Magazine Mentality: the Victorian Clipmarks?

Wed, 07 May 2008 09:13:51 GMT

clipped by: abailart
clipper's remarks: The site has the contents and articles from the magazine. For some reason it reminds me a bit of Clipmarks! In any case, I am sure there is a wealth of information there to be shared.

Clip Source: www.history.rochester.edu

The Penny Magazine, published every Saturday, was aimed at the working class. It was part of the Society for the Diffusion of Useful Knowledge's program for liberal reform. for its reader, however, it was a source of information on subjects of general interest: everyday things like tea and coffee, well-known places in England, a series on animals and birds of Britain, descriptions of prsent-day manufacturing, even an American alaman and a serial of a personal account of an immigrant's problems. Poetry was published, too, and there are several illustrations in each issue.

Clip Source: www.history.rochester.edu

Valley of Meran.

Butter.

Curious Fashion and Anecdote.

Goats as Wet-nurses.

Expediency of measuring distances from a Common Centre in London.

Galilee of Durham Cathedral and Tomb of Venerable Bede.

The Great Eagle.

Mineral Kingdom - Section XLI. Mercury or Quicksilver.

Custom of sitting uncovered in Churches.

THE PENNY MAGAZINE
No. 211 - July 18, 1835
Table of Contents

Tags: clipmarks, penny magazine

Dead Man Walking

Wed, 07 May 2008 08:56:34 GMT

clipped by: abailart
clipper's remarks: "The Dead Man Walking" is reprinted from Time's Laughingstocks and Other Verses. Thomas Hardy. London: Macmillan and Co. 1909.

Clip Source: www.poetry-archive.com

THE DEAD MAN WALKING

Thomas Hardy

HEY hail me as one living,
But don't they know
That I have died of late years,
Untombed although?

I am but a shape that stands here,
A pulseless mould,
A pale past picture, screening
Ashes gone cold.

Not at a minute's warning,
Not in a loud hour,
For me ceased Time's enchantments
In hall and bower.

There was no tragic transit,
No catch of breath,
When silent seasons inched me
On to this death ....

-- A Troubadour-youth I rambled
With Life for lyre,
The beats of being raging
In me like fire.

But when I practised eyeing
The goal of men,
It iced me, and I perished
A little then.

When passed my friend, my kinsfolk,
Through the Last Door,
And left me standing bleakly,
I died yet more;

And when my Love's heart kindled
In hate of me,
Wherefore I knew not, died I
One more degree.

And if when I died fully
I cannot say,
And changed into the corpse-thing
I am to-day,

Yet is it that, though whiling
The time somehow
In walking, talking, smiling,
I live not now.

Tags: betrayal

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Magazine Mentality: the Victorian Clipmarks?

Dead Man Walking