Class Jl_i\JSJ_ Book. ^_11 Copiglit]\^___ COPyRlGHT DEPOSm POCKET EDITIONS Published by Charles Scribner''s Sons THE POCKET R. L. S. Leather, 75 cents net. Cloth, 50 cents net. A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES Leather, 75 cents net. Cloth, 50 cents net. TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY Leather, 75 cents net. Cloth, 50 cents net. AN INLAND VOYAGE Leather, 75 cents net. Cloth, 50 cents net. THE MEREDITH POCKET BOOK Leather, 75 cents net. THE THACKERAY POCKET BOOK THE THACKERAY POCKET BOOK COMPILEn BY- . ADELAIDE RAWNSLEY FOSSARD NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 1908 ■■ ,, , iZ\Sf LIBRARY of congress] ^'^ /^ Two CoDies Received \ \ \ 1 NOV 28 1908 CLASS C^ XXc Mo Copyright, 1908, by CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS Published November, 1908 1 IN LOVING MEMORY OF MY FATHER GEORGE H. FOSSARD, M.D. " Those who are gone you have. Those who departed loving- you, love you still ; and you love them always." —Rotmdabout Papers ( " On Letts's Diary "). " If love lives through all life; and survives through all sor- row ; and remains steadfast with us through all changes : and in all darkness of spirit burns brightly ; and, if we die, de- plores us forever, and loves still equally; and exists with the very last gasp and Ihrob of the faithful bosom whence it passes with the pure soul, beyond death ; surely it shall be immortal ! Though we who remain are separated from it, is it not ours in Heaven ? If we love still those we lose, can we altogether lose those we love V'—The Newcotnes. INTRODUCTION If authors sneer, it is the critic's business to sneer at them for sneering. He must pretend to be their superior, or who would care about his opinion? And his liveHhood is to find fault. Besides, he is right some- times; and the stories he reads, and the characters drawn in them, are old, sure enough. What stories are new? All types of all characters march through all fables: tremblers and boasters; victims and bullies; dupes and knaves, long-eared Neddies, giv- ing themselves leonine airs; Tartuffes wearing virtuous clothing; lovers and their trials; their blindness, their folly and constancy. With the very first page of the human story do not love and lies, too, begin ? So the tales were told ages before ^sop and asses under lion's manes roared in Hebrew; and sly foxes flattered in Etruscan; and wolves in sheep's clothing gnashed their teeth in San- scrit, no doubt. The sun shines to-day as he did when he first began shining; and the viii INTRODUCTION birds in the tree overhead, while I am writing, sing very much the same note they have sung ever since they were finches. . . . There may be nothing new under and in- cluding the sun; but it looks fresh every morning, and we rise with it to toil, hope, scheme, laugh, struggle, love, suffer, until the night comes and quiet. And then will wake Morrow, and the eyes that look on it; and so da capo. — The Newcomes, chap. i. SELECTED PASSAGES ADVERSITY AND had that further education which neither books nor years will give, but which some men get from the silent teachings of adversity. She is a great school-mistress, as many a poor fellow knows, that hath held his hand out to her ferrule, and whimpered over his lesson before her awful chair. — Esmond, chap, iv, bk. ii. IMPECUNIOSITY will do you good. . . . I don't know anything more wholesome for a man, for an honest man, mind you — for another, the medicine loses its effect. . . . It is a . . . tonic, it keeps your moral man in a perpetual state of excitement; as a man who is riding at a fence, or has his opponent's single stick before him, is forced to look his obstacle steadily in the face, and brace him- self to repulse or overcome it, a little necessity brings out your pluck, if you have any, and nerves you to grapple with fortune. — Pen- demiis, chap. xxxi. I ADVICE ADVICE WARNING he had; but I doubt others had warning before his time and since, and he benefited by it as most men do. — Esmond, chap, viii, bk. ii. BUT who in love (or in any other point, for the matter of that), hstens to advice? — Barry Lyndon, chap. ii. AND who does not know how useless ad- vice is ? A man gets his own experience and will take nobody's hearsay. — Esmond, chap, ii, bk. iii. MARRY, gentlemen, if you like, leave your comfortable dinner at the club for cold mutton and curl-papers at your home; give up your books or pleasures, and take to yourselves wives and children; but think well on what you do first, as I have no doubt you will, after this advice. . . . Advice is always useful in matters of love. Men always take it, they always follow other people's opinions, not their own. They always profit by example. — Men's Wives (Dennis Haggerty's Wife). YOU may, too, meet with your master. Don't be too eager, or too confident, or too worldly. — Pendennis, chap. xliv. AMBITION 3 OVE is always controlled by other peo- ' pie's advice, always. — Philip, chap. xxx. SUPPOSE in the game of life— and it is but a twopenny game, after all — you are equally eager of winning. Shall you be ashamed of your ambition or glory in it ? — Roundabout Papers ('Autour De Mon Chapeau'). THERE'S some particular prize we all of us value, and that every man of spirit will venture his life for. With this, it may be to achieve a great reputation for learning; with that, to be a man of fashion, and the admiration of the town; with another, to consummate a great work of art or poetry, and go to immortality that way; and with another, for a certain time of his life, the sole object and aim is a woman. — Esmond, chap, ii, bk. iii. IF it be no sin in a man to covet honour, why should a woman, too, not desire it? — Esmond, chap, iv, bk. iii. IS he the only man that has set his life against a stake which may not be worth the winning? — Esmond, chap, i, bk. iii. 4 AMBITION IN the battle of life are we all going to try for the honours of championship ? If we can do our duty, if we can keep our place pretty honourably through the combat, let us say, Laus Deo! at the end of it, as the firing ceases and the night falls over the field. — Roundabout Papers ('De Juventute'). INSPIRED by what is called a noble emu- lation, some people grasp at honours and win them, others, too weak or mean, blindly admire and grovel before those who have gained them, others not being able to acquire them, furiously hate, abuse, and envy. There are only a few bland and not-in-the- least conceited philosophers . . . who can behold . . . and mark the phenomenon calmly. — Book of Snobs, chap. iii. ALTHOUGH he acknowledged himself to be . . . with no ambition, . . . I think the man had some good in him, es- pecially in the resolution with which he bore his calamities. Many a gallant man of the highest honour is often not proof against these. . . . My maxim is to bear all; to put up with water if you cannot get burgundy, and if you have no velvet, to be content with frieze. But burgundy and velvet are the best, bien entendu, and the man is a fool who will not seize the best when the scramble is open. — Barry Lyndon, chap. vi. ASSOCIATES 5 NO more has Betty the housemaid, and I have no word of blame against them. But a high-souled man doesn't make friends of these. A gentleman doesn't choose these for his companions, or bitterly rues it after- ward, if he do. Are you who are setting up to be a man of the world, ... to tell me that the aim of life is to guttle three courses and dine off silver ? Do you dare to own to yourself that your ambition in life is good claret, and that you'll dine with any pro- vided you get a stalled ox to feed on ? . . •. I'd rather live upon raw turnips and sleep in a hollow tree, . . . than degrade myself to this civilisation, and own that a French cook was the thing in life best worth living for. — Pendennis, chap. Ixi. ASSOCIATES THAT is the rationale of living in good company. An absurd conceited, high and mighty young man hangs back, . . . an honest, simple, quiet, easy, clear-sighted Fogy steps in and takes the goods which the gods provide without elation as without squeamishness. — Sketches in London ('On the Pleasures of Being a Fogy'). HOW can we be the first, unless we select our inferiors for our associates ? — The Newcomes, chap. ix. 6 ASSOCIATES FOR a poor man, there is nothing Hke having good acquaintances. — Penden- nis, chap, xxxvi. WHICH do you Hke best, to be a giant amongst the pigmies, or a pigmy amongst the giants? . . . What I would hint is, that we possibly give ourselves patro- nising airs before small people, as folks higher placed than ourselves give themselves airs before us. — Philip, chap. xl. DEPEND upon it, . . . there is noth- ing more wholesome for you than to acknowledge and associate with your su- periors. — The Virginians, chap, xxiii. o F a truth it is good to be with good people. — The Virginians, chap, xxiii. I WOULD certainly wish that you should associate with your superiors rather than your inferiors. There is no more dangerous or stupefying position for a man in life than to be a cock of small society. It prevents his ideas from growing: it renders him in- tolerably conceited. A twopenny halfpenny Caesar, a Brummagen dandy, a coterie phil- osopher, or vnt, is pretty sure to be an ass, and, in fine, I set it down as a maxim that it is good for a man to live where he can meet his betters, intellectual and social. — Sketches and Travels in London ( ' On Friendship' ). BEAUTY 7 THE great comfort of the society of great folks is, that they do not trouble them- selves about your twopenny little person, as smaller persons do, but take you for what you are — a man kindly and good-natured, or witty and sarcastic, or learned and elo- quent, or a good raconteur, or a very hand- some man, . , . or an excellent gour- mand, and judge of wines — or what not. Nobody sets you so quickly at your ease as a fine gentleman. — Sketches and Travels in London ('A Word about Dinners'). AS is the race of man, so is the race of flounders. If you can but see the latter in his right element, you may view him agile, healthy and comely; put him out of his place, and behold his beauty is gone. — The Virginians, chap. Ixvi. BEAUTY WHAT is there in a pair of pink cheeks and blue eyes, forsooth? these dear Moralists ask, and hint wisely that the gifts of genius . . . and so forth, are far more valuable endowments for a female, than those fugitive charms which a few years will inevi- tably tarnish. It is quite edifying to hear women speculate upon the worthlessness and the duration of beauty. But though virtue is a much finer thing and those hapless creat- ures who suffer under the misfortune of good 8 BEAUTY looks ought to be continually put in mind of the fate which awaits them: and though very likely the heroic female character which ladies admire is a more glorious and beauti- ful object than the kind, fresh, smiling, art- less, tender, little domestic goddess, whom men are inclined to worship, yet the latter and inferior sort of women must have this consolation — that the men do admire them, after all. Indeed, for my own part, though I have been repeatedly told by persons for whom I have the greatest respect, that . . . Mrs. Black has not a word to say for her- self; yet I know that I have had the most delightful . . . conversations with Mrs. Black, . . . and so I am tempted to think that to be despised by her sex is a very great compliment to a woman. — Vanity Fair, chap. xii. TO be beautiful is enough. If a woman can do that well, who shall demand more from her? You don't want a rose to sing. — The Newcomes, chap. xxv. EVERY woman would rather be beautiful than be anything else in the world. — The Virginians, chap. Ixxxiii, DID you ever know a woman pardon an- other for being handsome and more love-worthy than herself? — Rebecca and Rowena ('The Overture'). BEAUTY 9 DO ladies love others for having pretty faces ? — The Book of Snobs, chap, xxxii. 1 DON'T care for beauty which will only bear to be looked at from a distance, like a scene in a theatre. What is the most beau- tiful nose in the world, if it be covered with a skin of the texture and colour of coarse whitey-brown paper; and if Nature has made it as slippery and shining as though it had been anointed with pomatum? . . . Would you wear a flower that had been dipped in a grease-pot ? No, give me a fresh, dewy, healthy rose of Somersetshire, not one of those . . . unwholesome exotics. — Corn- hill to Cairo, chap. v. THE elder of Esmond's two kinswomen pardoned the younger her beauty when that had lost somewhat of its freshness, per- haps, and forgot most her grievances against the other, when the subject of them was no longer prosperous and enviable. — Esmond, chap. V, bk. ii. WITH the other sex perfectly tolerant and kindly, of her own she was in\a- riably jealous, and a proof that she had this vice is, that though she would acknowledge a thousand faults that she had not, to this which she had she could never be got to own. lo BEAUTY But if there came a woman with even a sem- blance of beauty to Castlewood she was so sure to find out some wrong in her, that my Lord, laughing in his jolly way, would often joke with her concerning her foible. . . . As soon as ever she had to do with a pretty woman, she was cold, retiring and haughty. — Esmond, chap, vii, bk. i. ALMOST all handsome women are good: they cannot choose but be good and gentle with those sweet features. ... A day in which one sees a very pretty woman should always be noted, . . . and marked with a white stone. — Sketches and Travels in London ('On the Pleasure of Being a Fogy'). IT is the pretty face which creates sympathy in the hearts of men, those wicked rogues. . . . We give no heed to ... a plain face. . . . And, so with their usual sense of justice, ladies argue that because a woman is hand- some, therefore she is a fool. O ladies, ladies! there are some of you who are neither hand- some nor wise. — Vanity Fair, chap, xxxviii. I WOULD no more have you refuse to . . . admire a pretty girl than dislike the smell of a rose, or turn away your eyes from a landscape. — Sketches and Travels in London ('On Tailoring and Toilettes in General'). BOOKS AND AUTHORS ii COULD people see Cinderella's beauty when she was in rags by the fire, or until she stepped out of her fairy coach in her dia- monds? How are you to recognize a dia- mond in a dust hole ? Only very clever eyes can do that. Whereas a lady in a fairy coach and eight naturally creates a sensation. — Philips chap. iv. YOU read the past in some old faces, while some others lapse into mere meekness and content. The fires go quite out of some eyes as the crow's feet pucker round them; they flash no longer with scorn, or with anger, or love; they gaze and no one is melted by their sapphire glances, they look and no one is dazzled. — The Virginians, chap, xxvii. THE charms ... of these latter, . . . this very physical superiority which Eng- lish ladies possess, this tempting brilliancy of health and complexion, which belongs to them more than to any others. . . . The French call such beauty 'La heaute du diable.' — Character Sketches ('The Artists'). BOOKS AND AUTHORS A PERILOUS trade, indeed, is that of a man who has to bring his tears and laughter, his recollections, his personal griefs and joys, his private thoughts and feelings to 12 BOOKS AND AUTHORS market, to write them on paper, and sell them for money. — English Humourists ('Sterne and Goldsmith'). COULD we know the man's feeling as well as the author's thoughts — how interest- ing most books would be! more interesting than merry. I suppose Harlequin's face be- hind his mask is always grave, if not melan- choly — certainly each man who lives by the pen and happens to read this, must remem- ber, if he will, his own experiences and re- call many solemn hours of solitude and la- bour. What a constant care sat at the side of the desk and accompanied him! Fever or sickness were lying possibly in the next room; ... or grief might be bearing him down, and the cruel mist before the eyes rendering the paper scarce visible as he wrote on it, and the inexorable necessity drove on the pen. What man among us has not had nights and hours like these ? But to the manly heart — severe as these pangs are, they are endurable: long as the night seems, the dawn comes at last, and the wounds heal, and the fever abates, and rest comes, and you can afford to look back on the past misery with feelings that are anything but bitter. — Pendennis, chap. Ixxi. BOOKS AND AUTHORS 13 T\ORMEZ hien. I should like to write a -LJ nightcap book — a book that you can muse over, that you can smile over, that you can yawn over — a book of which you can say, 'Well, this man is so and so, and so and so; but he has a friendly heart (although some wiseacres have painted him as black as Bogey) and you may trust what he says,' I should like to touch you sometimes with a reminiscence that shall waken your sympathy and make you say, lo anche, have so thought, felt, smiled, suffered. ... A dip into the volume at random and so on for a page or two, and now and then a smile, and pres- ently a gape, and the book drops out of your hand; and so hon soir, and pleasant dreams to you. — Roundabout Papers ('On Two Children in Black'). NOVELS are sweets. All people with healthy, literary appetites love them — almost all women — a vast number of clever hard-headed men. Why, one of the most learned physicians in England said to me only yesterday, 'I have just read so and so for the second time.' Judges, bishops, chancellors, mathematicians, are notorious novel readers as well as young boys and sweet girls. — Roundabout Papers ('On a Lazy, Idle Boy'). 14 CHARITY CHARITY IS not our want the occasion of our broth- er 's charity, and thus does not good come out of that evil? When the traveller (of whom the Master spoke) fell among the thieves, his mishap was contrived to try many a heart beside his own — the Knave's who robbed him, the Levite's and Priest's who passed him as he lay bleeding, the humble Samaritan's, whose hand poured oil into his wound, and held out its pittance to relieve him? — Philip, chap. ii. THEN they left off coming to see him altogether; for such is the way of the world, where many of us have good impulses, and are generous on occasion, but are wearied by perpetual want and begin to grow angry at its importunities — being very properly vexed at the daily recurrence of hunger, and the impudent unreasonableness of starvation. — A Shabby Genteel Story, chap. i. THE Samaritan who rescues you, most likely, has been robbed and has bled in his day, and it is a wounded arm that band- ages yours when bleeding. — Philip, chap. xxv. YOUR good Samaritan takes out only two- pence maybe for the wayfarer whom he has rescued, but the little timely supply saves a life. — Philip, chap, xxxiv. CHEERFULNESS 15 YOU would out of your earnings, small or great, be able to help a poor brother in need, to dress his wounds, and, if it were but twopence to give him succour. Is the money which the noble Macaulay gave to the poor lost to his family ? God forbid. To the lov- ing hearts of his kindred is it not rather the most precious part of their inheritance? It was invested in love and righteous doing, and it bears interest in heaven. You will, if letters be your vocation, find saving harder than giving and spending. To save be your endeavour, too, against the night's coming, when no man can work; when the arm is weary with the long day's labour, . . . when the old who can labour no more want warmth and rest, and the young ones call for supper" — Roundabout Papers (' On a Joke I Once Heard'). CHEERFULNESS WHAT, indeed, does not that word 'cheerfulness' imply? It means a contented spirit; it means a pure heart, it means a kind and loving disposition; it means humility and charity; it means a generous appreciation of others and a mod- est opinion of self. — Sketches and Travels in London ('On Love, Marriage, Men and Women'). i6 CIRCUMSTANCES AND FATE DID you ever know a person who met Fortune in that way, whom the goddess did not regard kindly? Are not even bad people won by a constant cheerfulness and a pure and affectionate heart? When the, babes in the wood, in the ballad, looked up fondly and trustfully at those notorious rogues whom their uncle had set to make away with the little folks, we all know how one of the rascals relented, and made away with the other, not having the heart to be cruel to so much innocence and beauty. Oh, happy they who have that virgin loving trust and sweet smiling confidence in the world, and fear no evil because they think none. — Pendennis, chap. Ixvi. CHEERFULNESS is the companion of industry. Prosperity their offspring. — English Humourists. CIRCUMSTANCES AND FATE IT is an awful thing to get a glimpse, as one sometimes does when the time is past, of some little, little, wheel which works the whole mighty machinery of Fate, and see how our destinies turn on a minute's delay or advance, or on the turning of a street, or on somebody else's turning of a street, or on some- body else's doing of something else. — Cath- erine, chap. vii. CIRCUMSTANCES AND FATE 17 O MIGHTY Fate, that over us miserable mortals rulest supreme, with what small means are thy ends effected ! with what scornful ease and mean instruments does it please thee to govern mankind! Let each man think of the circumstances of his life, and how its lot has been determined. The getting up a little earlier or later, the turning down this street or that, the eating of this dish or the other, may influence all the years and actions of a future life. Mankind walks down the left-hand side of Regent Street instead of the right, and just by that walk down Regent Street is ruined for life. Or he walks down the right-hand side of Regent Street instead of the left, and you have an account at your banker's ever after. What is the cause of all this good fortune ? A walk on a particular side of Regent Street. — A Shabby Genteel Story, chap. v. WHO has not felt how he works — the dreadful, conquering Spirit of 111? Who cannot see, in the circle of his own so- ciety, the fated and foredoomed to woe and evil? Some call the doctrine of destiny a dark creed; but for me, I would fain try and think it a consolatory one. It is better with all one's sins upon one's head, to deem one's self in the hands of Fate than to think — with our resolves so loud, so vain, so ludi- crously, despicably weak and frail; with our i8 CIRCUMSTANCES AND FATE dim wavering, wretched conceits about virt- ue, and our irresistible propensity to wrong, — that we are the worJcers of our future sor- row or happiness. If we depend on our strength, what is it against mighty circum- stance ? If we look to ourselves, what hope have we ? Look back at the whole of your life and see how fate has mastered you and it. Think of your disappointments and your successes. Has your striving influ- enced one or the other? A fit of indigestion puts itself between you and honours and reputation, an apple plops on your nose and makes you a world's wonder and glory; a fit of poverty makes a rascal of you, who were, and are still, an honest man; clubs trumps, or six lucky mains at dice, make an honest man for life of you, who ever were, will be and are, a rascal. Who sends the illness? who causes the apple to fall? who deprives you of your worldly goods? or who shuflSes the cards, and brings trumps, honour, and virtue, and prosperity back again ? You call it chance; ay, and so it is chance that when the floor gives way and the rope stretches tight, the poor v^etch before St. Sepulchre's clock dies. Only with us, clear- sighted mortals as we are, we can't see the rope by which we hang, and know not when or how the drop may fall. — Catherine, chap. vii. CIRCUMSTANCES AND FATE 19 THERE is scarce any thoughtful man or woman, I suppose, but can look back upon his course of past life, and remember some point, trifling as it may have seemed at the time of occurrence, which has neverthe- less turned and altered his whole career. — Esmond, chap, xii, bk. i. DO we know ourselves, . . . what good or vile circumstances may bring from us ? — The Newcomes, chap. Ixiv. W''HO can foresee everything and al- ways? Not the wisest among us. We may know the world ever so well, lay the best-ordered plans and the profoundest com- binations, and, by a certain not unnatural turn of fate, we and our plans and combina- tions, are sent flying before the wind. . . . And, after years of patient scheming, and prodigies of skill, after coaxing, wheedling, doubling, bullying, wisdom, behold yet stronger powers interpose — and schemes, and skill and violence, are nought. — The Newcomes, chap, xxxiii. I SEE men who begin with ideas of univer- sal reform, propound their loud plans for the regeneration of mankind, give up their schemes after a few years of bootless talking and vainglorious attempts to lead their fel- lows; and sink quietly into the rank and file. 20 CIRCUMSTANCES AND FATE . . . They submit to circumstances which are stronger than they, . . . march as the world marches toward reform, but at the world's pace, . . . compelled finally to sub- mit, and to wait, and to compromise. — Pen- dennis, chap. Ixi. ''TpIS with almost all of us as in M. Mas- ■JL sillon's magnificent image regarding King William, a grain de sable that perverts or perhaps overthrows us. — Esmond, chap, xii, bk. i. WHEN Fate wills that something should come to pass, she sends forth a million of little circumstances to clear and prepare the way. — A Shabby Genteel Story, chap. v. THRICE fortunate he to whom circum- stance is made easy, whom fate visits with gentle trial, and kindly heaven keeps out of temptation. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixiv. WHO can tell another's shortcomings, lost opportunities, the defects which incapacitate reason? What invisible and forgotten accident, terror of youth, chance or mischance of fortune, may have altered the current of life ? A grain of sand may alter it as the flinging of a pebble may end it. Who COQUETRY 21 can weigh circumstances, temptations that go to our good and evil account, save One, before whose awful wisdom we kneel, and at whose mercy we ask absolution. But who has not been tried or fallen, and who has escaped without scars from that struggle? — Pendennis, chap. Ixxiii. FATE is stronger than all of us. — Esmond, chap, i, bk. ii. COQUETRY As we know very well that a lady who is skilled in dancing or singing never can perfect herself without a deal of study in private, and that the song or minuet which is performed with so much graceful ease in the assembly-room has not been acquired without vast labour and perseverance in private: so it is with the dear creatures who are skilled in coquetting. — Barry Lyn- don, chap. i. IN the presence of Death, that sovereign ruler, a woman's coquetry is scared, and her jealousy will hardly pass the boundaries of that grim kingdom. 