George Eliot, Middlemarch

George Eliot, Middlemarch, Ed. David Carroll, Oxford University Press, 1996.

Who that cares much to know the history of man, and how the mysterious mixture behaves under the varying experiments of Time, has not dwelt, at least briefly, on the life of Saint Theresa, has not smiled with some gentleness at the thought of the little girl walking forth one morning hand-in-hand with her still smaller brother, to go and seek martyrdom in the country of the Moors? Out they toddled from rugged Avila, wide-eyed and helpless-looking as two fawns, but with human hearts, already beating to a national idea; until domestic reality met them in the shape of uncles, and turned them back from their great resolve. … She found her epos in the reform of a religious order. … for these later-born Theresas were helped by no coherent social faith and order which could perform the function of knowledge for the ardently willing soul. … Here and there is born a Saint Theresa, foundress of nothing, … (Prelude)

Dorothea knew many passages of Pascal's Pensees and of Jeremy Taylor by heart; and to her the destinies of mankind, seen by the light of Christianity, made the solicitudes of feminine fashion appear an occupation for Bedlam. … she was enamoured of intensity and greatness, and rash in embracing whatever seemed to her to have those aspects; (I.i)

She felt sure that she would have accepted the judicious Hooker, if she had been born in time to save him from that wretched mistake he made in matrimony; or John Milton when his blindness had come on; or any of the other great men whose odd habits it would have been glorious piety to endure; but an amiable handsome baronet, who said "Exactly" to her remarks even when she expressed uncertainty, - how could he affect her as a lover? The really delightful marriage must be that where your husband was a sort of father, and could teach you even Hebrew, if you wished it. (I.i)

"Well, Wilberforce was perhaps not enough of a thinker; but if I went into Parliament, as I have been asked to do, I should sit on the independent bench, as Wilberforce did, and work at philanthropy."

Mr. Casaubon bowed, and observed that it was a wide field. (I.ii)

Before he left the next morning, while taking a pleasant walk with Miss Brooke along the gravelled terrace, he had mentioned to her that he felt the disadvantage of loneliness, the need of that cheerful companionship with which the presence of youth can lighten or vary the serious toils of maturity. And he delivered this statement with as much careful precision as if he had been a diplomatic envoy whose words would be attended with results. Indeed, Mr. Casaubon was not used to expect that he should have to repeat or revise his communications of a practical or personal kind. (I. iii)

The objectionable puppy, … (I.iii)

Dorothea laughed. "O Kitty, you are a wonderful creature!" She pinched Celia's chin, being in the mood now to think her very winning and lovely - fit hereafter to be an eternal cherub, and if it were not doctrinally wrong to say so, hardly more in need of salvation than a squirrel. (I.iv)

‘I know that I must expect trials, uncle. Marriage is a state of higher duties. I never thought of it as mere personal ease, said poor Dorthea. (I.iv)

"Hard students are commonly troubled with gowts, catarrhs, rheums, cachexia, bradypepsia, bad eyes, stone, and collick, crudities, oppilations, vertigo, winds, consumptions, and all such diseases as come by over-much sitting: … Anatomy of Melancholy, P. I. s. 2. (I.v)

"Well, Mrs. Fitchett, how are your fowls laying now?" said the high-colored, dark-eyed lady, with the clearest chiselled utterance.

"Pretty well for laying, madam, but they've ta'en to eating their eggs: I've no peace o' mind with 'em at all."

