Literary Works

"[From Sir Jasper Meredith]: In all this wide world there is nothing but suffering: the child cries in its cradle ; it but begins as it will continue. In all ranks there is the same overpowering misery : the poor man has all the higher faculties of his being absorbed in a perpetual struggle with cold and hunger: a step higher, and pretence comes to aggravate poverty; dig we cannot, and to beg we are ashamed. Go on into what are called the higher classes, and there we find ambition the fever of the soul, and jealousy its canker. There are pleasures ; but there is no relish for them ; and luxuries which have become wearisome as wants. The feelings are either dull in selfish apathy, that excludes enjoyment; or unduly keen, till a look or word is torture."

"Life is but like a journey during night. We toil through gloomy paths of the unknown ; Heavy the footsteps are with pitfalls round; And few and faint the stars that guide our way : But, at the last, comes morning ; glorious Shines forth the light of day, and so will shine The heaven which is our future and our home."

"Terrible, indeed, is such sleep ; but more terrible its awaking. At first we rouse forgetful ; but conscious of something, we know not what. The head is raised with a sudden start, only to drop heavily on the pillow from whence rest is banished in an instant. The eyes close again, but not to sleep ; we seek only to shut out the light from which we sicken. But the inward sorrow rises only the more distinct : all is remembered, not a pang is spared ; and the very rest given to the body only renders its sense of suffering more acute. Misery has many bitter moments ; but, I believe, the first awakening after any great sorrow is the one of its most utter agony. How will it ever be possible to get through the long, the coming day ? I envy those who have never asked the question."

"How strangely do the common domestic events, things of constant and hourly recurrence, jar upon the over-excited nerves ! It seems to mock our inward misery to see all but the pulses of our own beating heart, go on so calmly and uniformly. There is an exaggeration in sorrow, which would fain demand universal sympathy : it does not find it, and the sorrow sinks the deeper."

"I do not think that life has a suspense more sickening than that of expecting a letter which does not come."

"[Of doubt] I tell thee death were far more merciful Than such a blow. It is death to the heart; Death to its first affections, its sweet hopes; The young religion of its guileless faith."

"[From Lady Mary Wortley Montague]: Moral essays are only a series of mistakes: our first duty to ourselves, is to enjoy ourselves as much as possible. Now, to accomplish that, we must cultivate all our bad qualities : I can assure you I am quite alarmed when I discover any good symptoms. … I laugh at most things; and that is the reason why people in general do not understand me. A person who wishes to be popular, should never laugh at any thing. A jest startles people from that tranquil dulness in which they love to indulge : they do not like it till age has worn off the joke's edge. … I am persuaded, if all gay badinage were prefaced by an explanation, it would be infinitely better received."

"But what is the ordinary history of the heart ? We yield to some strong and sudden impulse. One sweet face sheds its own loveliness over earth. A subtle pleasure, unknown before, enters into the commonest thing. We gaze on the stars, and dream of an existence spiritual and lovely as their own, far removed from all lower cares, from all the meaner and baser portion of our ordinary path. The face of nature has grown fairer than of old ; a thousand graceful phantasies are linked with every leaf and flower. The odour that comes from the violet with the last sobs of a spring shower, is more fragrant from recalling the faint breathing of one beloved mouth. We turn the poet's page, now, to find a thousand hidden meanings, only to be detected by a passionate sympathy; for poetry is the language set apart for love."

"[From Sir Jasper Meredith to Ethel]: {Of love} I look upon it as the greatest calamity to which our nature is subject. What is it but having our happiness taken out of our own hands, and delivered, bound and bartered, into that of another."

"For Hope say Fear—Hope is a timid thing, Fearful, and weak, and born in suffering; At least, such hope as human life can bring."

"For nothing like the weary step Betrays the weary heart."

"I believe that, to the young, suspense is the most intolerable suffering. Active misery always brings with it its own power of endurance. What a common expression it is to hear,—"Well, if I had known what I had to go through beforehand, I should never have believed it possible that I could have done it.” But it is a dreadful thing to be left alone with your imagination, to have to fancy the worst, and yet not know what that worst may be; and this, in early youth, has a degree of acute anguish that after years cannot know. As we advance in life, we find all things here too utterly worthless to grieve over them as we once could grieve : we grow cold and careless ; the dust, to which we are hastening, has entered into the heart."

"Not in a close and bounded atmosphere Does life put forth its noblest and its best; 'Tis from the mountain's top that we look forth, And see how small the world is at our feet. There the free winds sweep with unfettered wing; There the sun rises first, and flings the last, The purple glories of the summer eve; There does the eagle build his mighty nest; And there the snow stains not its purity. When we descend, the vapour gathers round, And the path narrows : small and worthless things Obstruct our way; and, in ourselves, we feel The strong compulsion of their influence. We grow like those with whom we daily blend : To yield is to resemble."