'Tis entirely of the earth, that passion, and expires in the cold, blue air, beyond our sphere. — Esmond, chap, ix, bk. i. 22 COQUETRY LET her have a dozen admirers, and the dear coquette will exercise her power upon them all: and, as a lady when she has a large wardrobe, and a taste for variety in dress, will appear every day in a different cos- tume, so will the young and giddy beauty wear her lovers; encouraging now the black whiskers, now smiling on the brown, now thinking that the gay smiling rattle of an admirer becomes her very well, and now adopting the sad sentimental melancholy one, according as her changeful fancy prompts her. — Men's Wives ('The Ravens- wing,* chap. i.). WHEN the writer's descendants come to read this memoir, will they ever have knelt to a woman who has listened to them, and played with them, and laughed with them, — who, beckoning them with lures and caresses, and with Yes smiling from her eyes, has tricked them onto their knees, and turned her back and left them ? — Esmond, chap, xv, bk. ii. WOMEN coquette with their eyes be- fore their tongue can form a word — Roundabout Papers (' The Notch on the Axe '). DO you suppose I am going to make tragedy of such an old used-up bat- tered, trivial, every-day subject as a jilt who plays with a man's passion, and laughs at COQUETRY 23 him and leaves him ? Tragedy, indeed! Oh, yes! poison — black-edged note-paper — Wa- terloo Bridge — and so forth! No, if she goes, let her go ! — Lovel the Widower, chap. ii. THE ladies — heaven bless them! — are, as a rule, coquettes from babyhood up- ward. Little shes of three years old play little airs and graces upon small heroes of five; simpering misses of nine make attacks upon young gentlemen of twelve; and at sixteen a well-grown girl, under encouraging circum- stances, — say she is pretty, in a family of ugly elder sisters, or an only child and heiress is at the very pink and prime of her coquetry: they will jilt you at that age with an ease and arch infantine simplicity that never can be sur- passed in maturer years. — Catherine, chap. i. MISS HOPKINS, you have been a co- quette since you were a year old; you worked on your papa's friends in the nurse's arms by the fascination of your lace frock and pretty new sash and shoes; when you could just toddle you practised your arts upon other children. — The Newcomes, chap, xlvi. THAT a young beauty should torture a man with alternate liking and indififer- ence, allure, dismiss and call him back out of banishment, practise arts to please upon 24 COQUETRY him, and ignore them when rebuked for her coquetry — these are surely occurrences so common in young woman's history as to call for no special censure. — The Newcomes, chap. liii. A SIMPLETON of twenty is better than a roue of twenty. It is better not to have thought at all, than to have thought such things as must go through a girl's mind whose life is passed in jilting and being jilted, whose eyes as soon as they are opened, are turned to the main chance, and are taught to leer at an earl, to languish at a marquis, and to grow blind before a commoner. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixv. PERHAPS neither party was in earnest. You were only playing at being in love, and the sportive little Undine was humouring you at the same play. Nevertheless, if a man is balked at this game, he not unfrequently loses his temper. — Pendennis, chap. xxv. HOW often are our little vanities shocked in this way. Have you not fancied that Lucinda's eyes beamed on you with a special tenderness, and presently become aware that she ogles your neighbour with the very same killing glances? Have you not exchanged exquisite whispers with Lalage at the dinner-table, and then overheard her DAYBREAK 25 whispering the very same delicious phrases to old Surdus in the drawing-room? The sun shines for everybody, the flowers smell sweet for all noses, and the nightingale and Lalage warble for all ears — not your long ones only, good brother. — Tlie Virginians, chap. Ixix. DAYBREAK LOOK and see the sun rise ; he sees the labourer on his way afield, the work-girl plying her poor needle, the lawyer at his desk, perhaps, the beauty smiling asleep upon her pillow of down, . . . the fevered patient tossing on it, or the doctor watching by it. — Pendennis, chap. xliv. WHICH of us has not his anxiety in- stantly present when his eyes are opened ... to the world after his night's sleep? Kind strengthener that enables us to face the day's task with renewed heart! Beautiful ordinance of Providence that creates rest as it awards labour! — Pendennis, chap, xlvii. ALL over this world what an endless chorus is singing of love and thanks and prayer. Day tells to day the wondrous story, and night recounts it unto night. How do I come to think of a sunrise which I saw on the Nile when the river and sky 26 DAYBREAK flushed and glowed with the dawning Hght, and as the luminary appeared, the boatman knelt on the rosy deck and adored Allah? So, as thy sun rises, friend, over the humble house-tops round about your home, shall you wake many and many a day to duty and labour. May the task have been honestly done when the night comes, and the steward deal kindly with the labourer. — Philip, chap. xxxv. AND there is nothing particularly new under the sun. It will shine to-mor- row upon pretty much the same flowers, sports, pastimes, etc., which it illuminated yester- day. — Philip, chap. xv. AS I look, the sky-line toward the east grows redder and redder. . . . Every minute the dawn twinkles up into the twi- light, and . . . the heaven blushes brighter. . . . And lo! in a flash of crimson splendour, with blazing scarlet clouds running before his chariot and heralding his majestic approach, God's sun rises upon the world, and all na- ture wakens and brightens. O glorious spectacle of light and life! O beatific symbol of Power, Love, Joy, Beauty! Let us look at thee with humble wonder and thankfully acknowledge and adore. What gracious forethought is it — what generous and loving provision, that deigns to prepare for our eyes and to soothe our hearts with DAYBREAK 27 such a splendid morning festival. For these magnificent bounties of heaven to us let us be thankful, even that we can feel thankful — (for thanks surely is the noblest effort, as it is the greatest delight of the gentle soul) and so a grace for this feast, let all say who partake of it. — The Kicklehurys on the Rhine. IN the sky in the east was a long streak of greenish light, which widened and rose until it grew to be of an opal colour, then orange, then, behold, the round red disc of the sun rose flaming up above the horizon. All the water blushed as he got up, the deck was all red; . . . the distances which had been gray were now clothed in purple. ... As the sun rose higher the morning blush faded away, the sky was cloudless and pale, and the river and the surrounding land- scape were dazzlingly clear. — Cornhill to Cairo, chap. xv. ON the ensuing Christmas morning, I chanced to rise betimes and . . . opened the windows and looked out on the soft landscape, over which mists were still lying; whilst the serene sky above, and the lawns and leafless woods in the foreground near, were still pink with sunrise. The gray had not even left the west yet, and I could see a star or two twinkling there, to vanish with that twilight. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixxvii. 28 DEATH DEATH MAY not the man of the world take his moment, too, to be grave and thought- ful ? Ask in your own hearts and memories, brother and sister, if we do not live in the dead, and (to speak reverently) prove God by love? — Pendennis, chap. Ixi. THOSE who have seen death . . . strike down persons revered and beloved know how unavailing consolation is. — Esmond, chap, i, bk. ii. AND so they pass away: friends, kin- dred, the dearest-loved. As we go on the down-hill journey the mile-stones are grave-stones and on each more and more names are written, unless haply you live be- yond man's common age. — Roundabout Pa- pers ('On Letts's Diary'). YET another parting and tears and re- grets are finished. Tenez — I do not believe them when they say there is no meet- ing for us afterward, there above. To what good to have seen you if we are to part here and in Heaven, too? — The Newcomes, chap. liii. DEATH 29 WHICH, I wonder, brother reader, is the better lot: to die prosperous and famous, or poor and disappointed? To have and to be forced to yield; or to sink out of life, having played and lost the game? That must be a strange feeling, when a day of our life comes and we say, ^To-morrow, success or failure won't matter much; and the sun will rise, and all the myriads of man- kind go to their work or their pleasure as usual, but I shall be out of the turmoil.' — Vanity Fair, chap. Ixi. IF you die to-morrow, your dearest friend will feel for you a hearty pang of sorrow, and go to his business as usual. — The New- comes, chap. Ixxv. YOUR kind and cheery companion has ridden his last ride and emptied his last glass beside you. And while fond hearts are yearning for him far away, and his own mind, if conscious, is turning eagerly toward the spot of the world whither affection or in- terest calls it — the Great Father summons the anxious spirit from earth to himself, and ordains that the nearest and dearest shall meet here no more. . . . Every man goes back to his room and ap- plies the lesson to himself. One would not so depart without seeing again the dear, dear faces. We reckon up those we love: they 30 DEATH are but very few, but I think one loves them better than ever now. Should it be your turn next ? and why not ? Is it pity or comfort to think of that affection which watches and survives you ? The Maker has linked together the whole race of man with this chain of love, I like to think that there is no man but has had kindly feelings for some other, and he for his neigh- bour, until we bind together the whole family of Adam. Nor does it end here. It joins heaven and earth together. For my friend or my child of past days is still my friend or my child to me here, or in the home prepared for us by the Father of all. If identity sur- vives the grave, as our faith tells us, is it not a consolation to think that there may be one or two souls, among the purified and just, whose affection watches us invisible.— Corw^zV/ to Cairo, chap. iv. DOES after-life seem less solitary, pro- vided that our names, when we "go down into silence, ' ' are echoing on this side of the grave . . . and human voices are still talking about us? — Pendennis, chap. Ivii. AFTER the child had gone, Thomas New- come began to wander more and more. He talked louder; he gave the word of com- mand, spoke Hindustanee as if to his men. Then he spoke words in French rapidly, DEATH 31 seizing a hand that was near him, and cry- ing, "Toujours, toujours!" But it was Ethel's hand which he took. Ethel and Clive and the nurse were in the room with him; the nurse came to us, who were sitting in the adjoining apartment; Madame de Florae was there with my wife and Bayham. At the look in the woman's countenance Madame de Florae started up. 'He is very bad, he wanders a great deal,' the nurse whispered. The French lady fell instantly on her knees, and remained rigid in prayer. Some time afterward Ethel came in with a scared face to our pale group. 'He is call- ing for you again, dear lady,' she said, going up to Madame de Florae, who was still kneel- ing; 'and just now he said he wanted Pen- dennis to take care of his boy. He will not know you.' She hid her tears as she spoke. She went into the room where Clive was at the bed's foot; the old man within it talked on rapidly for a while: then again he would sigh and be still: once more I heard him say hurriedly, 'Take care of him when I'm in India'; and then with a heart-rending voice he called out, 'Leonore, Leonore!' She was kneeling by his side now. The pa- tient's voice sank into faint murmurs; only a moan now and then announced that he was not asleep. At the usual evening hour the chapel bell began to toll, and Thomas Newcome's hands 32 DEATH outside the bed feebly beat time. And just as the last bell struck, a peculiar sweet smile shone over his face, and he lifted up his head a little, and quickly said, ' Adsum ! ' and fell back. It was the word we used at school, when names were called; and lo, he, whose heart was as that of a little child, had answered to his name, and stood in the presence of the Master. — Tlie Newcomes, chap. Ixxx. ONE night, as we sat with her, . . . she fell asleep over her cards, . . . and we sat awhile as we had often done before, waiting in silence till she should arouse from her doze. When she awoke she looked fixedly at me for a while and said: 'Henry, have I been long asleep?' I thought at first that it was for my brother she mistook me. . . . Here she broke out into frightful hysteri- cal shrieks and laughter. . . . Ere her fright- ened people had come up to her summons, the poor thing had passed out of this mood into another, but always labouring under the same delusion — that I was the Henry of past times, who had loved her, . . . and whose bones were lying far away by the banks of the Potomac. Let us draw the curtain round it. . . . As the clock ticks without, and strikes the fleet- ing hours, as the sun falls upon the Kneller DEATH 33 picture of Beatrix in her beauty with the blush- ing cheeks, the smiling lips, and the waving au- burn tresses, and the eyes which seem to look toward the dim figure moaning in the bed.-^ The Virginians, chap. Ixxxiii. HELEN whispered. ' Come away, Arthur — not here — I want to ask my child to forgive me — and — and my God, to forgive me; and to bless you, and love you, my son.' He led her, tottering, into her room, and closed the door, as the three touched specta- tors of the reconciliation looked on in pleased silence. Ever after, ever after, the tender accents of that voice faltering sweetly at his ear — the look of the sacred eyes beaming with an afifection unutterable — the quiver of the fond lips smiling mournfully — were remem- bered by the young man. And at his best moments, and at his hours of trial and grief, and at his times of success or well-doing, the mother's face looked down upon him, and blessed him with its gaze of pity and purity, as he saw it in that night 5\^hen she yet lin- gered with him; and when she seemed, ere she quite left him, an angel, transfigured and glorified with love — for which love, as for the greatest of the bounties and wonders of God's provision for us, let us kneel and thank Our Father. The moon had risen by this time; Arthur recollected well afterward how it lighted up 34 DEATH his mother's sweet, pale face. Their talk, or his rather, for she scarcely could speak, was more tender and confidential than it had been for years before. As they were talking the clock struck nine, and Helen reminded him how, when he was a little boy, she used to go up to his bedroom, at that hour, and hear him say. Our Father. And once more, oh, once more, the young man fell down at his mother's sacred knees, and sobbed out the prayer which the Divine Tenderness uttered for us, and which has been echoed for twenty ages since by millions of sinful and humbled men. And as he spoke the last words of the supplication, the mother's head fell down on her boy's, and her arms closed round him, and together they repeated the words 'for ever and ever,' and 'Amen.' A little time after, it might have been a quarter of an hour, Laura heard Arthur's voice calling from within, 'Laura! Laura!' She rushed into the room instantly, and found the young man still on his knees, and holding his mother's hand. . . . The tender heart beat no more; it was to have no more pangs, no more griefs and trials. Its last throb was love; and Helen's last breath was benediction. — Pendennis, chap. Ivii. DEVOTION 35 DEVOTION THE instinct which led Harry Esmond to admire and love the gracious person, the fair apparition, whose beauty and kind- ness had so moved him when he first beheld her, became soon a devoted affection, and passion of gratitude, which entirely filled his young heart, that as yet, except in the case of dear Father Holt, had had very little kind- ness foi which to be thankful. O Dea Certe, thought he, remembering the lines out of the ^neis which Mr. Holt had taught him. There seemed, as the boy thought, in every look or gesture of this fair creature, an an- gelical softness and bright pity — in motion or repose she seemed gracious alike; the tone of her voice, though she uttered words ever so trivial, gave him a pleasure that amounted almost to anguish. It cannot be called love, that a lad of twelve years of age, little more than a menial, felt for an exalted lady, his mistress, but it was worship. To catch her glance, to divine her errand and run on it before she had spoken it, to watch, follow, adore her, became the business of his life. Meanwhile, as is the way often, his idol had idols of her own, and never thought of or suspected the admiration of her little pigmy adorer. — Esmond, chap, vii, bk. i. 36 DEVOTION HE had had the happiest days of his whole life George felt — he knew it now they were just gone; he went and took up the flowers and put his face to them, smelt them — perhaps kissed them. As he put them down he rubbed his rough hand across his eyes with a bitter word and laugh. He would have given his whole life and soul to win that prize. . . . Did she want fame? He would have won it for her: devotion? a great heart full of pent up tenderness and manly love and gentleness was there for her, if she might take it. But it might not be. Fate had ruled otherwise. 'Even if I could, she would not have me,' George thought. 'What has an ugly rough old fellow to make any woman like him? I'm getting old, and I've made no mark in life. I've neither good looks nor youth or money, nor reputation. A man must be able to do something besides stare at her and offer on his knees his uncouth devo- tion, to make a woman like him. What can I do ? Lots of young fellows have passed me in the race — what they call the prizes of life didn't seem to me worth the trouble of the struggle. But for her. If she had been mine and liked a diamond — ah I shouldn't she have worn it! Psha, what a fool I am to brag of what I would have done! We are the slaves of destiny. Our lots are shaped for us, and mine is ordained long ago. Come, let us have a pipe, and put the smell of these DEVOTION 37 flowers out of court. Poor little silent flowers! You'll be dead to-morrow. What business had you to show your red cheeks in this dingy place ? ' — Pendennis, chap, liii, SHE gave him her hand, her little, fair hand; there was only her marriage ring on it. The quarrel was all over. The year of grief and estrangement was passed. They never had been separated. His mistress never had been out of his mind all that time. No, not once. No, not in the prison; nor in the camp; nor on shore before the enemy; nor at sea under the stars of a solemn mid- night; nor as he watched the glorious rising of the dawn; nor even at the table where he sat carousing with friends; or at the theatre yonder, where he tried to fancy that other eyes were brighter than hers. Brighter eyes there might be, and faces more beautiful, but none so dear — no voice so sweet as that of his beloved mistress, who had been sister, mother, goddess to him during his youth — goddess now no more, for he knew of her weakness; and by thought, by suffering, and that experience it brings, was older now than she, but more fondly cherished as women per- haps, than ever she had been adored as divin- ity. . . . As he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at midnight into the bound- less starlit depths overhead, in a rapture of devout wonder at that endless brightness 38 DOUBT and beauty — in some such a way now, the depth of this pure devotion (which was for the first time revealed to him) quite smote upon him, and filled his heart with thanks- giving. Gracious God, who was he, weak and friendless creature, that such a love should be poured out upon him? — Esmond, chap, vi, bk. i. WE take such goodness for the most part, as if it were our due, the Marys who bring ointment for our feet get but little thanks. Some of us never feel this devotion at all, or are moved by it to gratitude or acknowledgment, others only recall it years after, when the days are passed in which those sweet kindnesses were spent on us, and we offer back our return for the debt by a poor, tardy payment of tears. — Esmond, chap, ix, bk. i. DOUBT THE profitable way in life is the middle way. Don't quite believe anybody, for he may mislead you. neither disbelieve him, for that is uncomplimentary to your friend. — Philip, chap. vi. BUT will come in spite of us. But is re- flection. But is the skeptic's familiar, with whom he has made a compact; and if he forgets it, and indulges in happy day- DREAMS— DRESS 39 dreams, or building of air-castles, or listens to sweet music, let us say, ... But taps at the door and says, 'Master, I am here. You are my master, but I am yours. Go where you will, you can't travel without me.' — Pendennis, chap. Ixxi. DOUBT is always crying Psha! and sneering. — English Humourists (Con- greve and Addison). DREAMS SAY if is a dream: say it passes: better the recollection of a dream than an aim- less waking from a blank stupor. — Penden- nis, chap. Ixix. I NEVER know whether to pity or con- gratulate a man on coming to his senses. — The Virginians, chap. Ivi. THE delusion is better than the truth sometimes, and fine dreams than dis- mal waking. — Pendenms, chap. xix. DRESS AS in the old joke about a pudding which has two sides, namely, an inside and an outside, so a coat or hat has its inside as well as its outside; I mean, that there is in 40 DRESS a man's exterior appearance the consequence of his inward ways of thought. . . . No man has a right to despise his dress in this world. There is no use in flinging any honest chance whatever away. . . . Yes: a good face, a good address, a good dress, are each so many points in the game of life, of which every man of sense will avail himself. They help many a man more in his com- merce with society than learning or genius. . . . Enjoy, my boy, in honesty and man- liness, the goods of this life. — Sketches and Travels in London ('On Tailoring and Toi- lettes in General'). WHEN you have got on your best coat and waistcoat, and have your dandy shirt and tie arranged — consider these as so many settled things, and go forward and through your business. That is why people in what is called the great world are com- monly better bred than persons less fortunate in their condition. Not that they are better in reality, but from circumstances they are never uneasy about their position in the world, therefore they are most honest and simple: therefore they are better bred than Growler, who scowls at the great man a defiance and a determination that he will not be trampled upon, or poor Fawner, who goes quivering down on his knees. . . . But I think in our world there are even more DULNESS 41 Growlers than Fawners — SketcJtes and Trav- els in London (* On the Pleasures of Being a Fogy'). AND why should not this young fellow wear smart clothes, and a smart mus- tache, and look handsome, and take his pleasure and bask in his sun when it shone ? Time enough for flannel and a fire, when the winter comes; and for gray hair and corked soled boots in the natural decline of years. — The Ncwcomes, chap. xl. DULNESS WE know that though the greatest pleas- ure of all is to act like a gentleman, it is a pleasure, nay, a merit, to be one — to come of an old stock, to have an honourable pedigree, to be able to say that centuries back our fathers had gentle blood, and to us transmitted the same. There is a good in gentility: the man who questions it is en- vious, or a coarse dullard not able to perceive the difference between high breeding and low. One has in the same way heard a man brag that he did not know the difference between wines, not he — ' give him a good glass of port and he would pitch all your claret to the deuce.' Men often brag about their own dulness in this way. — Second Fwieral of Napoleon, chap. iii. 42 ■ DULNESS THE very same superstition which leads men by the nose now drove them on- ward in the days when the lowly husband of Xantippe died for daring to think simply and to speak the truth. I know of no quality more magnificent in fools than their faith; that perfect consciousness they have that they are doing virtuous and meritorious ac- tions, when they are performing acts of folly, murdering Socrates, or pelting Aristides with holy oyster shells. . . . And a 'History of Dulness in All Ages of the World' is a book which a philosopher would surely be hanged, but as certainly blessed, for writing. — Cornhill to Cairo, chap. v. THERE is a quality in certain people which is above all advice, exposure or correction. Only let a man have Dulness sufficient, and they need bow to no extant authority. A dullard recognizes no betters; a dullard can't see that he is in the wrong; a dullard has no scruples of conscience, no doubts of pleasing, or succeeding or doing right, no qualms for other people's feelings, no respect but for the fool himself. How can you make a fool perceive that he is a fool? Such a personage can no more see his own folly than he can see his own ears. And the great quality of Dulness is to be unalterably contented with itself. What myriads of souls are there of this admirable sort — selfish, DUTY 43 stingy, ignorant, brutal — never known to do kind actions! — Men's Wives ('Dennis Hag- gerty's Wife'). BUT dulness gets on as well as any other quality with women. — Vaniiy Fair, chap. xi. WHAT a deal of grief, care, and other harmful excitement does a healthy dulness and cheerful insensibility avoid! Dulness is a much finer gift than we give it credit for being, and some people are very lucky whom Nature has endowed with a good store of that great anodyne. — Penden- nis, chap. xvi. ALWAYS to be right, always to trample forward and never to doubt, are not these the great qualities with which dulness takes the lead in the world? — Vanity Fair, chap. xxxv. DUTY DOES not every day bring its own duty and task, and are these not enough to occupy one? — The Newcomes, chap. Ixviii. I DARE say Mrs. Bluebeard thought it was her duty to look through the keyhole. — The Virginians, chap. vii. 44 FAME WHEN duty calls upon us, we no doubt are always at home and ready to pay. — English Humourists (Steele). FOR though duty is duty, when it comes to the pinch, it is often hard to do. — Philip, chap. xiv. A STOUT, bald-headed man dancing is a melancholy object to himself in the looking-glass opposite, and there are duties and pleasures of all ages. — Sketches and Travels in London (' The Influence of Lovely Woman on Society'). WE all want to know details regarding men who have achieved famous feats, whether of war, or wit, or eloquence, or en- durance, or knowledge. His one or two happy and heroic actions take a man's name and memory out of the crowd of names and memories. Henceforth he stands eminent. We scan him; we want to know all about him; we walk around and want to examine him, are curious, perhaps, and think are we not as strong and capable as yonder cham- pion? were we not bred as well and could we not endure the winter's cold as well as he? Or we look up with all our eyes of admiration, will find no fault in our hero. FORGIVENESS 45 declare his beauty and proportions perfect, his critics envious detractors, and so forth. Yesterday, before he performed his feat, he was nobody. Who cared about his birth- place, his parentage, or the colour of his hair ? To-day, by some single achievement, or by a series of great actions, ... he is famous, and antiquarians are busy finding out under what schoolmaster's ferrule he was educated, where his grandmother was vac- cinated, and so forth. — Roundabout Papers ('On a Joke I Once Heard from the late Thomas Hood'). TO be rich, to be famous ? What do these profit a year hence, when other names sound louder than yours? — Esmond, chap, vi, bk. ii. BUT do we like those only who are fa- mous ? As well say we will only give our regard to men who have ten thousand a year, or are more than six feet high. — Philip, chap. xxxi. FORGIVENESS WHAT can there be finer than forgive- ness? What more rational than, after calling a man by every bad name under the sun, to apologize, regret hasty expressions, and so forth, withdraw the decanter (say) which you have flung at your enemy's head, and be friends as before ? Some folks possess 46 FORTUNE this admirable, this angel-like gift of forgive- ness. Let us strive, my friend, to acquire this pacable Christian spirit. My belief is that you may learn to forgive bad language employed to you; but then, you must have a deal of practice, and be accustomed to hear and use it. You embrace after a quarrel and mutual bad language. Heaven bless us! Bad words are nothing when one is accustomed to them, and scarce need ruffle the temper on either side. — The Virginians, chap, xxxviii. FORGIVING is what some women love best of all. — Pendennis, chap. xxi. I WONDER are there many real recon- ciliations? — Philip, chap, vii. HOW can I forget at will, how forgive ? — Roundabout Papers ('On Two Chil- dren in Black.') WHAT more can one say of the Chris- tian charity of a man than that he is actually ready to forgive those who have done him every kindness, and with whom he is wrong in a dispute ? — Pendennis, chap. Iv. FORTUNE AS according to the famous maxim of Monsieur de Rochefoucault, 'in our friend's misfortunes there's something secretly FORTUNE 47 pleasant to us/ so, on the other hand, their good fortune is disagreeable. If 'tis hard for a man to bear his own good luck, 'tis harder still for his friends to bear it for him, and but few of them ordinarily can stand that trial: whereas one of the precious uses of adversity is, that it is a great reconciler, that it brings back averted kindness, disarms ani- mosity, and causes yesterday's enemy to fling his hatred aside, and hold out a hand to the fallen friend of old days. There's a pity and love, as well as envy, in the same heart, and towards the same person. The rivalry stops when the competitor tumbles; and, as I view it, we should look at these agreeable and disagreeable qualities of our humanity hum- bly alike. They are consequent and natu- ral, and our kindness and meanness both manly. — Esmond, chap, v, bk. ii. HE won because he did not want to win. Fortune, that notoriously coquettish jade, came to him, because he was thinking of another nymph, who possibly was as fickle. — The Virginians, chap. xix. THERE are some who never can pardon good fortune, and in the company of gentlemen are ever on the watch for ofifence. — Philip, chap. vi. 48 FORTUNE MISFORTUNE drives a man into bad company. — Pendennis, chap, xxxii. BUT fortune, good or ill, as I take it, does not change men and women. It but develops their characters. As there are a thousand thoughts lying within a man that he does not know till he takes up the pen to write, so the heart is a secret even to him (or her) who has it in his own breast. Who hath not found himself surprised into revenge or action . . . for good or evil, whereof the seeds lay within him, latent and unsuspected, until the occasion called them forth? — Es- mond, chap, i, bk. ii. THE little ills of life are the hardest to bear, as we all very well know. What would be the possession of a hundred thou- sand a year, or fame, and the applause of one's country-men, or the loveliest and best- loved woman — of any glory and happiness, or good fortune, avail to a gentleman, for instance, who was allowed to enjoy them only with the condition of wearing a shoe with a couple of nails or sharp pebbles inside it? All fame and happiness would disap- pear, and plunge down that shoe. All life would rankle round those little nails. