Historical Novels

"... the green solitude of the Temple garden is the very place ... We leave the crowded street behind : we linger for a moment beside the little fountain, … It is, I believe, our only fountain, and all the associations of a fountain are poetical. It carries us to the East, and the stately halls of the caliphs rise on the mind's eye ; and we think over the thousand and one stories which made our childhood so happy, and stored up a world of unconscious poetry for our future years: or else it conjures up the graceful old Italian histories of moonlight festivals, when the red wine was cooled, and the lute echoed by the soft sound of falling waters. We leave the world of reality behind us for that of romance. That little fountain keeps, with its music, the entrance, as if to lull all more busy cares before we enter that quiet garden. Once entered in, how much lies around to subdue the troubled present with the mighty past! The river is below, with its banks haunted by memory."

"To see much of mankind sickens the philosopher and the poet; only in solitude can he continue to work for their benefit, or to crave for their sympathy."

"These are the things that fret away the heart Cold, careless trifles ; but not felt the less For mingling with the hourly acts of life."

"[From Constance Courtenaye]: I see clearly that society is as much a science as astronomy ; and, also, that, like poetry, one must be born with a genius for it."

"The altar, 'tis of death ! for there are laid The sacrifice of all youth's sweetest hopes. It is a dreadful thing for woman's lip To swear the heart away ; yet know that heart Annuls the vow while speaking, and shrinks back From the dark future that it dares not face. The service read above the open grave Is far less terrible than that which seals The vow that binds the victim, not the will; For in the grave is rest."

"As all of beauty, save her blush, were there; And, like light clouds floating around each room, The censers sent their breathings of perfume; And scented waters mingled with the breath Of flowers that died as they rejoiced in death."

"Why, what a history is on the rose ! A history beyond all other flowers ; But never more, in garden or in grove, Will the white queen reign paramount again. She must content her with remembered things, When her pale leaves were badge for knight and earl ; Pledge of a loyalty which was as pure, As free from stain, as those white depths her leaves Unfolded to the earliest breath of June."

"[From Lady Marchmont]: I am very vain, for I cultivate my vanity on a principle, and cannot understand why we should neglect such a source of gratification. I take all the admiration I can on the same principle that kings take taxes : I look upon it as my right."

"Mr. Trevanion was one of those talkers, who are too much engrossed with their own subject matter to have much attention to bestow elsewhere ; with them silence is attention. Ethel's wandering eye, and lip, tremulous with its effort to speak, would never have attracted his notice. To his utter astonishment, she interrupted a parenthesis, as brilliant as the rocket which it depicted, by saying, — "Mr. Trevanion, I do not know what you will think of my boldness, but I must speak to you.""

"I confess I have a great disdain for the west end of the town. It belongs to the small, the petty, and the present. From Hyde Park Corner to Charing Cross, all is utterly uninteresting : then history begins."

"How often, in this cold and bitter world, Is the warm heart thrown back upon itself! Cold, careless, are we of another's grief; We wrap ourselves in sullen selfishness."

"Why, life must mock itself to mark how small Are the distinctions of its various pride. ‘Tis strange how we delight in the unreal; The fanciful and the fantastic make One half our triumphs. Not in mighty things — The glorious offerings of our mind to fate — Do we ask homage to our vanities, One half so much as from the false and vain : The petty trifles that the social world Has fancied into grandeur."

"These are the spiders of society; They weave their petty webs of lies and sneers, And lie themselves in ambush for the spoil, The web seems fair, and glitters in the sun, And the poor victim winds him in the toil Before he dreams of danger or of death."

"It is curious to note how gradually the flowers warm into the rich colours and aromatic breath of summer. First, comes the snow-drop, formed from the snows, which give it name ; fair, but cold and scentless : then comes the primrose, with its faint soft hues, and its faint soft perfume — an allegory of actual existence, where the tenderest and most fragile natures are often those selected to bear the coldest weather, and the most bleak exposure."

"A woman's character is developed by the affections : when once they come into action, how rapidly are the latent qualities called forth, and in how brief a time what a wonderful change is wrought !"

"It is a strange thing, but so it is, that very brilliant spirits are almost always the result of mental suffering, like the fever produced by a wound. I sometimes doubt tears, I oftener doubt lamentations ; but I never yet doubt the existence of that misery which flushes the cheek and kindles the eye, and which makes the lip mock, with sparkling words, the dark and hidden world within."

"[From Lavinia Fenton to Norbourne Courtenaye]: At present I have only a soubrette's part, with an apron and pockets, and a ballad ; but, as I said before, luck's all in this world, and I have every requisite for being lucky. I have a handsome face, a good voice, I care for nothing and nobody ; and when I am a duchess, which I have quite set my mind on being, I will be very grateful to you for having patronised my first benefit, which I shall rely upon your doing."

"There is something in intense suffering that seeks concealment, something that is fain to belie itself. In Cooper's novel of the "Bravo," Jacques conceals himself and his boat, by lying where the moonlight fell dazzling on the water. We do the same with any great despair, we shroud it in a glittering atmosphere of smiles and jests ; but the smiles are sneers, and the jests are sarcasms. There is always a vein of bitterness runs through these feverish spirits, they are the very delirium of sorrow seeking to escape from itself, and which cannot. Suspense and agony are hidden by the moonshine."

"… and, alas ! for human nature, envy will always delight in inflicting mortification."

"It is a fearful stake the poet casts, When he comes forth from his sweet solitude Of hopes, and songs, and visionary things, To ask the iron verdict of the world. …. For never was there poet but he craved The golden sunshine of secure renown."

