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Text
1872.]
ELLE ET LUT.
“Shall we reach the New York pier at
the foot of Canal street by Saturday
noon?’’ If we do, there is for us all
long life, prosperity and happiness : if
we do not, it is desolation and misery.
For Monday is New Year’s Day. On
Sunday we may not be able to leave the
city: to be forced to stay in New York
over Sunday is a dreadful thought for
solitary contemplation. We study and
turn it over in our minds for hours as
we pace the deck. We live over and
over again the land-journey to our
hearthstones at Boston, Syracuse and
Cincinnati. We meet in thought our
long-expectant relatives, so that at last
our air-castles become stale and mo
notonous, and we fear that the reality
may be robbed of half its anticipated
pleasure from being so often lived over
in imagination.
Nine o’clock, Friday evening. The
excitement increases. Barnegat Light
is in sight. Half the cabin passengers
are up all night, indulging in unprofit
able talk and weariness, merely because
we are so near home. Four o’clock,
and the faithful engine stops, the cable
rattles overboard, and everything is still.
We are at anchor off Staten Island. By
the first laggard streak of winter’s dawn
I am on the hurricane-deck. I am curi
ous to see my native North. It comes
by degrees out of the cold blue fog on
either side of the bay. Miles of houses,
GJ
451
spotted with patches of bushy-looking
woodland—bushy in appearance to a
Californian, whose oaks grow large and
widely apart from each other, as in an
English park. There comes a shrieking
and groaning and bellowing of steam
whistles from the monster city nine miles
away. Soon we weigh anchor and move
up toward it. Tugs dart fiercely about,
or laboriously puff with heavily-laden
vessels in tow. Stately ocean steamers
surge past, outward bound. We become
a mere fragment of the mass of floating
life. We near the foot of Canal street.
There is a great deal of shouting and
bawling and counter-shouting and coun
ter-bawling, with expectant faces on the
wharf, and recognitions from shore to
steamer and from steamer to shore. The
young woman who flirted so ardently
with the young Californian turns out to
be married, and that business-looking,
middle-aged man on the pier is her hus
band. Well, I never! Why, you are
slow, my friend, says inward reflection.
You must recollect you have been nearly
out of the world these seventeen years.
At last the gangway plank is flung out.
We walk on shore. The little floating
world society, cemented by a month’s
association, scatters like the fragments
of an exploding bombshell, and Gotham
swallows us up for ever from each other’s
sight.
Prentice Mulford.
ELLE ET LUI.
ICTURE to yourself a salon of 1833,
P one of those famous gatherings of
the beauty, the fashion, the genius of
Paris that glorified the Sunday evenings
at the Arsenal. , Poets and painters chat
ted together in the quiet corners ; La
martine and Sainte-Beuve, Alfred de
Vigny and Victor Hugo, with the other
young journalists who had been setting
the Seine on fire with their revolutionary
notions in literature as well as politics,
might be seen like wandering comets
threading the mazes of the revolving
crowd: Chateaubriand and De Balzac
were there to represent sentimentalism
and realism, while M. Beyle (Stendhal)
was gathering materials for his caustic
critiques. His mission was to put down
vanity, and he seemed to be looking for
it in every one he met, that he might
�452
ELLE ET LUI.
immediately attack it. “But I do not
think he was malicious,” said one of his
lady friends : “he gave himself too much
trouble to appear so !”
Among all the brilliant crowd no one
attracted more attention than a young
man about twenty-three years of age,
slender, not very tall, and dressed with
extreme fastidiousness. His abundant
curls of light hair were most carefully
arranged to set off his well-shaped head,
and his dark whiskers and almost black
eyes gave vigor and force to his physiog
nomy. The Grecian outline of his nose
and the noble arch of his forehead in
creased his air of high-bred distinction,
still further heightened by the fire of ge
nius which lit up his expressive face. It
was the Byron of France, as his contem
poraries loved to call him; the poet of
youth, as he called himself, of whom
Heine said that at thirty he was a man
with a splendid past, and whom SainteBeuve painted with one of his delicately
felicitous touches as “Cherubino at a
masked ball, playing the part of Don
Giovannithe petted prodigal of Paris ;
the best-loved man in life, the best-loved
poet after death,—the brilliant Alfred de
Musset. Like Victor Hugo, he began
to write for the public at eighteen, and
found himself famous after the publica
tion of his Contes d'Espagne, when he
was but twenty. On first leaving col
lege the versatility that is often a cha
racteristic of genius led him, like a willo’-the-wisp, into many false ways. He
studied law, medicine, painting, and
even spent a short novitiate in a bank
ing-house. Then the writers of the
Globe got hold of him—Lamartine, Vic
tor Hugo, De Vigny, Sainte-Beuve—and
enlisted him in their eager and hot
headed ranks. It was under their stimu
lating influence that he wrote the Contes
d'Espagne, and from that moment his
fortune as a writer was assured. His
life was like that of some lush young
plant forced into premature luxuriance
and bloom in the torrid atmosphere of a
hot-house, wasting its sap in one splen
did burst of beauty, to wither before it
has time to keep the promise of its youth.