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixvi. FORTUNE 49 MISFORTUNES do good in one way, hard as they are to bear: they unite people who love each other. — The Newcomes, chap. liv. I WILL accept a toothache (or any evil of life) and bear it without too much grum- bling. But I cannot say that to have a tooth pulled out is a blessing. — Philip, xl. T HERE is no fortune that a philosopher cannot endure.— Esmond, chap, xi, bk. ii. A MAN cannot live with comrades under the tents without finding out that he, too, is five-and-twenty. A young fellow can- not be cast down by grief and misfortune ever so severe, but some nights he begins to sleep sound, and some day when dinner-time comes to feel hungry for a beefsteak. — Es- mondy chap, v, bk. ii. FROM the loss of a tooth to that of a mis- tress there is no pang that is not bearable. The apprehension is much more cruel than the certainty; and we make up our mind to the mis- fortune when 'tis irremediable, part with the tormentor, and mumble our crust on t'other side of the jaws. — Esmond, chap, iv, bk. iii. MAN struggling with hardship and bravely overcoming it is an object of admira- tion for the gods. — Pendennis, chap. xlv. so FRIENDSHIP HOW many men are fickle to Fortune, run away frightened from her advances, and desert her who, perhaps, had never thought of leaving them but for their cow- ardice. — The Virginians, chap. xlii. IT has been asserted that Fortune has a good deal to do with the making of heroes, and thus hinted for the consolation of those who don't happen to be engaged in any stupendous victories, that had opportunity so served, they might have been heroes, too. — Roundabout Papers ('On Some Late Great Victories'). FRIENDSHIP CULTIVATE, kindly reader, those friend- ships of your youth: it is only in that generous time that they are formed. How difi'erent the intimacies of after days are, and how much weaker the grasp of our own hand after it has been shaken about in twenty years' commerce with the world, and has squeezed and dropped a thousand equally careless palms. As you can seldom fashion your tongue to speak a new language after twenty, the heart refuses to receive friend- ship pretty soon: it gets too hard to yield to the impression. — Pendennis, chap. Ixi. DID not Job's friends make many true re- marks when they visited him in his affliction ? Patient as he was, the patriarch groaned and lamented. — Philip, chap, xxxiv. FRIENDSHIP 51 IT is the ordinary lot of people to have no friends if they themselves care for no- body. — Vanity Fair, chap. xiv. AFTER a certain age a new friend is a wonder. There is the age of blossoms and sweet budding green, the age of gener- ous summer, the autumn when the leaves drop, and then winter, shivering and bare. — Roundabout Papers ('On Letts's Diary'). w HEN we fall, how our friends cry out for us! — The Newcomes, chap. Ixi. WHAT is the secret mesmerism which friendship possesses, and under the operation of which a person ordinarily slug- gish, or cold, or timid, becomes wise, active, and resolute in another's behalf? In the affairs of the world and under the magnet- ism of friendship, the modest man becomes bold, the shy confident, the lazy active, or the impetuous prudent and peaceful. — Vanity Fair, chap, xxiii. PEOPLE of fashion are friendly to those who have plenty of friends. — The Vir- ginians, chap. ii. WHO goes about professing particular admiration or esteem, or friendship, or gratitude even, for the people one meets every day ? If A asks me to his house, and 52 FRIENDSHIP gives me his best, I take his good things for what they are worth and no more. I do not profess to pay him back in friendship, but in the conventional money of society. When we part we part without any grief. When we meet we are tolerably glad to see one another. — Pendennis, chap. Ixi. IT is a friendly heart that has plenty of friends. — Sketches and Travels in Lon- don (' On Love, Marriage, Men and Women'). WHO does not see a friend's weaknesses, and is so blind that he cannot per- ceive that enormous beam in his neighbour's eye? — Philip, chap. v. WHO has not remarked the readiness with which the closest of friends . . . suspect and accuse each other of cheat- ing when they fall out on money matters? Everybody does it. Everybody is right, I suppose, and the world is a rogue. — Vanity Fair, chap, xviii. IF it were otherwise — if, forsooth, we were to be sorry when our friends died, or to draw out our purses when our friends were in want, we should be insolvent, and life would be miserable. Be it ours to but- ton up our pockets and our hearts, and to make merry — it is enough to swim down this GOSSIP 53 life-stream for ourselves; if Poverty is clutch- ing hold of our heels, or Friendship would catch an arm, kick them both off. Every man for himself is the word, and plenty to do, too. — Men's Wives ('The Ravenswing,' chap. v.). AWEARY heart gets no gladness out of sunshine; a selfish man is sceptical about friendship, as a man with no ear doesn't care for music. — English Humourists (Swift). GOSSIP AND a lie once set going, having the breath of life breathed into it by the father of lying, and ordered to run its dia- bolical little course, lives with a prodigious vitality. . . . Great lies are as great as great truths and prevail constantly, and day after day. ... I once talked . . . with an amiable lady and saw an expression of surprise on her kind face, which said as plainly as a face could say, 'Sir, do you know that up to this moment I have had a certain opinion of you, and that I begin to think I have been mistaken or misled ? ' I not only know that she had heard evil re- ports of me, but I know who told her — one of those acute fellows, my dear brethren, . . . who has found me out — found out actions which I never did, found out thoughts and 54 GOSSIP sayings which I never spoke, and judged me accordingly. . . . How comes it that the evil which men say spreads so widely and lasts so long, whilst our good kind words don't seem somehow to take root and bear blossom ? Is it that in the stony hearts of mankind these pretty flowers can't find a place to grow? Certain it is that scandal is good, brisk talk, whereas praise of one's neighbour is by no means lively hearing. An acquaintance grilled, scored, devilled, and served with mustard and cayenne pepper, excites the appetite, whereas a slice of cold friend with currant jelly is but a sickly unrelishing meat. — Roundabout Papers ('On a Hundred Years Hence'). WONDERFUL is the knowledge which our neighbours have of our affairs. — The Virginians, chap, xxviii. PRAISE everybody and everybody will smile on you in return, a sham smile, and hold you out a sham hand, and, in a word, esteem you as you deserve. No, I think you and I will take the ups and the downs, the roughs and the smooths of this daily existence and conversation. We will praise those whom we like, though nobody repeat our kind sayings and say our say about those whom we dislike, though we are pretty sure our words will be carried by tale- GOSSIP 55 bearers, and increased and multiplied, and remembered long after we have forgotten them. We drop a little stone — a little stone that is swallowed up and disappears, but the whole pond is set in commotion, and ripples in continually widening circles long after the original little stone has popped down and is out of sight. Don't your speeches of ten years ago — maimed, distorted, bloated it may be, out of all recognition — come strangely back to their author ? — Philip, chap. ix. WHO does know the stories that are told of him? Who makes them? Who are the fathers of those wondrous lies? — The Virginians, chap, xxviii. WHO but a gabby ever spoke ill of a woman to her sweetheart? He will tell her everything, and they both will hate you. — The Virginians, chap. xvii. HOW can you prevent servants talking or listening when the faithful attached creatures talk to you. — The Virginians, chap. xxii. YOU know, neighbour, there are not only false teeth in this world, but false tongues. — Roundahout Papers ('On a Medal of George the Fourth'). 56 GOSSIP THE Blackest of all Blacks is said not to be of quite so dark a complexion as some folks describe him to be. — The Virginians, chap. Ivi. HEAVEN help us! if some people were to do penance for telling lies, would they ever be out of sackcloth and ashes? — The Virginians, chap. xl. IF pride exists amongst any folks in our country, and assuredly we have enough of it, there is no pride more deep-seated than that of twopenny old gentlewomen in small towns. ' Gracious goodness' the cry was, 'how infatuated the mother is about that pert and headstrong boy . . . for whom our society is not good enough.' . . . Naturally haughty and frank, their cackle and small talk and small dignities bored him, and he showed a contempt which he could not conceal. . . . Even Mrs. Portman shared in the general distrust of him and his mother, the widow who kept herself aloof from the vil- lage society, and was sneered at accordingly. — Pendennis, chap. xv. PERSONALITIES are odious.— C/^ar- ader Sketches ('The Artists'). w "HAT were life worth if a man were forced to put himself a la piste of all the calumnies uttered against him? — The Virginians, chap. Ixxxix. HAPPINESS 57 HAPPINESS HAPPINESS often disdains the turrets of kings to pay a visit to the tabernas pauperum. — Sketches (' Cairo ') . WHICH of us can point out and say that was the culmination — that was the summit of human joy? — Vanity Fair, chap. Ixii. THE good we have in us we doubt of; and the happiness that's to our hand we throw a.wa.y. ^Esmond, chap, iii, bk. iii. HOW happy he whose foot fits the shoe which fortune gives him! — The Vir- ginians, chap. xci. HAPPY! Who is happy? what good is a stalled ox for dinner every day, and no content therewith ? Is it best to be loved and plagued by those you love, or to have an easy, comfortable indifference at home; to follow your fancies, live there unmolested, and die without causing any painful regret or tears? — The Virginians, chap. xiii. BUT a title and a coach and four are toys more precious than happiness in Vanity Fair. — Vanity Fair, chap. ix. 58 HATRED AH! Vanitas Vanitatum! which of us is happy in this world? which of us has his desire? or having it, is satisfied? — Vanity Fair, chap. Ixvii. WELL, some people cannot drive to hap- piness even with four horses, and other folks can reach the goal on foot. — Philip, chap, xxxii. HAPPY, who is happy ? Was not there a serpent in Paradise itself, and if Eve had been perfectly happy beforehand, would she have listened to him? — The Vir- ginians, chap. iv. TO be able to bestow benefits or happiness on those one loves is sure the greatest blessing conferred upon a man. — Esmond, chap, ii, bk. iii. SOME folks are happy and easy in mind when their victim is stabbed and done for. — The Virginians, chap. xx. H OW shall there be joy at meeting vidth- out tears at parting? — Burlesques. HATRED WHY should we overcome such instincts ? . . . Why shouldn't we hate what is hateful in people, and scorn what is mean? — The Newcomes, liv. HATRED 59 ONE of the great conditions of anger and hatred is, that you must tell and believe lies against the hated object, in order to be consistent. — Vanity Fair, chap, xviii. WHAT is sheer hate seems to the indi- vidual entertaining the sentiment so like indignant virtue, that he often indulges in the propensity to the full, nay, lauds him- self for the exercise of it. — The Newcotnes, chap. Ixiv. WHEN one man has been under very remarkable obligations to another with whom he subsequently quarrels, a com- mon sense of decency, as it were, makes of the former a much severer enemy than a mere stranger would be. To account for your own hard-heartedness and ingratitude in such a case, you are bound to prove the other party's crime. . . . From a mere sense of consis- tency, a persecutor is bound to show that the fallen man is a villain, otherwise he, the persecutor, is a wretch himself. — Vanity Fair, chap, xviii. THE blows which wound most, often are those which never are aimed. The people who hate us are not those we have injured. — The Virginians, chap. Ixxxvii. 6o HATRED PEOPLE hate as they love, unreasonably. Whether is it the more mortifying to us, to feel that we are disliked or liked unde- servedly? — The Newcomes, chap. Ivi. THERE are enmities which the heart does not recognize. — The Virginians, chap. vii. TWO sailors when the boat's a-sinking, though they hate each other ever so much, will help and bale the boat out. — Men's Wives ('The Ravenswing,' chap. ii.). AH me! we wound where we never in- tended to strike; we create anger where we never meant harm. . . . Out of mere malignity, I suppose, there is no man who would like to make enemies. ... Do what I will, be innocent or spiteful, be generous or cruel, there are A and B, and C and D, who will hate me to the end of the chapter — to the chapter's end — to the Finis of the page — when hate, and envy, and fortune, and disap- pointment shall be over. — Roundabout Pa- pers ('Thorns in the Cushion'). YOU have no doubt remarked in your ex- perience of life, that when men do hate each other, the real reason is never assigned. You say 'The conduct of such and such a man to his grandmother — his behaviour in selling that horse to Benson — his manner of HYPOCRISY 6i brushing his hair down the middle ' — or what you will — 'makes him so offensive to me that I can't endure him.' . . . Allans done/ . . . The man who hates us gives a reason, but not the reason. — Lovel the Widower, chap. iv. I NEVER wronged a man so much as to be obliged to hate him afterward. — Denis Duval, chap. viii. HYPOCRISY THERE is some hypocrisy of which one does not like even to entertain the thought; especially that awful falsehood which trades with divine truth, and takes the name of Heaven in vain. — The New- comes, chap. Ixix. EVERY person who manages another is a hypocrite. — Sketches and Travels in London ('On Love, Marriage, Men and Women'). WHERE there is not equality, there must be hypocrisy. — The Virginians, chap. XXX. OH, let us be thankful, not only for faces, but for masks! not only for honest welcome, but for hypocrisy, which hides un- 62 HYPOCRISY welcome things from us! Hypocrisy is true virtue. . . , Oh, if every man spoke his mind, what an intolerable society ours would be to live in, — The Virginians, chap. Ivi. WOMEN go through this simpering, and smiling life, and bear it quite easily. Theirs is a life of hypocrisy. . . . But men are not provided with such powers of hum- bug or endurance — they perish and pine away miserably when bored — or they shrink off to the club for comfort. — The Newcomes, chap. xl. ABOUT your most common piece of hy- pocrisy how men will blush and bungle: how easily, how gracefully, how consum- mately women will perform it! — Philip, chap. iv. ^ npIS an error, surely, to talk of the sim- A plicity of youth. I think no persons are more hypocritical and have a more affected behaviour to one another than the young. They deceive themselves and each other with artifices that do not impose upon men of the world, and so we get to under- stand truth better, and grow simpler as we grow older. — Esmond, chap, ix, bk. 1. TO the necessary deceits and hypocrisies of life why add any that are useless and unnecessary? — Pendennis, chap. Ixiv. HYPOCRISY 63 IN her griefs, in her rages, . . . how a woman remembers to smile, curtsy, . . . dissemble ! How resolutely they discharge the social proprieties; how they have a word, . . . or a kind little speech, or reply for the passing acquaintance who crosses unknowing the path of the tragedy! — The Virginians, chap. xxvi. WOMEN bear with hard words more easily than men, are more ready to forgive injuries or, perhaps, to dissemble anger. — The Virginians, chap. xiii. SOMETIMES it is hard to say where honest pride ends and hypocrisy begins. — Philip, chap. iv. LET us apply to the human race, dear brethren, what is here said of the vin- tages of Portugal and Gascony, and we shall have no difficulty in perceiving how many clarets aspire to be ports in their way, how most men and women of our acquaint- ance . . . wish to have credit for being . . . more worthy than we really are. Nay, the beginning of this hypocrisy — a desire to excel, a desire to be hearty, . . . fruity, generous, strength-imparting — is a virtuous and noble ambition; and it is most difficult for a man in his own case or his neighbour's to say at what point this ambition trans- gresses the boundary of virtue, and becomes 64 HYPOCRISY vanity, pretence, and self-seeking. . . . And when we have done discussing our men friends, have we not all the women? Do these not advance absurd pretensions? Do these never give themselves airs ? With feeble brains don't they often set up to be esprits forts? Don't they pretend to be women of fashion and cut their betters ? Don't they try and pass off their ordinary-looking girls as beauties of the first order ? Every man in his circle knows women who give themselves airs and to whom we can apply the port- wine simile. — Roundabout Papers ('Small- Beer Chronicle'). HE had the dissimulation, too, which timid men have; and felt the presence of a victimiser as a hare does of a greyhound. Now he would be quite still, now he would double, and now he would run, and then came the end. — Men's Wives ('The Ravens- wing,' chap. ii.). I RECOLLECT how, ... at school, . . . the cowardly mean-spirited fellows would laugh if ever our school-master made a joke. It was the same in the regiment whenever the bully of a sergeant was dis- posed to be jocular — not a recruit but was on the broad grin. ... I confided, per- haps, too much in the duration of this dis- ciplined obedience, and forgot that the very HYPOCRISY 65 hypocrisy j»-hich forms a part of it (all timid people are liars in their hearts) may be exerted in a way that may be far from agreeable, in or- der to deceive you. — Barry Lyndon, chap. xix. FOR to speak of Heaven in connection with common, worldly matters has al- ways appeared to me irreverent; and to bring it to bear witness to the lie in his mouth, as a religious hypocrite does, is such a fright- ful crime, that one should be careful even in alluding to it. — The Great Hoggarty Diamond, chap. X. BY humbly and frankly acknowledging yourself to be in the wrong, there is no knowing, my son, what good you may do. I knew once a gentleman ... in Vanity Fair, who used to do little wrongs to his neigh- bours on purpose, and in order to apologise for them in an open and manly way afterward — and what ensued ? My friend Crocky Doyle was liked everywhere — and deemed to be rather impetuous, but the honestest fellow. Becky's humility passed for sincerity. — Van- ity Fair, chap. xxii. BY that wondrous hypocrisy and power of disguise which women practise and with which weapons of defence nature en- dows them, the traces of her emotion disap- peared. — Pendennis, chap. li. 66 IDLENESS— JEALOUSY IDLENESS O BLESSED Idleness! Divine lazy Nymph! Dear, smiling Enchantress! They may assail thee with bad names, and call thee the Mother of Evil; but, for all that, thou art the best company in the world. — The Virginians, chap. xxix. THERE is a good old, loose, easy, slovenly, bedgown laziness for example. What man of sense likes to fling it off, and put on a tight, guinde, prim dresscoat that pinches him? There is the cozy wraprascal, self- indulgence — how easy it is. It is a little slat- ternly — allons done, let the world call me idle and sloven, I love my ease better than my neighbour's opinion. — Roundabout Pa- pers ('On Letts 's Diary'). JEALOUSY THERE is a complaint which neither poppy, nor mandragora, nor all the drowsy syrups of the East could allay, in the men of his time, as we are informed by a popular poet of the days of Elizabeth; and which, when exhibited in women, no medical discoveries nor mesmerism can cure, and that is — we won't call it jealousy, but rather gently denominate it rivalry and emulation in ladies. — Pendennis, chap. lii. JEALOUSY 67 IN plays and novels, and I dare say in real life, too, sometimes, when the wanton heroine chooses to exert her powers of fas- cination, and to flirt with Sir Henry or the Captain, the hero, in a pique, goes off and makes love to somebody else; both acknowl- edge their folly after awhile and are recon- ciled and the curtain drops, or the volume ends. But there are some people too noble and simple for these amorous scenes and smirking artifices. — The Newcomes, chap, xxxiii. AN exhibition of jealousy on a man's part is not always disagreeable to a lady. — Pendennis, chap, xxxvi. TO our betters we can reconcile ourselves, if you please, respecting them very sin- cerely, laughing at their jokes, making allow- ance for their stupidities, meekly sufi'ering their insolence; but we can't pardon our equals going beyond us. — A Shabby Genteel Story, chap. iii. MOST of the family quarrels that I have seen in life (saving those always aris- ing from money-disputes, when a division of twopence halfpenny will often drive the dearest relatives into war and estrangement), spring out of jealousy and envy. — Esmond, chap. V, bk. ii. 68 JEALOUSY AND about ourselves? My good people, do you by chance know any man or woman who has formed unjust conclusions regarding his neighbour? Have you ever found yourself willing, nay, eager, to believe evil of some man whom you hate? Whom you hate because he is successful and you are not: because he is rich and you are poor: because he dines with great men who don't invite you : because he wears a silk gown and yours is still stuff: , . . because his pic- tures have been bought, and yours returned home unsold : because he fills his church and you are preaching [to empty pews ? If your rival prospers, have you ever felt a twinge of anger? If his wife's carriage passes you and Mrs. Tomkins, who are in a cab, don't you feel that those people are giving them- selves absurd airs of importance? If he lives with great people are you not sure he is a sneak ? And if you ever felt envy to- ward another, and if . . . you have been peevish at his success, pleased to hear his merit depreciated, and eager to believe all that is said in his disfavour, ... as you yourself contritely own that you are unjust, jealous, uncharitable, so you may be sure some men are uncharitable, jealous, and unjust regarding yon. — Roundabout Papers ('Strange to Say on Club Paper'). JUSTICE 69 WOMEN are jealous of beauties. — The Newcomes, chap. xlix. TO be despised by her sex is a very good compliment to a woman. — Vanity Fair, chap. xii. ''"T^IS Mrs. Jack, who can only afford a -■- chair, that sickens at Mrs. Tom's new coach-and-six, cries out against her sister's airs, and sets her husband against his broth- er. 'Tis Jack who sees his brother shaking hands with a lord (with whom Jack would like to exchange snuff-boxes himself) that goes home and tells his wife how poor Tom is spoiled, he fears, and no better than a sneak, parasite, and beggar on horseback. — Esmond, chap, v, bk. ii. HOW is this? some carping reader ex- claims. How is it that Amelia, who had such a number of friends at school, and was so beloved there, comes out into the world and is spurned by her discriminating sex ? My dear sir, there were no men at Miss Pinkerton's establishment, except the old dancing master. — Vanity Fair, chap. xii. JUSTICE THE book of female logic is blotted all over with tears, and Justice in their courts is forever in a passion. — The Vir- ginians, chap. iv. 70 JUSTICE BUT the Judge who sees not the outward acts merely, but their causes, and views not the wrong alone, but the temptations, struggles, ignorance of erring creatures, we know has a different code to ours, to ours, who fall upon the fallen, who fawn upon the prosperous so, who administer our praises and punishments so prematurely, who now strike so hard, and anon, spare so shamelessly. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixi. INDEED, who ever accused women of be- ing just? They are always sacrificing themselves or somebody for somebody else's sake. — Pendennis, chap. iii. WOMEN won't see matters of fact in a matter-of-fact point of view, and jus- tice, unless it is linked with a little romance, gets no respect from them. — Philip, chap. xvii. SO it is, we judge men by our own stand- ards; judge our nearest and dearest often wrong. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixiii. WE have but to change the point ot view and the greatest action looks mean. — Esmond, chap, x, bk. ii. WHO are we to measure the chances and opportunities, the means of doing, or even judging, . . . awarded to men; and to establish the rule for meting out their pun- JUSTICE 71 ishments and rewards. . . . Into a next and awful world we strive to pursue men and send after them our impotent verdicts of condemnation or acquittal. Measured by that altitude, the tallest and the smallest among us are so alike diminutive and piti- fully base, that I say we should take no count of the calculation, and it is a meanness to reckon the difference. — Pendennis, chap. Ixi. YOU can but make guesses as to character more or less happy. In common life, don't you often judge and misjudge a man's whole conduct, setting out from a wrong im- pression? The tone of a voice, a word said in joke, or a trifle in behaviour — the cut of his hair or the tie of his neck-cloth may dis- figure him in your eyes, or poison your good opinion; or at the end of years of intimacy, it may be your closest friend says something, reveals something, which had previously been a secret, which alters all your views about him, and shows that he has been acting on quite a different motive to that which you fancied you knew. If it is so with those you know, how much more with those you don't know. — English Humourists (Steele). 