not a poet, was a great writer on poetry and our early English songs and ballads, complained bitterly of the ignorant reviewers, and described himself as brought to an end in ill- health and low spirits certain to be insulted by a base and prostitute gang of lurking assassins who stab in the dark, and whose poisoned daggers he had already experienced.
When he applied to Wedgwood, the philosophic potter of Etruria, or to Ritson, the vegetarian, or in later years to Shelley for money, he was simply giving virtue its occasion, and assisting property to find its level. He practised what he preached, and he would himself give with a generosity which seemed prodigal, to his own relatives, to promising young men, and even to total strangers.
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