Quotes by George Meredith

Thence it grew that one thought in her breast became a desire for such extension of days as would give her the blessedness to clasp in her lap--if those kind heavens would grant it!--a child of the marriage of the two noblest of human souls, one the dearest; and so have proof at heart that her country and our earth are fruitful in the good, for a glowing future. She was deeply a woman, dumbly a poet. True poets and true women have the native sense of the divineness of what the world deems gross material substance. Emma's exaltation in fervour had not subsided when she held her beloved in her arms under the dusk of the withdrawing redness. They sat embraced, with hands locked, in the unlighted room, and Tony spoke of the splendid sky. 'You watched it knowing I was on my way to you?' 'Praying, dear.' 'For me?' 'That I might live long enough to be a godmother.' There was no reply: there was an involuntary little twitch of Tony's fingers. ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS A witty woman is a treasure; a witty Beauty is a power A high wind will make a dead leaf fly like a bird A kindly sense of superiority Accidents are the specific for averting the maladies of age Accounting for it, is not the same as excusing Assist in our small sphere; not come mouthing to the footlights At war with ourselves, means the best happiness we can have Avoid the position that enforces publishing Beautiful women in her position provoke an intemperateness Beauty is rare; luckily is it rare Between love grown old and indifference ageing to love Beware the silent one of an assembly! Brittle is foredoomed But they were a hopeless couple, they were so friendly By resisting, I made him a tyrant Capacity for thinking should precede the act of writing Capricious potentate whom they worship Carry explosives and must particularly guard against sparks Charitable mercifulness; better than sentimental ointment Chaste are wattled in formalism and throned in sourness Circumstances may combine to make a whisper as deadly as a blow Common sense is the secret of every successful civil agitation Compared the governing of the Irish to the management of a horse Could have designed this gabbler for the mate Could the best of men be simply--a woman's friend?

Besides Fielding and Goldsmith, there is Miss Austen, whose Emma and Mr. Elton might walk straight into a comedy, were the plot arranged for them. Galt's neglected novels have some characters and strokes of shrewd comedy. In our poetic literature the comic is delicate and graceful above the touch of Italian and French. Generally, however, the English elect excel in satire, and they are noble humourists. The national disposition is for hard-hitting, with a moral purpose to sanction it; or for a rosy, sometimes a larmoyant, geniality, not unmanly in its verging upon tenderness, and with a singular attraction for thick-headedness, to decorate it with asses' ears and the most beautiful sylvan haloes. But the Comic is a different spirit. You may estimate your capacity for Comic perception by being able to detect the ridicule of them you love, without loving them less: and more by being able to see yourself somewhat ridiculous in dear eyes, and accepting the correction their image of you proposes. Each one of an affectionate couple may be willing, as we say, to die for the other, yet unwilling to utter the agreeable word at the right moment; but if the wits were sufficiently quick for them to perceive that they are in a comic situation, as affectionate couples must be when they quarrel, they would not wait for the moon or the almanac, or a Dorine, to bring back the flood-tide of tender feelings, that they should join hands and lips. If you detect the ridicule, and your kindliness is chilled by it, you are slipping into the grasp of Satire. If instead of falling foul of the ridiculous person with a satiric rod, to make him writhe and shriek aloud, you prefer to sting him under a semi- caress, by which he shall in his anguish be rendered dubious whether indeed anything has hurt him, you are an engine of Irony. If you laugh all round him, tumble him, roll him about, deal him a smack, and drop a tear on him, own his likeness to you and yours to your neighbour, spare him as little as you shun, pity him as much as you expose, it is a spirit of Humour that is moving you. The Comic, which is the perceptive, is the governing spirit, awakening and giving aim to these powers of laughter, but it is not to be confounded with them: it enfolds a thinner form of them, differing from satire, in not sharply driving into the quivering sensibilities, and from humour, in not comforting them and tucking them up, or indicating a broader than the range of this bustling world to them.

