They may
please and charm for their hour, but they have not the immortality
of the first heroines of all--of Helen, or of that Alcmena who
makes even comedy grave when she enters, and even Plautus
chivalrous. Poetry, rather than prose fiction, is the proper home
of our spiritual mistresses; they dwell where Rosalind and Imogen
are, with women perhaps as unreal or as ideal as themselves, men's
lost loves and unforgotten, in a Paradise apart.
LETTER: From Mr. Clive Newcome to Mr. Arthur Pendennis.
Mr. Newcome, a married man and an exile at Boulogne, sends Mr.
Arthur Pendennis a poem on his undying affection for his cousin,
Miss Ethel Newcome. He desires that it may be published in a
journal with which Mr. Pendennis is connected. He adds a few
remarks on his pictures for the Academy.
Boulogne, March 28.
Dear Pen,--I have finished Belisarius, and he has gone to face the
Academicians. There is another little thing I sent--"Blondel" I
call it--a troubadour playing under a castle wall. They have not
much chance; but there is always the little print-shop in Long
Acre. My sketches of mail-coaches continue to please the public;
they have raised the price to a guinea.
Here we are not happier than when you visited us. My poor wife is
no better. It is something to have put my father out of hearing of
her mother's tongue: that cannot cross the Channel.
Pages:
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35