Short Story Writers From England

"Now, bitter, but useful, mortification is the steppingstone to knowledge, even in a child."

"How many children, discontented with the exercise of needful authority, might learn submission and thankfulness from the lot of others ; such a temper as that we have been describing is very uncommon ; the treatment of children oftener errs on the side of over-indulgence than aught else. How many might be taught better to appreciate the blessings which surround them by considering what some, less fortunate than themselves, are called upon to endure !"

"I believe the love of flowers to be as inherent in the disposition as any other inclination."

"Nothing discourages a child so much as the impossibility of pleasing."

"What a duty it is to cultivate a pleasant manner ! how many a meeting does it make cheerful which would otherwise have been stupid and formal! We do not mean by this the mere routine of polite observance, but we mean that general cheerfulness which, like the sunshine lights up whatever it touches, that attention to others which discovers what subject is most likely to interest them, and that information which, ready for use, is easily laid under contribution by the habit of turning all resources to immediate employ. In short, a really pleasant manner grows out of benevolence, which can be as much shown in a small courtesy as in a great service."

"... any one who has noticed may have observed that the weeping of grown up persons produces a sensation of awe on the mind of a child. Accustomed to associate the idea of superiority with that of their elders, they cannot understand their giving way to the same emotions as themselves."

"Selfishness is hypocritical by nature, and seizes on the first decent excuse as a cloak ;"

"There are always an ample sufficiency of compassionate neighbours ready to console one who, by common consent, is styled "the disconsolate widower.”"

"... happiness is not for this world — a conviction that cannot be too soon acquired : it will destroy a thousand vain expectations, dissipate the most perplexing of our illusions — the early knowledge that life is but a trial, whose triumph is hereafter, and this earth a place appointed for that sorrow and patient endurance which is gradually fitting us for a better and a happier state."

"Sympathy is the surest destruction of selfishness. Children, like the grown person, grow the better for participation in the sufferings where their own only share is pity."

"This volume was written for children. Miss Landon set out its purpose in the preface."

"THE fountain's low singing is heard on the wind, Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind; Some to grieve, some to gladden: around them they cast The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past. Away in the distance is heard the vast sound, From the streets of the city that compass it round, Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call; Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all."

"A single grave! —the only one In this unbroken ground, Where yet the garden leaf and flower Are lingering around."

"The heavy bridge confines your stream, Through which the barges toil, Smoke has shut out the sun's glad beam, Thy waves have caught the soil. On—on—though weariness it be, By shoal and barrier cross'd, Till thou hast reach'd the mighty sea, And there art wholly lost."

"It shock'd me first to see the sun Shine gladly o'er thy tomb; To see the wild flowers o'er it run In such luxuriant bloom. Now I feel glad that they should keep A bright sweet watch above thy sleep."

"Ah! it is well we can forget, Or who could linger on Beneath a sky whose stars are set, On earth whose flowers are gone? For who could welcome loved ones near, Thinking of those once far more dear,"

"To this fine spirit our earth owes her greatest: For the future is purchased by scorning the present, And life is redeemed from its clay soil by fame. * King, not a vestige remains of your palaces; Conqueror, forgotten the fame of your battles: But the Poet yet lives in the sweetness of music— He appeal'd to the heart, that never forgets."

". . . the desolate Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls It was not always desolate."

"For human tears are lava-drops, That scorch and wither as they flow; Then let them flow for those who live, And not for those who sleep below."

"Those sweet, vague sounds are on the air, Half sleep, half song--half false, half true, As if the wind that brought them there Had touched them with its music too."

"The shadow of the church falls o'er the ground, Hallowing its place of rest; and here the dead Slumber, where all religious impulses, And sad and holy feelings, angel like, Make the spot sacred with themselves, and wake Those sorrowful emotions in the heart Which purify it, like a temple meet For an unearthly presence. Life, vain Life, The bitter and the worthless, wherefore here Do thy remembrances intrude?"

"His shroud was damp, his face was white: He said,—"I cannot sleep, Your tears have made my shroud so wet; Oh, mother, do not weep!" Oh, love is strong!—the mother's heart Was filled with tender fears; Oh, love is strong!—and for her child Her grief restrained its tears."

"Though many a flower may win my praise, The violet has my love; I did not pass my childish days In garden or in grove: My garden was the window-seat, Upon whose edge was set A little vase—the fair, the sweet— It was the violet."

"THE quiet of the evening hour Was laid on every summer leaf; That purple shade was on each flower, At once so beautiful, so brief, Only the aspen knew not rest, But still, with an unquiet song, Kept murmuring to the gentle west, And cast a changeful shade along."