THE BITTER CUP CHAPTER IX. A FINE DISTINCTION CHAPTER X. RICHARD PASSES THROUGH HIS PRELIMINARY ORDEAL, AND IS THE OCCASION OF AN APHORISM CHAPTER XI. IN WHICH THE LAST ACT OF THE BAKEWELL COMEDY IS CLOSED IN A LETTER BOOK 1. CHAPTER I Some years ago a book was published under the title of "The Pilgrim's Scrip." It consisted of a selection of original aphorisms by an anonymous gentleman, who in this bashful manner gave a bruised heart to the world. He made no pretension to novelty. "Our new thoughts have thrilled dead bosoms," he wrote; by which avowal it may be seen that youth had manifestly gone from him, since he had ceased to be jealous of the ancients. There was a half-sigh floating through his pages for those days of intellectual coxcombry, when ideas come to us affecting the embraces of virgins, and swear to us they are ours alone, and no one else have they ever visited: and we believe them. For an example of his ideas of the sex he said: "I expect that Woman will be the last thing civilized by Man." Some excitement was produced in the bosoms of ladies by so monstrous a scorn of them. One adventurous person betook herself to the Heralds' College, and there ascertained that a Griffin between two Wheatsheaves, which stood on the title-page of the book, formed the crest of Sir Austin Absworthy Bearne Feverel, Baronet, of Raynham Abbey, in a certain Western county folding Thames: a man of wealth and honour, and a somewhat lamentable history. The outline of the baronet's story was by no means new. He had a wife, and he had a friend. His marriage was for love; his wife was a beauty; his friend was a sort of poet. His wife had his whole heart, and his friend all his confidence. When he selected Denzil Somers from among his college chums, it was not on account of any similarity of disposition between them, but from his intense worship of genius, which made him overlook the absence of principle in his associate for the sake of such brilliant promise. Denzil had a small patrimony to lead off with, and that he dissipated before he left college; thenceforth he was dependent upon his admirer, with whom he lived, filling a nominal post of bailiff to the estates, and launching forth verse of some satiric and sentimental quality; for being inclined to vice, and occasionally, and in a quiet way, practising it, he was of course a sentimentalist and a satirist, entitled to lash the Age and complain of human nature.

"She married beneath her, my dear. Ran off with her father's bailiff's son. 'Ah, Berry!' she'd say, 'if I hadn't been foolish, I should be my lady now--not Granny!' Her father never forgave her--left all his estates out of the family." "Did her husband always love her?" Lucy preferred to know. "In his way, my dear, he did," said Mrs. Berry, coming upon her matrimonial wisdom. "He couldn't help himself. If he left off, he began again. She was so clever, and did make him so comfortable. Cook! there wasn't such another cook out of a Alderman's kitchen; no, indeed! And she a born lady! That tells ye it's the duty of all women! She had her saying 'When the parlour fire gets low, put coals on the ketchen fire!' and a good saying it is to treasure. Such is man! no use in havin' their hearts if ye don't have their stomachs." Perceiving that she grew abstruse, Mrs. Berry added briskly: "You know nothing about that yet, my dear. Only mind me and mark me: don't neglect your cookery. Kissing don't last: cookery do!" Here, with an aphorism worthy a place in The Pilgrim'S Scrip, she broke off to go posseting for her dear invalid. Lucy was quite well; very eager to be allowed to rise and be ready when the knock should come. Mrs. Berry, in her loving considerateness for the little bride, positively commanded her to lie down, and be quiet, and submit to be nursed and cherished. For Mrs. Berry well knew that ten minutes alone with the hero could only be had while the little bride was in that unattainable position. Thanks to her strategy, as she thought, her object was gained. The night did not pass before she learnt, from the hero's own mouth, that Mr. Richards, the father of the hero, and a stern lawyer, was adverse to his union with this young lady he loved, because of a ward of his, heiress to an immense property, whom he desired his son to espouse; and because his darling Letitia was a Catholic--Letitia, the sole daughter of a brave naval officer deceased, and in the hands of a savage uncle, who wanted to sacrifice this beauty to a brute of a son.

Then she cried out: "Why do you attack the world? You always make me pity it." He smiled at her youthfulness. "I have passed through that stage. It leads to my sentiment. Pity it, by all means." "No," said she, "but pity it, side with it, not consider it so bad. The world has faults; glaciers have crevices, mountains have chasms; but is not the effect of the whole sublime? Not to admire the mountain and the glacier because they can be cruel, seems to me . . . And the world is beautiful." "The world of nature, yes. The world of men?" "Yes." "My love, I suspect you to be thinking of the world of ballrooms." "I am thinking of the world that contains real and great generosity, true heroism. We see it round us." "We read of it. The world of the romance writer!" "No: the living world. I am sure it is our duty to love it. I am sure we weaken ourselves if we do not. If I did not, I should be looking on mist, hearing a perpetual boom instead of music. I remember hearing Mr. Whitford say that cynicism is intellectual dandyism without the coxcomb's feathers; and it seems to me that cynics are only happy in making the world as barren to others as they have made it for themselves." "Old Vernon!" ejaculated Sir Willoughby, with a countenance rather uneasy, as if it had been flicked with a glove. "He strings his phrases by the dozen." "Papa contradicts that, and says he is very clever and very simple." "As to cynics, my dear Clara, oh, certainly, certainly: you are right. They are laughable, contemptible. But understand me. I mean, we cannot feel, or if we feel we cannot so intensely feel, our oneness, except by dividing ourselves from the world." "Is it an art?" "If you like. It is our poetry! But does not love shun the world? Two that love must have their sustenance in isolation." "No: they will be eating themselves up." "The purer the beauty, the more it will be out of the world." "But not opposed." "Put it in this way," Willoughby condescended. "Has experience the same opinion of the world as ignorance?