"[From Lady Marchmont’s Letters to Sir Jasper]: Alas, for human nature ! even grief must take an attitude before it can hope for sympathy. I now understand on what principles our widows wear weeds, and our judges wigs. The imposing external appearance is every thing in this world."

"Life's best gifts are bought dearly. Wealth is won By years of toil, and often comes too late: With pleasure comes satiety ; and pomp Is compassed round with vexing vanities : And genius, earth's most glorious gift, that lasts When all beside is perished in the dust— How bitter is the suffering it endures ! How dark the penalty that it exacts !"

"… with all the appliances of cheerfulness, with all the means of wit, the chief portion of the "table-talk" turned upon individual and general grievances. Each person was the most injured individual under the sun."

"Wealth is to luxury what marble is to the palace—it must be there, as the first material ; but taste, and taste only, can direct its after use."

"[From Lady Marchmont’s Letters to Sir Jasper]: {Of England} Our weather and our government are equally bad—at least every one say that they are."

"Mind, dangerous and glorious gift! Too much thy native heaven has left Its nature in thee, for thy light To be content with earthly home. It hath another, and its sight Will too much to that other roam ;"

"[From Lady Marchmont’s Letters to Sir Jasper]: Well, enthusiasm is the divine particle in our composition : with it we are great, generous, and true ; without it, we are little, false, and mean."

"There is in life no blessing like affection : It soothes, it hallows, elevates, subdues, And bringeth down to earth its native heaven."

"Half the misery in the world arises from want of sympathy. We do not assist each other as we might do, because we rarely pause to ask, do they need our assistance ? And this works out the moral of suffering: we need to suffer, that we may learn to pity."

"A feather on the wind, a straw on the stream—such are, indeed, the emblems of humanity. We resolve, and our resolutions melt away with a word and a look : we are the toys of an emotion. … We are rarely wrong when we act from impulse. By that I do not mean every rash, and wayward, and selfish fantasy ; but by allowing its natural course to the first warm and generous feeling that springs up in the heart. Second thoughts are more worldly, more cold, and calculate on some advantage."

"Deep and bitter is the grief that shrinks from words, even with those the most loved and trusted ;"

"It is wretchedness to kneel by the grave of the departed, who have taken with them the verdure from the earth, and the glory from the sky ; who have left home and heart alike desolate : but then the soul asserts its diviner portion, looks afar off through the valley of the shadow of tears, and is intensely conscious that here is but its trial, and beyond is its triumph. The love that dwells with the dead has a sanctity in its sorrow ; for love, above all things, asserts that we are immortal. But wretchedness takes no form, varied as are its many modes in this our weary existence, like that where the hand is given, and the heart is far away—where the love vowed at the altar is not that which lies crushed, yet not quenched, within the hidden soul. Hope brings no comfort ; for there were cruelty and crime in its promises: memory has no solace ; it can,at best, only crave oblivion—and oblivion of what ? Of all life's sweet dreams, and deepest feelings. Yet, what slight things must, with a sting like that of the adder, bring back the past—too dear, and yet too bitter ! a word, a look, a tone, may be enough to wrong every pulse with the agony of a vain and forbidden regret."

"Bring from the east, bring from the west, Flowers for the hair, gems for the vest ; Bring the rich silks that are shining with gold, Wrought in rich broidery on every fold, Bring ye the perfumes that breathe on the rose, Such as the summer of Egypt bestows ; Bring the white pearls from the depths of the sea — They are fair like the neck where their lustre will be. Such are the offerings that now will be brought, But can they bring peace to the turmoil of thought ? Can they one moment of quiet bestow To the human heart, feverish and beating, below ?"

"[From Lord Norbourne, to himself]: This is worse than foolish, of all follies that we can commit, the greatest is to hesitate."

"[From Lord Norbourne, to himself]: Youth would be a delightful time, if it were not so singularly absurd; and if the consequences of its vain hopes, and foolish beliefs, did not remain long after themselves had passed away."

"In the little, as in the great things of life, are to be found the type and sign of our immortality. Every hope that looks forward is pledge of the hereafter to which it refers. Who rests content with the present ? None. We have all deep within us a craving for the future. In childhood we anticipate youth ; in youth manhood ; in manhood old age ; and to what does that turn, but to a world beyond our own ? From the very first, the strong belief is nursed within us ; we look forward and forward, till that which was desire grows faith. The to come is the universal heritage of mankind ; and he claims but a small part of his portion who looks not beyond the grave."

"Yet wherefore pause upon our way ? Tis best to hurry on ; For half the dangers that we fear, We face them, and they're gone."

"[From Lady Mary Wortley Montague]: I see no great good in being remembered : I would fain concentrate existence in the present. I would forget in order to enjoy. As to memory, it only reminds me that I am growing older every day ; and as to hope, it only puts one out of conceit with possession."