"Oh, the cannibals! Better sell them cheap at once. What will you sell them a couple? One can't eat fowls of a bad character at a high price." (I.vi)

A town where such monsters abounded was hardly more than a sort of low comedy, which could not be taken account of in a well-bred scheme of the universe. (I.vi)

A light book-case contained duodecimo volumes of polite literature in calf, completing the furniture. (I.ix)

The poor folks here might have a fowl in their pot, as the good French king used to wish for all his people. (Henry IV 1553-1610) (I.ix)

But at present this caution against a too hasty judgment interests me more in relation to Mr. Casaubon than to his young cousin. If to Dorothea Mr. Casaubon had been the mere occasion which had set alight the fine inflammable material of her youthful illusions, does it follow that he was fairly represented in the minds of those less impassioned personages who have hitherto delivered their judgments concerning him? I protest against any absolute conclusion, any prejudice derived from Mrs. Cadwallader's contempt for a neighboring clergyman's alleged greatness of soul, or Sir James Chettam's poor opinion of his rival's legs, - from Mr. Brooke's failure to elicit a companion's ideas, or from Celia's criticism of a middle-aged scholar's personal appearance. I am not sure that the greatest man of his age, if ever that solitary superlative existed, could escape these unfavorable reflections of himself in various small mirrors; and even Milton, looking for his portrait in a spoon, must submit to have the facial angle of a bumpkin. Moreover, if Mr. Casaubon, speaking for himself, has rather a chilling rhetoric, it is not therefore certain that there is no good work or fine feeling in him. Did not an immortal physicist and interpreter of hieroglyphs write detestable verses? Has the theory of the solar system been advanced by graceful manners and conversational tact? Suppose we turn from outside estimates of a man, to wonder, with keener interest, what is the report of his own consciousness about his doings or capacity: with what hindrances he is carrying on his daily labors; what fading of hopes, or what deeper fixity of self-delusion the years are marking off within him; and with what spirit he wrestles against universal pressure, which will one day be too heavy for him, and bring his heart to its final pause. Doubtless his lot is important in his own eyes; and the chief reason that we think he asks too large a place in our consideration must be our want of room for him, since we refer him to the Divine regard with perfect confidence; nay, it is even held sublime for our neighbor to expect the utmost there, however little he may have got from us. Mr. Casaubon, too, was the centre of his own world; if he was liable to think that others were providentially made for him, and especially to consider them in the light of their fitness for the author of a "Key to all Mythologies," this trait is not quite alien to us, and, like the other mendicant hopes of mortals, claims some of our pity. [Narrator makes a case for the extent of his/her own understanding of own power and privilege. Template for the narrator’s judgment of character. Also, cannot trust even oneself to judge of one’s own good work or fine feeling. (I.x)

Certainly this affair of his marriage with Miss Brooke touched him more nearly than it did any one of the persons who have hitherto shown their disapproval of it, and in the present stage of things I feel more tenderly towards his experience of success than towards the disappointment of the amiable Sir James. [Odd. Human omniscience] (I.x)

Lydgate believed that he should not marry for several years: not marry until he had trodden out a good clear path for himself away from the broad roach which was quite ready made. (I. xi)

‘You want to know something about him,’ she added, not choosing to indulge Rosamond’s indirectness. (I.xii)

Nothing escaped Lydgate in Rosamond’s graceful behavior… not showing her dimples on the wrong occasion, but showing them afterwards in speaking to Mary, … (I.xii)

I am painfully aware of the backwardness under which medical treatment labours in our provincial districts. (II.xiii)

A great historian, as he insisted on calling himself, who had the happiness to be dead a hundred and twenty years ago, and so to take his place among the colossi whose huge legs our living pettiness is observed to walk under, glories in his copious remarks and digressions as the least imitable part of his work, and especially in those initial chapters to the successive books of his history, where he seems to bring his armchair to the proscenium and chat with us in all the lusty ease of his fine English. But Fielding lived when the days were longer (for time, like money, is measured by our needs), when summer afternoons were spacious, and the clock ticked slowly in the winter evenings. (II.xv)

The faults will not, I hope, be a reason for the withdrawal of your interest in him. (II.xv)

At ten o’clock supper was brought in (such were the customs in Middlemarch), (II.xvi)

But Mrs Plymdale thought that Rosamond had been educated to a ridiculous pitch, for what was the use of accomplishments which would be all laid aside as soon as she was married? (II.xvi)

…a libelous pretension to experience… (II.xviii)