Where first she set the taper down she stands: Not Pallas: Hebe shamed! Thoughts black as death Like a stirred pool in sunshine break. Her wrists I catch: she faltering, as she half resists, ‘You love . . .? love . . .? love . . .?’ all on an indrawn breath. XLIII Mark where the pressing wind shoots javelin-like Its skeleton shadow on the broad-backed wave! Here is a fitting spot to dig Love’s grave; Here where the ponderous breakers plunge and strike, And dart their hissing tongues high up the sand: In hearing of the ocean, and in sight Of those ribbed wind-streaks running into white. If I the death of Love had deeply planned, I never could have made it half so sure, As by the unblest kisses which upbraid The full-waked sense; or failing that, degrade! ’Tis morning: but no morning can restore What we have forfeited. I see no sin: The wrong is mixed. In tragic life, God wot, No villain need be! Passions spin the plot: We are betrayed by what is false within. XLIV They say, that Pity in Love’s service dwells, A porter at the rosy temple’s gate. I missed him going: but it is my fate To come upon him now beside his wells; Whereby I know that I Love’s temple leave, And that the purple doors have closed behind. Poor soul! if, in those early days unkind, Thy power to sting had been but power to grieve, We now might with an equal spirit meet, And not be matched like innocence and vice. She for the Temple’s worship has paid price, And takes the coin of Pity as a cheat. She sees through simulation to the bone: What’s best in her impels her to the worst: Never, she cries, shall Pity soothe Love’s thirst, Or foul hypocrisy for truth atone! XLV It is the season of the sweet wild rose, My Lady’s emblem in the heart of me! So golden-crownëd shines she gloriously, And with that softest dream of blood she glows; Mild as an evening heaven round Hesper bright!

First secret; then avowed. For I must shine Envied,—I, lessened in my proper sight! Be watchful of your beauty, Lady dear! How much hangs on that lamp you cannot tell. Most earnestly I pray you, tend it well: And men shall see me as a burning sphere; And men shall mark you eyeing me, and groan To be the God of such a grand sunflower! I feel the promptings of Satanic power, While you do homage unto me alone. XXIX Am I failing? For no longer can I cast A glory round about this head of gold. Glory she wears, but springing from the mould; Not like the consecration of the Past! Is my soul beggared? Something more than earth I cry for still: I cannot be at peace In having Love upon a mortal lease. I cannot take the woman at her worth! Where is the ancient wealth wherewith I clothed Our human nakedness, and could endow With spiritual splendour a white brow That else had grinned at me the fact I loathed? A kiss is but a kiss now! and no wave Of a great flood that whirls me to the sea. But, as you will! we’ll sit contentedly, And eat our pot of honey on the grave. XXX What are we first? First, animals; and next Intelligences at a leap; on whom Pale lies the distant shadow of the tomb, And all that draweth on the tomb for text. Into which state comes Love, the crowning sun: Beneath whose light the shadow loses form. We are the lords of life, and life is warm. Intelligence and instinct now are one. But nature says: ‘My children most they seem When they least know me: therefore I decree That they shall suffer.’ Swift doth young Love flee, And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream. Then if we study Nature we are wise. Thus do the few who live but with the day: The scientific animals are they.— Lady, this is my sonnet to your eyes. XXXI This golden head has wit in it. I live Again, and a far higher life, near her. Some women like a young philosopher; Perchance because he is diminutive. For woman’s manly god must not exceed Proportions of the natural nursing size.

Intelligence and instinct now are one. But nature says: ‘My children most they seem When they least know me: therefore I decree That they shall suffer.’ Swift doth young Love flee, And we stand wakened, shivering from our dream. Then if we study Nature we are wise. Thus do the few who live but with the day: The scientific animals are they.— Lady, this is my sonnet to your eyes. XXXI This golden head has wit in it. I live Again, and a far higher life, near her. Some women like a young philosopher; Perchance because he is diminutive. For woman’s manly god must not exceed Proportions of the natural nursing size. Great poets and great sages draw no prize With women: but the little lap-dog breed, Who can be hugged, or on a mantel-piece Perched up for adoration, these obtain Her homage. And of this we men are vain? Of this! ’Tis ordered for the world’s increase! Small flattery! Yet she has that rare gift To beauty, Common Sense. I am approved. It is not half so nice as being loved, And yet I do prefer it. What’s my drift? XXXII Full faith I have she holds that rarest gift To beauty, Common Sense. To see her lie With her fair visage an inverted sky Bloom-covered, while the underlids uplift, Would almost wreck the faith; but when her mouth (Can it kiss sweetly? sweetly!) would address The inner me that thirsts for her no less, And has so long been languishing in drouth, I feel that I am matched; that I am man! One restless corner of my heart or head, That holds a dying something never dead, Still frets, though Nature giveth all she can. It means, that woman is not, I opine, Her sex’s antidote. Who seeks the asp For serpent’s bites? ’Twould calm me could I clasp Shrieking Bacchantes with their souls of wine! XXXIII ‘In Paris, at the Louvre, there have I seen The sumptuously-feathered angel pierce Prone Lucifer, descending.