72 KINDNESS KINDNESS KINDNESS is very indigestible. It disa- grees with proud stomachs. I wonder was that traveller who fell among the thieves grateful afterward to the Samaritan who rescued him ? He gave money, certainly, but he did not miss it. O brother, may we help the fallen still, though they never pay us, and may we lend without exacting the usury of gratitude! — Philip, chap, xxiii. TO receive small kindnesses flatters the donors very much, and people must needs grow well disposed toward you as they give you their hospitality. — Pendennis, chap. KINDNESSES are easily forgotten; but injuries! what worthy man does not keep those in mind? — Lovel the Widower, chap. i. THE world is full of love and pity, I say. Had there been less suffering, there would have been less kindness. — Philip, chap. XXV. TN youth, you see, one is touched by kind- ■■■ ness. A man of the world may, of course, be grateful or not, as he chooses. — The New- comes, chap. i. KINDNESS 73 A GOOD action gains to be repeated. — The Newcomes, chap, xlvii. A GOOD thing when it is to be done had best be done quickly. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixii. WHAT are benefits, what is constancy, or merit? One curl of a girl's ring- lets, one hair of a whisker, will turn the scale against them all in a minute. — Vanity Fair, chap. Ixvi. TO be doing good for someone else is the life of most good women. They are exuberant of kindness, as it were, and must impart it. — Esmond, chap, ix, bk. i. NO man whose early nurture M'as kindly can judge quite impartially the man who has been kind to him in boyhood. — Phil- ip, chap. ii. TO perform a kindness, an act of self- sacrifice, are not these the most delicious privileges of female tenderness? — Philip, chap. xvi. A KINDNESS or a slight puts a man under one flag or the other. — Esmond, chap. V, bk. iii. 74 KINDNESS HER heart melted, I suppose (indeed she hath since owned as much), at the no- tion that she should do anything unkind to any mortal, great or small; for when she returned, she had sent away the housekeeper . . . and, coming back to the lad, with a look of infinite pity and tenderness in her eyes, she took his hand again, placing her other fair hand on his head, and saying some words to him, which were so kind, and said in a voice so sweet, that the boy who had never looked upon so much beauty before, felt as if the touch of a superior being or angel smote him down to the ground, and kissed the fair pro- tecting hand as he knelt on one knee. — Es- mond, chap, i, bk. i. WITH love and simplicity and natural kindness. Snobbishness is perpetually at war. People dare not be happy for fear of Snobs. People dare not love for fear of Snobs. People pine away lonely under the tyranny of Snobs. Honest, kindly hearts dry up and die. Gallant, generous lads, bloom- ing with hearty youth, swell into . . . bachelorhood . . . from whom Snobbish- ness has cut off the common claim to hap- piness and affection with which Nature en- dowed us all. My heart grows sad as I see the blundering tyrant's handiwork. As I be- hold it I swell with rage and glow with fury against the Snob. Come down, I say, thou LAUGHTER 75 skulking dulness. Come down, thou stupid bully, and give up thy brutal ghost. — The Book of Snobs, chap, xxxiii. ALL this kindness Laura had acquired, not by any arts, not by any flattery, but by the simple force of good-nature, and by the blessed gift of pleasing and being pleased. — Pendennis, chap. Ixvi. LAUGHTER CAN'T you like a man at whom you laugh a little? I had rather such an open- mouthed conversationalist than your cau- tious jaws that never unlock without a care- ful application of the key. — Philip, chap. xxx. I DO know one or two, but only one or two faces Oi men, when oppressed with care, which can yet smile all over. — Philip, chap. iii. STUPID people, people who do not know how to laugh, are always pompous and self -conceited, that is, bigoted, that is, cruel: that is, ungentle, uncharitable, unchristian. — Sketches and Travels in London. ('On Love, Marriage, Men and Women')- A WOMAN without a laugh in her . . . is the greatest bore in existence. — Sketches and Travels in London. ('On Love, Marriage, Men and Women'). 76 LETTERS AND then both burst out laughing, as ladies will laugh, and as, let us trust, they vtay laugh forever and ever. Why need there be a reason for laughing ? Let us laugh when we are laughy, as we sleep when we are sleepy. — Men's Wives ('The Ravenswing,' chap. i.). A MAN who does not laugh outright is a dullard, and has no heart. — Critical Reviews (George Cruikshank). TO laugh and make laugh, though always with a secret kindness and tenderness, to perform the drollest little antics and capers, ... as you may have seen a Savoyard boy abroad, with a hurdy-gurdy and a monkey, turning over head and heels, or clattering and pirouetting in a pair of wooden shoes, yet al- ways with a look of love and appeal in his bright eyes, and a smile that asks and wins affection and protection. Happy they who have that sweet gift of nature! — English Humourists. ('Prior, Gay and Pope'). LETTERS I NEVER knew any good to come of v^Tit- ing more than hon jour or business. . . , What is the use of writing ill, when there are so many clever people who can do it well ? and even then it were best left alone. — The Virginians, chap. xlii. LETTERS 77 OF what use keeping letters ? I say, burn, burn, burn. No heart-pangs, no re- proaches, no yesterday. Was it happy, or miserable? To think of it is always melan- choly. — Philip, chap, xviii. PERHAPS in Vanity Fair there are no bet- ter satires than letters. Take a bundle of your dear friend^s of ten years back — your dear friend whom you hate now. . . . Vows, love, promises, confidences, gratitude, how queerly they read after a while! There ought to be a law in Vanity Fair ordering the destruction of every written document . . . after a certain brief and proper in- terval. . . . The best ink for Vanity Fair to use would be one that faded utterly in a couple of days and left the paper clean and blank so that you might write on it to some- body else. — Vanity Fair, chap. xLx. PEOPLE in country houses should be exceedingly careful about their blotting paper. They should bring their own port- folios with them. If any kind readers will bear this simple little hint in mind, how much mischief may they save themselves — nay, enjoy possibly, by looking at the pages of the next port-folio in the next friend's bed-room in which they sleep. — The New- comes, chap. Ix. 78 LETTERS IN the faded ink on the yellow paper that may have crossed and recrossed oceans, that has lain locked in chests for years and buried under piles of family archives, while your friends have been dying and your head has grown white — who has not disinterred mementoes like these — from which the past smiles at you so sadly, shimmering out of Hades an instant but to sink back again into the cold shades perhaps with a faint, faint sound as of a remembered tone — a ghostly echo of a once familiar laugh ? . . . Which of us has not had his Pompeii? Deep under ashes lies the Life of Youth — the care- less Sport, the Pleasure, . . . and the dar- ling Joy ? You open an old letter box and look at your own childish scrawls, or your mother's letters to you when you were at school, and excavate your heart. Oh me, for the day when the whole City shall be bare and the chambers unroofed and every cranny visible to the Light above, from the Forum to the Lupanar. — The Newcomes, chap. SHE wrapped up Pen's letters . . . and tied them with a piece of string neatly, as she would a parcel of sugar. Nor was she in the least moved while performing this act, V/hat hours the boy had passed over those papers! What love and longing, what generous faith and manly devotion. LIFE 79 . . She tied them up hke so much grocery, and sat down and made tea afterward with a perfectly placid and contented heart.— Pendennis, chap. xii. AS we look at the slim characters on the yellow page, fondly kept and put aside, we can almost fancy him alive who wrote and who read it, and yet, lo! they are as if they never had been; their portraits faint images in frames of tarnished gold. Were they real once, or are they mere phantasms ? . . . Did they live and die once ? Can we hear their voices in the past ? — The Virgin- ians, chap. xii. A GENTLEMAN who writes letters a deux fins, and having poured out his heart to the beloved, serves up the same dish rechauffe to a friend, is not very much in earnest about his loves, however much he may be in his piques and vanities when his impertinence gets its due. — English Hu- mourists ('Prior, Gay and Pope'). LIFE WHICH is the most reasonable, and does his duty best: he who stands aloof from the struggle of life, calmly contem- plating it, or he who descends to the ground, and takes his part in the contest? That 8o LIFE philosopher . . . had held a great place amongst the leaders of the world, and enjoyed to the full what it had to give of rank and riches, renown and pleasure, who came weary- hearted out of it, and said that all was vanity and vexation of spirit. Many a teacher of those whom we reverence, and who steps out of his carriage up to his carved cathedral place, shakes his lawn ruffles over the velvet cushion, and cries out that the whole struggle is an accursed one, and the works of the world are evil. Many a conscience-stricken mystic flies from it altogether, and shuts him- self out from it within convent walls (real or spiritual) whence he can only look up to the sky, and contemplate the heaven out of which there is no rest, and no good. But the earth, where our feet are, is the work of the same Power as the immeasurable blue yonder, in which the future lies into which we would peer, who ordered toil as the condition of life, ordered weariness, or- dered sickness, ordered poverty, failure, suc- cess, to this man a foremost place, to the other a nameless struggle with the crowd — to that a shameful fall — or paralyzed limb, or sudden accident — to each some work upon the ground he stands on, until he is laid be- neath it. — Pendennis, chap. xliv. LIFE 8i DOES a week pass without the announce- ment of the discovery of a new comet in the sky, a new star in the heaven, twinkhng dimly out of a yet farther distance, and only now becoming visible to human ken, though existent forever and ever ? So let us hope di- vine truths may be shining, and regions of light and love extant, which Geneva glasses can- not yet perceive, and are beyond the focus of Roman telescopes. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixv. REMEMBER that there are perils in our battle, God help us, from which the bravest had best run away. — The Newcomes, chap. XXX. THE object of life as I take it is to be friendly with everybody. As a rule, and to a philosophical cosmopolite, every man ought to be welcome. I do not mean to your intimacy or affection, but to your so- ciety, as there is, if we would or could but discover it, something notable, something worthy of observation, of sympathy, of won- der and amusement in every fellow mortal. — Sketches and Travels in London (* On a Lady in an Opera-box'). WE alter very little. When we talk of this man or that woman being no longer the same person whom we remember in youth, and remark (of course, to deplore) changes in our friends, we don't perhaps. 82 LIFE calculate that circumstance only brings out the latent defect or quality, and does not create it. The selfish languor and indifference of to-day's possession is the consequence of the selfish ardour of yesterday's pursuit: the scorn and weariness which cries vanitas vanitatum, is but the lassitude of the sick appetite palled with pleasure: the insolence of the successful parvenu is only the neces- sary continuance of the career of the needy struggler: our mental changes are like our gray hairs or our wrinkles — but the fulfilment of the plan of mortal growth and decay: that calm weariness, benevolent, resigned, and disappointed, was ambition, fierce and vio- lent, but a few years since, and has only set- tled into submissive repose after many a battle and defeat. Lucky he who can bear his failure so generously, and give up his broken sword to Fate the Conqueror, with a manly and humble heart! Are you not awe- stricken, you, friendly reader, who, taking the page up for a moment's light reading, lay it down, perchance, for a graver reflection, — to think how you, who have consummated your success or your disaster, may be holding marked station, or a hopeless and nameless place, in the crowd — who have passed through how many struggles of defeat, suc- cess, crime, remorse, to yourself only known! who may have loved and grown cold, wept and laughed again, how often ! to think how LIFE 8s you are the same You whom in childhood you remember, before the voyage of life be- gan? It has been prosperous, and you are riding into port, the people huzzaing and the guns saluting — and the lucky captain bows from the ship's side, and there is a care under the star on his breast which nobody knows of: or you are wrecked, and lashed, hopeless, to a solitary spar out at sea: the sinking man and the successful one are think- ing each about home, very likely, and re- membering the time when they were children; alone on the hopeless spar, drowning out of sight; alone in the midst of the crowd ap- plauding you. — Pendennis, chap. lix. ONLY very wilful and silly children cry after the moon. Sensible people who have shed their sweet tooth can't be expected to be very much interested about honey. . . . Life is labour. Life is duty. Life is rent. Life is taxes. Life brings it-s ills, bills, doctor's pills. Life is not a mere calendar of honey and moonshine. Very good. But without love, . . . life is just death and I know . . . you would no more care to go on with it. — Philips chap, xxxiii. MY amiable reader, acknowledge that you and I in life pretty much go our own way. We eat the dishes we like because we like them, not because our neighbour 84 LIFE relishes them. We rise early or sit up late; we work, idle, smoke, or what not, because we choose so to do. — Philip, chap. xxxi. WHAT can be said but that men and women are imperfect, and human life not entirely pleasant or profitable. — The Virginians, chap. v. THE pavement of life is strewed with orange-peel; and who hath not slipped on the flags ? — Philip, chap. xxxv. ONE supports the combats of life, but they are long, and one comes from them very wounded. — The Neivcomes, chap. liii. WHAT is it that interests me so ? What do you suppose interests a man the most in this life? Himself, to be sure. — Sketches in London. ('On a Lady in An Opera Box'). IS not one story as stale as the other ? are not they all alike? What is the use, I say, of telling them over and over. . , . Whole chapters might have been written to chronicle all these circumstances, but a quoi hen ? The incidents of life . . . resemble each other so much that I am surprised, gentlemen and ladies, you read novels any more. . . . But cui bono? I say again, What is the good LIFE 85 of telling the story? . . . Take your story: take mine. To-morrow it shall be Miss Fanny's, . . . and next day it shall be Baby's. — The Virginians, chap, xviii. SOME dinners are dear though they cost nothing. — Philip, chap. xix. AS Pain produces or elicits fortitude and endurance; difficulty, perseverance; poverty, industry and ingenuity; danger, courage and what not; so the very virtues, on the other hand, will generate some vices. — Pendennis, chap. ii. WE do a thing — which of us has not ? not because 'everybody does it,' but be- cause we like it; and our acquiescence, alas! proves not that everybody is right, but that we and the rest of the world are poor creat- ures alike. — Pendennis, chap. Ixiv. A PERSON who is used to making sacri- fices, who has got such a habit of giving up her own pleasure for others, can do the business quite easily. — Pendennis, chap. li. HEARTS as brave and resolute as ever beat in the breast of any wit or poet, sicken and break daily in the vain endeavour and unavailing struggle against life's difficulty. Don't we see daily ruined inventors, gray- haired midshipmen, balked heroes, barris- 86 LIFE ters pining a hungry life out iu <,nambers, the attorneys never mounting to their garrets, whilst scores of them are rapping at the door of the successful quack below ? If these sufiFer, who is the author that he should be exempt ? Let us bear our ills with the same constancy with which others endure them, accept our manly part in life, hold our own and ask no more. — English Humourists ('Sterne and Goldsmith'). THERE is life and death going on in every- thing: truth and lies always at battle. Pleasure is always warring against self-re- straint. — English Humourists ('Congreve and Addison'). A DEAR wife and children to love you, a true friend or two to stand by you, and in health or sickness, . . . a kindly heart. — Philip, chap. xlii. A MAN who goes overboard hangs on to a spar whilst any hope is left, and then flings it away and goes down when he fin^ that the struggling is in vain, — Vanity Fav^ chap. Ixiv. WOULD you, who are reading this, for example, like to live your life over again ? What has been its chief joy ? What are to-day's pleasures ? Are they so exquisite that you would prolong them forever? LIFE 87 Would you like to have the roast beef on which you have dined brought back again to the table ? and have more beef, and more, and more? Would you like to hear yester- day's sermon over and over again — eternally voluble? . . . You might as well say you would like ... to be thrashed over again b3^ your bully at school : you would like to go to the dentist's. — Philip, chap. xvii. THE great moments of life are but mo- ments like the others. Your doom is spoken in a word or two. A single look from the eyes; a mere pressure of the hand may decide it, or of the lips though they cannot speak. — Pendennis, chap. Ixxiv. TO push on in the crowd, every male and female struggler must use his shoulders. If a better place than yours presents itself just beyond your neighbour, elbow him and take it. Look how a steadily purposed man or woman at court, at a ball, or exhibition, wherever there is a competition and a squeeze, gets the best place; the nearest the sovereign, if bent on kissing the royal hand; the closest the grand-stand if minded to go to Ascot; the best view and hearing of the Rev. Mr. Thumpington, when all the town is rushing to hear that exciting divine; the largest quantity of ice, champag.ne, and seltzer, cold pate, or other, his or her favourite flesh-pot if glut- 88 LIFE tonously minded, at a supper whence hun- dreds of people come empty away. What a man has to do in society is to assert himself. Is there a good place at the table ? Take it. At the Treasury or at the Home Office? Ask for it. Do you want to go to a party to which you are not invited ? Ask to be asked. Ask A. Ask B. Ask Mrs. C, ask everybody you know: you will be thought a bore; but you will have your way. What matters if you are considered obtrusive, provided you obtrude? By pushing steadily, nine hundred and ninety- nine people in a thousand will yield to you. Only command persons, and you may be pretty sure that a good number will obey. How well your shilling will have been laid out, O gentle reader, who purchase this; and tak- ing the maxim to heart, follow it through life! You may be pretty sure of success. If your neighbour's foot obstructs you, stamp on it; and do you suppose he won't take it away ? — The Newcomes^ chap. viii. INDEED, do not things happen under our eyes and we not see them ? Are not come- dies and tragedies daily performed before us of which we understand neither the fun nor the pathos. — The Virginians, chap. Ixix. IF you make yourself agreeable there you will be in a fair way to get on in the world. — Sketches and Travels in London. (' A Word About Dinners'). LOVE 89 ARE there not little chapters in every- body's life that seem to be nothing and yet aflfect all the rest of the history? — Vanity Fair, chap, vi. STINGINESS is snobbish. Ostentation is snobbish. Too great profusion is snobbish. — The Book of Snobs, chap. xix. YOU see a man sink in the race and say good-by to him. Look, he has only dived and comes up ever so far ahead. Eh, vogue la galere ! — Pendennis, chap. xliv. LOVE YOU who have any who love you cling to them and thank God. — Lovel the Wid- ower, chap. vi. MANY a man and woman have been in- censed and worshipped and have shown no more feeling than is to be expected from idols. — The Newcomes, chap. xxi. w HO can love without an anxious heart ? — Burlesques. SURE, love vincit omnia, is immeasurably above all ambition, more precious than wealth, more noble than name. He knows not life who knows not that : he hath not felt 90 LOVE the highest facuhy of the soul who hath not enjoyed it. . . . To have such a love is the one blessing, in comparison of which all earthly joy is of no value. — Esmond, chap, xiii, bk. iii. SOME cynical Frenchman has said that there are two parties to a love transac- tion: the one who loves and the other who condescends to be so treated. — Vanity Fair, chap. xiii. TRUE love is better than glory, and a tran- quil fireside with the woman of your heart seated by it, the greatest good the gods can send us. — The Virginians, chap. A WOMAN who loves a man will not ruin his prospects, cause him to quar- rel with his family, and lead him into misery for her gratification. — Pendennis, chap. li. ONLY true love lives after you, follows your memory with secret blessing, or precedes you, and intercedes for you. Non omnis moriar — if dying, I yet live in a ten- der heart or two; nor am lost and hope- less living, if a sainted departed soul still loves and prays for me. — Esmond, chap, vi, bk. ii. LOVE 91 IF the sight of youthful love is pleasant to behold, how much more charming the aspect of the afifection that has survived years, sorrows, . . . and life's doubts, differ- ences, trouble! — The Virginians, chap, xxxiii. BLESSED he — blessed, though maybe, undeserving — who has the love of a good woman. — The Newcomes, chap. xlix. HOWEVER, there is another subject, la- dies, on which I must discourse, and that is never out of place. Day and night you like to hear of it: young and old, you dream and think of it. Handsome and ugly, . . . it's the subject next to the hearts of all of you. . . . Love! sure the word is formed on purpose out of the prettiest soft vowels and consonants in the language, and he or she who does not care to read about it is not worth a fig. — Barry Lyndon, chap. i. NOT in vain — not in vain, has he lived — hard and thankless should he be to think so — that has such a treasure given him. What is ambition compared to that, but selfish vanity. — Esmond, chap, vi, bk. ii. WHO likes a man best because he is the cleverest or the wisest of .mankind; or a woman because she . . . plays the piano better than the rest of her sex? — En- glish Humourists ('Steele'). 92 LOVE IN the Morning of Life the Truthful wooed the Beautiful, and their offspring was Love. Like his Divine parents, He is eternal. He has his Mother's ravishing smile, his Father's steadfast eyes. He rises every day, fresh and glorious as the untried Sun-God. He is Eros, the ever young. Dark, dark were this world of ours had either Divinity left it — dark without the day-beams of the Latonian Charioteer, darker yet without the daedal Smile of the God of the Other Bow! Dost know him, reader ? Old is he, Eros the ever young. He and Time were children together. Chronos shall die too, but Love is imperishable. Brightest of the Divinities, where hast thou not been sung? Other worships pass away, the idols of whom pyramids were raised lie in the desert crumbling and almost nameless. The Olympians are fled, their fanes no longer rise among the quivering olive-groves of Ilissus, or crown the emerald-islets of the amethyst ^gean! These are gone, but thou remainest. There is still a garland for thy temple, a heifer for thy stone. A heifer? Ah, many a darker sacrifice. Other blood is shed at thy altars, Remorseless One, and the Poet Priest who ministers at thy Shrine draws his auguries from the bleeding hearts of men! — Prize Novels ('George de Barn- well,' chap. i.). LOVE 93 LOVE is the master of the wisest. — It is only fools who defy him. — Men's Wives ('Dennis Haggerty's Wife')- AH! I have no patience with the way in which you people of the world treat the most sacred of subjects — the most sacred. Is a woman's love to be pledged and withdrawn every day? Only to be a matter of barter, and rank, and social consideration ? — Philip, chap. viii. HAPPY it is to love when one is hopeful, and young in the midst of smiles and sunshine, but be wwhappy and then see what it is to be loved by a good woman. — The Great Hoggarty Diamond, chap. xi. LOVE is a mighty fine thing, but it is not the life of a man. There are a thousand other things for him to think of besides. There is business, there is friendship, there is society, there are taxes, there is ambition, and the manly desire to exercise the talents which are given us by heaven, and reap the prize of our desert.— ^^e^cAe^ and Travels in Londofi. ('On Love, Marriage, Men and Women.') THERE are some people who, in their youth, have felt and inspired an heroic passion, and end by being happy in the ca- resses or agitated by the illness of a poodle. — Pendennis, chap, xlviii. 94 LOVE ALL the prizes of life are nothing com- pared to that one. All the rewards of ambition, wealth, pleasure, only vanity and disappointment — grasped at greedily, and fought for fiercely, and over and over again, found worthless by the weary winners. But love seems to survive life, and to reach be- yond it. I think we take it with us past the grave. Do we not still give it to those who have left us? May we not hope that they feel it for us and that we shall leave it here in one or two fond bosoms, when we also are gone? — The Virginians, chap. xxi. PERHAPS all early love affairs ought to be strangled or drowned like so many blind kittens. — Pendennis, chap. ii. IF Fun is good. Truth is still better, and Love best of all. — Book of Snobs, chap. xlii. AH, friends and tortures! a gentleman may cease to love but does he like a wo- man to cease to love him ? — Philip, chap. xiii. NOT in vain, not in vain does he live whose course is so befriended. Let us be thankful for our race, as we think of the love that blesses some of us. Surely it has something of Heaven in it, and angels celes- tial may rejoice in it and admire it. — The Newcomes, chap. xv. LOVE 95 IF you love a person, is it not a pleasure to feel obliged to him? — The Great Hog- garty Diamond. ALONG engagement is a partnership which one party is free to keep or to break, but which involves all the capital of the other. Be cautious, then, young ladies, be wary how you engage. — Vanity Fair, chap, xviii. 