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ive to the British International Copyright Bill. Do write me about this measure, and what its chances are. You have read the Retrospective Review. I am indebted to it for much pleasure and instruction. What was my gratification, a short time since, while dining with Parkes, to find that it was gotten up and carried on by my friends. The nominal editor was Southern, now Secretary of Legation at Madrid; but its chief supporters were Parkes and Charles Austin and Montagu. It was established by the Radicals, to show that they were at least not ignorant of literature. Parkes wrote the articles on the prose writings of Milton. He is a subscriber to the North American, and has been much pleased with the article in a late number (for July, I think) on Milton. He thinks it the best essay on Milton ever written, and is anxious to know who is the author. I have felt ashamed that I cannot tell. Do not fail to let me know. July, 1838, Vol. XLVII. pp. 56-73. By Ralph Waldo Emerson.
ut forty, and appears to be a pleasant, good-natured, and rather clever person, looking very much like the great Duke. A far different person from Lady Morgan is Mrs. Shelley. I passed an evening with her recently. She is sensible, agreeable, and clever. There were Italians and French at her house, and she entertained us all in our respective languages. She seemed to speak both French and Italian quite gracefully. You have doubtless read some of Mrs. Marcet's Jane Haldimand Marcet, 1785-1858. She endeavored to simplify science by stating the principles of chemistry and political economy in the form of Conversations. Every girl, said Macaulay, who has read Mrs. Marcet's little dialogues on political economy could teach Montague or Walpole many lessons in finance.—Essay on Milton. productions. I have met her repeatedly, and received from her several kind attentions. She is the most ladylike and motherly of all the tribe of authoresses that I have met. Mrs. Austin I have se
offered. This, of course, was refused; and Carlyle was quite dejected for a while. At last he re-commenced it, but, Mrs. M. supposes, had not the patience to go through it again in the same painstaking way as before; and in this way she accounts, to a certain extent, for the abrupt character which it has. I once spoke of Mr. Montagu to Talfourd as a person whom I liked very much, when the author of on said: He is a humbug; he drinks no wine. Commend me to such humbugs! Miss Martineau 1802-76. Sumner visited Miss Martineau at Ambleside in 1857. She became quite impatient in later life with him and with all who maintained, as he did, the liability of England for the escape of the rebel cruisers in our civil war,—a liability which was found to exist by the award at Geneva. I see pretty often. She has been consistently kind to me; and though circumstances have made me somewhat independent of her civilities, yet I feel grateful to her, and am glad to confess that I owe to her sev
aughter or ridicule. I know few persons whom I have always seen dressed in better taste or looking more like a gentleman. I have already written you of Lady Morgan. Her Ladyship, you know, is a fierce Democrat. She was in the midst of professions of democracy during a morning call, when the knocker resounded—as these English knockers do—over the house; and her niece, who was sitting at the window of the drawing-room, announced the cab and tiger of the Marquis of Douro, He was born in 1807, and succeeded to the dukedom on the death of his father, in 1852. the eldest son of the Duke of Wellington. Lady Morgan at once straightened herself in her seat, assumed a queenly air, and, when the noble lord entered, received him with no little dignity. I was presented to his Lordship as a very distinguished American, who had been feted by all the nobility of England! So you will see her Ladyship was determined to make the most of her visitors. We bowed,—that is, Lord Douro and myself,<
interest, and showed me a little present he had received from her, which he seemed to prize much. I shall write to her, to let her know the good friends she has left behind. Rogers is a friend of Wordsworth; but thinks he has written too much, and without sufficient limae labor. He says it takes him ten times as long to write a sentence of prose as it does Wordsworth one of poetry; and, in illustration, he showed me a thought in Wordsworth's last work, Yarrow Revisited, and other Poems, 1835.—dedicated to Rogers,—on the saying of the monk who had sat before the beautiful pictures so long and seen so many changes, that he felt tempted to say, We are the shadows, and they the substance. They are in truth the Substance, we the Shadows,—from Wordsworth's Lines suggested by a portrait from the pencil of F. Stone. I am sometimes inclined to think that we and not they are the shadows,—Rogers's Italy, note 241. This same story you will find in a note to the Italy. Rogers wrote hi