Paint themselves pure white, to the obliteration of minor spots Perused it, and did not recognize herself in her language Pride in being always myself Procrastination and excessive scrupulousness Question the gain of such an expenditure of energy Quixottry is agreeable reading, a silly performance Rare men of honour who can command their passion Read with his eyes when you meet him this morning Read deep and not be baffled by inconsistencies Real happiness is a state of dulness Reluctant to take the life of flowers for a whim Rewards, together with the expectations, of the virtuous Salt of earth, to whom their salt must serve for nourishment Sentimentality puts up infant hands for absolution Service of watering the dry and drying the damp (Whiskey) Sham spiritualism She had sunk her intelligence in her sensations She marries, and it's the end of her sparkling She herself did not like to be seen eating in public She had a fatal attraction for antiques Sleepless night Slightest taste for comic analysis that does not tumble to farce Smart remarks have their measured distances Smoky receptacle cherishing millions Something of the hare in us when the hounds are full cry Strain to see in the utter dark, and nothing can come of that Swell and illuminate citizen prose to a princely poetic Sympathy is for proving, not prating Tendency to polysyllabic phraseology Terrible decree, that all must act who would prevail That is life--when we dare death to live! That's the natural shamrock, after the artificial The man had to be endured, like other doses in politics The burlesque Irishman can't be caricatured The greed of gain is our volcano The debts we owe ourselves are the hardest to pay The well of true wit is truth itself The blindness of Fortune is her one merit They have no sensitiveness, we have too much They create by stoppage a volcano This love they rattle about and rave about Tooth that received a stone when it expected candy Top and bottom sin is cowardice Touch him with my hand, before he passed from our sight Trial of her beauty of a woman in a temper Vagrant compassionateness of sentimentalists Vowed never more to repeat that offence to his patience Was not one of the order whose Muse is the Public Taste We live alone, and do not much feel it till we are visited We never see peace but in the features of the dead We must fawn in society We don't know we are in halves We're a peaceful people, but 'ware who touches us Weather and women have some resemblance they say Weighty little word--woman's native watchdog and guardian (No!) What might have been What the world says, is what the wind says What a woman thinks of women, is the test of her nature When we despair or discolour things, it is our senses in revolt Where she appears, the first person falls to second rank Who can really think, and not think hopefully?

and may your lot Be cheerful o’er the Western rounds. This butter-woman’s market-trot Of verse is passing market-bounds. XLII Adieu! the sun sets; he is gone. On banks of fog faint lines extend: Adieu! bring back a braver dawn To England, and to me my friend. _November_ 15_th_, 1867. TIME AND SENTIMENT I SEE a fair young couple in a wood, And as they go, one bends to take a flower, That so may be embalmed their happy hour, And in another day, a kindred mood, Haply together, or in solitude, Recovered what the teeth of Time devour, The joy, the bloom, and the illusive power, Wherewith by their young blood they are endued To move all enviable, framed in May, And of an aspect sisterly with Truth: Yet seek they with Time’s laughing things to wed: Who will be prompted on some pallid day To lift the hueless flower and show that dead, Even such, and by this token, is their youth. LUCIFER IN STARLIGHT ON a starred night Prince Lucifer uprose. Tired of his dark dominion swung the fiend Above the rolling ball in cloud part screened, Where sinners hugged their spectre of repose. Poor prey to his hot fit of pride were those. And now upon his western wing he leaned, Now his huge bulk o’er Afric’s sands careened, Now the black planet shadowed Arctic snows. Soaring through wider zones that pricked his scars With memory of the old revolt from Awe, He reached a middle height, and at the stars, Which are the brain of heaven, he looked, and sank. Around the ancient track marched, rank on rank, The army of unalterable law. THE STAR SIRIUS BRIGHT Sirius! that when Orion pales To dotlings under moonlight still art keen With cheerful fervour of a warrior’s mien Who holds in his great heart the battle-scales: Unquenched of flame though swift the flood assails, Reducing many lustrous to the lean: Be thou my star, and thou in me be seen To show what source divine is, and prevails. Long watches through, at one with godly night, I mark thee planting joy in constant fire; And thy quick beams, whose jets of life inspire Life to the spirit, passion for the light, Dark Earth since first she lost her lord from sight Has viewed and felt them sweep her as a lyre.