1DARE say all people's love-making is not amusing to their neighbours. — Philip, chap. xvii. FOR love, as for the greatest of all the bounties and wonders of God's provision for us, let us kneel and thank Our Father. — Pendennis, chap. Ivii. FOR a while at least, I think almost every man or woman is interesting when in love. — The Newcomes, chap. xli. WHAT is it? where lies it? the secret which makes one little hand the dear- est of all. — Esmond, chap, vi, bk. ii. SOME people have the complaint so mildly that they are scarcely ever kept to their beds. Some bear its scars forever. — Philip, chap. xiv. 96 MARRIAGE WHEN a man is in love with one woman in a family, it is astonishing how fond he becomes of every person connected with it. He ingratiates himself with the maids; he is bland with the butler; he inter- ests himself about the footman; he runs on errands for the daughters; he gives advice and lends money to the young son at college; he pats little dogs which he would kick other- wise; ... he smiles when wicked, lively, little Bobby upsets the coffee over his shirt. — The Virginians, chap. xx. TO see a young couple loving each other is no wonder; but to see an old couple loving each other is the best sight of all. — Esmond, chap, xi, bk. i. AS the gambler said of his dice, to love and win is the best thing. To love and lose is the next best. — Pendennis, chap, xxxix. yJFFAIRES de cceur — the best way — when ■^ a danger of that sort menaces, is not to face it, but to turn one's back on it and run. — Pendennis, chap. liv. MARRIAGE w ^ARM friendship and thorough esteem and confidence are safe properties in- vested in the prudent marriage stock, mul- tiplying and bearing an increasing value with every year. — The Newcomes, chap, xxxvii. MARRIAGE 97 BETTER poverty, better a cell in a con- vent, than a union without love. — The Newcomes, chap, xlvii. WHO dared first to say that marriages are made in heaven? Do not mis- takes occur every day? and are not the wrong people coupled? You may as well say that horses are sold in heaven. — Philip, chap. XX. I HAVE never learned that life's trials were over after marriage; only lucky is he who has a loving companion to share them. — Philip, chap, xxxii. QUE vouleZ'Vous? There are some women in the world to whom love and truth are all in all here below. Other ladies there are who see the benefit of a good jointure, a town and country house and so forth, and who are not so very particular as to the character, intellect, or complexion of the gentlemen who are in a position to offer these benefits. — Philip, chap. xiii. AND as for this romance of love, . . . this fine picture of Jenny and Jessamy falling in love . . . and retiring to a cot- tage afterward, . . . pshaw! what folly is this! I don't say that a young man and woman are not to meet, and fall in love and to marry, and love each other till they are a 98 MARRIAGE hundred; that is the supreme lot, but that is the lot which the gods only grant to a very, very few. As for the rest, they must com- promise; make themselves as comfortable as they can, and take the good and the bad to- gether. . . . Love in a cottage! Who is to pay the landlord for the cottage? . . . No, you cry out against people in our world making money marriages. Why, kings and queens marry on the same understanding. A girl accepts the best parti which offers itself. — The Newcomes, chap. xxx. AND so the words are spoken and the knot is tied. Amen. For better, for worse, for good days or evil, love each other, cling to each other, dear friends. Fulfil your course and accomplish your life's toil. In sorrow soothe each other; in illness watch and tend. Cheer, fond wife, the husband's struggle, lighten his gloomy hours with your tender smiles, and gladden his home with your love. — Philip, chap, xxxii. WHEN one thinks of country houses and country walks, one wonders that any man is left unmarried. — Pendennis, chap. Ixiii. AND, in a word, as you are what is called a gentleman, yourself, I hope that Mrs. Bob Brown, whoever she may be, is not only by nature, but by education, a gentlewoman. MARRIAGE 99 No man ought ever to be called upon to blush for his wife. I see good men rush into marriage with ladies of whom they are after- ward ashamed, and in the same manner charming women linked to partners whose vulgarity they try to screen. ... So you see Edward Jones has had his way and got a wife, but at what expense ? He and his fam- ily are separated. His wife brought him nothing but good looks. . . . Her stock of brains is small. She is not easy in the new society into which she has been brought and sits quite mum. . . . The women try her in every way, and can get no good from her. Jones's male friends, who are civilized beings, talk to her, and receive only monosyllables in reply. His house is a stupid one, his ac- quaintances drop ofif; he has no circle at all at last. . . . What is the lot of a man who has a wife like this? . . . She never had any merit. He can't read novels to her all through his life, while she is working slippers. It is absurd. ... He is a young man still when she is an old woman. She ought to be able to make your house pleasant to your friends. She ought to attract them to it by her grace, her good-breeding, her good- humour. — Sketches and Travels in London. ('On Love, Marriage, Men and Women'). loo MARRIAGE ARRIVED at my time of life, when I see a young friend . . . thinking of com- mitting matrimony, what can I do but be melancholy? Gracious powers! is it not blasphemy? ... A wife whom you have met a score of times at balls or break- fasts, and with her best dresses and be- haviour, . . . how do you know how she will turn out ? What her relations are likely to be? Suppose she has poor relations or loud, coarse brothers who are always drop- ping in to dinner ? What is her mother like ? and can you bear to have that woman med- dling and domineering over your establish- ment? ... As a man of the world I saw all these dreadful liabilities impending over the husband . . . and could not view them without horror. — Philip, chap. xvii. WHAT was it that insulted Nature (to use no higher name) and perverted her kindly intentions toward them? What cursed frost was it that nipped the love that both were bearing, . . . and condemned the lad to selfish old bachelorhood ? It was the infernal Snob tyrant who governs us all, who says, 'Thou shalt not love without a lady's- maid, thou shalt not marry without a carriage and horses, thou shalt have no wife on thy heart, . . . without a page in buttons and a French bonne; thou shalt go to the devil un- less thou hast a brougham, marry poor and MARRIAGE loi society shall forsake thee, thy kinsmen shall avoid thee as a criminal, . . .' and be- moan the sad, sad manner in which Tom or Harry has thrown himself away. You, young woman, may sell yourself without shame and marry old Croesus, you young man may lie away your heart and your life for a jointure. But if you are poor, woe be to you. Society the brutal Snob autocrat consigns you to soli- tary perdition. Wither, poor girl, in your gar- ret .. . young man in your club. — Book of Snobs ^ chap, xxxiii. WE know that there are not only blunders, but roguery in the marriage office. . . . Had heaven anything to do with the bargain by which young Miss Blushrose was sold to old Mr. Hoarfrost ? Did heaven order Miss Tripper to throw over poor Tom Spooner, and marry the wealthy Mr. Bung? . . . You have been jockeyed by false representa- tions into bidding for the Cecilia, . . . She shies, kicks, stumbles, has an infernal temper, is a crib-biter. . . . You have bought her. . . . Heaven bless you. Take her home and be miserable. . . . Marriages were made in heaven, you know; and in yours you were as much sold as Moses Primrose was when he bought the gross of green spectacles. — Philip, chap. xx. I02 MARRIAGE THIS ceremony amongst us is so staie and common that, to be sure, there is no need to describe its rites, and as women sell themselves for what you call an establishment every day, to the applause of themselves, their parents and the world, why on earth should a man ape originality and pretend to pity them? Never mind about the lies at the altar, the blasphemy against the godlike name of love. What the deuce does a mar- iage de convenance mean but all this! — The Newcomes, chap, xxviii. I CAN fancy nothing more cruel, after a long, easy life of bachelorhood, than to have to sit day after day, with a dull . . . woman opposite, to have to answer her speeches about the weather, housekeeping, and what not, to smile appropriately when she is disposed to be lively, . . . and to model your con- versation so as to suit her intelligence, know- ing that a word used out of its downright sig- nification will not be understood by your breakfast-maker. — The Newcomes, chap. xl. MARRIAGES begun in indifference make homes unhappy. — The New- comes, chap. Iv. WE arrange such matches every day, we sell or buy beauty, or rank or wealth; we inaugurate the bargain in churches with sacramental services, in which the parties MARRIAGE 103 engaged call upon Heaven to witness their vows — we know them to be lies, and seal them in God's name. — The Newcomes, chap. Ivii. WHAT causes young people to 'come out ' but the noble ambition of matri- mony? What sends . . . them ... to watering-places? ... to play the harp if they have handsome arms . . . but that they may bring down some . . . 'desirable' young man with those killing bows and arrows of theirs? What causes respectable parents to take up their carpets, set their houses topsy-turvy, and spend a fifth of their year's income in ball suppers, and iced cham- pagne ? Is it sheer love of their species and an unadulterated wish to see young people happy and dancing? Pshaw, they want to marry their daughters. — Vanity Fair, chap. iii. o F what else have young ladies to think but husbands? — Vanity Fair, chap. x. THE great point in marriage is for people to be useful to one another. — Pendennis, chap. lix. IT isn't money or mere liking a girl that ought to be enough to make a fellow marry. He may marry and find he likes somebody else better. All the money in the world won't make you happy then. — Pen- dennis, chap. xlv. I04 MEN AH, Othello, mon ami, when you look round at married life, and know what you know, don't you wonder that the bolster is not used a great deal more freely ? — Philip, chap, xxviii. MEN HE could despise a man for not being a gentleman and insult him for being one. I have met with people in the world with whom the latter offence is an unpardonable crime — a cause of ceaseless doubt, division and suspicion. What more common or nat- ural than to hate another for being what you are not? The story is as old as frogs, bulls and men. Then, to be sure, besides your enviers in life there are your admirers. — Philip, chap. vi. WHAT qualities are there for which a man gets so speedy a return of ap- plause as those of bodily superiority, activity, and valour ? Time out of mind, strength and courage have been the theme of bards and romances; and from the story of Troy down to to-day, poetry has always chosen a soldier for a hero. I wonder is it because men are cowards in heart that they admire bravery so much, and place military valour so far be- yond every other quality for reward and worship? — Vanity Fair, chap. xxx. MEN 105 WHAT is it to be a gentleman ? Is it to be honest, to be gentle, to be gener- ous, to be brave, to be wise, and possessing all these qualities to exercise them in the most graceful outward manner? — Book of Snobs, chap. ii. THERE is no character which a low- minded man so much mistrusts as that of a gentleman. — Vanity Fair, chap. xxi. MEN serve women kneeling — when they get on their feet, they go away. — Pendennis, chap. xxx. CERTAIN men there are who never tell their love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on their damask cheek; others again must be not always thinking but talking about the darling object. — The New- comes, chap. xlv. THE world is full of fellows who will never give another man credit. — Philip, chap. ix. HAVE you not remarked in your dealings with people who are no gentlemen, that you offend them not knowing the how or why? So the man who is no gentleman offends you in a thousand ways of which the io6 MEN poor creature has no idea himself. He does or says something which provokes your scorn, he perceives that scorn (being always on the watch and uneasy about himself, his man- ners and behaviour) and he rages. You speak to him naturally, and he fancies still that you are sneering at him. You have in- difference toward him; but he hates you and hates you the worse because you don't care. — The Virginians, chap, xlvii. MEN young to the world mistrust the bearing of others toward them, because they mistrust themselves. — Sketches and Travels in London. (' On the Pleasures of Being a Fogy')- WHICH of us can point out many such in his circle — men whose aims are generous, whose truth is constant, and not only constant in its kind, but elevated in its degree; whose want of meanness makes them simple : who can look the world honestly in the face with an equal manly sympathy for the great and the small ? We all know a hundred whose coats are very well made, and a score who have excellent manners, but of gentlemen, how many? Let us take a little scrap of paper and each make out his list. — Vanity Fair, chap. Ixii. MEN 107 THERE are certain actions simple and common with some men, which others cannot understand, and deny as utter Hes, or deride as acts of madness. — Tlie Virginians, chap. Ixxii. THERE is no man or woman in our time who makes fine projects and gives them up from idleness or want of means. . . . WTien we are stricken with remorse and prom- ise reform, we keep our promise, and are never angry, or idle, or extravagant any more. . . . There are no little sins, shabby pec- cadilloes, importunate remembrances, . . . hovering at our steps, or knocking at our door! Of course not. We are living in the nineteenth century. — English Humourists ('Steele'). GREAT men recite their great actions modestly, as if they were matters of course; as, indeed, to them they are. A com- mon tyro having perpetrated a great deed, would be amazed and flurried at his own action; whereas I have no doubt the Duke of Wellington, after a great victory, took his tea and went to bed just as quietly as he would after a dull debate in the House of Lords. — Irish Sketch Book, chap. xv. io8 MEN BEWARE of too much talk, O parsons. If a man is to give an account of every idle word he utters, for what a number of such loud nothings, windy emphatic tropes and metaphors, spoken not for God's glory, but the preacher's, will many a cushion-thumper have to answer. — Irish Sketch Book, chap. xx. WE can apply the Snob test to him — and try whether he is conceited . . . . . and proud of his own narrow soul. How does he treat a great man ? how regard a small one ? — Book of Snobs, chap. last. HOW low men were, and how they rise, How high they were and how they tumble, O vanity of vanities! O laughable, pathetic jumble. . . . O vanity of vanities! How wayward the decrees of Fate are, How very weak the very wise, How very small the very great are. — Vanitas Vanitatum. IT is only a few men who attain simplicity in early life. This man has his conceited self-importance to be cured of, that has his conceited bashfulness to be 'taken out of him* as the phrase is. You have a disquiet which you try to hide, and you put on a haughty and guarded manner. You are suspicious of MEN 109 the good will of the company round about you, or of the estimation in which they hold you. You sit mum at the table. It is not your place to 'put yourself forward.' You are thinking about yourself, that is, you are not agreeable. . . . When Mumford is an honest Fogy, ... he will neither distrust his host nor his company, nor himself, he will make the best of the hour and the peo- ple round about him; ... he will take and give his part of the good things, join in the talk and laugh unaffectedly, . . . not from a wish to show oflf his powers, but from a sheer good humour and desire to oblige. — Sketches and Travels in London. ('On the Pleasures of Being a Fogy'). A CLEVER, ugly man every now and then is successful with the ladies; but a handsome fool is irresistible. — Catherine, chap. X. MAN is a Drama — of Wonder and Pas- sion, and Mystery and Meanness, and Beauty and Truthfulness, and Et cetera. Each Bosom is a Booth in Vanity Fair. — Book of Snobs, chap, xxxix. WHO has not heard how great, strong men, have an aflanity for tender, little women; how tender, little women are at- tracted by great, strong men? — The Virgin- ians, chap. Ixii. no MEN MEN not so wise as Socrates have their demons, who will be heard to whisper in the queerest times and places. — Philip, chap. xvii. BECAUSE people are rich they are not of necessity ogres. Because they are born gentlemen and ladies of good degree, are in easy circumstances, and have a generous education, it does not follow that they are heartless and will turn their back on a friend. Moi qui vous parte — I have been in a great strait of sickness, near to death, and the friends who came to help me with every comfort, succour, sympathy, were actually gentlemen who lived in good houses and had a good education. They didn't turn away because I was sick or fly from me because they thought I was poor; on the contrary, hand, purse, succour, sympathy were ready, and praise be to Heaven. — Philip, chap, xxxvi. A MAN will lay down his head, or peril his life for his honour, but let us be shy how we ask him to give up his ease or his heart's desire. Very few of us can bear that trial. — Peiidennis, chap, xviii. LONG custom, a manly appearance, faultless boots and clothes, and a happy fierceness of manner, will often help a man as much as a great balance at the banker's. — Vanity Fair, chap. xii. MEN III SURE every man was made to do some work; and a gentleman, if he has none, must make some. Honour is the aim of Hfe. Every man can serve his country one way or the other. — The Virginians, chap, xxviii. I OBSERVE that men who complain of its selfishness are quite as selfish as the world is. — Men's Wives ('The Ravenswing,' rhap. v.). HALF the men are sick with the feasts which they eat day after day. — The Newcomes, chap. x. SAMSON was a mighty man, but he was a fool in the hands of a woman. Her- cules was a brave man and a strong, but Omphale twisted him round her spindle. — Philip, chap, xxvii. I HAVE seen the bravest men in the army cry like children at the cut of a cane. I have seen a little ensign of fifteen call out a man of fifty from the ranks, a man who had been in a hundred battles and he has stood pre- senting arms, and sobbing and howling like a baby, while the young wretch lashed him over the arms and thighs with the stick. In a day of action this man would dare anything. . . . But when they had made the brute fight, then they lashed him again into insubordination. . . . The French ofl&cer I have spoken of as taken along with me, was . . . caned like a 112 MEN dog. I met him at Versailles twenty years afterward, and he turned quite pale and sick when I spoke to him of the old days. 'For God's sake,' said he, 'don't talk of that time. I wake up from my sleep trembling and cry- ing even now.' — Barry Lyndon, chap. vi. THE bravest man I ever knew in the army, and who had been present in King Wil- liam's actions, . . . could never be got to tell us of any achievement of his, except that once Prince Eugene ordered him up a tree to reconnoitre the enemy, which feat he could not achieve on account of the horseman's boots he wore; and on another day he was very nearly taken prisoner because of these jack- boots, which prevented him from running away. — Esmond, chap, v, bk. ii. A MAN is seldom more manly than when he is what you call unmanned — the source of his emotion is championship, pity and courage; the instinctive desire to cherish those who are innocent and unhappy, and defend those who are tender and weak. — English Humourists ('Steele'). NO man is worth a fig or can have real benevolence of character, or observe mankind properly, who does not like the so- ciety of modest and well-bred women. — Sketches and Travels in London (' On Tail- oring and Toilettes in General'). MEN 113 1HOPE I shall always like to hear men in reason talk about themselves. What subject does a man know better? — Rounda- bout Papers ('On Two Children in Black'). I WILL assume, my benevolent friend and present reader, that you yourself are virt- uous, not from a fear of punishment, but from a sheer love of good; but as you and I walk through life, consider what hundreds of thousands of rascals we must have met who have not been found out at all. — Roundabout Papers ('On a Pear-tree'). FEW men of kindly feeling and good sta- tion are without a dependent or two. Men start together in the race of life, and Jack wins and Tom falls by his side. The successful man succours and reaches a friendly hand to the unfortunate competitor. — Philip, chap. vii. ACCUSATIONS of ingratitude, and just accusations, no doubt, are made against every inhabitant of this wicked world, and the fact is that a man who is ceaselessly engaged in its trouble and turmoil, borne hither and thither upon the fierce waves of the crowd, bustling, shifting, struggling to keep himself somewhat above water — fight- ing for reputation, or more likely for bread, and ceaselessly occupied to-day with plans for appeasing the eternal appetite of inevita- 114 MEN ble hunger to-morrow — a man in such straits has hardly time to think of anything but him- self, and, as in a sinking ship, must make his own rush for the boats, and fight, struggle and trample for safety. . . . The horrible glazed eyes of Necessity are always fixed upon you; fly away as you will, black Care sits behind you. . . . Here is, no doubt, the reason why a man, after the period of his boyhood or first youth, makes so few friends. Want and ambition (new acquaintances which are introduced to him along with his beard) thrust away all other society from him. Some old friends remain, it is true, but these are become as a habit — a part of your selfishness; and for new ones, they are selfish as you are. — Criti- cal Reviews ('George Cruikshank'). A MAN may attribute to the gods, if he likes, what is caused by his own fury, or disappointment, or self-will. — English Humourists ('Swift'). WHAT is it to be a gentleman ? Is it to have lofty aims? to lead a pure life, to keep your honour virgin, to have the es- teem of your fellow-citizens, and the love of your fireside, to bear good fortune meekly, to suffer evil with constancy, and through evil or good to maintain truth always. ? — The Four Georges ('George IV'). MONEY lis GRATITUDE among certain rich folks is scarcely natural or to be thought of. They take needy people's services as their due. Nor have you, O poor parasite and humble hanger-on, much reason to com- plain! Your friendship for Dives is about as sincere as the return which it usually gets. It is money you love, and not the man, and were Croesus and his footman to change places, you know, you poor rogue, who would have the benefit of your allegiance. — Vanity Fair, chap. xiv. TO part with money is a sacrifice beyond almost all men endowed vnth a sense of order. There is scarcely any man alive who does not think himself meritorious for giving his neighbour five pounds. Thriftless gives, not from a beneficent pleasure in giving, but from a lazy delight in spending. He would not deny himself one enjoyment; not his opera-stall, not his horse, not his dinner, not even the pleasure of giving Lazarus the five pounds. Thrifty, who is good, wise, just, and owes no man a penny, turns from a beg- gar, haggles with a hackney-coachman, or denies a poor relation, and I doubt which is the most selfish of the two. Money has only a different value in the eyes of each. — Vanity Fair, chap. xliv. ii6 MONEY WHEN the nature of Mr. Osborne's will became known to the world, it was edifying to remark how Mrs. George Os- borne rose in the estimation of the people forming her circle of acquaintance. The ser- vants of Jos's establishment, who used to question her humble orders, and say they would 'ask Master' whether or not they could obey, never thought now of that sort of an appeal. The cook forgot to sneer at her shabby old gowns, . . . and others no longer grumbled at the sound of her bell, or delayed to answer that summons. The coachman who grumbled that his 'osses should be brought out, . . . drove her with the utmost alacrity now, and trembling lest he should be superseded by Mr. Osborne's coachman. . . . Jos's friends, male and female, suddenly became interested about Emily, and cards of condolence multiplied on her hall table. Jos himself . . . paid her and the rich little boy, his nephew, the greatest respect — was anxious that she should have change and amusement after her troubles and trials, * poor, dear girl,* and began to ap- pear at the breakfast-table, and most par- ticularly to ask how she would like to dis- pose of the day. — Vanity Fair, chap. Ixi. MONEY 117 HOW they cringe and bow to that Creole, because of her hundred thousand pounds. I am a thousand times cleverer and more charming than that creature for all her wealth. . . . And yet every one passes me by here. — Vanity Fair, chap. ii. TIT'HAT a dignity it gives an old lady, VV that balance at the banker's. . . . What a kind, good-natured creature we find her. . . . What a good fire there is in her room when she comes to pay you a visit. — Vanity Fair, chap. ix. IT seems to me that all . . . society is cursed by this mammoniacal superstition, and that we are sneaking and bowing and cringing on the one hand, or bullying and scorning on the other. — Book of Snobs, chap, last. THE Baroness, too, was a woman of the world, and possibly on occasion could be as selfish as any other person of fashion. She fully understood the cause of the defer- ence which all the . . . family showed to her, . . . and being a woman of great humour, played upon the dispositions of the various members of this family, amused her- self with their greediness, their humiliations, their artless respect for her money-box and clinging attachment to her purse. . . . ii8 MONEY But those who had money and those who had none were alike eager for the Baroness's; in this matter the rich are quite as greedy as the poor. — The Virginians, chap. ii. IT is natural that a man should like the so- ciety of people well-to-do in the world, who make their houses pleasant, who gather pleas- ant persons about them, who have pleasant town and country houses. — Sketches and Travels in London (' On the Pleasures of Being a Fogy'). MAGNIFICENCE is the decency of the rich. — Sketches and Travels in Lon- don ('Mr. Brown's Letters to his Nephew'). IT is wonderful how the possession of wealth brings out the virtues of a man; or, at any rate, acts as a varnish or lustre to them, and brings out their brilliancy and col- our in a manner never known when the indi- vidual stood in the cold gray atmosphere of poverty. — Barry Lyndon, chap. xvii. OF what good is money unless we can make those we love happy with it ? — The Newcomes, chap, xxxix. WHO in this life gets the smiles, and the acts of friendship, and the pleasing legacies ? The rich. And I do for my part, heartily wish that some one would leave me MOTIVES 119 a trifle — say twenty thousand pounds — being perfectly confident that some one else would leave me more; and that I should sink into my grave worth a plum, at least. — A Shabby Genteel Story, chap. i. LOVE is of necessity banished from your society when you measure all your guests by a money-standard. — Sketches and Travels in London. (*On a Lady in an Opera Box'). ON a beaucoup d'esprit with seventy thou- sand pounds. — The Virginians, chap. Ixxii. MOTIVES MEN have all sorts of motives which carry them onwards in life, and are driven into acts of desperation, or it may be, of distinction, from a hundred dififerent causes. — Esmond, chap, v, bk. iii. /JRE, the motives pure which induce your -^ friends to ask you to dinner? . . . Does your entertainer want something from you? ... Be not too curious about the mouth of a gift -horse. After all, a man does not intend to insult you by asking you to dinner. — Book of Snobs, chap. xix. w E are glad of an excuse to do what we like. — The Newcomes, chap. lix. I20 NATURE I NEVER could count how many causes went to produce any given effect or action in a person's life and have been, for my own part, many a time quite misled in my own case, fancying some grand, some magnani- mous reason for an act of which I was proud, when, lo, some pert little satirical monitor springs up inwardly, upsetting the fond humbug which I was cherishing, and says, . . . 