d to exist by the award at Geneva. I see pretty often. She has been consistently kind to me; and though circumstances have made me somewhat independent of her civilities, yet I feel grateful to her, and am glad to confess that I owe to her several attentions. She is much attached to our country and to many in it, and would be grieved to hear that her friends had fallen off from her. It was her misfortune to be so situated as to feel obliged to write a book. Society in America, published in 1837, and Retrospect of Western Travel, published in 1838. I doubt if a person who has mingled in society in any country can write a book in the spirit of truth without giving great offence. That she wrote hers influenced only by a love of truth, I am persuaded. I have seen and heard nothing in London which should shake the confidence of any of her friends in her; and I say it without making allusions to persons or things, because I have understood that some reports to the contrary have reached
. She has been consistently kind to me; and though circumstances have made me somewhat independent of her civilities, yet I feel grateful to her, and am glad to confess that I owe to her several attentions. She is much attached to our country and to many in it, and would be grieved to hear that her friends had fallen off from her. It was her misfortune to be so situated as to feel obliged to write a book. Society in America, published in 1837, and Retrospect of Western Travel, published in 1838. I doubt if a person who has mingled in society in any country can write a book in the spirit of truth without giving great offence. That she wrote hers influenced only by a love of truth, I am persuaded. I have seen and heard nothing in London which should shake the confidence of any of her friends in her; and I say it without making allusions to persons or things, because I have understood that some reports to the contrary have reached America. You may take my authority for what it is wo
July, 1838 AD (search for this): chapter 10
ive to the British International Copyright Bill. Do write me about this measure, and what its chances are. You have read the Retrospective Review. I am indebted to it for much pleasure and instruction. What was my gratification, a short time since, while dining with Parkes, to find that it was gotten up and carried on by my friends. The nominal editor was Southern, now Secretary of Legation at Madrid; but its chief supporters were Parkes and Charles Austin and Montagu. It was established by the Radicals, to show that they were at least not ignorant of literature. Parkes wrote the articles on the prose writings of Milton. He is a subscriber to the North American, and has been much pleased with the article in a late number (for July, I think) on Milton. He thinks it the best essay on Milton ever written, and is anxious to know who is the author. I have felt ashamed that I cannot tell. Do not fail to let me know. July, 1838, Vol. XLVII. pp. 56-73. By Ralph Waldo Emerson.
January 23rd, 1839 AD (search for this): chapter 10
Jan. 23, 1839. I see, by casting my eyes back, that I commenced the last sheet in praise of London. I feel in a mood quite the reverse to-day, and have so felt for several days. I again have a dismal cold. Give me the freezing, crystal weather of New England, rather than these murky, foggy days, freighted with disease and death. Three cruel colds in the space of two months,—the worst that have ever befallen me—admonish me to hasten nearer to the sun. I shall be off for Italy. But you will be glad to hear of the poet of this fair country. I believe I have often written you about Rogers. Of course, I have seen him frequently in society; never did I like him till I enjoyed his kindness at breakfast. As a converser Rogers is unique. The world, or report, has not given him credit enough for his great and peculiar powers in this line. He is terse, epigrammatic, dry, infinitely to the point, full of wisdom, of sarcasm, and cold humor. He says the most ill-natured things, and
ressed in better taste or looking more like a gentleman. I have already written you of Lady Morgan. Her Ladyship, you know, is a fierce Democrat. She was in the midst of professions of democracy during a morning call, when the knocker resounded—as these English knockers do—over the house; and her niece, who was sitting at the window of the drawing-room, announced the cab and tiger of the Marquis of Douro, He was born in 1807, and succeeded to the dukedom on the death of his father, in 1852. the eldest son of the Duke of Wellington. Lady Morgan at once straightened herself in her seat, assumed a queenly air, and, when the noble lord entered, received him with no little dignity. I was presented to his Lordship as a very distinguished American, who had been feted by all the nobility of England! So you will see her Ladyship was determined to make the most of her visitors. We bowed,—that is, Lord Douro and myself,—and conversation went on. He is about forty, and appears to be a
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