"Love is aspiring, yet is humble, too: It doth exalt another o'er itself, With sweet heart homage, which delights to raise That which it worships ; yet is fain to win The idol to its lone and lowly home Of deep affection."

"[From Lady Mary Wortley Montague]: Ah, we make laws, and we follow customs. By the first we cut off our own pleasures; and by the second, make ourselves answerable for the follies of others."

"[From the Duke of Wharton]: I hope that you have heard the proposed alteration in the commandments at the last political meeting at Houghton ? Hanbury suggested that the 'not' should, in future, be omitted; but Doddington objected, as people might leave off doing wrong if it became a duty. At all events, they would not steal, covet, and bear false witness against their neighbour, with half the relish that they do at present."

"[From Lord Hervey]: I do not dislike the past, present, nor future. Like woman, they have all behaved very well to me. The past has given me a great deal of pleasure; the present is with you ; and as to the future, such is the force of example, that I doubt not it will do by me as its predecessors have done."

"[From the Duke of Wharton]: I am not sure that I like to be reminded of any thing. Let me exist intensely in the present—the past and future should be omitted from my life by express desire."

"After all, wit is something like sunshine in a frost—very sharp, very bright, but very cold and uncomfortable."

"[From the Duke of Wharton]: For my part, I hold that the connubial system of this country is a complete mistake. The only happy marriages I ever heard of are those in some Eastern story I once read, where the king marries a new wife every night, and cuts off her head in the morning."

"It was a lovely day ; for, say what they will, England does see the sunshine sometimes. Indeed, I think that our climate is an injured angel : has it not the charm of change, and what charm can be greater ?"

"Friends began to drop in. One came with intelligence of a sale, where the most divine things in the world were to be had for nothing, or next to it—that next to it, by-the-by, is usually a very sufficient difference."

"Pleasure lasts forever, but enjoyment does not : the reason is, that the one lies around, and perpetually renews itself; but the other lies within, and exhausts itself."

"A pretty, rainbow sort of life enough ; Filled up with vanities and gay caprice : Such life is like the garden at Versailles, Where all is artificial ; and the stream Is held in marble basins, or sent up Amid the fretted air, in waterfalls ; Fantastic, sparkling ; and the element, The mighty element, a moment's toy ; And, like all toys, ephemeral."

"The poet's life is one of want and suffering, and often of mortification—mortification, too, that comes terribly home ; but far be it from me to say, that it has not its own exceeding great reward."

"The life of the most successful writer has rarely been other than of toil and privation; and here I cannot but notice a singularly absurd "popular fancy," that genius and industry are incompatible. The one is inherent in the other. A mind so constituted has a restlessness in its powers, which forces them into activity."

"A history of how and where works of imagination have been produced, would be more extraordinary than even the works themselves."

"In the country, an open window lets in at once the fair face of heaven : the sunshine has its own cheerfulness ; the green bough flings on the floor its pleasant shade; and the spirit sees, at a glance, the field and the hedge where the hawthorn is in bloom. Not so in a town : there smoke enters at the casement ; and we look out upon the darkened wall, and the narrow street, where the very atmosphere is dull and coarse. Its gloomy influence is on all."

"There has always been to me something inexpressibly touching in the single taper burning through the long and lonely hours of silence and sleep. It must mark some weary vigil ; one, perhaps, by the sick couch, where rests the pale face on which we dread every moment to look our last. How the very heart suspends its beating in the hushed stillness of the sick chamber ! what a history of hopes fears, and cares, are in its hours! How does love then feel its utter fondness and its helplessness! How is the more active business of the outward world forgotten in the deep interest of the hushed world in those darkened walls !—a look, a tone, a breath, is there of vital importance. With what tender care the cup is raised to the feverish lip ; with what intense anxiety the colour is watched on the wasted cheek ! How are the pulses counted on the thin hand, and sometimes in vain !"

"Existence is full of strange contrasts. The wheel of life whirls round, and leaves us scarcely time to know where we are before we find ourselves in a totally different position. The material is always much the same,—pride, vanity, deceit, and selfishness ; but it is worked up into very different shapes."

"Alas ! why should our lot in life be made, Before we know that life ? Experience comes, But comes too late. If I could now recall All that I now regret, how different Would be my choice !"

"The wind, amid the green leaves and the breathing flowers, goes its way in music ; it is the sweet and mystic song of universal nature. But it enters into our dwellings, and it learns there the accent of pain ; it breathes what it bears away—the sigh that tells, even in the midnight hours, of unrest, and the voice of lamentation that speaks but in solitude. These echoes accumulate, and the house that has stood for years retains within its walls complaints long since lost in air: but the wind, that heard, recalls them ; and there is a strange likeness to humanity in its murmurs, as it howls mournfully along the vaulted ceiling, or shrieks through the winding passages."