'Away with this boasting, . . . my name is Worldly Prudence, not Self- denial. ... I am Laziness, not Generosity.' — The Newcomes, chap. v. WHEN two motives may actuate a friend, we surely may try and believe in the good one. — The Newcomes, chap. liv. I DOUBT whether the wisest of us know what our own motives are, and whether some of the actions of which we are the very proudest will not surprise us when we trace them, as we shall one day, to their source. — Pendennis, chap. xxxi. NATURE IS it not a rare provision of Nature that the strong-winged bird can soar to the sun and gaze at it, and then come down from heaven and pounce on a piece of carrion? — The Newcomes, chap. xlvi. NATURE 121 AH, sir — a distinct universe walks about under your hat and under mine — all things in Nature are different to each — the woman we look at has not the same features, the dish we eat from not the same taste to the one and the other — you and I are but a pair of infinite isolations, with some fellow- islands a little more or less near to us. — Pen- dennis, chap. xvi. I SAY it is consolatory to think that, as Nature has provided flies for the food of fishes, and flowers for bees, so she has created fools for rogues, and thus the scheme is con- sistent throughout. . . . Wherever shines the sun, you are sure to find Folly basking in it; and knavery is the shadow at Folly's heels. — Character Sketches. (' Captain Rook and Mr. Pigeon')- AND so it is that Nature makes folks; and some love books and tea, and some like Burgundy and a gallop across country. — The Virginians, chap. xvi. SOME are made to scheme and some to love. — Vanity Fair, chap. xii. SO it is, that what is grand to some person's eyes appears grotesque to others; and, for certain sceptical persons, that step which we have heard of between the sublime and the ridiculous is not visible. — The Newcomes, chap. XXXV. 122 NATURE IT is surprising how young some people's hearts remain when their heads have need of a front or a httle hair-dye. — Pendennis, chap, xxiii. NATURE has written a letter of credit upon some men's faces, which is hon- oured almost wherever presented. — The Vir- ginians, chap. xxi. AS Nature made him, so he was. I don't think he tried to improve himself much. Perhaps few people do. They suppose they do. — Philip, chap. xv. GENIUS won't transplant from one brain to another, or is ruined in the carriage. • — Cornhill to Cairo, chap. v. BECAUSE an eagle houses on a mountain, or soars to the sun, don't you be angry with a sparrow that perches on a garret-win- dow, or twitters on a twig. — Cornhill to Cairo, chap. V. FRIENDS and children of our race who come after me, in which way will you bear your trials? I know one that prays God will give you love rather than pride, and that the Eye all-seeing shall find you in the humble place. Not that we should judge proud spirits otherwise than charitably. 'Tis Nature hath fashioned some for ambition NATURE 123 and dominion, as it hath formed others for obedience and submission. The leopard fol- lows his nature as the lamb does and acts after leopard law; she can neither help her beauty, nor her courage, nor her cruelty; nor a single spot of her shining coat; nor the shot which brings her down. — Esmond, chap, vii, bk. iii. WOULD you have all the birds of the forest sing one note and fly with one feather ? . . . I say that the study and ac- knowledgment of the variety amongst men especially increases our respect and wonder for the Creator, Commander, and Ordainer of all these minds, so dififerent and yet so united, — meeting in a common adoration, and offer- ing up, each according to his degree and means of approaching the Divine centre, his acknowledgment of praise and worship, each singing (to recur to the bird simile) his nat- ural song. — Pendennis, chap. Ixi. WE can't change dispositions by med- dling, and only make hypocrites of our children by commanding them over-much. — The Virginians, chap. iii. YOU cannot alter the nature of men . . . by any force of satire; as by laying ever so many stripes on a donkey's back, you can't turn him into a zebra. — Book of Snobs, chap, last. 124 NATURE I THINK women have an instinct of dis- simulation; they know by nature how to disguise their emotions far better than the most consummate male courtiers can do. — Esmond, chap, xi, bk. iii. IN the matter of gentlemen, . , . pshaw! Give us one of Nature's gentlemen, and hang your aristocrats. And so, indeed. Na- ture does make some gentlemen — a few here and there. But Art makes most. Good birth, that is, good, handsome, well-formed fathers and mothers, nice, cleanly nursery-maids, good meals, good physicians, good education, few cares, pleasant easy habits of life, and luxu- ries not too great or enervating, but only re- fining — of course, these going on for a few generations — are the best gentlemen-makers in the world, and beat Nature hollow.— The Second Funeral of Napoleon, chap. iii. THERE are a set of emotions about which a man had best be shy of talking lightly • — and the feelings excited by contemplating this vast magnificent, harmonious Nature are among these. The view of it inspires a delight and ecstasy which is not only hard to describe, but which has something secret in it that a man should not utter loudly. Hope, memory, humility, tender yearnings towards dear friends, and inexpressible love and rev- erence towards the Power which created the infinite universe blazing above eternally, and NIGHT 125 the vast ocean shining and rolling around — fill the heart with a solemn, humble happiness. . . . This magnificent brightness of Nature! But the best thoughts only grow and strengthen under it. Heaven shines above, and the humbled spirit looks up reverently towards that boundless aspect of wisdom and beauty. You are at home, and with all at rest there, however far away they may be, and through the distance the heart broods over them, bright and wakeful like yonder peaceful stars overhead. — Cornhill to Cairo, chap. i. IT is night now: and here is home. Gath- ered under the quiet roof, elders and chil- dren lie alike at rest. In the midst of a great peace and calm, the stars look out from the heavens. The silence is peopled with the past; sorrowful remorses for sins and short- comings, memories of passionate joys and griefs rise out of their graves, both now alike calm and sad. Eyes, as I shut mine, look at me, that have long ceased to shine. The town and the fair landscape sleep under the starlight, wreathed in the autumn mists. Twinkling among the houses a light keeps watch here and there in what may be a sick chamber or two. The clock tolls sweetly in the silent air. Here is night and rest. — Roundabout Papers ('De Juventute'). 126 POVERTY GOOD-NIGHT. Good-night, friends, old and young! The night will fall and the best friends must part. — Philip, chap. xlii. AS you lie in the night awake and think- ing of your duties, and the morrow's inevitable toil oppressing the busy, weary, wakeful brain, . . . the Unseen Ones are round about us. Does it not seem as if the time were drawing near when it shall be given to men to behold them? — Roundabout Papers ('The Notch on the Axe'). ''TpIS not poverty that's the hardest to beat A or the least happy lot in life. — Esmond, chap, xi, bk. ii. A STRUGGLE with poverty is a whole- some wrestling-match at three or five and twenty. The sinews are young, and are braced by the contest. It is upon the aged that the battle falls hardly, who are weak- ened by failing health and perhaps years of prosperity. — Philip, chap. xxii. HOW do they manage, ces pauvres gens? They eat, they drink, they are clothed, they are warmed, they have roofs over their heads, and glass in their windows; and some of them are as good, happy, and well-bred as their neighbours who are ten times as rich. — Philip, chap. xxx. POVERTY 127 POVERTY is a bully, if you are afraid of her, or truckle to her. Poverty is good- natured enough if you meet her like a man. — Philip, chap. xix. YOU pull a long face, . . . and complain of the world's treatment of you. . . . Fiddlededee, sir! Everybody has to put up with impertinences; and if you get a box on the ear now you are poor and cast- down, you must say nothing about it, bear it with a smile, and if you can, revenge it ten years after. Moi qui vous parle, sir! do you suppose I have had no humble pie to eat? All of us in our turn are called upon to swallow it; and now you are no longer the Fortunate Youth, be the Clever Youth and win back the place you have lost by your ill luck. Go about more than ever. Go to all the routs and parties to which you are asked and to more still. Be civil to everybody. , . . Only take care to show your spirit. — The Virginians, chap. lix. WELL? Have others not had to toil, to bow the proud head, and carry the daily burden? Don't you see Pegasus, who was going to win the plate, a weary, broken- kneed, broken-down old cab-hack shivering in the rank; or a sleek gelding, mayhap, pacing under a corpulent master in Rotten Row? ... I do not think men who have 128 POVERTY undergone the struggle, served the dire task- master, Hke to look back and recall the grim apprenticeship. — Philip, chap.xxxiv. THERE are actions and events in its life over which decent Poverty often chooses to cast a veil that is not unbecoming wear. We can all, if we are minded, peer through this poor flimsy screen: often there is no shame behind it, only empty platters, poor scraps, and other threadbare evidence of want and cold. And who is called to show his rags to the public, and cry out his hunger in the street ? — Lovel the Widower^ chap. i. NO one knows until he tries (which God forbid he should), upon what a small matter hope and life can be supported. — Character Sketches. (' The Artists ') . PREJUDICE against the great is only a rude expression of sympathy with the poor. — Paris Sketch Book. ('French Dramas and Melodramas')- IT does not follow that all men are honest because they are poor, and I have known some who were friendly and generous al- though they had plenty of money. — The Newcomes, chap. i. PRAISE 129 IF the gracious reader has had losses in life, losses not so bad as to cause absolute want, or inflict upon him or her the bodily injury of starvation, let him confess that the evils of this poverty are by no means so great as his timorous fancy depicted. — The New- comes, chap. ix. A PAUPER child in London at seven years old knows how to go to market, to fetch the beer, ... to choose the largest fried fish, or the nicest ham-bone, ... to conduct a hundred operations of trade or housekeeping, which a little Belgravian does not, perhaps, acquire in all the days of her life. Poverty and necessity force this precociousness on the poor little brat. — The Newcomes, chap. liii. WHENE'ER you take your walks abroad how many poor you meet — if a phil- anthropist were for rescuing all of them, not all the wealth of all the provinces of America would sufl&ce him. — The Virginians, chap, xlix. PRAISE, ADMIRATION, FLATTERY DON'T you know, sir, that a man of genius is pleased to have his genius rec- ognized; that a beauty likes to be admired, that an actor likes to be applauded; that Wellington himself was pleased and smiled when the people cheered him as he passed ? — Roundabout Papers ('A Mississippi Bubble'). I30 PRAISE WHAT is the dearest praise of all to a man? his own, or that you should love those whom he loves ? — The Newcomes, chap. Ixxiv. IT is a wonder what human nature will support: and that considering the amount of flattery some people are crammed with from their cradles, they do not grow worse and more selfish than they are. — The New- comes, chap. liii. FLATTERY is their nature— to coax, flatter, and sweetly befool some one is every woman's business. She is none if she declines this office. — The Newcomes, chap. xl. PRAISE everybody, I say, . . . never be squeamish, but speak out your compli- ment both point-blank in a man's face, and behind his back, when you know there is a reasonable chance of his hearing it again. Never lose a chance of saying a kind word. ... An acorn costs nothing; but it may sprout into a prodigious bit of timber. — Vanity Fair, chap. xix. NOTHING so provokes my anger and rouses my sense of justice as to hear other men undeservedly praised. . . . You tell me that the Venus de Medici is beauti- ful. . . . Qtie diablel Can't I judge for PRAISE 131 myself ? I don't think the Venus is so hand- some since you press me; she has no ex- pression. — Roundabout Papers ('Autour De Mon Chapeau'). HOW is it that we allow ourselves not to be deceived, but to be ingratiated so readily by a glib tongue, a ready laugh, and a frank manner? We know, for the most part, that it is false coin, and we take it: we know that it is flattery, which it costs nothing to distribute to everybody, and we had rather have it than be without it. — Pendennis, chap. Ixv. H E who meanly admires mean things is a Snob. — Book of Snobs, chap. ii. THIS should be the maxim with prosper- ous persons who have had to make their way, and wish to keep what they have made. They praise everybody, and are called good- natured, benevolent men. Surely no benev- olence is so easy; it simply consists in lying and smiling, and wishing ever}^body well. You will get to do so quite naturally at last, and at no expense of truth. At first, when a man has feelings of his o-^ti — feelings of love, or of anger, this perpetual grin and good- humour is hard to maintain. — Character Sketches. ('The Artists'). 132 PRAISE VERY few people do like strangers to whom they are presented with an out- rageous flourish of praises on the part of the introducer. You say (quite naturally), What! Is this all? Are these the people he is so fond of ? — The Virginians, chap. xxi. YOU would like admiration ? Consider the tax you pay for it. You would be alone were you eminent. Were you so distin- guished from your neighbours . . . by a great and remarkable intellectual superiority — would you, do you think, be any the happier ? Consider envy. Consider solitude. . . . Ah! . . . To be good, to be simple, to be modest, to be loved, be thy lot. Be thankful thou art not stronger, nor richer, nor wiser, than the rest of the world! — Roundabout Papers ('A Mississippi Bubble'). I SEE, for instance, old Fawney stealing round the rooms . . . with glassy, mean- ingless eyes, and an endless, greasy simper — he fawns on everybody he meets, and shakes hands with you, and blesses you, and be- trays the most tender and astonishing inter- est in your welfare. You know him to be a rogue, , . . and he knows you know it. But he wriggles on his way, and leaves a track of slimy flattery after him wherever he goes. . . . You don't know what is lurking under that leering tranquil mask. You have only the PROSPERITY 133 dim instinctive repulsion that warns you you are in the presence of a knave — beyond which fact all Fawney's soul is a secret to you. — Book of Snobs, chap, xxxix. MIGHT I give counsel to any young reader, I would say to him, Try to frequent the company of your betters. In books and in life that is the most wholesome society; learn to admire rightly, the great pleasure of life is that. Note what the great men admired; they admired great things, narrow spirits admire basely, and worship meanly. — English Humourists ('Prior, Gay and Pope'). PROSPERITY THERE are people upon whom rank and worldly goods make such an impression that they naturally fall down on their knees and worship the owners; there are others to whom the sight of prosperity is offensive, and who never see Dives' chariot but to growl and hoot at it. He, as far as my humble ex- perience would lead me to suppose, is not only envious but proud of his envy. He mis- takes it for honesty and public spirit. — The Newco7nes, chap. v. YOU see he was full of kindness; he kin- dled and warmed v^dth prosperity. There are men on whom wealth hath no such 134 PROSPERITY fortunate influence. It hardens base hearts: it makes those who were mean and servile, mean and proud. — The Virginians, chap, xliii. SO many brave and good men fail, so many quacks and impostors succeed. Do you think the prizes of life are carried by the most deserving? and set up that mean test of prosperity for merit? — Pendennis, chap. Ixxii. THE hidden and awful Wisdom which ap- portions the destinies of mankind is pleased so to humiliate and cast down the tender, and good and wise; and to set up the selfish, the foolish, or the wicked! Oh, be humble, my brother, in your prosperity! Be gentle with those who are less lucky, if not more deserving. — Vanity Fair, chap. Ivii. THERE are some natures . . . which are improved and softened by prosperity and kindness, as there are men of other disposi- tions who become arrogant and graceless under good fortune. Happy he who can en- dure one or the other with modesty and good-humour. — Pendennis, chap. xli. TT^EW men's life-voyages are destined to be "■■ all prosperous. — Esmond, chap, vii, bk. i. QUARRELS 135 QUARRELS WE are always for implicating heaven in our quarrels, and causing thegods to intervene whatever the nodus may be. — The Virginians, chap. Ixxiv. A PERSON always ready to fight is cer- tain of the greatest consideration amongst his or her family circle. The lazy grow tired of contending with him; the timid coax and flatter him; and as almost everyone is timid or lazy, a bad-tempered man is sure to have his own way. It is he who com- mands, and all the others obey. If he is a gourmand, he has what he likes for dinner, and the tastes of all the rest are subservient to his. She (we playfully transfer the gender as a bad temper is of both sexes), has the place which she likes best in the drawing- room. . . . If the family are taking their tour in the summer, it is she who ordains whither they shall go and when they shall stop. If he is in a good humour, how everyone frisks about and is happy! How the servants jump up at his bell and run to wait upon him! Whereas for you and me, who have the tem- pers of angels, and never were known to be angry or to complain, nobody cares whether we are pleased or not. . . . John finishes reading the newspaper before he answers our bell 136 QUARRELS and brings it to us; our sons loll in the arm- chair which we should like; . . . our tailors fit us badly; our butchers give us the youngest mutton; our tradesmen dun us more quickly than other people's, because they know we are good-natured; and our servants go out whenever they like, and openly have their friends to supper in the kitchen. — The New- comes, chap, xxxiii. OF course from the women the quarreling will spread to the gentlemen. That always happens. — Philip, chap. xx. PEOPLE in the little world, as I have been told, quarrel and fight, and go on abusing each other and are not reconciled for ever so long. But people in the great world are surely wiser in their generation. They have differences; they cease seeing each other. They make up and come together again; and no questions are asked. — The Virgin- ians, chap. Ivii. WHEN we drive up to a friend's house, . . . when we enter the drawing- room, . . . does it ever happen that we in- terrupt a . . . row ? that we come simpering and smiling in and stepping over the delusive ashes of a still burning . . . heat? — The Virginians, chap. Ivi. QUARRELS 137 WHEN you and your brother are friends, his doings are indifferent to you. When you have quarreled, all his outgoings and incomings you know as if you were his spy. — Vanity Fair, chap. xi. HOW finely some people, by the way, can hang up quarrels — or pop them into a drawer — as they do their work when dinner is announced, and take them out again at a convenient season! — Lovel the Widower, chap. iv. THERE seems to be something more noble in the success of a gallant resistance than of an attack however brave. — Cornhill to Cairo, chap. iv. WE don't understand each other, but we feel each other, as it were, by instinct. Each thinks in his own way, but knows what the other is thinking. We fight mute battles, don't you see? and our thoughts, though we don't express them, are perceptible to one another and come out from our eyes, or pass out from us somehow, and meet, and fight, and strike and wound. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixvi. THAT woman whom I called friend once, but who is the most false, depraved and dangerous of her sex. In this way do ladies 138 RELATIONS . . . sometimes speak of ladies when quarrels separate them, revenge in their hearts. — The Newcomes, chap, xxxiv. RELATIONS INDEED, dear relations, if the public wants to know our little faults, ... I think I know who will not grudge the requi- site information. . . . Aunt Candour, . . . don't you know what we had for dinner yes- terday, and the amount (monstrous extrava- gance) of the washerwoman's bill. — Philip, chap, xxxvi. AND so, between one brother who meant no unkindness, and another who was all affection and good-will, this undoubting woman created difference, distrust, dislike, which might one day possibly lead to open rupture. — The Newcomes, chap. xx. NO people are so ready to give a man a bad name as his own kinsfolk; and, having made him that present they are ever most unwilling to take it back again. If they give him nothing else in the days of his difficulty, he may be sure of their pity, and that he is held up as an example to his young cousins to avoid. If he loses his money they call him poor fellow, and point morals out of him. If he falls among thieves, the respectable RELATIONS 139 Pharisees of his race turn their heads aside and leave him penniless and bleeding. They clap him on the back kindly enough when he returns after shipwreck, with money in his pocket. How naturally Joseph's brothers made salaams to him, and admired him, and did him honour when they found the poor outcast a prime minister, and worth ever so much money! Surely human nature is not so much altered since the days of those primeval Jews. We would not thrust brother Joseph down a well, and sell him bodily, but — but if he has scrambled out of a well of his own digging, and got out of his early bondage into renown and credit, at least we applaud him, and respect him and are proud of Jos- eph as a member of the family. — The New- comes, chap. V. YES, if a man's character is to be abused, say what you will, there's nobody like a rela- tion to do the business.— FawzVy Fair, chap. xix. BUT a man's own kinsmen can play him slippery tricks at times, and he finds himself none the better for trusting them. — The Virginians, chap. xxii. THIS must be owned, that to love one's relatives is not always an easy task; to live with one's neighbours is sometimes not amusing. — The Virginians, chap. Ixxxvi. I40 RELIGION RELIGION ''T'^IS not the dying for a faith that's so J- hard . . . every man of every nation has done that — 'tis the hving up to it that is difficult. — Esmond, chap, vi, bk. i. IS the glory of Heaven to be sung only by gentlemen in black coats? Must the truth be only expounded in gown and sur- plice, and out of those two vestments can no- body preach it ? — English Humourists ('Con- greve and Addison'). I DOUBT whether that practice of piety inculcated upon us by our womankind in early youth, namely, to be thankful because we are better off than somebody else, be a very rational religious exercise. — Vanity Fair, chap. Ixvi. ON the matter of church I am not going to make any boast. That awful subject lies between a man and his conscience. I have known men of lax faith pure and just in their lives, as I have met very loud-pro- fessing Christians loose in their morality, and hard and unjust in their dealings. — Denis Duval, chap. vi. REMEMBRANCE 141 MERE religious hypocrites, preaching forever and not beheving a word of their own sermons; infidels in broad brims and sables, expounding, exhorting, comminating, blessing, without any faith in their own para- dise, or fear about their pandemonium. . . . These people are not heavenly-minded; they are of the world, worldly, and have not yet got their feet off of it. . . . Folks have their religion in some handy mental lock-up, as it were, a valuable medicine, to be taken in ill health; and a man administers his nostrum to his neighbour, and recommends his private cure for the other's complaint. ... Of spiritual and bodily physic, who are more fond and eager dispensers than women? — The Virginians, chap. xlv. REMEMBRANCE WHEN the heart is withered do the old love to remember how it once was fresh and beat with warm emotions? When the spirits are languid and weary, do we like to think how bright they were in other days, the hope how buoyant, the sympathies how ready, the enjoyment of life how keen, and eager ? So they fall — the buds of prime, the florid harvests of summer — fall and wither, and the naked branches shiver in winter. — The Virginians, chap. liv. 142 REMEMBRANCE FORGOTTEN tones of love recur to us, and kind glances shine out of the past — O, so bright and clear! O, so longed after, be- cause they are out of reach, . . . more prized because unattainable, more bright because of the contrast of present darkness and solitude, whence there is no escape. — Esmond, chap, ix, bk. i. AS the Lady Castlewood spoke bitterly, rapidly, without a tear, he never offered a word of appeal or remonstrance, but sat at the foot of his prison-bed, stricken only with the more pain at thinking it was that soft and beloved hand which should stab him so cru- elly and powerless against her fatal sorrow. Her words, as she spoke, struck the chords of all his memory, and the whole of his boyhood and youth passed within him, whilst this lady, so fond and gentle but yesterday — this good angel whom he had loved and wor- shipped — stood before him, pursuing him vdth. keen words and aspect malign. — Es- mond, chap, i, bk. ii. TS memory as strong as expectancy? fruition -■- as hunger ? gratitude as desire ? — Esmond, chap, vii, bk. ii. "npIS the privilege of old age to be garru- -■- lous, and its happiness to remember early days. As I sink back in my arm-chair, safe and sheltered post tot discrimina, and REMEMBRANCE 143 happier than it has been the lot of most . . . to be, the past comes back to me, . . . and I look at it scared and astonished some- times; as huntsmen look at the gaps and ditches over which they have leapt, and won- der how they are alive. — Denis Duval, chap. iv. XT is an old saying, that we forget nothing; A as people in fever begin suddenly to talk the language of their infancy, we are stricken by memory sometimes, and old affections rush back on us as vivid as in the time when they were our daily talk, when their presence gladdened our eyes, when their accents thrilled in our ears. — The Newcomes, chap. XV. I SUPPOSE if one lives to be a hundred, there are certain passages of one's early life whereof the recollection will always carry us back to youth again. — Pendennis, chap. vii. PARTING and forgetting! What faithful heart can do these ? Our great thoughts, our great affections, the Truths of our life, never leave us. Surely, they cannot separate from our consciousness; shall follow it whithersoever that shall go; and are of their nature divine and immortal. — Esmond, chap, vi, bk. iii. 144 REMORSE AND REGRET WE forget nothing. The memory sleeps, but wakens again; I often think how it shall be when, after the last sleep of death, the reveiUe'e shall arouse us forever, and the past in one flash of self-consciousness rush back, like the soul, revivified. — Esmond, chap, vii, bk. iii. I BELIEVE a man forgets nothing. I've seen a flower or heard some trivial word or two, which have awakened recollections that somehow had lain dormant for scores of years. . . . Some day, I wonder, will every- thing we have seen and thought and done come and flash across our minds in this way? — Barry Lyndon, chap. xiv. REMORSE AND REGRET WE take such life offerings as our due commonly. The old French satirist avers that in a love affair, there is usually one person who loves and the other, qui se laisse aimer; it is only in later days, perhaps when the treasures of love are spent and the kind hand cold which ministered them, that we remember how tender it was, how soft to soothe, how eager to shield, how ready to support and caress. The ears may no longer hear which would have received our words of thanks so delightedly. Let us hope those fruits of love though tardy, are yet not all too REMORSE AND REGRET 145 late, and though we bring our tribute of rev- erence and gratitude, it may be to a grave- stone, there is an acceptance even there for the stricken heart's oblation of fond remorse, contrite memories and pious tears. . . . Did we not say at our tale's commencement, that all stories were old? . . . And so may love and repentance and forgiveness endure even till the end. — Tlie Newcomes, chap. xx. REMORSE! . . . that villain will never feel it. . . . Time change that rogue. Unless he is wholesomely punished, he will grow a greater scoundrel every year. I am in- clined to think, sir, . . . that you, too, are spoiled by this wicked world and these heartless . . . people. You wish to live well with the enemy and with us too, Pen- dennis. It can't be. He who is not with us is against us. I very much fear, sir, that the women, the women, you understand, have been talking you over. — The NeW' comes, chap. Ixvi. DO you imagine there's a great deal of genuine right-down remorse in the world? Don't people rather find excuses which make their minds easy; endeavour to prove to themselves that they have been la- mentably belied and misunderstood; and try and forgive the persecutors? — Roundabout Papers ('De Finibus'). 