The farce of the Precieuses ridiculed and put a stop to the monstrous romantic jargon made popular by certain famous novels. The comedy of the Femmes Savantes exposed the later and less apparent but more finely comic absurdity of an excessive purism in grammar and diction, and the tendency to be idiotic in precision. The French had felt the burden of this new nonsense; but they had to see the comedy several times before they were consoled in their suffering by seeing the cause of it exposed. The Misanthrope was yet more frigidly received. Moliere thought it dead. 'I cannot improve on it, and assuredly never shall,' he said. It is one of the French titles to honour that this quintessential comedy of the opposition of Alceste and Celimene was ultimately understood and applauded. In all countries the middle class presents the public which, fighting the world, and with a good footing in the fight, knows the world best. It may be the most selfish, but that is a question leading us into sophistries. Cultivated men and women, who do not skim the cream of life, and are attached to the duties, yet escape the harsher blows, make acute and balanced observers. Moliere is their poet. Of this class in England, a large body, neither Puritan nor Bacchanalian, have a sentimental objection to face the study of the actual world. They take up disdain of it, when its truths appear humiliating: when the facts are not immediately forced on them, they take up the pride of incredulity. They live in a hazy atmosphere that they suppose an ideal one. Humorous writing they will endure, perhaps approve, if it mingles with pathos to shake and elevate the feelings. They approve of Satire, because, like the beak of the vulture, it smells of carrion, which they are not. But of Comedy they have a shivering dread, for Comedy enfolds them with the wretched host of the world, huddles them with us all in an ignoble assimilation, and cannot be used by any exalted variety as a scourge and a broom. Nay, to be an exalted variety is to come under the calm curious eye of the Comic spirit, and be probed for what you are. Men are seen among them, and very many cultivated women.

Casket-breasts they give, nor hide, For a tyrant’s flattered pride, Mind, which nourished not by light, Lurks the shuffling trickster sprite: Whereof are strange tales to tell; Some in blood writ, tombed in bell. Here the ancient battle ends, Joining two astonished friends, Who the kiss can give and take With more warmth than in that world Where the tiger claws the snake, Snake her tiger clasps infurled, And the issue of their fight People lands in snarling plight. Here her splendid beast she leads Silken-leashed and decked with weeds Wild as he, but breathing faint Sweetness of unfelt constraint. Love, the great volcano, flings Fires of lower Earth to sky; Love, the sole permitted, sings Sovereignly of _ME_ and _I_. Bowers he has of sacred shade, Spaces of superb parade, Voiceful . . . But bring you a note Wrangling, howsoe’er remote, Discords out of discord spin Round and round derisive din: Sudden will a pallor pant Chill at screeches miscreant; Owls or spectres, thick they flee; Nightmare upon horror broods; Hooded laughter, monkish glee, Gaps the vital air. Enter these enchanted woods You who dare. IV You must love the light so well That no darkness will seem fell. Love it so you could accost Fellowly a livid ghost. Whish! the phantom wisps away, Owns him smoke to cocks of day. In your breast the light must burn Fed of you, like corn in quern Ever plumping while the wheel Speeds the mill and drains the meal. Light to light sees little strange, Only features heavenly new; Then you touch the nerve of Change, Then of Earth you have the clue; Then her two-sexed meanings melt Through you, wed the thought and felt. Sameness locks no scurfy pond Here for Custom, crazy-fond: Change is on the wing to bud Rose in brain from rose in blood. Wisdom throbbing shall you see Central in complexity; From her pasture ’mid the beasts Rise to her ethereal feasts, Not, though lightnings track your wit Starward, scorning them you quit: For be sure the bravest wing Preens it in our common spring, Thence along the vault to soar, You with others, gathering more, Glad of more, till you reject Your proud title of elect, Perilous even here while few Roam the arched greenwood with you.

I will not have a wedding on our wedding-day; but either before or after it, I gladly speed their alliance. I think now I give you the best proof possible, and though I know that with women a delusion may be seen to be groundless and still be cherished, I rely on your good sense." Vernon was at the window and stood aside for her to enter. Sir Willoughby used a gentle insistence with her. She bent her head as if she were stepping into a cave. So frigid was she, that a ridiculous dread of calling Mr. Whitford Mr. Oxford was her only present anxiety when Sir Willoughby had closed the window on them. CHAPTER XIV SIR WILLOUGHBY AND LAETITIA "I prepare Miss Dale." Sir Willoughby thought of his promise to Clara. He trifled awhile with young Crossjay, and then sent the boy flying, and wrapped himself in meditation. So shall you see standing many a statue of statesmen who have died in harness for their country. In the hundred and fourth chapter of the thirteenth volume of the Book of Egoism it is written: Possession without obligation to the object possessed approaches felicity. It is the rarest condition of ownership. For example: the possession of land is not without obligation both to the soil and the tax-collector; the possession of fine clothing is oppressed by obligation; gold, jewelry, works of art, enviable household furniture, are positive fetters; the possession of a wife we find surcharged with obligation. In all these cases possession is a gentle term for enslavement, bestowing the sort of felicity attained to by the helot drunk. You can have the joy, the pride, the intoxication of possession; you can have no free soul. But there is one instance of possession, and that the most perfect, which leaves us free, under not a shadow of obligation, receiving ever, never giving, or if giving, giving only of our waste; as it were (sauf votre respect), by form of perspiration, radiation, if you like; unconscious poral bountifulness; and it is a beneficent process for the system. Our possession of an adoring female's worship is this instance.

