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Chapter XX | Chapter XX | ||
Miss Arabella | Miss Arabella Poppingham's Conversasione, and Life | ||
in 1843 concluded-1844-Elkanah | in 1843 concluded - 1844 - Elkanah Watson | ||
"Have you read that beautiful story by Mrs | "Have you read that beautiful story by Mrs Stevenson, in the last number of Graham?" asked Mr. Dinfoil of Mrs. Smithson. | ||
"Yes; but I don't like it-nor her," replied Mrs. Smithson with a sneer. "She is too gorgeous for | "Yes; but I don't like it - nor her," replied Mrs. Smithson with a sneer. "She is too gorgeous for me; and her heroines are anything but matter of fact characters. They are always half buried in roses, in a leafy bower, or peeping out of a latticed window, by moonlight, to watch for their lovers, or making assignations - and then she is always raising mountains to the skies, and plumping them down again into the vallies, and calling a river 'a thread of silver,' and making goddesses of dairy maids." | ||
A lady who sat within hearing, and who had not spoken during this | A lady who sat within hearing, and who had not spoken during this frivolous conversation, was now unable to contain herself longer. | ||
"Not like Mrs. | "Not like Mrs. Stevenson!" she exclaimed, in astonishment. "I cannot conceive of such a thing! For my part, I can never weary of her writings. She is, in my opinion, the most delightful writer of fiction in America. But I may not be a good judge of such things, being no |
Revision as of 08:14, 29 October 2020
Chapter XX Miss Arabella Poppingham's Conversasione, and Life in 1843 concluded - 1844 - Elkanah Watson "Have you read that beautiful story by Mrs Stevenson, in the last number of Graham?" asked Mr. Dinfoil of Mrs. Smithson. "Yes; but I don't like it - nor her," replied Mrs. Smithson with a sneer. "She is too gorgeous for me; and her heroines are anything but matter of fact characters. They are always half buried in roses, in a leafy bower, or peeping out of a latticed window, by moonlight, to watch for their lovers, or making assignations - and then she is always raising mountains to the skies, and plumping them down again into the vallies, and calling a river 'a thread of silver,' and making goddesses of dairy maids." A lady who sat within hearing, and who had not spoken during this frivolous conversation, was now unable to contain herself longer. "Not like Mrs. Stevenson!" she exclaimed, in astonishment. "I cannot conceive of such a thing! For my part, I can never weary of her writings. She is, in my opinion, the most delightful writer of fiction in America. But I may not be a good judge of such things, being no