146 REMORSE AND REGRET HE wished the deed undone for which he had laboured so. He was not the first that has regretted his own act, or brought about his own undoing. — Esmond, chap, ix, bk. iii. ARE there not many people in every one's acquaintance who, as soon as they have made a bargain, repent of it ? — Philip, chsip.xx. LET us be assured that there is no more cruel remorse than that, and no groans more piteous than those of wounded self-love. — Pendennis, chap. xx. WHICH of us has not idle words to re- call, flippant jokes to regret? . . . Have you never had a dispute and found out that you were wrong? So much the worse for you. Woe be to the man qui croit toujour s avoir raison. . . . His rage is not a fever-fit but a black poison inflaming him, distorting his judgment, . . . causing him more cruel suffering than ever he can afflict on an enemy. — Roundabout Papers (' On Screens in Dining- rooms'), AND for my part, I believe that remorse is the least active of all a man's moral senses — the very easiest to be deadened when wakened: and in some never wakened at all. We grieve at being found out and at the idea of . . . punishment; but the mere sense of wrong makes very few people unhappy in Vanity Fair. — Vanity Fair, chap. xli. REVENGE 147 YOU see there come moments of sorrow after the most brilliant victories, and you conquer and rout the enemy utterly, and then regret that you fought. — The New- comes, chap, xxxiii. HOW useless regrets are, and how the in- dulgence of sentiment only serves to make people more miserable! — Vanity Fair, chap. XXX. WHO has not learned things too late? . . . Whose life is not a disappoint- ment? Who carries his entire to the grave without a mutilation ? I never knew anybody who was happy quite, or who has not had to ransom himself out of the hands of Fate wnth the payment of some dearest treasure or other. Lucky if we are left alone afterwards, when we have paid our fine, and if the tyrant visits us no more. — Pendennis, chap. Ixix. REVENGE AH! Revenge is wrong. . . . Let alone that the wisest and best of all Judges has condemned it. It blackens the hearts of men. It distorts their views of right. It sets them to devise evil. It causes them to think unjustly of others. It is not the noblest re- turn for injury, not even the bravest way of meeting it. The greatest courage is to bear 148 SCENERY persecution, not to answer when you are reviled, and when a wrong has been done you to forgive. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixiv. WHEN angered the best of us mistake our own motives, as we do those of the enemy who inflames us. What may be private revenge, we take to be indignant virtue, and just revolt against WTong. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixvi. SCENERY AND the party moved on toward a grand house that was before them with many gray towers and vanes on them, and windows flaming in the sunshine; and a great army of rooks, wheeling over their heads, made for the woods behind the house — . . . the great old house which he had come to inhabit. It stood on a rising green hill, with woods behind it, in which were rooks' nests, where the birds at morning, and returning home at evening, made a great cawing. At the foot of the hill was a river with a steep, ancient bridge crossing it; and beyond that a large, pleasant green flat, where the village of Castlewood stood, and stands, with the church in the midst, the parsonage hard by it, the inn with the blacksmith's forge beside it, and the sign of the 'Three Castles' on the elm. The London road stretched away towards the ris- ing sun, and to the west were swelling hills SCENERY 149 and peaks, behind which, many a time, Harry Esmond saw the same sun setting that he now looks on thousands of miles away across the great ocean — in a new Castlewood, by another stream, that bears, like the new country of wandering ^neas, the fond names of the land of his youth. — Esmond, chap, iii, bk. i. IT even stretches our minds painfully to try and comprehend part of the beauty of the Parthenon — ever so little of it — the beauty of a single column, — a fragment of a broken shaft lying under the astonishing blue sky there, in the midst of that unrivalled landscape. There may be grander aspects of nature, but none more deliciously beauti- ful. The hills rise in perfect harmony, and fall in the most exquisite cadences — the sea seems brighter, the islands more purple, the clouds more light and rosy than elsewhere. As you look up through the open roof, you are almost oppressed by the serene depth of the blue overhead. — Cornhill to Cairo, chap. V. AWAY! ay, away, away amid the green vineyards, and golden cornfields; away up the steep mountains, where he frightened the eagles in their eyries; away down the clattering ravines, where the flashing cata- racts tumble; away through the dark pine 150 SMOKING forests, where the hungry wolves are howl- ing; away over the dreary wolds, where the wild wind walks alone; . . . away through light and darkness, storm and sunshine, away by tower and town, high-road and hamlet. — A Legend of the Rhine, chap. v. SMOKING THE only substitute for ladies at dinners, or consolation for want of them, is — smoking. Cigars, introduced with the coffee, if anything can, make us forget the absence of the other sex. — Sketches and Travels in London (* On Some Old Customs at the Dinner Table'). WHAT is this smoking that it should be considered a crime ? I believe in my heart that women are jealous of it, as of a rival. . . . The fact is, that the cigar is a rival to the ladies, and their conqueror, too. . . . A propensity which can inflict an injury upon no person or thing except the coat and the per- son of him who indulges in it. A custom honoured and observed in almost all the na- tions of the world; ... a custom which, far from leading a man into any wickedness or dis- sipation, . . . begets only benevolent silence and thoughtful good-humoured observation. . . . The calm smoker has a sweet compan- ion in his pipe. — Fitz-Boodle's Confessions. SMOKING 151 HOW the worship of the sacred plant of tobacco has spread through all Europe ! I am sure that the persons who cry out against the use of it are guilty of superstition and unreason, and that it would be a proper and easy task for scientific persons to write an encomium upon the weed. In solitude it is the pleasantest companion possible, and in company never de trop. To a student it sug- gests all sorts of agreeable thoughts, it re- freshes the brain when weary and every se- dentary cigar-smoker will tell you how much good he has had from it, and how he has been able to return to his labour after a quarter of an hour's mild interval of the de- lightful leaf of Havana. Drinking has gone from among us since smoking came in, . . . Indeed, . . . many improvements of so- cial life and converse must date with the introduction of the pipe. — Little Travels (' From Richmond in Surrey to Brussels in Belgium'). IF I were a great prince and rode outside of coaches (as I should if I were a great prince) I would, whether I smoked or not, have a case of the best Havanas in my pock- et — not for my own smoking, but to give them to the Snobs on the coach, who smoke the vilest cheroots. They poison the air with the odour of their filthy weeds. A man at all easy in his circumstances would spare him- 152 SOCIETY self much annoyance by taking the above simple precaution. — Little Travels (' From Richmond in Surrey to Brussels in Belgium'). SOCIETY WHETHER as guest or as entertainer, your part and business in society is to make people as happy and as easy as you can; the master gives you his best wine and welcome — you give, in your turn, a smiling face, a disposition to be pleased and to please. — Sketches and Travels in London (* On the Pleasures of Being a Fogy'). WHAT is the secret of great social suc- cess? It is not to be gained by beauty, or wealth, or birth, or wit, or valour, or eminence of any kind. It is a gift of Fort- une, bestowed, like that goddess's favours, capriciously. Look, dear madame, at the most fashionable ladies at present reigning in London, are they better-bred, or more amiable, or richer, or more beautiful than yourself? See, good sir, the men who lead the fashion. Are they wiser, or wittier or more agreeable than you ? — Philip, chap. xl. BUT one does not eat a man's salt, as it were, at these dinners. There is noth- ing sacred in this kind of London hospitality. Your white waistcoat fills a gap in a man's SOCIETY 153 table, and retires filled for its service of the evening. ... If we were not to talk freely of those we dine with, how mum London would be! Some of the pleasantest evenings I have ever spent have been when we have sate after a great dinner, en petit comite, and abused the people who are gone. You have your turn, mon cher; but why not? — The New- comes, chap. V. SOCIETY has this good at least: that it lessens our conceit by teaching us our insignificance, and making us acquainted with our betters. — The Virginians, chap, xxiii. COURAGE ? Heart ? What are these to you and me in the world ? A man may have private virtues as he may have half a million in the funds. What we dii monde expect is, that he should be lively, agreeable, keep a decent figure. — The Virginians, chap. Ixxii. YOU toss down the page with scorn, and say, 'It is not true.' Human nature is not so bad as this cynic would have it to be. You would make no difference between the rich and the poor. Be it so. You would not. But own that your next-door neighbour would. Nor is this addressed to you; . . . no, no, we are not so rude as to talk about you 154 SOCIETY to your face; but, if we may not speak of the lady who has just left the room, what is to become of conversation and society! — The Newcomes, chap. v. TO Londoners everything seems to have happened but yesterday. Nobody has time to miss his neighbour who goes away. People go to the Cape, or on a campaign, or on a tour round the world, or to India and return, . . . and we fancy it was only the other day they left us, so engaged is every man in his individual speculations, studies, strug- gles; so selfish does our life make us; selfish but not ill-natured. We are glad to see an old friend, though we do not weep when he leaves us. We humbly acknowledge, if fate calls us away likewise, we are no more missed than any other atom. — The Newcomes, chap. xl. SOCIETY having ordained certain cus- toms, men are bound to obey the law of society and conform to its harmless orders. — Book of Snobs. NO training is so useful for children, great or small, as the company of their betters in rank or natural parts; in whose society they lose the over-weening sense of their own importance, which stay-at- home people very commonly learn. — Esmond, chap, ii, bk. iii. SOCIETY 155 IF we are to be peering into everybody's private life, speculating upon their in- come, and cutting them if we don't approve of their expenditure — why, what a howling wilderness and intolerable dwelling Vanity Fair would be. Every man's hand would be against his neighbour in this case, my dear sir, and the benefits of civilization would be done away with. We should be quarreling, abusing, avoiding one another. Our houses would become caverns, and we should go in rags because we cared for nobody. Rents would go down. Parties wouldn't be given any more. . . . All the delights of life, I say, would go to the deuce, if people did but act upon their silly principles, and avoid those whom they dislike and abuse. Whereas, by a little charity and mutual forbearance, things are made to go on pleasantly enough. We may abuse a man as much as we like, and call him the greatest rascal unhung, but do we wish to hang him therefore? No. We shake hands when we meet. If his cook is good we forgive him, and go and dine with him, and we expect he will do the same by us. Thus trade flourishes, civilisa- tion advances, peace is kept, new dresses are wanted for new assemblies. — Vanity Fair, chap. li. 156 SOCIETY A SOCIETY that sets up to be polite and ignores Letters, I hold to be a Snobbish society. You who despise your neighbour are a Snob, you who forget your own friends, meanly to follow after those of a higher de- gree, are a Snob. You who are ashamed of your poverty and blush for your calling, are a Snob, ... as are you who are proud of your wealth. — Book of Snobs, chap. last. IF you were a bachelor, say, with a good fortune, or a widower who wanted con- solation, or a lady giving very good parties and belonging to the monde, you would find them agreeable people. If you were a . . . young barrister . . . or a lady, old or young, not quite of the monde, your opinion of them would not be quite so favourable. I have seen them cut and scorn and avoid and caress and kneel down and worship the same person. When Mrs. Lovel first gave parties, . . . were ever shoulders colder? . . . Now they love her, they fondle her step-children, they praise her to her face and behind her handsome back, they take her hand in public, they call her by her Christian name, they fall into ecstasies over her toilettes and would fetch coals for her dressing-room fire if she but gave them the word. 5'/^e is not changed. She is the same lady. . . . But, you see, her prosperity has brought virtues into evidence which people did not per- ceive when she was poor. — Philip, chap. iv. SOCIETY 157 TF our people of ton are selfish, at any rate •^ they show that they are selfish, and being cold-hearted at least have no hypocrisy of affection. — Tiie Virginians, chap. ii. IF we quarreled with all the people who abuse us behind our backs and began to tear their eyes out as soon as we set ours on them, what a life it would be, and when should we have any quiet? Backbiting is all fair in society. Abuse me, and I will abuse you; but let us be friends when we meet. Have we not all entered a dozen rooms and been sure, from the countenances of the amiable persons present, that they have been discussing our little peculiarities, perhaps, as we were on the stairs. Was our visit, there- fore, the less agreeable? Did we quarrel and say hard words to one another's faces? No, we wait until some of our dear friends take their leave, and then comes our turn. My back is at my neighbour's service; as soon as that is turned, let him make what faces he thinks proper, but when we meet, we grin and shake hands like well-bred folk, to whom clean linen is not more necessary than a clean, sweet-looking countenance and a nicely got-up smile for company. — The Newcomes, chap, xxxiii. I THINK it is one good test of gentility to be looked down on by vulgar people. — A Shabby Genteel Story, chap. i. 158 SUCCESS YOU may give up society without any great pang, or anything but a sensation of rehef at the parting; but severe are the mortifications and pains you have if society gives up you. — Pendennis, chap. lix. AH, what a comfort it is, I say again, that we have backs and that our ears don't grow on them! He that has ears to hear let him stuff them with cotton. — The Virginians, chap, xxxviii. SUCCESS IF the best men do not draw the great prizes in life, we know it has been so settled by the great Ordainer of the lottery. We own, and see daily how the false and worthless live and prosper, while the good are called away. We perceive in every man's life, the maimed happiness, the bootless endeavour, the struggle of Right and Wrong, in which the strong often succumb and the swift fail, we see flowers of good blooming in foul places, as in the most lofty and splendid fort- unes, flaws of vice and meanness, and stains of evil. — Pendennis, chap. Ixxv. TF success is rare and slow, everybody A knows how quick and easy ruin is. — Vanity Fair, chap, xviii. SUCCESS 159 THIS world is wide, and the tastes of mankind happily so various, that there is always a chance for every man, and he may win the prize by his genius or by his good fortune. But what is the chance of success or failure, of obtaining popularity, or of holding it when achieved ? One man goes over the ice, which bears him, and a score who follow, flounder in. — Pendennis, chap, xli. IF there is an alloy in all success, is there not a something wholesome in all disap- pointment? — Sketches and Travels in Lon- don (*On the Pleasures of Being a Fogy'). DO you suppose — when two women have lived together in pretty much the same rank of life — if one suddenly gets promotion, is carried off to higher spheres, do you sup- pose, I say, that the unsuccessful woman will be pleased at the successful woman's success? — Philip, chap. xxvi. WELL, well — a carriage and three thou- sand pounds a year is not the summit of the reward, nor the end of God's judgment of men. If quacks prosper as often as they go to the wall — if zanies succeed and knaves arrive at fortune, and, vice versa, sharing ill luck and prosperity for all the world like the ablest and most honest amongst us — I say. i6o SUFFERING brother, the gifts and pleasures of Vanity Fair are not to be held of any great account. — Vanity Fair, chap, xxxviii. HOW is it, and by what, and whom, that Greatness is achieved? Is Merit — is Madness the patron? Is it Frolic or Fort- une? Is it Fate that awards successes and defeats? Is it the just Cause that ever wins? To be sure, this wisdom d'apres coup is easy. We wonder at this man's rashness now the deed is done, and marvel at the other's fault. What generals some of us are upon paper; what repartees come to our mind when the talk is finished; and the game over, how well we see how it should have been played. • — The Virginians, chap. Ixxiv. I HAVE seen too much of success in life to take off my hat and huzza to it as it passes in its gilt coach; and would do my little part with my neighbours on foot, that they should not gape with too much wonder, nor applaud too loudly. — Esmond, Intro- duction, bk. i, SUFFERING AT certain periods of life we live years of emotion in a few weeks and look back on those times as on great gaps between the old life and the new. You do not know how much you suffer in those critical maladies of SUFFERING i6i the heart, until the disease is over and you look back on it afterwards. During the time the suffering is at least sufferable. The day passes in more or less of pain, and the night wears away somehow. 'Tis only in after days that we see what the danger has been — as a man out a-hunting or riding for his life, looks back at a leap and wonders how he should have survived the taking of it. O dark months of grief and rage! of wrong and cruel endurance! . . . We are indocile to put up with grief; however, reficimus rates quassas: we tempt the ocean again and again, and try upon new ventures. — Esmond, chap, i, bk. ii. WHAT does a seaman do in a storm if mast and rudder are carried away? He ships a jury-mast, and steers as he best can with an oar. What happens if your roof falls in a tempest ? After the first stun of the calamity, the sufferer starts up, gropes around. ... If the palace burns down, you take shelter in the barn. What man's life is not overtaken by one or more of these tornadoes that send us out of the course, and fling us on rocks to shelter as best we may ? — Esmond, chap, ix, bk. i. HE, at least, w^ho has suffered as a child, and is not quite perverted in that early school of unhappiness, learns to be gentle and long-suffering with little children. — Esmond, chap, iii, bk. i. i62 SUFFERING THE more )^ou cry, the more you will be able and desirous to do so. — Pendennis, chap, xxiii. WHO has not admired the artifices and delicate approaches with which wo- men 'prepare' their friends for bad news. — Va7iity Fair, chap. xvi. SHE had oldened in that time as people do who suffer silently great mental pain; and learned much that she had not suspected before. She was taught by that bitter teacher Misfortune. . . . But out of her griefs and cares, as will happen, I think when these trials fall upon a kindly heart, and are not too un- bearable, grew up a number of thoughts and excellences which had never come into exist- ence, had not her sorrow and misfortunes engendered them. Sure occasion is the father of most that is good in us. As you have seen the awkward fingers and clumsy tools of a prisoner cut and fashion the most delicate little pieces of carved work, or achieve the most prodigious underground labours, and cut through walls of masonry, and saw iron bars and fetters; 'tis misfortune that awakens ingenuity, or fortitude, or endurance in hearts where these qualities had never come to life but for the circumstance which gave them a being. — Esmond, chap, ix, bk. i. SYMPATHY 163 SYMPATHY THERE are things we divine without speaking and know though they hap- pen out of our sight. . . . Who shall say how far sympathy reaches, and how truly love can prophesy? — Esmond, chap, vii, bk. iii. TO how many people can any one tell all ? Who will be open where there is no sympathy, or has call to speak to those who never can understand? — Vanity Fair, chap, xviii. BETTER to be alone in the world and utterly friendless than to have sham friends and no sympathy. — A Shabby Genteel Story, chap. i. I HAVE always admired the way in which the tender creatures who cannot exist without sympathy, hire an exceedingly plain friend of their own sex from whom they are almost inseparable. — Vanity Fair, chap. THOUGH the grief of those they love is untold, women hear it; as they soothe it with unspoken consolations. — The New- comes, chap. Ixxvi. i64 TEMPER WHEN two women get together to like a man, they help each other on — each pushes the other forward — and the second, out of sheer sympathy, becomes as eager as the principal; at least, so it is said by philosophers who have examined this science. — Pendennis, chap, xlvii. TO compress, bottle up, cork down, and prevent your anger from present explo- sion is called keeping your temper. — The Virginians, chap. v. A GENTLEMAN may be out of temper though he does not owe a shilling, and though he may be ever so selfish, he must occasionally feel dispirited and lonely. — Pendennis, chap. Ixvii. SURELY a fine, furious temper, if ac- companied with a certain magnanimity and bravery which often go together with it, is one of the most precious and fortunate gifts with which a gentleman or lady can be en- dowed. — The Newcomes, chap, xxxiii. WHO always keeps good health and good humour? Do not philosophers grumble? Are not sages sometimes out of temper? And do not angel-women go ofi" in tantrums? — Roundabout Papers ('Ogres'). TEMPTATIONS 165 YOU see in these manages de convenance though a coronet may be convenient to a young creature, . . . there are articles which the marriage-monger cannot make to convene at all: tempers over which M. de Foy and his like have no control, and tastes which cannot be put into the marriage settle- ment. — The Newcomes, chap. xxxi. TO that energetic telnper with which nat- ure had gifted her, a temper which she tied up sometimes, and kept from barking and biting, but which, when unmuzzled, was an animal of . . . just apprehension. . . . The cowards brought it sops and patted it, the prudent gave it a clear berth, and walked round so as not to meet it. — The Newcomes, chap, xxxiii. TEMPTATIONS TO be young, to be good-looking, to be healthy, to be hungry three times a day, to have plenty of money, a great alacrity of sleeping, and nothing to do — all these — I dare say, are very dangerous temptations to a man, but I think I know some who would like to undergo the dangers of the trial. — Philip, chap. vi. IF you take temptations into account, who is to say that he is better than his neigh- bour? A comfortable career of prosperity, i66 THOUGHTS if it does not make people honest, at least keeps them so. An alderman coming from a turtle-feast will not step out of his carriage to steal a leg of mutton; but put him to starve, and see if he will not purloin a loaf. — Vanity Fair, chap. xli. WHEN a man is tempted to do a tempt- ing thing, he can find a hundred in- genious reasons for gratifying his liking, — Pendennis, chap. Ixii. ARE we much better than our neighbours ? Do we never yield to our peculiar temptation, our pride, or our avarice, or our vanity, or what not? — The Newcomes, chap. xlv. TEMPTATION is an obsequious servant that has had no objection to the coun- try. — Pendennis, chap, xxvii. THE Judge of right and wrong. Who better understands than we can do, our causes and temptations towards evil actions, . . . reserves the sentence for His own tribunal. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixvi. THOUGHTS How one's thoughts will travel! and how quickly our wishes beget them! — Pendennis, chap. ii. THOUGHTS 167 EVERY man must say his own thoughts in his own voice, and in his own way. — Lectures. THEY say our words once out of our lips go travelling in omne aevum reverberat- ing forever and ever. If our words, why not our thoughts. If the Has Been, why not the Might Have Been? — Roundabout Papers ('The Last Sketch'). I TRUST that some of the best actions we have all of us committed in our lives have been committed in fancy. It is not all wickedness we are thinking, que diable! . . . No, no. There are the pure, there are the kind, there are the gentle. There are sweet, un- spoken thanks before a fair scene of nature; at a sun setting before a glorious sea; or a moon and a host of stars shining over it. At a hundred moments or occurrences of the day good thoughts pass through the mind, let us trust, which never are spoken; prayers are made which never are said. . . . The thoughts which have passed through our brains are as actual as any to which our tongues have given currency. . . . What fine things we have thought of, haven't we? all of us? — Roundabout Papers ('On Two Roundabout Papers which I Intended to Write'). 