A man's gifts are an exhibition of the royalty of his soul, and they are the last things which should be mentioned to him as matters to be blotted out when he is struggling against ruin. The lady had blunt insight just then. She attributed his emotion to gratitude. "The door may be opened at any minute," she warned him. "It's not about myself," he said; "it's you. I believe I tempted you to back the beastly horse. And he would have won--a fair race, and he would have won easy. He was winning. He passed the stand a head ahead. He did win. It's a scandal to the Turf. There's an end of racing in England. It's up. They've done for themselves to-day. There's a gang. It's in the hands of confederates." "Think so, if it consoles you," said Mrs. Lovell, "don't mention your thoughts, that is all." "I do think so. Why should we submit to a robbery? It's a sold affair. That Frenchman, Baron Vistocq, says we can't lift our heads after it." "He conducts himself with decency, I hope." "Why, he's won!" "Imitate him." Mrs. Lovell scanned the stalls. "Always imitate the behaviour of the winners when you lose," she resumed. "To speak of other things: I have had no letter of late from Edward. He should be anxious to return. I went this morning to see that unhappy girl. She consents." "Poor creature," murmured Algernon; and added "Everybody wants money." "She decides wisely; for it is the best she can do. She deserves pity, for she has been basely used." "Poor old Ned didn't mean," Algernon began pleading on his cousin's behalf, when Mrs. Lovell's scornful eye checked the feeble attempt. "I am a woman, and, in certain cases, I side with my sex." "Wasn't it for you?" "That he betrayed her? If that were so, I should be sitting in ashes." Algernon's look plainly declared that he thought her a mystery. The simplicity of his bewilderment made her smile. "I think your colonies are the right place for you, Algy, if you can get an appointment; which must be managed by-and-by. Call on me to-morrow, as I said." Algernon signified positively that he would not, and doggedly refused to explain why.

After several knockings and enterings of the bedchamber-door, she came hurriedly to say: 'And your pillow, ma'am? I had almost forgotten it!' A question that caused her mistress to drop the gaze of a moan on Emma, with patience trembling. Diana preferred a hard pillow, and usually carried her own about. 'Take it,' she had to reply. The friends embraced before descending to step into the fateful carriage. 'And tell me,' Emma said, 'are not your views of life brighter to-day?' 'Too dazzled to know! It may be a lamp close to the eyes or a radiance of sun. I hope they are.' 'You are beginning to think hopefully again?' 'Who can really think, and not think hopefully? You were in my mind last night, and you brought a little boat to sail me past despondency of life and the fear of extinction. When we despair or discolour things, it is our senses in revolt, and they have made the sovereign brain their drudge. I heard you whisper; with your very breath in my ear: "There is nothing the body suffers that the soul may not profit by." That is Emma's history. With that I sail into the dark; it is my promise of the immortal: teaches me to see immortality for us. It comes from you, my Emmy.' If not a great saying, it was in the heart of deep thoughts: proof to Emma that her Tony's mind had resumed its old clear high-aiming activity; therefore that her nature was working sanely, and that she accepted her happiness, and bore love for a dower to her husband. No blushing confession of the woman's love of the man would have told her so much as the return to mental harmony with the laws of life shown in her darling's pellucid little sentence. She revolved it long after the day of the wedding. To Emma, constantly on the dark decline of the unillumined verge, between the two worlds, those words were a radiance and a nourishment. Had they waned she would have trimmed them to feed her during her soul-sister's absence. They shone to her of their vitality. She was lying along her sofa, facing her South-western window, one afternoon of late November, expecting Tony from her lengthened honeymoon trip, while a sunset in the van of frost, not without celestial musical reminders of Tony's husband, began to deepen; and as her friend was coming, she mused on the scenes of her friend's departure, and how Tony, issuing from her cottage porch had betrayed her feelings in the language of her sex by stooping to lift above her head and kiss the smallest of her landlady's children ranged up the garden-path to bid her farewell over their strewing of flowers;--and of her murmur to Tony, entering the churchyard, among the grave-mounds: 'Old Ireland won't repent it!

