“Mother is the name for God in the lips and hearts of little children.”
To drive with that lady in the carriage was an awful rite: he sat up
in the back seat and did not dare to speak: he gazed with all his eyes
at the beautifully dressed Princess opposite to him. Gentlemen on
splendid prancing horses came up and smiled and talked with her. How
her eyes beamed upon all of them! Her hand used to quiver and wave
gracefully as they passed. When he went out with her he had his new
red dress on. His old brown holland was good enough when he stayed at
home. Sometimes, when she was away, and Dolly his maid was making his
bed, he came into his mother's room. It was as the abode of a fairy to
him--a mystic chamber of splendour and delights. There in the wardrobe
hung those wonderful robes--pink and blue and many-tinted. There was
the jewel-case, silver-clasped, and the wondrous bronze hand on the
dressing-table, glistening all over with a hundred rings. There was
the cheval-glass, that miracle of art, in which he could just see his
own wondering head and the reflection of Dolly (queerly distorted, and
as if up in the ceiling), plumping and patting the pillows of the bed.
Oh, thou poor lonely little benighted boy! Mother is the name for God
in the lips and hearts of little children; and here was one who was
worshipping a stone!
Now Rawdon Crawley, rascal as the Colonel was, had certain manly
tendencies of affection in his heart and could love a child and a woman
still. For Rawdon minor he had a great secret tenderness then, which
did not escape Rebecca, though she did not talk about it to her
husband. It did not annoy her: she was too good-natured. It only
increased her scorn for him. He felt somehow ashamed of this paternal
softness and hid it from his wife--only indulging in it when alone with
the boy.
He used to take him out of mornings when they would go to the stables
together and to the park. Little Lord Southdown, the best-natured of
men, who would make you a present of the hat from his head, and whose
main occupation in life was to buy knick-knacks that he might give them
away afterwards, bought the little chap a pony not much bigger than a
large rat, the donor said, and on this little black Shetland pygmy
young Rawdon's great father was pleased to mount the boy, and to walk
by his side in the park.
“> A Tragic Story> --- William M. Thackeray> > There lived a sage in days of yore,> And he a handsome pigtail wore;> But wondered much, and sorrowed more,> Because it hung behind him.> > He mused upon this curious case,> And swore hed change the pigtails place,> And have it hanging at his face,> Not dangling there behind him.> > Says he, Ah, the mystery Ive found--> Ill turn me round,> --he turned him round;> But still it hung behind him.> > Then round and round, and out and in,> All day the puzzled sage did spin;> In vain--it mattered not a pin--> The pigtail hung behind him.> > And right, and left, and round about,> And up, and down, and in, and out> He turned; but still the pigtail stout> Hung steadily behind him.> > And though his efforts never slack,> And though he twist, and twirl, and tack,> Alas! Still faithful to his back,> The pigtail hangs behind him.”
Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tink,
By the light of the star,
On the blue river's brink,
I heard a guitar.
I heard a guitar,
On the blue waters clear,
And knew by its music,
That Selim was near!
Tink-a-tink, tink-a-tink,
How the soft music swells,
And I hear the soft clink
Of the minaret bells!
COME TO THE GREENWOOD TREE.
Come to the greenwood tree,
Come where the dark woods be,
Dearest, O come with me!
Let us rove--O my love--O my love!
Come--'tis the moonlight hour,
Dew is on leaf and flower,
Come to the linden bower,--
Let us rove--O my love--O my love!
Dark is the wood, and wide
Dangers, they say, betide;
But, at my Albert's side,
Nought I fear, O my love--O my love!
Welcome the greenwood tree,
Welcome the forest free,
Dearest, with thee, with thee,
Nought I fear, O my love--O my love!
FIVE GERMAN DITTIES.
A TRAGIC STORY.
BY ADELBERT VON CHAMISSO.
"--'s war Einer, dem's zu Herzen gieng."
There lived a sage in days of yore
And he a handsome pigtail wore;
But wondered much and sorrowed more
Because it hung behind him.
He mused upon this curious case,
And swore he'd change the pigtail's place,
And have it hanging at his face,
Not dangling there behind him.
Says he, "The mystery I've found,--
I'll turn me round,"--he turned him round;
But still it hung behind him.
Then round, and round, and out and in,
All day the puzzled sage did spin;
In vain--it mattered not a pin,--
The pigtail hung behind him.
And right, and left, and round about,
And up, and down, and in, and out,
He turned; but still the pigtail stout
Hung steadily behind him.
And though his efforts never slack,
And though he twist, and twirl, and tack,
Alas! still faithful to his back
The pigtail hangs behind him.
THE CHAPLET.
FROM UHLAND.
"Es pflückte Blümlein mannigfalt."
A little girl through field and wood
Went plucking flowerets here and there,
When suddenly beside her stood
A lady wondrous fair!
The lovely lady smiled, and laid
A wreath upon the maiden's brow;
"Wear it, 'twill blossom soon," she said,
"Although 'tis leafless now."
The little maiden older grew
And wandered forth of moonlight eves,
And sighed and loved as maids will do;
When, lo! her wreath bore leaves.
Then was our maid a wife, and hung
Upon a joyful bridegroom's bosom;
When from the garland's leaves there sprung
Fair store of blossom.
And presently a baby fair
Upon her gentle breast she reared;
When midst the wreath that bound her hair
Rich golden fruit appeared.
But when her love lay cold in death,
Sunk in the black and silent tomb,
All sere and withered was the wreath
That wont so bright to bloom.
To love and win is the best thing.To love and lose, the next best.