Taine compares him to a blood-horse
[Apr.
dashing across country, stimulated by
the odors of the flowers and the mag
nificent novelty of the vast sky to frantic
efforts which destroy everything before
him, and will soon destroy himself. “ He
asked too much of things,” says this
acute critic : “he wanted to drain life in
one fierce and eager draught; he would
not gather, would not taste its grapes,
but tore them away in one cluster,
bruised, pressed and wrenched them off,
and was left with stained hands and a
thirst as ardent as ever. Thence those
sobs, echoed by all hearts. What! so
young and already so weary ! So many
precious gifts—an intellect so fine, a tact
so delicate, a fancy so mobile and so rich,
a flame so precocious, so sudden a blos
soming of beauty and of genius, and at
the same instant anguish, disgust, cries
and tears ! What a medley ! With the
same gesture he adores and he curses.
The eternal illusion, the invincible expe
rience, are side by side in his soul to
struggle, and to rend it. He has grown
old, and he is still young: he is a poet,
and he is a skeptic. The Muse and her
tranquil beauty, Nature and her immor
tal freshness, Love and its happy smile,
—all the crowd of divine visions has
scarcely passed before his eyes when we
see hurrying up, amid sarcasms' and
curses, all the spectres of debauchery
and death. Like a man in the midst of
a feast who drinks from a chiseled gob
let, standing in the foremost place, amid
applause and the blare of trumpets,
with laughing eyes and joyful heart,
warmed and quickened by the generous
wine which courses through his veins,
and whom all at once we see turn pale:
there is poison in the bottom of the cup ;
he falls with the death-rattle in his throat;
his feet beat convulsively upon the silken
carpets, and all the feasters watch him
with terrified eyes. This is what we felt
the day when the best-loved, the most
brilliant among us, suddenly shivered at
an unseen blow, and sank down with a
death-groan among the lying gayety and
splendor of our banquet.
“Ah well! such as he was, we love
him always; we can listen to no other;
all beside him seem cold or false. . . ,
�1872.]
ELLE ET 'LUI.
He was not a simple dilettante, he was
not content to taste and to enjoy : he has
left his mark upon human thought. He
has suffered, but he has invented : he has
fainted by the way, but he has produced.”
To all the charms of this striking ge
nius and beauty were added the fascina
tions of his conversation, as full of mar
velous variety as his writings. He would
pass from some delicate fancy or some
profound thought into a mood of fierce
and bitter irony, to suddenly dispel the
gloom he had himself evoked by a burst
of childlike gayety. There was no resist
ing the impetuosity of his spirits—he
carried everything before him. “ He
had all the characteristics of the lover,”
says Madame Colet—‘‘an imagination
always on the alert; a child’s careless
ness of facts and of fleeting time; a
mockery of fame, an indifference to
opinion, and an absolute oblivion of
everything which was not the desire
of the moment.”
These last few words are peculiarly
significant. If the theory be true that
we carry always within us the latent,
germ of disease that will one day cause
our death, more especially was it true of
De Musset that he bore within his own
breast the elements of his destruction.
He seemed to be absolutely destitute of
principle—the slave of every impulse,
the victim of his ardent and headlong
temperament, the prey of every moment
ary passion that seized upon his inflam
mable heart. Add to this his utter inca
pacity for seeing anything but the desire
of the instant, and what a fatal tempera
ment we have to launch upon the treach
erous waters of Parisian life !
