Short Story Writers From England

"Distinction is purchased at the expense of sympathy"

"What a mistake rage is ! anger should never go beyond a sneer, if it really desires revenge."

"The peasant boy, who followed the coloured track of the rainbow, hoping to find the blue and charmed flower which springs where the arch touches earth, is wiser far than one who gives youth, genius, and time to literature."

"There must be some deep-rooted anti-social principle in every man's nature, so dearly does he love aught that separates him from his kind ; or is it but one of the many shapes taken by that mental kaleidoscope, vanity, the varying and the glittering, the desire of distinction, sinking into that of notice?"

"Good and evil ! good and evil ! ye are mingled inextricably in the web of our being ; and who may unthread the darker yarn ?"

"{of Theatres} There, while weeping for sorrows which are not, laughing at the light jest or the ludicrous misadventure, how little is remembered of the want which makes fear the only bond that binds the living to life !"

"Poverty is a terrible thing when it bows to the very ground the pride of the strong man—a terrible thing when it leaves old age destitute: till, the strong man may yet redeem his fortunes, and that old age may have had enjoyment while it was capable of enjoying. But a child, with the step slow from weakness, which from its age should be so buoyant; a cheek thin and white from hunger, at a period which especially cares for food (for all children are greedy); a form shrivelled with cold; a growth stopped by work too laborious for such tender years; a spirit broken by toil, want, and harshness; —is not such a child poverty's most miserable spectacle? It is, however, a common one."

"Curious it is that every hour of our day is repeated from myriad chimes; and yet how rarely do we attend to the clock striking! Alas! how emblematic is this of the way in which we neglect the many signs of time! How terrible, when we think of what time may achieve, is the manner in which we waste it! At the end of every man's life, at least three-quarters of the mighty element of which that life was composed will be found void—lost—nay, utterly forgotten! And yet that time, laboured and husbanded, might have built palaces, gathered wealth, and, still greater, made an imperishable name."

"How strong is the love of the country in all indwellers of towns !"

"How often will the lip frame some indifferent question, when the heart is full of the most important!"

"In sad truth, half our forebodings of our neighbours are but our own wishes, which we are ashamed to utter in any other form."

"He who seeks pleasure with reference to himself, not others, will ever find that pleasure is only another name for discontent."

"For when do friends not delight in the sorrow of the prosperous?"

"Truly, night was made for sleep; since to its wakeful hours belongs an oppression unknown to the very dreariest hours of day. The stillness is so deep, the solitude so unbroken, the fever brought on by want of rest so weakens the nerves, that the imagination exercises despotic and unwholesome power, till, if the heart have a fear or a sorrow, up it arises in all the force and terror of gigantic exaggeration."

"I had lost of humanity but its illusions, and they alone are what render it supportable."

"The weakness of our nature—how soon any strong emotion masters it !"

"Strange, that ignorance should be our best happiness in this life, and yet be the one we are ever striving to destroy !"

"We step not over the threshold of childhood till led by Love"

"Water—the mighty, the pure, the beautiful, the unfathomable—where is thy element so glorious as it is in thine own domain, the deep seas ? What an infinity of power is in the far Atlantic, the boundary of two separate worlds, apart like those of memory and of hope ! or in the bright Pacific, whose tides are turned to gold by a southern sun, and in whose bosom sleep a thousand isles, each covered with the verdure, the flowers, and the fruit of Eden ! But, amid all thy hereditary kingdoms, to which hast thou given beauty, as a birthright, lavishly as thou hast to thy favourite Mediterranean ? The silence of a summer night is now sleeping on its bosom, where the bright stars are mirrored, as if in its depths they had another home and another heaven. A spirit, cleaving air midway between the two, might have paused to ask which was sea, and which was sky. The shadows of earth and earthly things, resting omen-like upon the waters, alone shewed which was the home and which the mirror of the celestial host."

"For a discussion of some of the contents of this significant cultural volume, see Adriana Craciun, ‘Fatal Women of Romanticism’, Cambridge University Press, 2004, page 204. The section ‘The Enchantress’ here begins by describing that first story as a ‘self-consciously Byronic text’ that ‘develops a Promethean, distinctly Luciferian model of poetic identity and self-creation’."

"I would give worlds, could I believe One-half that is profess'd me; Affection! could I think it Thee, When Flattery has caress'd me."

"My tears are buried in my heart, Like cave-locked fountains sleeping."