"After all, there is nothing like business for enabling us to get through our weary existence. The intellect cannot sustain its sunshine flight long ; the flagging wing drops to the earth. Pleasure palls, and idleness is "Many gathered miseries in one name ; " but business gets over the hours without counting them. It may be very tired at the end, still it has brought the day to a close sooner than any thing else."

"All things are symbols ; and we find, In morning's lovely prime, The actual history of the mind In its own early time:"

"[From Lord Norbourne]: … the miser, like the poet, must be born. It is not to be acquired without an original vocation."

"[From Lord Norbourne]: Why, there remain avarice and business. I exceedingly regret that I do not, cannot force myself to love money. It is the most secure source of enjoyment of which our nature is capable. It is tangible and present ; it is subject to no imaginary miseries; it goes on increasing ; it is a joy for ever. It exercises both bodily and mental faculties in its acquisition ; it is satisfaction to the past, and encouragement to the future."

"[From Lord Norbourne]: A woman always exaggerates to herself as she talks. Silence is the first step to forgetfulness."

"Day belongs to the earthlier deities — the stern, the harsh, and the cold. Gnomes are the spirits of daily hours. Toil, thought, and strife, beset us : we have to work, to quarrel, and to struggle : we have to take our neighbours in ; or, at least, to avoid their doing so by us. We are false, designing, and cautious ; for, after all, the doom of Ishmael is the doom of the whole race of men. His hand against every one, and every one's hand against him. Talk of general benevolence and philanthropy — nonsense! We all in our hearts hate each other; and good cause have we for so doing. But night comes in with a more genial spirit : we have done our worst and our bitterest ; and we need a small space to indulge any little bit of cordiality that may be left in us. A thousand gay phantasms float in on the sunny south, which has left the far-off vineyards of its birth. The taverns of our ancestors would ill bear contrasting with the clubs of to-day ; but many a gay midnight was past in the former : — midnights, whose mirth has descended even to us ; half the jests, whose gaiety is still contagious; half the epigrams, whose point is yet felt, were born of those brief and brilliant hours."

"What would women do, if headachs were abolished? They are the universal feminine resource."

"There is nothing in this world so sensitive as affection. It feels its own happiness too much not to tremble for its reality ; and starts, ever and anon, from its own delicious consciousness, to ask, Is it not, indeed, a dream ? A word and a look are enough either to repress or to encourage. Nothing is a trifle in love, for all is seen through an exaggerated medium …"

"[From Lady Mary Wortley Montague]: There is candour, at least, in borrowing from the wit of others, it frankly admits that we have none of our own."

"Could we but turn upon ourselves the eyes With which we look on others, life would pass In one perpetual blush and smile."

"The fanciful fables of fairy land are but allegories of the young poet's mind when the sweet spell is upon him. Some slight thing calls up the visionary world, and all the outward and actual is for the time forgotten. It is a fever ethereal and lovely ; but, like all other fevers, leaving behind weakness and exhaustion. I believe there is nothing that causes so strong a sensation of physical fatigue as the exercise of the imagination. The pulses beat too rapidly ; and how cold, how depressed, is the reaction !"

"[From Mr Lintot, another publisher]: Paper and printing are terrible things ; I wish books could do without them …"

"Give a strong mind the advantage of habit, and its dominion over the weak one is absolute."

"Ah! there are memories that will not vanish; Thoughts of the past we have no power to banish."

"[From Curl]: You reason too much ; all young people are so fond of reasons, as if reasons were of any use. … It is your duty to write what will sell, and I tell you reasons are unmarketable commodities."

"{Of Curl, a publisher} Reputation, feelings, or even chastisement, were as nothing in the balance weighed against his interest ; life was to him only a long sum ; his ledger was his Bible, and his religion, profit."

"[From Curl]: I don't, myself, dislike a fine phrase now and then ; but fine words, like fine clothes, don't do to wear every day : you would soon find yourself without any to wear."

"Life's smallest miseries are, perhaps, its worst: Great sufferings have great strength : there is a pride In the bold energy that braves the worst"

"It is, after all, full dress that is the test of the gentlewoman. Common people are frightened at an unusual toilette ; they think that finer clothes deserve finer manners, forgetting that any manner, to be good, must be that of every day."

"The lover may tremble while waiting for the mistress on whose lip hangs the heart's doom, but I doubt whether he feels equal anxiety with the young author waiting the fiat of his publisher."

"[From Curl]: Englishmen like to have a few sentiments ready for after-dinner use, in case of a speech. You must, also, add a dozen or so sarcasms, and say a little more about bribery and corruption. Above all, be sure that your jokes are obvious ones, and I know the thing will be a hit!"

"[From Lord Norbourne]: I have heard much of the beauty of truth ; but it is a beauty no one likes to look upon. To find it out, is only to find that you have been duped in every possible manner; and to hear it, is only to have a friend give way to his temper, and say something disagreeable to you."

"She had that charming laugh which, like a song, The song of a spring-bird, wakes suddenly When we least look for it. It lingered long Upon the ear, one of the sweet things we Treasure unconsciously. As steals along A stream in sunshine, stole its melody, As musical as it was light and wild, The buoyant spirit of some fairy child ; Yet mingled with soft sighs, that might express The depth and truth of earnest tenderness."

"When a woman has once made up her mind to be imprudent, she is very imprudent indeed ; …"

"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."

"[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."

"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."

"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."