But with all his weakness he had the
soul of a great poet. He never lost the
consciousness of the ideal life, love,
poetry, that he was for ever betraying,
for ever defiling, and yet for ever seek
ing. It was as though that Ideal, an
attendant genius, walked ever by his
side, and when, in the midst of the riotous
revelry, the calm eyes met his, the wine
cup fell from his hand and the apples
of delight turned to bitter ashes upon his
lips. His life was a succession of
brilliant achievements, unbridled indul
453
gence, and sudden revulsions of self
contempt and disgust. “Suspended be
tween the heavens and the earth,” said
one who knew him well, “longing for the
one, curious about the other, disdaining
glory, appalled at the universal empti
ness, uncertain, tormented, changeable,
he lived alone in the midst of men, flee
ing from solitude, and yet finding it
everywhere. The power of his own
soul fatigued him. His thoughts were
too vast, his desires too immense : his
feeble shoulders bent beneath the burden
of his genius. He sought among the
imperfect pleasures of the earth the ob
livion of that unattainable good which
he had seen from afar.”
Among the brilliant crowd that our
poet met at the Arsenal that evening
was a woman of about twenty-nine,
chiefly noticeable among the brighter
and younger beauties for the splendor
of her dark eyes and the grace of her
perfect hand. Below the smooth bands
of thick black hair which swept across
her forehead and fell in two short curls
upon her neck, those eyes seemed to
burn with an inner fire which lit up all
the face. The rest was plain enough,
but such was the fascination of that face
that many were known to speak of it as
the most beautiful they had ever seen.
It was the face of Aurora, Madame
Dudevant, best known to that circle of
beaux esprits as George Sand, the auda
cious writer of Indiana and Lelia.
“ Happy are the women who have no
histories 1” some one says. But Aurora
had a history. She had spent a singular
childhood among the country scenes and
country children of Nohant, getting up
miniature battles which left the nursery
strewn with fragments of dismembered
dolls, organizing societies of little peas
ants to snare the birds in winter, erecting
flower-strewn altars in some mossy cave
to a strange and entirely original fetish,
weaving romances by the hour together
before she could even put pen to paper.
Always the busy brain, the sensitive
heart, the inflexible will. As she grew
older the continual bickerings between
mother and grandmother grew to be in
tolerable, their incessant jealousy made
�454
ELLE ET LUI.
her life miserable, and she was thankful
to take refuge from this persecuting af
fection in the Couvent des Anglaises at
Paris. Here she went through all the
phases common to the convent of the
period, from diable to devote. By the
time she was seventeen, domestic dis
sensions, severe study, physical and
mental weariness had so worn upon her
precociously-excited brain that she tried
to drown herself, but was happily un
successful. The mania for suicide that
possessed her at this time was in part
inherited, and though her attempt at the
ford had cured her of a desire for a wa
tery death, she found herself attracted
by an almost irresistible longing to pis
tols and to poisons. At last, with rest and
better health, the mania gradually pass
ed away. At eighteen she was married
to a man for whom she always professed
a tranquil esteem and friendship, but
whose temperament was entirely uncon
genial, and in a few years she was living
in Paris again with her two children,
supporting herself by painting portraits,
by ornamenting snuff-boxes with minia
ture groups of flowers, and by her pen,
going about in the costume of a young
student to save the numberless little ex
penses of a woman’s dress, and living
in a garret upon scanty means enough.
Whatever we may think of her theories
of life and of marriage, we cannot but ad
mire her sincerity and her heroism ; and
when we read the sad words which she
has set down in her Lettres d'ztn Voyagetir, we can better appreciate the hard
and dreary nature of that life which too
many of us have been apt to consider
one of reckless freedom.
“Launched upon a fatal career,” she
writes, “guilty neither of cupidity nor
of extravagant desires, but the prey of
unforeseen reverses, burdened with the
care of dear and precious existences, of
whom I was the only support, I have
never been an artist, although I have
felt all the fatigues, all the excitement,
all the ardor and all the sufferings be
longing to that sacred profession : true
glory has not crowned my labors, be
cause I have rarely been able to wait for
inspiration. Hurried, obliged to earn
[Apr.
money, I have driven my imagination
to work without troubling myself about
the co-operation of my reason ; I have
forced my Muse when she has refused
to yield; she has revenged herself by
cold caresses and sombre revelations.