Debit was eloquent, he was unanswerable Dedicated to the putrid of the upper circle Depending for dialogue upon perpetual fresh supplies of scandal Dose he had taken was not of the sweetest Dreaded as a scourge, hailed as a refreshment (Scandalsheet) Elderly martyr for the advancement of his juniors Enthusiasm has the privilege of not knowing monotony Envy of the man of positive knowledge Expectations dupe us, not trust Explaining of things to a dull head Externally soft and polished, internally hard and relentless Favour can't help coming by rotation Fiddle harmonics on the sensual strings Flashes bits of speech that catch men in their unguarded corner For 'tis Ireland gives England her soldiers, her generals too Friendship, I fancy, means one heart between two Get back what we give Goodish sort of fellow; good horseman, good shot, good character Grossly unlike in likeness (portraits) Happy in privation and suffering if simply we can accept beauty He was not a weaver of phrases in distress He had by nature a tarnishing eye that cast discolouration He gained much by claiming little He, by insisting, made me a rebel He had neat phrases, opinions in packets He was the maddest of tyrants--a weak one He's good from end to end, and beats a Christian hollow (a hog) Heart to keep guard and bury the bones you tossed him Her peculiar tenacity of the sense of injury Her feelings--trustier guides than her judgement in this crisis Her final impression likened him to a house locked up and empty Herself, content to be dull if he might shine His gaze and one of his ears, if not the pair, were given His ridiculous equanimity Holding to the refusal, for the sake of consistency How immensely nature seems to prefer men to women! Human nature to feel an interest in the dog that has bitten you I wanted a hero I do not see it, because I will not see it I never knew till this morning the force of No in earnest I have and hold--you shall hunger and covet I don't count them against women (moods) I'm in love with everything she wishes! I've got the habit Idea is the only vital breath If I'm struck, I strike back If he had valued you half a grain less, he might have won you Inclined to act hesitation in accepting the aid she sought Inducement to act the hypocrite before the hypocrite world Infatuated men argue likewise, and scandal does not move them Insistency upon there being two sides to a case--to every case Intrusion of the spontaneous on the stereotyped would clash Irony that seemed to spring from aversion It is the best of signs when women take to her It is the devil's masterstroke to get us to accuse him Its glee at a catastrophe; its poor stock of mercy Keep passion sober, a trotter in harness Lengthened term of peace bred maggots in the heads of the people Let never Necessity draw the bow of our weakness Literature is a good stick and a bad horse Loathing for speculation Mare would do, and better than a dozen horses Material good reverses its benefits the more nearly we clasp it Matter that is not nourishing to brains Mistake of the world is to think happiness possible to the sense Mistaking of her desires for her reasons Money is of course a rough test of virtue Moral indignation is ever consolatory Music was resumed to confuse the hearing of the eavesdroppers Mutual deference Needed support of facts, and feared them Never fell far short of outstripping the sturdy pedestrian Time Nothing the body suffers that the soul may not profit by Nothing is a secret that has been spoken Now far from him under the failure of an effort to come near O self!

Pitch her tales about me. Say, I've got a lot in me, though I don't let it out. The game's up between you and Peggy Lovell, that's clear. She don't forgive you, my boy." "Ass!" muttered Edward, seeing by the light of his perception, that he was too thoroughly forgiven. A principal charm of the life at Fairly to him was that there was no one complaining. No one looked reproach at him. If a lady was pale and reserved, she did not seem to accuse him, and to require coaxing. All faces here were as light as the flying moment, and did not carry the shadowy weariness of years, like that burdensome fair face in the London lodging-house, to which the Fates had terribly attached themselves. So, he was gay. He closed, as it were, a black volume, and opened a new and a bright one. Young men easily fancy that they may do this, and that when the black volume is shut the tide is stopped. Saying, "I was a fool," they believe they have put an end to the foolishness. What father teaches them that a human act once set in motion flows on for ever to the great account? Our deathlessness is in what we do, not in what we are. Comfortable Youth thinks otherwise. The days at a well-ordered country-house, where a divining lady rules, speed to the measure of a waltz, in harmonious circles, dropping like crystals into the gulfs of Time, and appearing to write nothing in his book. Not a single hinge of existence is heard to creak. There is no after-dinner bill. You are waited on, without being elbowed by the humanity of your attendants. It is a civilized Arcadia. Only, do not desire, that you may not envy. Accept humbly what rights of citizenship are accorded to you upon entering. Discard the passions when you cross the threshold. To breathe and to swallow merely, are the duties which should prescribe your conduct; or, such is the swollen condition of the animal in this enchanted region, that the spirit of man becomes dangerously beset. Edward breathed and swallowed, and never went beyond the prescription, save by talking. No other junior could enter the library, without encountering the scorn of his elders; so he enjoyed the privilege of hearing all the scandal, and his natural cynicism was plentifully fed.

