Victorian Novelists

"There are no countries in the world less known by the British than these selfsame British Islands, or where more strange things are every day occurring."

"The enthusiastic and pleasing illusions of youth."

"Fear God, and take your own part."

"All creeds and opinions are nothing but the mere result of chance and temperament."

"I never saw such a place for merched anllad [wanton women] as Northampton."

"'Scotland! a queer country that, your honour!' 'So it is,' said I; 'a queerer country I never saw in all my life.' 'And a queer set of people, your honour,' 'So they are,' said I; 'a queerer set of people than the Scotch you would scarcely seen in a summer's day.'"

"A little work, a little gay To keep us going—and so good-day! A little warmth, a little light Of love’s bestowing—and so, good-night. A little fun, to match the sorrow Of each day’s growing—and so, good-morrow! A little trust that when we die We reap our sowing—and so—good-bye!"

"Life ain’t all beer and skittles, and more’s the pity; but what’s the odds, so long as you’re happy?"

"Tho' the world could turn from you, This, at least, I learn from you: Beauty and Truth, tho' never found, are worthy to be sought, The singer, upward-springing, Is grander than his singing, And tranquil self-sufficing joy illumes the dark of thought. This, at least, you teach me, In a revelation: That gods still snatch, as worthy death, the soul in its aspiration."

"“O Balder, he who fashion’d us, And bade us live and move, Shall weave for Death’s sad heavenly hair Immortal flowers of love. “Ah! never fail’d my servant Death, Whene’er I named his name,— But at my bidding he hath flown As swift as frost or flame. “Yea, as a sleuth-hound tracks a man, And finds his form, and springs, So hath he hunted down the gods As well as human things! “Yet only thro’ the strength of Death A god shall fall or rise — A thousand lie on the cold snows, Stone still, with marble eyes. “But whosoe’er shall conquer Death, Tho’ mortal man he be, Shall in his season rise again, And live, with thee, and me! “And whosoe’er loves mortals most Shall conquer Death the best, Yea, whosoe’er grows beautiful Shall grow divinely blest.” The white Christ raised his shining face To that still bright’ning sky. “Only the beautiful shall abide, Only the base shall die!”"

"Along the melting shores of earth An emerald flame there ran, Forest and field grew bright, and mirth Gladdened the flocks of man. Then glory grew on earth and heaven, Full glory of full day! Then the bright rainbow's colours seven On every iceberg lay!In Balder's hand Christ placed His own, And it was golden weather, And on that berg as on a throne The Brethren stood together!And countless voices far and wide Sang sweet beneath the sky — "All that is beautiful shall abide, All that is base shall die."."

"Lo, the book I hold here, In the city cold here !I hold it with a gentle hand and love it as I may; Lo, the weary moments! Lo, the icy comments! And lo, false Fortune's knife of gold swift-lifted up to slay!Has the strife no ending? Has the song no meaning?Linger I, idle as of old, while men are reaping or gleaning?"

"Their hearts and sentiments were free, their appetites were hearty."

"I ask no more from mortals Than your beautiful face implies,— The beauty the artist beholding Interprets and sanctifies. Who says that men have fallen, That life is wretched and rough? I say, the world is lovely, And that loveliness is enough. So my doubting days are ended, And the labour of life seems clear; And life hums deeply around me, Just like the murmur here, And quickens the sense of living, And shapes me for peace and storm,— And dims my eyes with gladness When it glides into colour and form!"

"Believing hath a core of unbelieving."

"Upward my face I turn to you, I long for you, I yearn to you, The spectral vision trances me to utt'rance wild and weak; It is not that I mourn you, To mourn you were to scorn you, For you are one step nearer to the beauty singers seek. But I want, and cannot see you, I seek and cannot find you, And, see! I touch the book of songs you tenderly left behind you!"

"Even on the white English crags A few strong spirits, in a race that binds Its body in chains and calls them Liberty, And calls each fresh link Progress, stood erect With faces pale that hunger'd to the light."

"I saw the starry Tree Eternity Put forth the blossom Time."

"Full of a sweet indifference."

"I, who loved and knew you, In the city that slew you, Still hunger on, and thirst, and climb, proud-hearted and alone:Serpent-fears enfold me, Syren-visions hold me, And, like a wave, I gather strength, and gathering strength, I moan; Yea, the pale moon beckons, Still I follow, aching, And gather strength, only to make a louder moan, in breaking!"