"Beautiful wreck! for still thy face, Though changed, is very fair; Like beauty's moonlight, left to shew Her morning sun was there."

"A light is gone from yonder sky, A star has left its sphere; The beautiful--and do they die In yon bright world as here? Will that star leave a lonely place, A darkness on the night?— No; few will miss its lovely face, And none think heaven less bright!"

"In sooth, this earth is a lovely place; Pass not in darkness over her face; Yet call back thy words of doom— They are too gay and too fair for the tomb. . . . . And have seen--alas! 'tis but outward show— The sunshine of yon green earth below: Glad of rest must the wretched and way-worn be— Angel of Death, they are ready for thee!"

"Like prisoners escaped during night from their prison, The waters fling gaily their spray to the sun; Who can tell me from whence that glad river has risen? Who can say whence it springs in its beauty?—not one."

"He said it was fearful to see them stand, Nor the living nor yet the dead, And the light glared strange in the glassy eyes Whose human look was fled. For frost had done one half life's part, And kept them from decay ; Those they loved had mouldered, but these Look'd the dead of yesterday."

"Each look'd upon his comrade's face, Pale as funereal stone ; Yet none could touch the other's hand, For none could feel his own. Like statues fixed, that gallant band Stood on the dread deck to die ; The sleet was their shroud, the wind their dirge, And their churchyard the sea and sky."

"THE Moon is sailing o'er the sky, But lonely all, as if she pined For somewhat of companionship, And felt it was in vain she shined: Earth is her mirror, and the stars Are as the court around her throne; She is a beauty and a queen; But what is this? she is alone."

"Is there some nameless boding sent, Like a noiseless voice from the tomb?— A spirit note from the other world, To warn of death and doom?"

"[After] Burnt to the dust, an ashy heap Was every cottage round;— I listened, but I could not hear One single human sound:"

"[Before] Just two or three sweet chords, that seemed An echo of thy tone,— The cushat's song was on the wind And mingled with thine own."

"It is like love ; oh love should be An ever-changing thing, — The love that I could worship must Be ever on the wing."

"The apple blossoms' shower of pearl, The pear tree's rosier hue, As beautiful as woman's blush, As evanescent too."

"Of all the months that fill the year Give April's month to me, For earth and sky are then so filled With sweet variety !"

"Look on yon child, it droops the head, Its knees are bow'd with pain; It mutters from its wretched bed, "Oh, let me sleep again!" Alas! 'tis time, the mother's eyes Turn mournfully away; Alas! 'tis time, the child must rise, And yet it is not day."

"THERE rests a shade above yon town, A dark funereal shroud: 'Tis not the tempest hurrying down, 'Tis not a summer cloud. The smoke that rises on the air Is as a type and sign; A shadow flung by the despair Within those streets of thine."

"It is so sad — So very lonely — to be the sole one In whom there is a sign of change!"

"Oh, there are evil moments in our life, When but a thought, a word, a look, has power To dash the cup of happiness aside, And stamp us wretched!"

"Oh, who—reposed on some fond breast, Love's own delicious place of rest— Reading faith in the watching eyes, Feeling the heart beat with its sighs, Could know regrets, or doubts, or cares, That we had bound our fate with theirs!"

"Alas! she looked but in that eye Where now was writ her destiny. The heart love leaves looks back ever; The heart where he is dwelling, never."

"My bark is on the ocean riding, Like a spirit o'er it gliding; Maiden, wilt thou come—and be Queen of my fair ship and me?"

"Love, passionate young Love, how sweet it is To have the bosom made a Paradise By thee—life lighted by thy rainbow smile!"

"Oh, nothing has the memory of love!"

"Even in childhood's innocence of pleasure Lives that destroying spirit which in time Will waste, then want, the best of happiness."

". . . the clock Was placed where full the sun-beams fell;—what deep, Simple morality spoke in those hands, Going their way in silence, till a sound, Solemn and sweet, made their appeal to Time, And the hour spoke its only warning!"

"He painted till the lamps grew dim, his hand Scarce conscious what it wrought; at length his lids Closed in a heavy slumber, and he dream'd That a fair creature came and kissed his brow, And bade him follow her: he knew the look, And rose. Awakening, he found himself Kneeling before the portrait:—'twas so fair He deemed it lived, and press'd his burning lips To the sweet mouth; his soul pass'd in that kiss,— Young Guido died beside his masterpiece!"

"I know not which is the most fatal gift, Genius or Love, for both alike are ruled By stars of bright aspect and evil influence."