You will fatigue your servant by
sending notes to her, for which there will be the most pressing
occasion, twice or thrice in a day. You will cry if your mamma objects
to your going too often to see His family. The only one of them you
will dislike, is perhaps his younger brother, who is at home for the
holidays, and who will persist in staying in the room when you come to
see your dear new-found friend, his darling second sister. Something
like this will happen to you, young ladies, or, at any rate, let us
hope it may. Yes, you must go through the hot fits and the cold fits of
that pretty fever. Your mothers, if they would acknowledge it, have
passed through it before you were born, your dear papa being the object
of the passion, of course,—who could it be but he? And as you suffer
it, so will your brothers, in their way,—and after their kind. More
selfish than you: more eager and headstrong than you: they will rush on
their destiny when the doomed charmer makes her appearance. Or if they
don’t, and you don’t, Heaven help you! As the gambler said of his dice,
to love and win is the best thing, to love and lose is the next best.
You don’t die of the complaint: or very few do. The generous wounded
heart suffers and survives it. And he is not a man, or she a woman, who
is not conquered by it, or who does not conquer it in his time.——Now,
then, if you ask why Henry Foker, Esquire, was in such a hurry to see
Arthur Pendennis, and felt such a sudden value and esteem for him,
there is no difficulty in saying it was because Pen had become really
valuable in Mr. Foker’s eyes: because if Pen was not the rose, he yet
had been near that fragrant flower of love. Was not he in the habit of
going to her house in London? Did he not live near her in the
country?—know all about the enchantress? What, I wonder, would Lady Ann
Milton, Mr. Foker’s cousin and pretendue, have said, if her ladyship
had known all that was going on in the bosom of that funny little
gentleman?
Alas! when Foker reached Lamb Court, leaving his carriage for the
admiration of the little clerks who were lounging in the archway that
leads thence into Flag Court which leads into Upper Temple Lane,
Warrington was in the chambers but Pen was absent.
Which of us is happy in this world? Which of us has his desire? or, having it, is satisfied?
Her life is her
answer to them. She busies herself in works of piety. She goes to
church, and never without a footman. Her name is in all the Charity
Lists. The destitute orange-girl, the neglected washerwoman, the
distressed muffin-man find in her a fast and generous friend. She is
always having stalls at Fancy Fairs for the benefit of these hapless
beings. Emmy, her children, and the Colonel, coming to London some
time back, found themselves suddenly before her at one of these fairs.
She cast down her eyes demurely and smiled as they started away from
her; Emmy scurrying off on the arm of George (now grown a dashing young
gentleman) and the Colonel seizing up his little Janey, of whom he is
fonder than of anything in the world--fonder even than of his History
of the Punjaub.
"Fonder than he is of me," Emmy thinks with a sigh. But he never said a
word to Amelia that was not kind and gentle, or thought of a want of
hers that he did not try to gratify.
Ah! Vanitas Vanitatum! which of us is happy in this world? Which of
us has his desire? or, having it, is satisfied?--come, children, let us
shut up the box and the puppets, for our play is played out.
End of Project Gutenberg's Vanity Fair, by William Makepeace Thackeray
*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VANITY FAIR ***
Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will
be renamed.
Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright
law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,
so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United
States without permission and without paying copyright
royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part
of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project
Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™
concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark,
and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following
the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use
of the Project Gutenberg trademark.
Here is a minute. It may be my love is dead, but here is a minute to kneel over the grave and pray by it.
It was in the reign of George II. that the above-named personages lived and quarrelled ; good or bad, handsome or ugly, rich or poor, they are all equal now
There are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up the pen to write.
I have long gone about with a conviction on my mind that I had a work to do—a Work, if you like, with a great W; a Purpose to fulfil; ... a Great Social Evil to Discover and to Remedy.
Some cynical Frenchman has said that there are two parties to a love-transaction: the one who loves and the other who condescends to be so treated.
If she did not wish to lead a virtuous life, at least she desired to enjoy a character for virtue, and we know that no lady in the genteel world can possess this desideratum, until she has put on a train and feathers and has been presented to her Sovereign at Court. From that august interview they come out stamped as honest women. The Lord Chamberlain gives them a certificate of virtue.
It may be whispered to those uninitiated people who are anxious to know the habits and make the acquaintance of men of letters, that there are no race of people who talk about books, or, perhaps, who read books, so little as literary men.
Who has not remarked the readiness with which the closest of friends and honestest of men suspect and accuse each other of cheating when they fall out on money matters? Everybody does it. Everybody is right, I suppose, and the world is a rogue.
In a word, in adversity she was the best of comforters, in good fortune the most troublesome of friends...
A lady who sets her heart upon a lad in uniform must prepare to change lovers pretty quickly, or her life will be but a sad one.
think of the condition of Europe for twenty years before, where people were fighting, not by thousands, but by millions; each one of whom as he struck his enemy wounded horribly some other innocent heart far away.
Revenge may be wicked, but it’s natural.
His Scotch bear-leader, Mr Boswell, was a butt of the first quality.
A woman may possess the wisdom and chastity of Minerva, and we give no heed to her, if she has a plain face. What folly will not a pair of bright eyes make pardonable? What dullness may not red lips are sweet accents render pleasant? And so, with their usual sense of justice, ladies argue that because a woman is handsome, therefore she is a fool. O ladies, ladies! there are some of you who are neither handsome nor wise.
She had not character enough to take to drinking, and moaned about, slip-shod and in curl-papers, all day.
Indeed, for my own part, though I have been repeatedly told by persons for whom I have the greatest respect, that Miss Brown is an insignificant chit, and Mrs. White has nothing but her petit minois chiffonne, and Mrs. Black has not a word to say for herself; yet I know that I have had the most delightful conversations with Mrs. Black (of course, my dear Madam, they are inviolable): I see all the men in a cluster round Mrs. Whites chair: all the young fellows battling to dance with Miss Brown; and so I am tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great compliment to a woman.