"Another year, another year,— Alas! and must it be That Time's most dark and weary wheel Must turn again for me?"

"And this is the sum of our mortal state, The hopes we number,— Feverish waking, danger, death, And listless slumber."

"Let music make less terrible The silence of the dead; I care not, so my spirit last Long after life has fled."

"But song has touch'd my lips with fire, And made my heart a shrine; For what, although alloy'd, debased, Is in itself divine."

"I have such eagerness of hope To benefit my kind; And feel as if immortal power Were given to my mind."

"Well, read my cheek, and watch my eye,— Too strictly school'd are they, One secret of my soul to show, One hidden thought betray."

"Alas! We give our destiny from our own hands, And trust to those most frail of all frail things, The chances of humanity."

"Who shall say The love of genius is a common thing, Such as the many feel—half selfishness, Half vanity?—for genius is divine, And, like a god, doth turn its dwelling-place Into a temple; and the heart redeem'd By its fine influence is immortal shrine For love's divinity."

"For wishes are effectual but by will, And that too much is impotent and void In frail humanity; and time steals by Sinful and wavering, and unredeem'd."

"In this our social state, where petty cares And mercenary interests only look Upon the present's littleness, and shrink From the bold future, and the stately past,—"

"Are we not like that actor of old time, Who wore his mask so long his face took Its likeness?"

"The woman was in abject misery—that worst of poverty, which is haunted by shame—the only relic left by better days. She shrunk from all efforts at recovery, refused to administer the medicines, and spoke of the child's death but as a blessing. My God! and is the daily page of life Darken'd with wretchedness like this?"

"Oh never another dream can be Like that early dream of ours, When the fairy Hope lay down to sleep, Like a child, among the flowers."

"'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel, Far better had'st thou proved; Ev'n I could almost pity feel, For thou art not beloved."

"I'm weary, I'm weary,—this cold world of ours; I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers. . . . . I'm weary, I'm weary,—I'm off with the wind: Can I find a worse fate than the one left behind?"

"Free, thou sayest,—dream'st thou how? Loathing wouldst thou shun dismay'd Freedom by such ransom paid. —Girl, for thee I'll lay aside Veil of smiles and mask of pride; Shrowds that only ask of Fate Not to seem so desolate. —I am young,—but Age's snow Hides not colder depths below ..."

"Spirit, that ruleth man's life to its ending, Chance, Fortune, Fate, answer my summoning now; The storm o'er the face of the night is descending,— Fair moon, the dark clouds hide thy silvery brow. Let these bring thy answer, and tell me if sadness For ever man's penance and portion must be; Doth the morning come forth from a birthplace of gladness? Is there peace, is there rest, in thine empire or thee?"

"The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it, Or who ever read in the depths of their own? — How much, we never may speak of, yet feel it, But, even in feeling it, know it unknown!"

"How deep, how merciless, the love represt, That robs the silent midnight of its rest; That sees in gather'd crowds but one alone; That hears in mingled footsteps only one; That turns the poet's page, to only find Some mournful image for itself design'd; That seeks in music, but the plaining tone Which secret sorrow whispers is its own!"

"How can they say confiding is relief? Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring, Subdued and soften'd by the tears they bring; But there are some too long, too well conceal'd, Too deeply felt,—that are but once reveal'd: Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart, And then the life-blood follows from the heart; Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh, But which, once spoken, only hath to die.—"

"Thy voice is sweet, as if it took Its music from thy face. And word and mien, and step and look, Are perfect in their grace."

"Alas! the praise given to the ear Ne'er was nor e'er can be sincere— And does but waste away the mind On which it preys:—in vain Would they in whom its poison lurks A worthier state attain."

"Thou blessed season of our spring, When hopes are angels on the wing; Bound upwards to their heavenly shore, Alas! to visit earth no more."

"The early graced of Grecian song, The fragrant myrtle tree; For it doth speak of happy love, The delicate, the true."

"I am spectator, not partaker, here. To me it seems more like a pageant made To represent mirth, than the mirth itself."

"Blue hyacinths! Oh, do not show them me; they fill my eyes With tears too soft for such a scene as this."

"A weight is on the air, for ev'ry breeze Has, bird-like, folded up its wings for sleep."

"I can pass days Stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees, Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,— The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs,— Each tree a natural harp,— each different leaf A different note, blent in one vast thanks-giving."