Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Vol. 64, No. 395, September, 1848

We have said that La Bonté was a philosopher: he took the streaks of ill luck which checkered his mountain life in a vein of perfect carelessness, if not of stoical indifference...

Reader, Mr Trevanion has been half-an-hour seated in our little drawing-room. He has received two cups of tea from my mother’s fair hand; he has made himself at home. With Mr Tr...

“My friends,” said my father, looking up from his book, and addressing himself to his two visitors, “I know of one thing, milder than calamity, that would do you both a great de...

Famous it was in our domestic circle. But as yet, it has not gone beyond. And since the reader, I am sure, does not turn to the Caxton memoirs with the expectation of finding se...

For therewith arose not conviction but discussion; Trevanion was logical, Beaudesert sentimental. My father held firm to the saffron bag. When James the First dedicated to the D...

Whether or not some joy at the incident of the previous night had served to make my uncle more youthful than usual, I know not, but he looked to me ten years younger when Lady E...

You may judge of the effect that my dinner at Mr Trevanion’s, with a long conversation after it with Lady Ellinor, made upon my mind, when, on my return home, after having satis...

I now make a long stride in my narrative. I am domesticated with the Trevanions. A very short conversation with the statesman sufficed to decide my father; and the pith of it la...

I have not mentioned my Uncle Roland. He is gone—abroad—to fetch his daughter. He has stayed longer than was expected. Does he seek his son still—there as here? My father has fi...

Amidst a storm of applause the curtain fell. The applause continued, and the curtain rose once more; and the favourite actor, worn out with emotion and fatigue, reappeared to re...

Arrived there, he was three days before he could summon resolution to enter the theatre. Franz’s name met him every where. At the _table-d’hôte_ he heard nothing but praises of...

It is necessary here to take a retrospective glance into Schoenlein’s history, that we may understand the horror which possessed him at the discovery of his son upon the stage.

The curtain fell. Franz had reappeared to receive the enthusiastic homage of the audience, and was now in his room undressing, when the door opened, and his father stood before...

The following week Schoenlein was again in Berlin, and playing three nights a-week—a thing quite unprecedented with him. All his repertory was brought forward. A sort of rage po...

If in these brief sentences I have indicated the misery of Franz’s condition—the depth of the shadows which accompanied the lustre of his success—if I have truly presented the m...