| The first excerpt represents the past or something you must release, and is drawn from The Lily of the Valley by Honore de Balzac: scene of actual tragedy took place.
At dinner, the count subjected me to a torture I had little expected.
"So the Marchioness of Dudley is not in Paris?" he said.
I blushed excessively, but answered, "No."
"She is not in Tours," continued the count.
"She is not divorced, and she can go back to England. Her husband
would be very glad if she would return to him," I said, eagerly.
"Has she children?" asked Madame de Mortsauf, in a changed voice.
"Two sons," I replied.
"Where are they?"
"In England, with their father."
The Lily of the Valley |
The second excerpt represents the present or the deciding factor of the moment, and is drawn from Fisherman's Luck by Henry van Dyke: volume, professing to be a compilation from the "Common Place Book
of the Houghton Fishing Club," and dealing with the subject from a
Pickwickian point of view. I suppose that William Penn would have
thought his grandson a frivolous writer.
But he could not have entertained such an opinion of the Honourable
Robert Boyle, of whose OCCASIONAL REFLECTIONS no less than twelve
discourses treat "of Angling Improved to Spiritual Uses." The
titles of some of these discourses are quaint enough to quote.
"Upon the being called upon to rise early on a very fair morning."
"Upon the mounting, singing, and lighting of larks." "Upon fishing
with a counterfeit fly." "Upon a danger arising from an
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The third excerpt represents the future or something you must embrace, and is drawn from Madame Firmiani by Honore de Balzac: let him read on; otherwise, he should lay aside this book at once. If
he has never buried a good old relative, infirm and poor, he will not
understand these pages, which to some will seem redolent of musk, to
others as colorless and virtuous as those of Florian. In short, the
reader must have known the luxury of tears, must have felt the silent
pangs of a passing memory, the vision of a dear yet far-off Shade,--
memories which bring regret for all that earth has swallowed up, with
smiles for vanished joys.
And now, believe that the writer would not, for the wealth of England,
steal from poesy a single lie with which to embellish this narrative.
The following is a true history, on which you may safely spend the
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