It is the want of bread which has made
me morbid: it is the grief of having to
force myself to an intellectual suicide
which has made me bitter and skeptical.’ ’
There is but one thing that can add
to the sadness of this revelation: it is,
that this is the history not of one woman,
but of hundreds of women all over the
world.
It was while she was leading this toil
some and precarious life that she met
Alfred de Musset. At first attracted only
by the curiosity of a poet, he was soon
seized by one of those irresistible pas
sions that were perpetually swaying his
restless soul, and in a few days they
were inseparable. There is a special,
though involuntary, attraction to a poet
in a woman of genius, says Madame
Colet in her book called Lui. “ But
with such women the inevitable lovers’
quarrels are multiplied: they spring from
every contact of two beings of equal
worth, but whose sensations and aspira
tions may be nevertheless very diverse.
In such a union the joys are extreme,
but so are the sufferings.” It is all very
well in a moment of happiness to be
able to exalt the woman one loves as
wiser and stronger than any of her sex,
but when it comes to a dispute, to feel
that that superior intelligence is calm
ly reading your own, is analyzing your
character and taking stock of your weak
nesses, is a terrible contingency at which
masculine pride naturally shudders.
Such a case brings up one of the strong
est arguments for the theory of “ counter
parts ” in marriage. Some one declares
it to be fatal for a wife to excel in her
husband’s favorite pursuit. If he be a
musician, the less she knows about
music, except to have a sympathetic
love for it, the better. To be able to
criticise her husband’s performances
with a knowledge equal—nay, perhaps
superior—to his own, would be risking
their wedded happiness. And to place
�1872.]
ELLE ET LUI.
side by side in the harness of matrimony
two of the irritabile genus is indeed
rather a dangerous experiment. The
extreme sensitiveness to every impres
sion which causes the aeolian harp to
vibrate with a breath brings forth dis
cords as easily as harmonies, and the
heart of an artist (whether he be poet,
painter or musician) is but a human
harp.
Every touch sets the' strings
quivering — impossible but that they
should sometimes jangle. And when
we think of two of these susceptible
natures acting and reacting on each
other, with all the little circumstances of
our daily lives, which float by a phleg
matic temperament unheeded, the source
to them of immense delight or misery,
it is a wonder not that there are so many
unhappy marriages in the artistic world,
but that any are successful.
In the case we are considering at
present there were not only the ordinary
difficulties to be encountered, but there
were radical differences of character,
which could not fail, sooner or later, to
produce dissension. Alfred de Musset
was, as we have seen, a type of the
purely artistic organization intensified by
the French element of race. It was im
possible for him to conceive of existence
except in the present tense—to see any
thing beyond the now and here. The
idea of duty was wanting in his con
sciousness.
Like a man born color
blind, to whom red and black are the
same, he realized no difference between
I will and I ought. He was a perfect
embodiment of the old poetic represen
tation of Genius as an immortal child.
He writes of himself:
My first verses were a little child’s ;
My second still a youth’s ;
The last were scarcely to be called a man’s.
With this lack of moral strength he
united all the attractive qualities of child
hood— its irresistible gayety, its spon
taneous generosity, its unceasing verve
and enthusiasm, its rapid joys and sor
rows, its endless capacity for pleasure,
its insatiable appetite for novelty, its
helpless appeal to strength and wisdom,
its quick recognition of both. He was
like the children who go to seek the pot
455
of gold at the end of the rainbow, and
who find that the end of the rainbow
always overhangs some dangerous mo
rass. He was always seeking the ideal
at the other end of the rainbow of his
fancy, and much mire he traversed in
pursuit of it. No wonder that when he
met with a woman of genius, of great
talents and of lofty aspirations, with clean
hands and a pure heart, he should throw
himself headlong at her feet, and think
he had found rest for his soul at last.
