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R,CHARD MONCKTON MILNES was born in the year - OUDL Home

R,CHARD MONCKTON MILNES was born in the year - OUDL Home

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Tennyson, Sw<strong>in</strong>burne, Meredith 185and an ear for <strong>the</strong> symphonic prose of <strong>the</strong> chorus ofSentimentalists croon<strong>in</strong>g <strong>in</strong> ecstasy over <strong>the</strong> eloquence ofProfessor Spiral? Or read <strong>the</strong> scene between Lyra andAstraea, between <strong>the</strong> wife pursued by her husband—May no woman of my acqua<strong>in</strong>tance marry a man of twenty<strong>year</strong>s her senior. She marries a gigantic limpet. At that period ofhis life a man becomes too voraciously constant.—and <strong>the</strong> widow, <strong>the</strong> 'dedicated widow', pursued bysuitor after suitor, boldly, timidly, slyly, most slyly ofall, we surmise, by <strong>the</strong> great Professor Spiral himself evenwhile he pledges her to 'sovereign disengagement'. Thispromises to be <strong>the</strong> play's plot, and he to hold a candle(and a bright one possibly) to Tartufe himself. Read <strong>the</strong>scene, read it aloud. It has one parallel at least <strong>in</strong> Englishdramatic literature, <strong>the</strong> counsell<strong>in</strong>gs of Rosal<strong>in</strong>d andCelia <strong>in</strong> Arden; and it suffers not at all by <strong>the</strong> comparison.Lyra, Oh! Pluriel, ask me of him! I wish I were less sure hewould not be at <strong>the</strong> next corner I turn.Astraea. You speak of your husband strangely, Lyra.Lyra. My head is out of a sack. I managed my escape from himthis morn<strong>in</strong>g by renounc<strong>in</strong>g bath and breakfast; and what a relief,to be <strong>in</strong> <strong>the</strong> railway carriage alone!—that is, when <strong>the</strong> eng<strong>in</strong>esnorted. And if I set eyes on him with<strong>in</strong> a week, he will hear sometruths. His idea of marriage is, <strong>the</strong> tak<strong>in</strong>g of <strong>the</strong> woman <strong>in</strong>tocustody. My hat is on, and on goes Pluriel's. My foot is on <strong>the</strong>stairs; I hear his foot beh<strong>in</strong>d me. In my boudoir I am alone onem<strong>in</strong>ute, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> door opens to <strong>the</strong> <strong>in</strong>evitable. I pay a visit,he is pass<strong>in</strong>g <strong>the</strong> house as I leave it. He will not even affect surprise.I belong to him—I am cat's mouse. And he will look dot<strong>in</strong>gon me <strong>in</strong> public. And when I speak to anybody, he is that fearfulpicture of all smirks. Fl<strong>in</strong>g off a kid glove after a round of calls;feel your hand—<strong>the</strong>re you have me now that I am out of him formy half a day, if for as long.Astraea. This is one of <strong>the</strong> world's happy marriages !Lyra. This is one of <strong>the</strong> world's choice dishes! and I have itplanted under my nostrils eternally.. .And you are <strong>the</strong> cunn<strong>in</strong>gest of fencers, tongue or foils. You

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