"The dramatic possibilities of the thing had tickled the dragon immensely, and he had been up from an early hour, preparing for his first public appearance with as much heartiness as if the years had run backwards, and he had been again a little dragonlet, playing with his sisters on the floor of their mother's cave, at the game of saints-and-dragons, in which the dragon was bound to win. A low muttering, mingled with snorts, now made itself heard; rising to a bellowing roar that seemed to fill the plain. Then a cloud of smoke obscured the mouth of the cave, and out of the midst of it the dragon himself, shining, sea-blue, magnificent, pranced splendidly forth; and everybody said, "Oo-oo-oo!" as if he had been a mighty rocket! His scales were glittering, his long spiky tail lashed his sides, his claws tore up the turf and sent it flying high over his back, and smoke and fire incessantly jetted from his angry nostrils. "Oh, well done, dragon!" cried the Boy, excitedly. "Didn't think he had it in him!" he added to himself."

"After refreshment St. George made a speech, in which he informed his audience that he had removed their direful scourge, at a great deal of trouble and inconvenience to himself, and now they weren't to go about grumbling and fancying they'd got grievances, because they hadn't. And they shouldn't be so fond of fights, because next time they might have to do the fighting themselves, which would not be the same thing at all."

"No doubt you would deeply regret any error you might make in the hurry of the moment; but you wouldn't regret it half as much as I should! However, I suppose we've got to trust somebody, as we go through life, and your plan seems, on the whole, as good a one as any."

"There's nobody in the world I'd sooner oblige than you and this young gentleman here. But the whole thing's nonsense, and conventionality, and popular thick-headedness. There's absolutely nothing to fight about, from beginning to end. And anyhow I'm not going to, so that settles it!"

""But this would be a beautiful place for a fight," he began again persuasively. "These great bare rolling Downs for the arena, — and me in my golden armour showing up against your big blue scaly coils! Think what a picture it would make!" "Now you're trying to get at me through my artistic sensibilities," said the dragon. "But it won't work. Not but what it would make a very pretty picture, as you say," he added, wavering a little."

"Our villagers are the biggest story-tellers in all the country round. It's a known fact. You're a stranger in these parts, or else you'd have heard it already. All they want is a fight. They're the most awful beggars for getting up fights — it's meat and drink to them. … I've no doubt they've been telling you what a hero you were, and how you were bound to win, in the cause of right and justice, and so on; but let me tell you, I came down the street just now, and they were betting six to four on the dragon freely!" "Six to four on the dragon!" murmured St. George sadly, resting his cheek on his hand. "This is an evil world, and sometimes I begin to think that all the wickedness in it is not entirely bottled up inside the dragons..."

"Banquets are always pleasant things, consisting mostly, as they do, of eating and drinking; but the specially nice thing about a banquet is, that it comes when something's over, and there's nothing more to worry about, and to-morrow seems a long way off. St George was happy because there had been a fight and he hadn't had to kill anybody; for he didn't really like killing, though he generally had to do it. The dragon was happy because there had been a fight, and so far from being hurt in it he had won popularity and a sure footing in society. The Boy was happy because there had been a fight, and in spite of it all his two friends were on the best of terms. And all the others were happy because there had been a fight, and — well, they didn't require any other reasons for their happiness."

"The Boy made his way back to the village in a state of great despondency. First of all, there wasn't going to be any fight; next, his dear and honoured friend the dragon hadn't shown up in quite such a heroic light as he would have liked; and lastly, whether the dragon was a hero at heart or not, it made no difference, for St. George would most undoubtedly cut his head off."

"There's a misunderstanding somewhere, and I want to put it right. The fact is, this is a good dragon."

"My dear little man," said the dragon solemnly, "just understand, once for all, that I can't fight and I won't fight. I've never fought in my life, and I'm not going to begin now, just to give you a Roman holiday. In old days I always let the other fellows — the earnest fellows — do all the fighting, and no doubt that's why I have the pleasure of being here now."

"So they set off up the hill arm-in-arm, the Saint, the Dragon, and the Boy. The lights in the little village began to go out; but there were stars, and a late moon, as they climbed to the Downs together. And, as they turned the last corner and disappeared from view, snatches of an old song were borne back on the night-breeze. I can't be certain which of them was singing, but I think it was the Dragon!"

"O deary, deary me," moaned the dragon; "this is too awful. I won't see him, and that's flat. I don't want to know the fellow at all. I'm sure he's not nice. You must tell him to go away at once, please. Say he can write if he likes, but I can't give him an interview. I'm not seeing anybody at present."

