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Updated: June 16, 2025
The greatest woman who has left writings behind her sufficient to give her an eminent rank in the literature of her country, thought it necessary to prefix as a motto to her boldest work, “Un homme peut braver l'opinion; une femme doit s'y soumettre.” The greater part of what women write about women is mere sycophancy to men.
'Wot's that? Oh, is it question time? I s'y, miss, 'oo killed Cock Robin? 'I've got a question, too, a boy called through his hollowed hands. 'Are you married? 'Ere's your chance. 'E's a bachelor. 'Here's a man, says Ernestine, 'asking, "If the women get full citizenship, and a war is declared, will the women fight?" 'Haw! haw! 'Yes. 'Yes. Just tell us that!
"Right you are!" said Shorty; "now, sit down 'ere w'ile I'm goin' over me shirt, an' arsk me anything yer a mind to." I began immediately by asking him what he meant by "going over" his shirt. "Blimy! You are new to this game, mate! You mean to s'y you ain't got any graybacks!" I confessed shamefacedly that I had not.
And the skins o' sea-otters are selling this very day for seventy dollars at any port in China." "I s'y," piped up Ally Bazan, "I knows a bit about that gyme. They's a bally kind o' Lum-tums among them Chinese as sports those syme skins on their bally clothes as a mark o' rank, d'ye see." "Have you figured at all on the proposition, Cap'n?" inquired Hardenberg.
With a little, quiet audience, he loved to try the quaint, plaintive airs of the old French songs "A la Claire Fontaine," "Un Canadien Errant," and "Isabeau s'y Promene" and bits of simple melody from the great composers, and familiar Scotch and English ballads things that he had picked up heaven knows where, and into which he put a world of meaning, sad and sweet.
"Hi s'y!" she cried, and dashed into the gloomy cubby-hole. "Wot's this? You scrubbin'? Drop it, now, you 'ear? Hit 'yn't fer me to show no disrespeck, Frowline, but drop it. Hi 'yn't a-goin' to have them pretty 'ands hall spoilt." "But, M'riarrr, I just love to scrub." "Don't love hanythink so vulgar," M'riar replied without a moment's hesitation.
In the Gazette Musicale of February 20, 1842, we read that on the following evening, Monday, at Pleyel's rooms, the haute societe de Paris et tous les artistes s'y donneront rendez-vous. The programme of the concert was to be as follows: Andante suivi de la 3ieme Ballade, par Chopin. Felice Donzella, air de Dessauer. Suite de Nocturnes, Preludes et Etudes, par Chopin.
Private Lemley was one of the rare souls of earth, one of the Mark Tapleys who never lost his courage or his good spirits. I remember how our spirits rose at the sound of his voice, and how gladly and quickly we responded to his summons. "'Ere you are, me lads! Bully beef rissoles an' 'ot tea, an' it ain't 'arf bad fer the trenches if I do s'y it."
I live on contentedly enough, but feel rather unwilling to be re-Englished, after once attaining that higher transatlantic development. However, il faut s'y soumettre, I presume, though I fear I am embarked in the foundering ship. I hope to Heaven you'll get rid of slavery, and then I shouldn't fear but you would really 'go ahead' in the long run.
That is the only way of knowing the customs, the manners, and all the little characteristical peculiarities that distinguish one place from another; but then this familiarity is not to be brought about by cold, formal visits of half an hour: no; you must show a willingness, a desire, an impatience of forming connections, 'il faut s'y preter, et y mettre du liant, du desir de plaire.
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