1 68 TRUTH IF there be some thoughts and actions of his life from the memory of which a man shrinks with shame, sure there are some which he may be proud to own and remem- ber; forgiven injuries, conquered tempta- tions, . . . and difficulties vanquished by endurance. — Esmond, chap, i, bk. ii. LIFE is not altogether jocular, . . . and one comes upon serious thoughts suddenly as upon a funeral in the street. — Sketches and Travels in London ('A Word about Balls in Season'). HAVE you ever killed any one in your thoughts? Has your heart compassed any man's death? In your mind, have you ever taken a brand from the altar and slain your brother? How many plain ordinary faces of men do we look at, unknowing of murder behind those eyes. Lucky for you and me, brother, that we have good thoughts unspoken. But the bad ones! . . . Eschew dark thoughts and desire to be cheerful and merry. Roundabout Papers {' On Two Round- about Papers which I Intended to Write'). TRUTH FOR is not truth the master always, and does she not have the power and hold the book ? — The Newcomes, chap. Ixvi. VANITY 169 ONE can't tell all the truth, I suppose, but one can tell nothing but the truth. — Pendennis, chap. xxxv. TRUTH, if yours happens to dififer from your neighbours, provokes your friend's coolness, . . . the world's persecution. — The Newcomes, chap, xxviii. ONE is bound to speak the truth as far as one knows it, . . . and a deal of disagreeable matter must come out in the course of such an undertaking. — Vanity Fair, chap. viii. I CANNOT help telling the truth as I view it, and describing what I see. To describe it otherwise than it seems to me, would be falsehood in that calling in which it has pleased Heaven to place me; treason to that conscience which says that men are weak; that truth must be told; that fault must be owned; that pardon must be prayed for; and that love reigns supreme over all. — Charity and Humour. VANITY HALF a fellow's pangs at losing a woman result from vanity more than affection. To be left by a woman is the deuce and all, to be sure; but look how easily we leave 'em. — Pendennis, chap. xv. I70 VANITY AS he looks back in calmer days upon this period of his life, which he thought so unhappy, he can see that his own pride and vanity caused no small part of the mor- tifications which he attributed to other peo- ple's ill-will. — Esmond, chap, x, bk. i. CAN you, by taking thought, add to your moral stature? Ah, me, the doctor who preaches is only taller than most of us by the height of the pulpit: and when he steps down, I dare say he cringes to the duchess, . . . scolds about the dinner. All is vanity, look you, and so the preacher is vanity, too. — Philip, chap. xv. BUT you know you -will step over that boundary line of virtue and modesty into the district where humbug and vanity be- gin. . . . Search, search, . . . you know in your hearts, which of your ordinaire quali- ties you would pass off, and fain consider as first rate port. . . . We will assume then, dear brother, that you and I are tolerably modest people and, ourselves being thus out of the question, proceed to show how pre- tentious our neighbours are, and how very many of them would be port if they could. — Roundabout Papers ('Small Beer Chron- icle'). VANITY 171 WHAT'S a woman at a looking-glass? . . . It's their place. They fly to it naturally. It pleases them. . . . What a deal of vanity that mirror has reflected, to be sure. — Book of Snobs, chap. last. IT is all vanity, to be sure: but who will not own to liking a little of it? I should like to know. What well-constituted mind, merely because it is transitory, dislikes roast-beef ? That is a vanity, but may every man who reads this, have a wholesome por- tion of it through life, I beg: aye, though my readers were five hundred thousand. Sit down, gentlemen, and fall to, with a good, hearty appetite; the fat, the lean, the gravy, the horse-radish, as you like it — don't spare it. — Vanity Fair, chap. li. STRANGE endurance of human vanity! We forgive injuries, but I doubt if we ever forgive slights of this nature put upon us, or forget circumstances in which our self- love had been made to sufifer. — Sketches and Travels in London (* On a Lady in an Opera Box'). DO not grudge me my vanity, if I allow you yours, or rather let us laugh at both indifferently and at ourselves and at each other. — Esmond, chap ii, bk. iii. 172 VISITS AND TRAVEL LET us thank God for imparting to us poor, weak mortals, the inestimable blessing of vanity. How many half-witted votaries of the arts — poets, painters, actors, musicians, live upon this food and scarcely any other! If the delusion were to drop from Pipson's eyes and he should see himself as he is, if some malevolent genius were to min- gle with his feeble brains one fatal particle of common-sense, he would walk off of Waterloo Bridge and abjure poverty, inca- pacity, cold lodgings, ragged elbows and de- ferred hopes at once and forever. — Character Sketches ('The Artists'). w ITHOUT the affections all the world is vanity. — The Virginians, chap. xiv. UNDER what humble roofs does not Vanity hold her sway. — Philip, chap. xxi. VISITS AND TRAVEL A LONDONER who sees fresh faces and yawns at them every day, may smile at the eagerness with which country people expect a visitor. A cockney comes amongst them, and is remembered by his rural entertainers for years after he has left them, and forgotten them, very likely — floated far away from them on the vast Lon- don sea. But the islanders remember long VISITS AND TRAVEL 173 after the mariner has sailed away, and can tell you what he said and what he wore, and how he looked, and how he laughed. In fine, a new arrival is an event in the country not to be understood by us who don't and would rather not know who hves next door. — Pendennis, chap. xxii. WE fall into the midst of a quiet family: we drop like a stone, say, into a pool — we are perfectly compact and cool, and little know the flutter and excitement we make there, disturbing the fish, frightening the ducks, and agitating the whole surface of the water. — The Virginians, chap, xxiii. DON'T you know that people are too glad to see anybody in the country? — Book of Snobs, chap. xxxi. WHEN a traveller talks to you perpet- ually about the splendour of his lug- gage, which he does not happen to have with him, . . . bewareof that traveller! He is, ten to one, an impostor. — Vanity Fair, chap. Ixvii. TO see with one's own eyes men and countries, is better than reading all the books of travel in the world. — Esmond, chap. V, bk. ii. 174 WIT AND HUMOUR WIT AND HUMOUR TO hear fun made of our neighbours, even of some of our friends, does not make us very angry. — The Newcomes, chap, xxxii. IF we could but hear the unspoken jokes, how we should all laugh; if we could but speak them, how witty we should be! — Philip, chap, xxxii. IT is humiliating, it is consolatory, to re- mark with what small wit some of our friends are amused! — The Newcomes, chap. Ivi. I DON'T know that it is always at the best jokes that children laugh: — children and wise men, too. — Philip, chap. xv. IN the very gravest moments, . . . such strange contrasts and occasion of humour will arise, and such smiles will pass, to satirize the gloom, as it were, and to make it more gloomy. — Pendennis, chap. Hi. WITH regard to wit, people of fashion (as we are given to understand) are satisfied with a mere soupcon of it. — Character Sketches (' The Artists'). ' w WIT AND HUMOUR 175 E can make jokes though we are ever so sad. — Philips chap. xlii. THE satire of people who have little nat- ural humour is seldom good sport for bystanders. I think dull men's, faceticB are mostly cruel. — The Virginians, chap. xiii. DON'T we know many an honest man who can no more comprehend a joke than he can turn a tune. — Roundabout Pa- pers ('Thorns in the Cushion*). H UMOUR is the mistress of tears.- English Humourists. AVERY little stone will sometimes knock down these Goliaths of wit. — Esmond, chap. V, bk. iii. IT is folly to say that this or that kind of humour is too good for the public, that only a chosen few can relish it. The best humour that we know of has been as eagerly received by the public as by the most delicate connoisseur. . . . Some may have a keener enjoyment of it than others, but all the world can be merry over it, and is always sure to welcome it. The best criterion of good humour is success. . . . To be greatly success- ful as a professional humourist, as in any other calling, a man must be quite honest, and 176 WIT AND HUMOUR show that his heart is in his work. A bad preacher will get admiration, a hearing, with this point in his favour, where a man of three times his acquirements will only find indifference and coldness. — Critical Reviews ('George Cruikshank'). HARLEQUIN without his mask is known to present a very sober countenance, and was himself, the story goes, the melan- choly patient whom the Doctor advised to go and see Harlequin — a man full of cares and perplexities like the rest of us, whose Self must always be serious to him, under what- ever mask or disguise or uniform he presents it to the public. And, as all of you here must needs be grave when you think of your own past and present. ... If humour only meant laughter, you would scarcely feel more interest about humorous writers than about the private life of poor Harlequin. . . . The humorous writer professes to awaken and direct your love, your pity, your kind- ness, your scorn for untruth, pretension, im- posture, your tenderness for the weak, the poor, the oppressed, the unhappy. To the best of his ability, he comments on all the ordinary actions and passions of life almost. He takes upon himself to be the week-day preacher, so to speak. Accordingly, as he finds and speaks, and feels the truth best, we regard him, esteem him, sometimes love him. WOMEN 177 And as his business is to mark other people's lives and peculiarities, we moralise upon his life, when he is gone, and yesterday's preacher becomes the text for to-day's sermon. — English Humourists ('Swift'). THIS kind of rude jesting was an evidence not only of an ill-nature, but a dull one. When a child makes a pun, or a lout breaks out into a laugh, it is some very obvious com- bination of words, or discrepancy of objects, which provokes the infantine satirist, or tickles the boorish wag. — English Humourists ('Prior, Gay and Pope'). WOMEN SINCE the days of Adam there has been hardly a mischief done in this world but a woman has been at the bottom of it. — Barry Lyndon, chap. i. WHO has not seen how women bully women? What tortures have men to endure comparable to those daily repeated shafts of scorn and cruelty with which poor women are riddled by the tyrants of their sex. Poor victims. — Vanity Fair, chap, xxxiii. A GOOD woman is the loveliest flower that blooms under heaven; and ... we look with love and wonder upon its silent grace, its pure fragrance, its delicate bloom of beauty. — Pendennis, chap. li. 178 WOMEN THERE are some meannesses which are too mean even for man — woman, lovely woman alone, can venture to commit them. — A Shabby Genteel Story, chap. iii. AS for good women, these, my worthy read- er, the nature of these is to love, and to do kind offices.— Z'/ie Newcomes, chap. Ixxiv. WOMEN only know how to wound so. There is a poison on the tips of their little shafts, which stings a thousand times more than a man's blunter weapon. — Vanity Fair, chap. xxix. I SAY unto thee, all my troubles and joys, too, for that matter, have come from a woman. . . . And could you see every man's career in life, you would find a woman clogging him or clinging round his march and stopping him; or cheering him and goading him; or beckoning him out of her chariot, so that he goes up to her and leaves the race to be run without him; or bringing him the apple and saying, *Eat,* or fetching him the dagger and whispering 'Kill! yonder lies Duncan, and a crown and an opportunity.' — Esmond^ chap, v, bk. iii. 'npHE present chronicler cannot help put- -■- ting in a little respectful remark here, and signifying his admiration of the conduct of ladies towards one another, and of the things WOMEN 179 which they say, which they forbear to say, and which they say behind each other's backs. With what smiles and curtseys they stab each other! with what compliments they hate each other! with what determination of long-suffering they won't be offended! with what innocent dexterity they can drop the drop of poison into the cup of conversation, hand round the goblet smiling. — The Vir- ginians, chap. xiv. WOMEN like not only to conquer but to be conquered. — Tlie Virginians, chap. V. IF a man is in grief, who cheers him in trouble, who consoles him in wrath, who soothes him in joy, who makes him doubly happy in prosperity, who rejoices in disgrace, who backs him against the world, . . . who but women, if you please ? — The Virginians, chap. Ixii. AS every one of the dear sex is the rival of the rest of her kind, timidity passes for folly in their charitable judgments; and gentleness for dulness; and silence, which is but timid denial of the unwelcome assertion of ruling folks, and tacit protestantism, above all, finds no mercy at the hands of the female Inquisition. Thus, my dear and civilised reader, if you and I were to find ourselves this evening in a society of greengrocers, let i8o WOMEN us say, it is probable that our conversation would not be brilliant; if, on the other hand, a greengrocer should find himself at your refined and polite tea-table, where everybody was saying witty things, and everybody of fashion and repute tearing her friends to pieces in the most delightful manner, it is possible that the stranger would not be very talkative, and by no means interesting or interested. — Vanity Fair, chap. Ixii. WHEN the women of the house have set- tled a matter, is there much use in a man's resistance? It is the perseverance which conquers, the daily return to the ob- ject desired. Take my advice, my dear sir, when you see your womankind resolute about a matter, give up at once and have a quiet life. — Philip, chap, xxxii. ASSUREDLY, the greatest tyrants over women are women. — Vanity Fair, chap. xlix. WHAT kind-hearted woman, young or old, does not love match-making? — The Newcomes, chap. xv. A PERFECTLY honest woman, a woman who never flatters, who never manages, who never cajoles, who never conceals, . . . who never speculates on the effect which she WOMEN i8i produces, who never is conscious of unspoken admiration, what a monster, I say, would such a, female be! — The Newcomes, chap. xlvi. A SET has been made against clever women in all times. — Sketches and Travels in London ('On Love, Marriage, Men and Women'). WHAT is a lad in the hands of a wily woman of the world who makes a toy of you. — The Virginians, chap, xxxix. I CANNOT fancy a complete woman who has a cold heart. To be a complete woman, one must have a . . . good heart. — The Virginians, chap. xiv. ONLY women thoroughly know the inso- lence of women towards one another in the world. . . . They receive and deliver stabs smiling politely. ... If you could but see under the skin, you would find their little hearts scarred all over with little lancet digs. — Philip, chap. iv. IS there always, then, one thing which women do not tell to one another, and about which they agree to deceive each other ? Does the concealment arise from de- ceit or modesty? A man as soon as he feels an inclination for one of the other sex, seeks i82 WOMEN for a friend of his own to whom he may im- part the delightful intelligence. A woman (with more or less skill), buries her secret away from her kind. — The Virginians, chap. xvii. YOU cannot think what meannesses women in the world will commit . . . in the pursuit of a person of great rank. — The Newcomes, chap. lix. I SEE in such women — the good and pure, the patient and faithful, the tried and meek — the followers of Him whose earthly life was divinely sad and tender. — The New- comes, chap. Ixxvi. FOR what ... is woman made, but that we should fall in love with her ? I do not mean to say that you are to lose your sleep, or give up your dinner, or make yourself unhappy, in her absence, but when the sun shines, ... I like to bask in it: when the bird sings, to listen; and to admire that which is admirable with an honest and hearty enjoy- ment. — Sketches and Travels in London. AH, woman, woman! ah, wedded wife! ah, fond mother of fair daughters! How strange thy passion is to add to thy titles that of mother-in-law. — Lovel tlie Wid- ower, chap. ii. WOMEN 183 THE cunning artifice of woman is such that, I think in the long run, no man, were he Macchiavel himself, could escape from it. — Barry Lyndon, chap. xix. OH, the woes that have been worked by women in this world! the misery into which men have lightly stepped with smiling faces, often . . . but from mere foppery, van- ity, and bravado ! Men play with these dread- ful two-edged tools, as if no harm could come to them. I, who have seen more of life than most men, if I had a son, would go on my knees to him and beg him to avoid woman, who is worse than poison. — Barry Lyndon, chap. xi. AS a great Bard of old Time has expressed it, what do we not owe to women ? . . . More love, more happiness, more calm of vexed spirit, more truthful aid, and pleasant counsel, more joy, more delicate sympathy, in sorrow more kind companionship. — Char- acter Sketches (' The Fashionable Author- ess'). WOMEN ... are born timid and ty- rants, and maltreat those who are humblest before them. — Vanity Fair, chap. 1. AS often will be the case, that imperious woman pushed her advantages too far. — Vanity Fair, chap. xxv. i84 THE WORLD ALMOST all the men who came near her loved her. . . . Wherever she went, she touched and charmed every one of the male sex, as invariably as she awakened the scorn and incredulity of her own sisterhood. — Vanity Fair, chap, xxxviii. ALL good women are sentimental. The idea of young lovers, of match-making, of amiable poverty, tenderly excites them. — Philip, chap. xxx. THE WORLD DON'T tell me about the world; I know it. People sacrifice the next world to it and are all the while proud of their prudence. — Philip, chap. xix. AND so the world is made. The strong and eager covet honour and enjoyment for themselves; the gentle and disappointed (once they may have been strong and eager, too), desire these gifts for their children. — The Newcomes, chap. li. HOW lonely we are in the world! how selfish and secret everybody. — Penden- nis, chap. xvi. OH! the whole world throbs with vain heart-pangs, and tosses and heaves with longing and unfulfilled desires. — Lovel the Widower, chap. iv. THE WORLD 185 WHEN our pride, our avarice, our in- terest, our desire to domineer are worked upon, are we not forever pestering heaven to decide in their favour? . . . We appeal, we imprecate, we go down on our knees, we demand blessings, we shriek out for sentence, according to law; the great course of the great world moves on; we part, and strive, and struggle; we hate, we rage; we weep passionate tears; we reconcile; we race and win; we race and lose; we pass away, and other little strugglers succeed; our days are spent; our night comes, and another morn- ing rises, which shines on us no more. — The Virginians, chap. Ixxviii. WE view the world with our own eyes, each of us; and we make from within us the world we see. — English Humourists ('Swift'). HOW long had our race existed ere murder and violence began ? and how old was the world ere brother slew brother ? — Philip, chap. xxvi. OH, the world is a nice, charitable world 1 Ah, what an opportunity is there here to moralize! If the esteemed reader and his humble servant could but know — could but write down in a book — could but publish with illustrations a collection of the lies i86 THE WORLD which have been told regarding each of us since we came to man's estate — what a har- rowing and thrilling work of fiction that ro- mance would be! not only is the world in- formed of everything about you, but a great deal more. — The Virginians, chap. Iv. ARE not Heathen Idols enshrined among us still? Does not the world worship them, and persecute those who refuse to kneel ? Do not many timid souls sacrifice to them; and other bolder spirits rebel? — The Newcomes, chap. liii. THE world deals good-naturedly with good-natured people, and I never knew a sulky misanthrope who quarrelled with it, but it was he, and not it, that was in the wrong. — Esmond, chap, x, bk. i. SOME folks say the world is heartless: he who says so either prates commonplaces or is heartless himself, or is most singular and unfortunate in having made no friends. Many such a reasonable mortal cannot have. How many persons would you have to de- plore your death; or whose death would you wish to deplore? Could our hearts let in such a harem of dear friendships, the mere changes and recurrences of grief would be intolerable, and tax our lives beyond their value. In a word, we carry our own burden in THE WORLD 187 the world; push and struggle along on our own affairs; are pinched by our own shoes — though, heaven forbid, we should not stop and forget ourselves sometimes when a friend cries out in his distress, or we can help a poor, stricken wanderer on his way. — The Newcomes, chap. Ixxiv. THE great world, the great aggregate ex- perience, has its good sense, as it has its good-humour. It detects a pretender, as it trusts a loyal heart. It is kind in the main: how should it be otherwise than kind, when it 4s so wise and clear-headed. — English Humourists ('Sterne and Goldsmith'). WE may be pretty certain that persons whom all the world treats ill deserve entirely the treatment they get. The world is a looking-glass, and gives back to every man the reflection of his own face. Frown at it, and it will in turn look sourly upon you, laugh at it and with it, and it is a jolly kind companion. — Vanity Fair, chap. ii. WHO says the world is all cold ? There is the sun and the shadows. And the heaven which ordains poverty and sickness sends pity, and love and succour. — Philip, chap. xli. i88 THE WORLD NO nuns, no monks, no f akeers, take whip- pings more kindly than some devotees of the world; and, as the punishment is one for edification, let us hope the world lays smartly on to back and shoulders, and uses the thong well. — Philip, chap. iv. IF you succeed in keeping a fine house on a small income, in showing a cheerful face to the world, though oppressed with ever so much care ... in submitting to defeats pa- tiently, to humiliations with smiles, so as to hold your own in your darling monde, you may succeed, but you must give up being frank and cordial. — Philip, chap. iv. MY dear sir, when you have well studied the world, how supremely great the meanest thing in this world is, and how in- finitely mean the greatest — I am mistaken if you do not make a strange and proper jumble of the sublime and the ridiculous, the lofty and the low. I have looked at the world for my part, and come to the conclusion that I know not which is which. — Catherine, chap. xi. THE jays in peacock's feathers are the Snobs of this world, and never since the days of ^Esop, were they more numerous in any land than they are at present in this free country. The imitation of the great is uni- YOUTH 189 versal. . . . You entertain each other to the ruin of friendship . . . and destruction of hospitahty and good fellowship, you who but for the peacock's tail might chatter away so much at your ease, and be so jovial and happy. — Book of Snobs, chap. xx. YOUTH A YOUNG man begins the world with some aspirations at least; he will try to be good and follow the truth; he will strive to win honours for himself, and never do a base action; he will pass nights over his books, and forego ease and pleasure so that he may achieve a name. Many a poor wretch who is worn out now and old, and bankrupt of fame and money, too, has com- menced life, at any rate, with noble views and generous schemes from which weakness, idleness, or overpowering hostile fortune has turned him away. But a girl of the world, ban Dieiil the doctrine with which she be- gins is that she is to have a wealthy husband : the article of Faith in her catechism is 'I believe in elder sons, and a house in town, and a house in the country.' They are mer- cenary as they step fresh and blooming into the world out of the nursery. They have been schooled there to keep their bright eyes to look only on the Prince and the Duke, Croesus and Dives. By long cramping and iQO YOUTH careful process, their little natural hearts have been squeezed up, like the feet of their fashionable little sisters in China. — The Newcomes, chap. xlv. ONLY to two or three persons in all the world are the reminiscences of a man's early youth interesting — to the parent who nursed him, to the fond wife or child after- ward who loves him — to himself always and supremely whatever may be his actual pros- perity or ill fortune, his present age, illness, difl&culties, renown, or disappointments, the dawn of his life still shines brightly for him; the early griefs and delights and attachments remain with him ever and faithful and dear, — The Newcomes, chap. iv. ARE these details insipid? Look back, good friend, at your own youth and ask how was that ? I like to think of a well- natured boy, brave and gentle, warm-hearted and loving, and looking the world in the face with kind, honest eyes. What bright colours it wore then, and how you enjoyed it! A man has not many years of such time. He does not know them whilst they are with him. It is only when they are passed along that he remembers how dear and happy they were. — Pendennis, chap. iii. YOUTH 191 HAVE you ever tried the sarcastic or So- cratic method with a child? Little simple he or she, in the innocence of the sim- ple heart, plays some silly freak, or makes some absurd remark, which you turn to ridi- cule. The little creature dimly perceives that you are making fun of him, writhes, blushes, grows uneasy, bursts into tears — upon my word, it is not fair to try the weapon of ridi- cule upon that innocent young victim. . . . Point out his fault and lay bare the dire conse- quences thereof; expose it roundly and give him a proper, solemn, moral whipping — but do not attempt to castigare ridendo. Do not laugh at him writhing, and cause all the other boys in the school to laugh. Remember your own young days at school my friend — the tingling cheeks, burning ears, bursting heart, and pas- sion of desperate tears, with which you looked up, after having performed some blunder, whilst . . . held up to public scorn before the class. . . . Better the block itself . . . than the maddening torture of those jokes. — Roundabout Papers (* Thorns in the Cushion '). SHE had left school, and the impressions of six years are not got over in that space of time. Nay, with some persons those awes and terrors of youth last forever and ever. I know, for instance, an old gentleman who said to me one morning with a very agitated counte- nance, * I dreamed last night I was flogged by 192 YOUTH Dr. Raine.' Fancy had carried him back five and fifty years and his rod was just as awful as it had been at thirteen. — Vanity Fair, chap. ii. EVEN all pleasure is pleasant at twenty. We go out to meet it with alacrity, spec- ulate upon its coming, and when its visit is an- nounced, count the days until it and we shall come together. How very gently and coolly we regard it toward the close of Life's long season. — The Virginians, chap. xxix. WE are young but once. When we re- member that time of youth, we are still young. He over whose head eight or nine lustres have passed, if he wishes to write of boys, must recall the time when he himself was a boy. Their habits change; their waists are longer or shorter; their shirt collars stick up more or less, but the boy is the boy in King George's time as in that of his royal niece. . . . And young fellows are hon- est, and merry, and idle, and mischievous, and timid, and brave, and studious, and selfish, and generous, and mean, and false, and truth-telling, and affectionate, and good, and bad, now as in former days. — Philip, chap. ii. TO be nineteen years of age with high health, high spirits, and a full purse, to be making your first journey. O happy youth! Almost it makes one young to think of him! — The Virginians, chap. i. YOUTH 193 TT is not pleasant to hear misanthropy from -■- young lips and to find eyes that are scarce twenty years old already looking out with distrust on the world. — Philip, chap. v. o UR recollections of youth are always young. — The Newcomes, chap, xlvii. CKi Lb N ■?9 Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process Neutralizing agent: Magnesium Oxide Treatment Date: May 2009 PreservationTechnologies A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 111 Thomson Park Drive Cranberry Township, PA 16066 (724) 779-2111 LIBRARY OF CONGRESS