But Aurora, in spite of her earnest and
devoted affection for him, in spite of her
thorough appreciation of his genius,
was not the counterpart he sought. She
was attuned to a different key. While
he was particularly individual, positive,
determined, she seemed an incarnation
of pure intellect, cold, judicial and gen
eral. Contrary to the usual feminine
type, her sympathies were more with the
race than with the individual, more
abstract than concrete. Universal Na
ture appealed to her profoundly : hence
the superb landscape painting we find in
her books, the fine sketches of storm and
sunshine. Her novels are usually the
embodiment of some abstract idea—her
dramatis personae are charged with the
duty of working it out in the course of
their conversations. The women in her
books are almost always the incarnation
of part of herself: they are made of a
portion of her own heart, as Eve was
taken from Adam’s side. They repre
sent not her complete personality, it is
true, but certain of her own attributes
or mental conditions, rarely a separate
idiosyncrasy. They are given to long
and sometimes rather prosy harangues,
even atpic-nics and on other inauspicious
occasions, to much moralizing, and to
lengthy discussions of the utopias of the
day. They have something too much
usually of “the reason firm, the temper
ate will,’’ and lack that gracious caprice
which goes a long way to make up the
fascination of the ewige weiblichkeit.
Their pride as reasonable beings forbids
them to act from mere impulse, and their
capitulation, however sudden it may
seem, is the result of a long siege of
silent argument. Like the goddesses
�456
ELLE ET LUL
of old, they envelop themselves in the
clouds before they descend to their
adorers.
In fact, the central point of Aurora’s
character was precisely that which was
wanting in De Musset—moral principle,
unflinching devotion to duty. It may
seem strange to assert this of a woman
who in many ways has overstepped the
boundary-lines which we should draw
to define right living, and whose books
have been so often regarded with holy
horror. But we venture to assert that
no one can study her character or read
her works with calm, unbiased judgment
without deciding that in all things she
has acted up to her highest idea of duty,
that in her life and in her books she
may have made mistakes—as who of us
has not ?—but that they have been errors
of judgment, not sins against conscience.
Duty was ever her first and last consid
eration.
To endeavor to unite two such cha
racters in a lasting attachment was like
trying to yoke together fire and water.
We can fancy the struggles of the wide
ly-differing organizations — the one, a
calm, clear intelligence, self-poised and
independent, seeing clearly the ante
cedents and the consequences of every
act, earnest, devoted, unflinching, reso
lute, but stern, unyielding, and devoid
of that exquisite sensibility to the moods
of another which alone could satisfy the
exactions of the singular organization
with which it was brought in contact;
the other eager, impetuous, ardent, un
disciplined, full of good impulses and
great ideas, but a weathercock swayed
by every wind of passion, the slave of
an untrained genius and an ungoverned
heart. The one weary of never-ceas
ing efforts to chasten and reform this
unruly spirit, her endless devotion met
with ingratitude and scorn, her kindness
misinterpreted, her affection rejected,
her instant submission to the whim of
the moment imperiously demanded;
the other, conscious of dashing like a
wave upon an unyielding rock, ever
running against that unflinching sense
of duty, ever repulsed by the cold upbraidings of the preacher when longing
[Apr.
for the tender sympathy of love. Par
don was to be had, indeed, for all sins,
but it was to be earned first. Love was
to be relegated to its appropriate place
among the pleasures of life, and to come
in after the labor of the day, like the
sugar-plums of a dessert. Work was
work, and not a sentiment, not an emo
tion was to be allowed to escape till it
was ovèr. Then the Loves and the
Graces were bidden to the banquet, and
then the Loves and the Graces very nat
urally would not always come. Affec
tion was not the golden thread upon
which all the hours of life were to be
strung, but the heart-shaped bead at one
end of the necklace. This measured
rule, this heart trained to beat in time to
the music of labor, was hardly to be un
derstood by our poet. Aurora’s was one
of those natures to whom great sacrifices
are .a delight, but petty ones a fetter and
an impossibility. She was capable of
watching by a poet’s sick-bed for three
sleepless weeks, but she could not see
the need of giving him an hour of sym
pathy and comfort out of the time she
had set aside for work. He, on the con
trary, was equal to anything that was
outside of the realm of law and order.
He reveled in the unexpected, and de
tested the preordained from the bottom
of his heart. It needed not only infinite
charity, but infinite tact, to guide this
rudderless nature through the perils of
its storm-tossed way. And that tact,
born only of keen perception and the
most delicate sympathy, Aurora seemed
to lack. Walking through life with her
eyes steadily fixed upon the pole-star
of her purpose, she trampled every ob
stacle beneath her feet, and she expect
ed the same fortitude and endurance
from all who accompanied her. If they
could not keep up with her, let them fall
behind : she could not alter her course to
save the bleeding feet or to comfort the
weary spirits. That she was sometimes
aware of this failure to make allowance
for others we see in an occasional pas
sage in her history of her life ; such as
this, for example: “The seal of true
greatness is never to exact from others
the hard things it imposes upon itself.’’