He played on men, as his master, Phoebus, on strings Melodious: as the God did he drive and check, Through love exceeding a simple love of the things That glide in grasses and rubble of woody wreck. LOVE IN THE VALLEY UNDER yonder beech-tree single on the greensward, Couched with her arms behind her golden head, Knees and tresses folded to slip and ripple idly, Lies my young love sleeping in the shade. Had I the heart to slide an arm beneath her, Press her parting lips as her waist I gather slow, Waking in amazement she could not but embrace me: Then would she hold me and never let me go? * * * Shy as the squirrel and wayward as the swallow, Swift as the swallow along the river’s light Circleting the surface to meet his mirrored winglets, Fleeter she seems in her stay than in her flight. Shy as the squirrel that leaps among the pine-tops, Wayward as the swallow overhead at set of sun, She whom I love is hard to catch and conquer, Hard, but O the glory of the winning were she won! * * * When her mother tends her before the laughing mirror, Tying up her laces, looping up her hair, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, More love should I have, and much less care. When her mother tends her before the lighted mirror, Loosening her laces, combing down her curls, Often she thinks, were this wild thing wedded, I should miss but one for the many boys and girls. * * * Heartless she is as the shadow in the meadows Flying to the hills on a blue and breezy noon. No, she is athirst and drinking up her wonder: Earth to her is young as the slip of the new moon. Deals she an unkindness, ’tis but her rapid measure, Even as in a dance; and her smile can heal no less: Like the swinging May-cloud that pelts the flowers with hailstones Off a sunny border, she was made to bruise and bless. * * * Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star.

Brittle is foredoomed But they were a hopeless couple, they were so friendly By resisting, I made him a tyrant Capacity for thinking should precede the act of writing Capricious potentate whom they worship Carry explosives and must particularly guard against sparks Charitable mercifulness; better than sentimental ointment Chaste are wattled in formalism and throned in sourness Circumstances may combine to make a whisper as deadly as a blow Common sense is the secret of every successful civil agitation Compared the governing of the Irish to the management of a horse Could have designed this gabbler for the mate Could the best of men be simply--a woman's friend? Debit was eloquent, he was unanswerable Dedicated to the putrid of the upper circle Depending for dialogue upon perpetual fresh supplies of scandal Dose he had taken was not of the sweetest Dreaded as a scourge, hailed as a refreshment (Scandalsheet) Elderly martyr for the advancement of his juniors Enthusiasm has the privilege of not knowing monotony Envy of the man of positive knowledge Expectations dupe us, not trust Explaining of things to a dull head Externally soft and polished, internally hard and relentless Favour can't help coming by rotation Fiddle harmonics on the sensual strings Flashes bits of speech that catch men in their unguarded corner For 'tis Ireland gives England her soldiers, her generals too Friendship, I fancy, means one heart between two Get back what we give Goodish sort of fellow; good horseman, good shot, good character Grossly unlike in likeness (portraits) Happy in privation and suffering if simply we can accept beauty He was not a weaver of phrases in distress He had by nature a tarnishing eye that cast discolouration He gained much by claiming little He, by insisting, made me a rebel He had neat phrases, opinions in packets He was the maddest of tyrants--a weak one He's good from end to end, and beats a Christian hollow (a hog) Heart to keep guard and bury the bones you tossed him Her peculiar tenacity of the sense of injury Her feelings--trustier guides than her judgement in this crisis Her final impression likened him to a house locked up and empty Herself, content to be dull if he might shine His gaze and one of his ears, if not the pair, were given His ridiculous equanimity Holding to the refusal, for the sake of consistency How immensely nature seems to prefer men to women!

He had burnt a rick and got married! He associated the two acts of his existence. Where was the hero he was to have carved out of Tom Bakewell!--a wretch he had taught to lie and chicane: and for what? Great heavens! how ignoble did a flash from the light of his aspirations make his marriage appear! The young man sought amusement. He allowed his aunt to drag him into society, and sick of that he made late evening calls on Mrs. Mount, oblivious of the purpose he had in visiting her at all. Her man-like conversation, which he took for honesty, was a refreshing change on fair lips. "Call me Bella: I'll call you Dick," said she. And it came to be Bella and Dick between them. No mention of Bella occurred in Richard's letters to Lucy. Mrs. Mount spoke quite openly of herself. "I pretend to be no better than I am," she said, "and I know I'm no worse than many a woman who holds her head high." To back this she told him stories of blooming dames of good repute, and poured a little social sewerage into his ears. Also she understood him. "What you want, my dear Dick, is something to do. You went and got married like a--hum!--friends must be respectful. Go into the Army. Try the turf. I can put you up to a trick or two-- friends should make themselves useful." She told him what she liked in him. "You're the only man I was ever alone with who don't talk to me of love and make me feel sick. I hate men who can't speak to a woman sensibly.--Just wait a minute." She left him and presently returned with, "Ah, Dick! old fellow! how are you?"-- arrayed like a cavalier, one arm stuck in her side, her hat jauntily cocked, and a pretty oath on her lips to give reality to the costume. "What do you think of me? Wasn't it a shame to make a woman of me when I was born to be a man?" "I don't know that," said Richard, for the contrast in her attire to those shooting eyes and lips, aired her sex bewitchingly. "What! you think I don't do it well?" "Charming! but I can't forget..." "Now that is too bad!