"Oh dear, oh dear, how stupid men are when they get an idea into their heads! I tell you he's a good dragon, and a friend of mine, and tells me the most beautiful stories you ever heard, all about old times and when he was little. And he's been so kind to mother, and mother'd do anything for him. And father likes him too, though father doesn't hold with art and poetry much, and always falls asleep when the dragon starts talking about style. But the fact is, nobody can help liking him when once they know him. He's so engaging and so trustful, and as simple as a child!"

"Don't, for goodness' sake, keep on saying 'Don't;' I hear so much of it, and it's monotonous, and makes me tired."

"Look here, father, you know we've each of us got our line. You know about sheep, and weather, and things; I know about dragons. I always said, you know, that that cave up there was a dragon-cave. I always said it must have belonged to a dragon some time, and ought to belong to a dragon now, if rules count for anything. Well, now you tell me it has got a dragon, and so that's all right. I'm not half as much surprised as when you told me it hadn't got a dragon. Rules always come right if you wait quietly."

"The most modest and retiring dragon in the world, if he's as big as four cart-horses and covered with blue scales, cannot keep altogether out of the public view. And so in the village tavern of nights the fact that a real live dragon sat brooding in the cave on the Downs was naturally a subject for talk."

"Monkeys, who very sensibly refrain from speech lest they should be set to earn their livings."

"As a rule, indeed, grown-up people are fairly correct on matters of fact; it is in the higher gift of imagination that they are so sadly to seek."

"Footprints in the snow have been unfailing provokers of sentiment ever since snow was first a white wonder in this drab-coloured world of ours."

"The dreadful beast must be exterminated, the country-side must be freed from this pest, this terror, this destroying scourge. The fact that not even a hen roost was the worse for the dragon's arrival wasn't allowed to have anything to do with it. He was a dragon, and he couldn't deny it, and if he didn't choose to behave as such that was his own lookout. But in spite of much valiant talk no hero was found willing to take sword and spear and free the suffering village and win deathless fame; and each night's heated discussion always ended in nothing. Meanwhile the dragon, a happy Bohemian, lolled on the turf, enjoyed the sunsets, told antediluvian anecdotes to the Boy, and polished his old verses while meditating on fresh ones."

"St. George paced slowly up the street. The Boy's heart stood still and he breathed with sobs, the beauty and the grace of the hero were so far beyond anything he had yet seen. His fluted armour was inlaid with gold, his plumed helmet hung at his saddle-bow, and his thick fair hair framed a face gracious and gentle beyond expression till you caught the sternness in his eyes. He drew rein in front of the little inn, and the villagers crowded round with greetings and thanks and voluble statements of their wrongs and grievances and oppressions. The Boy heard the grave gentle voice of the Saint, assuring them that all would be well now, and that he would stand by them and see them righted and free them from their foe; then he dismounted and passed through the doorway and the crowd poured in after him. But the Boy made off up the hill as fast as he could lay his legs to the ground."

""Wonder if it's all true?" said Charlotte, as we hurried up the path. "Sounded dreadfully like nonsense, in parts!" "P'raps its true for all that," I replied encouragingly."

"In Kenneth Grahame's beautiful book, The Wind In The Willows, Mole and Rat go to the holy island of the great god, Pan. It is a superb piece of religious writing, but because it has gone beyond fact, it is deeply upsetting and untruthful to some people. If a story is not specified as being Christian, it is not Christian. But that is not so. I think that this scene is upsetting because it calls us beyond fact into the vast world of imagination, and imagination is a word of many dimensions."

"My mother is English, and as she was the one who read to us, my early world was A. A. Milne, Beatrix Potter, Kenneth Grahame, Lewis Carroll and Roald Dahl. None of them thought it necessary to protect children from darkness. On the contrary, they guided their readers right toward it. This gives one an enormous sense of being respected as a child. Not just of being trusted to handle things as they are, but to be accepted as not entirely good. To be recognized as having darkness within oneself, too. I don’t think I’ve trusted any author since who doesn’t address me with that assumption."

"To the beautiful memory of Kenneth Grahame, husband of Elspeth and father of Alastair, who passed the River on the 6 July 1932, leaving childhood and literature through him the more blest for all time."

"How divine is utterance!" she said. "As we to the brutes, poets are to us."

"Ireland gives England her soldiers, her generals too."

"There is nothing the body suffers that the soul may not profit by."

"What a woman thinks of women is the test of her nature."

"The well of true wit is truth itself."