�1872.]
ELLE ET LUI.
And being the servant of her reason,
that reason, like all servants, sometimes
played her false. It led her to reduce
life top much to a set of philosophical
axioms, and to expect of human nature
the regularity of the heavenly bodies.
She made no allowance for perturba
tions, but expected the hearts of her
friends to revolve in their constant and
changeless orbits around their central
sun. That overruling reason, too, was
constantly tempting her to dissect what
she should have been content to enjoy,
to analyze what it was enough to feel.
She was in this akin to Margaret Fuller,
of whom Lowell writes :
And yet, O subtle analyst,
That canst each property detect
Of mood or grain, that canst untwist
Each tangled skein of intellect,
And with thy scalpel eyes lay bare
Each mental nerve more fine than air!
O brain exact, that in thy scales
Canst weigh the sun and never err !
For once thy patient science fails,
One problem still defies thy art:
Thou never canst compute for her
The distance and diameter
Of any simple human heart.
We can easily foresee the fate of such
a connection — contentions, struggles,
misery and final rupture. One shade
less of philosophy, one ray more of com
passionate love, one touch of that divine
sympathy which has been called the
genius of the heart, and the Aurora
which shone upon the poet’s waking
might have broadened for him into the
perfect day. But it was not to be.
It needs all the remembrance of that
sad confession we have already quoted to
enable us to pardon the sad ending of
the story. “ It is the want of bread which
has made me morbid,” she says : ‘‘it is
the grief of having to force myself to an
intellectual suicide which has made me
bitter and skeptical.” But we cannot
help feeling how far the head must have
got the better of the heart, how far the
peculiarly French fondness for morbid
study of emotion must have triumphed
over the delicacy of the woman, when
we find her anatomizing her old love in
her famous novel called Elie et Lui, dis
secting the character of the dead poet
457
who had thrown himself, heart and soul,
at her feet, for the amusement of a curi
ous world, eager to know the particulars
of their relations to each other. Paul
de Musset, outraged through all his fiery
nature by what he deemed an insult to
his brother’s memory, retaliated in a
fierce and bitter sketch called Lui et
Elie, and this again was followed by a
more impartial statement, though still in
defence of the poet, by Madame Colet,
called Lui. Any one of the books is
dreary in the extreme. To watch the
wrecking of a noble ship can never be
a cheering or a helpful spectacle, and to
see two great souls, the one drifting to
destruction, the other powerless to aid
what it so longed to save, but only has
tening the end, is the saddest sight that
can be seen by mortal eyes. Except in
the interests of mental anatomy, the
three books had better never have been
written, except perhaps it be Madame
Colet’s, for the sake of the charity it
inspires us with toward the Byron of
French poetry. It has much merit also
in the fine thoughts and keen reflections
that go far to justify its existence.
The impartial critic can hardly help
noting how impossible it is, with all the
help of special pleading on either side,
quite to disguise the truth as concerns
the history of these two natures. Their
characteristics were so salient, so un
mistakable, the differences in their or
ganization so patent, that no history of
infinite exaction on the one side, of in
finite sacrifice on the other, can quite
blind us to the real state of the case. We
shut the volumes with a sigh, and it is
Madame Colet, after all, who teaches us
the great lesson of charity. “To those
who have no visible superiority,” she
says, “are readily ascribed concealed
treasures, while even every-day virtues
are refused to those exceptional beings
endowed with rarer gifts. . . . Before
wondering at the deterioration of a no
ble soul, we should know by what blows
it has been struck and wounded, and
what it has suffered through its very
greatness.”
Kate Hillard.
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Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
Publisher
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
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Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
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Elle et lui
Creator
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Hillard, Kate
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: [Philadelphia]
Collation: 451-457 p. ; 25 cm.
Notes: From Lippincott's Monthly Magazine 9, April 1872. Attribution: Virginia Clark's catalogue. Printed in double columns. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway.
Publisher
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[J.B. Lippincot & Co.]
Date
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[1872]
Identifier
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G5306
Subject
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France
Literature
Rights
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Elle et lui), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
Format
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Alfred de Musset
Conway Tracts
France
George Sand
Literature