Ethel Churchill (or The Two Brides)

"I believe all the good that is sometimes said of human nature when I remember the feelings of youth; and it is this principle explains why men whose "hearts are dry as summer's dust," often delight in the society of the very young. The sympathy is awakened by memory."

"Life has dark secrets ; and the hearts are few That treasure not some sorrow from the world— A sorrow silent, gloomy, and unknown, Yet colouring the future from the past. … for time is terrible, Avenging, and betraying."

"The future has a more subtle sympathy with the present than our imperfect nature can analyse. Who has not felt that nameless shadow upon the spirit, which indicates the coming trouble as surely as the over-hanging cloud foretells the thunderstorm ? The external world is full of signs ; and so is the internal, if we knew but how to trace them. There is the weight on the air before the tempest; there is the weight on the heart as the coming evil approaches."

"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."

"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 !"

"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."

"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 !"

"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."

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

"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."

"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."

"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."

"[From Sir Jasper Meredith]: Human enjoyment is all too dearly atoned."

"Nothing can compensate to a woman for the want of exterior attraction. There is a nameless fascination about beauty, which seems, like all fairy gifts, crowded into one. It wins without an effort, and obtains credit for possessing every thing else. How many mortifications, from its very cradle, has the unpleasing exterior to endure !"

"Even into philosophy is carried the deeper truth of the heart—and how many inconsistencies are at once understood ! We grow more indulgent, more pitying ; and one sweet weakness of our own leads to so much indulgence for others. We doubt, however, whether the term weakness be not misapplied in this case. If there be one emotion that redeems our humanity by stirring all that is generous and unselfish within us, that awakens all the poetry of our nature, and that makes us believe in that heaven of which it bears the likeness, it is love : love, spiritual, devoted, and eternal ; love, that softens the shadow of the valley of death, to welcome us after to its own and immortal home."

"Which was the true philosopher ?—the sage Who to the sorrows and the crimes of life Gave tears—or he who laughed at all he saw ?"

"Love is a new intelligence entered into the being ; it is the softest, but the most subtle light ; in all experience it deceives itself; but how many truths does it teach,—how much knowledge does it impart ! It makes us alive to a thousand feelings, of whose very existence, till then, we had not dreamed. The poet's page has a new magic : we comprehend all that had before seemed graceful exaggeration ; we now find that poetry falls short of what it seeks to express ; and we take a new delight in the musical language that seems made for tenderness."

"I do not ask to offer thee A timid love like mine ; I lay it, as the rose is laid, On some immortal shrine."

"[From Lady Marchmont’s Letters to Sir Jasper]: Chloe believed that he had immortalised himself by a representation of the war of the Titans against the gods. Unfortunately, they were higher than even the room ; and Lord Marchmont refused to comply with the wishes of the artiste, and to take down his splendidly painted ceiling to admit of the dessert."

"He was of those whose sensitive organisation, and inborn talent, constitute that genius which holds ordinary maxims at defiance. No education can confer—no circumstances check it; and even to account for it, we need, with the ancients, to believe in inspiration."

"To me there is no season so lovely as the autumn. There is a gayety about the spring with which I have no anything for its perpetual revival of leaf and bloom is too great a contrast to the inner world, where so many feelings lie barren, and so many hopes withered. There is an activity about it, from which the wearied spirits shrink; and a joyousness, which but makes you turn more sadly upon yourself; but about autumn there is a tender melancholy inexpressibly soothing ; decay is around, but such is in your own heart. There is a languor in the air which encourages your own, and the poetry of memory is in every drooping flower and falling leaf. The very magnificence of its Assyrian array is touched with the light of imagination : even while you watch it, it passes away as your brightest hopes have done before."

"Moreover, the habits of business are the most enduring of any; …"

"[From Lady Marchmont’s Letters to Sir Jasper]: What a duty to one's self it is to be young, vain, and pretty ! but the middle quality is the most important. Vanity is a cloak that wraps us up comfortably, and a drapery which sets us off to the best advantage ; and its great merit is, that it suits itself to every sort of circumstance."

"… there are no weaknesses which we so thoroughly despise as those to which ourselves have yielded; and no faults strike us so forcibly as our own, when they are past."

"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."

"No two people are more different in outward seeming, than a man sometimes grows to differ from himself."

"Vanity ! guiding power, 'tis thine to rule Statesman and vestryman—the knave or fool. The Macedonian crossed Hydaspes' wave, Fierce as the storm, and gloomy as the grave. Urged by the thought, what would Athenians say, When next they gathered on a market-day ? And the same spirit that induced his toil, Leads on the cook, to stew, and roast, and boil : Whether the spice be mixed—the flag unfurled— Each deems their task the glory of the world."

"Farewell's a bitter word to say."

"Who, in after life, can help smiling at the fancies in which early anticipation revelled ; how absurd, how impossible, do they not now appear! Yet, in such mockery lurks much of bitterness : the laugh rings hollow from many a disappointment, and many a mortification."

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

"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."

"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."

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

"[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."

"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]: {Of England} Our weather and our government are equally bad—at least every one say that they are."

"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."

"… 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."

"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 !"

"[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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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."

"[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."

"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 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."

"[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."

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

"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 ?"