…was nevertheless offensive to the professional nostril… (II.xviii)

The weight of unintelligible Rome might lie easily on bright nymphs to whom it formed a background for the brilliant picnic of Anglo-foreign society; but Dorothea had no such defence against deep impressions. Ruins and basilicas, palaces and colossi, set in the midst of a sordid present, where all that was living and warm-blooded seemed sunk in the deep degeneracy of a superstition divorced from reverence; (II.xx)

It is painful to be told that anything is very fine and not be able to feel that it is fine— (II.xxi)

I am sorry to say that only the third day after the propitious events at Houndsley Fred Vincy had fallen into worse spirits than he had known in his life before. (III.xxiv)

An eminent philosopher among my friends, who can dignify even your ugly furniture by lifting it into the serene light of science, has shown me this pregnant little fact. Your pier-glass or extensive surface of polished steel made to be rubbed by a housemaid, will be minutely and multitudinously scratched in all directions; but place now against it a lighted candle as a centre of illumination, and lo! the scratches will seem to arrange themselves in a fine series of concentric circles round that little sun. It is demonstrable that the scratches are going everywhere impartially and it is only your candle which produces the flattering illusion of a concentric arrangement, its light falling with an exclusive optical selection. These things are a parable. The scratches are events, and the candle is the egoism of any person now absent-of Miss Vincy, for example. (III.xxvii)

even his religious faith wavered with his wavering trust in his own authorship, and the consolations of the Christian hope in immortality seemed to lean on the immortality of the still unwritten Key to all Mythologies. For my part I am very sorry for him. It is an uneasy lot at best, to be what we call highly taught and yet not to enjoy: to be present at this great spectacle of life and never to be liberated from a small hungry shivering self… (III.xxiv)

Mr. Bulstrode in things worldly and indifferent was disposed to do what his wife bade him, and she now, without telling her reasons, desired him on the next opportunity to find out in conversation with Mr. Lydgate whether he had any intention of marrying soon. The result was a decided negative. Mr. Bulstrode, on being cross-questioned, showed that Lydgate had spoken as no man would who had any attachment that could issue in matrimony. [Moving too quickly. Anti-climax after dramatic buildup conversation between Ros. & Mrs. Bulstrode] (III.xxxi)

Sister Martha, otherwise Mrs. Cranch, living with some wheeziness in the Chalky Flats, could not undertake the journey; but her son, as being poor Peter's own nephew, could represent her advantageously, and watch lest his uncle Jonah should make an unfair use of the improbable things which seemed likely to happen. In fact there was a general sense running in the Featherstone blood that everybody must watch everybody else, and that it would be well for everybody else to reflect that the Almighty was watching him. (III.xxxii)

…vicious length of limb… (III.xxxii)

…if our talents are chiefly of the burrowing kind, our honey-sipping cousin (whom we have grave reasons for objecting to) is likely to have a secret contempt for us, and anyone who admires him passes an oblique criticism on ourselves. (IV.xxxvii)

He approached her to shake hands quite furiously, longing but not daring to say, ‘Don’t mention the subject to Mr. Casaubon.’ No, he dared not, could not say it. To ask her to be less simple and direct would be like breathing on the crystal that you want to see the light through. (IV.xxxvii)

He was a man obviously on the way towards sixty, very florid and hairy, with much gray in his bushy whiskers and thick curly hair, a stoutish body which showed to disadvantage the somewhat worn joinings of his clothes, and the air of a swaggerer, who would aim at being noticeable even at a show of fireworks, regarding his own remarks on any other person's performance as likely to be more interesting than the performance itself. (IV.xli)

It is the humor of many heads to extol the days of their forefathers, and declaim against the wickedness of times present. Which notwithstanding they cannot handsomely do, without the borrowed help and satire of times past; condemning the vices of their own times, by the expressions of vices in times which they commend, which cannot but argue the community of vice in both. Horace, therefore, Juvenal, and Persius, were no prophets, although their lines did seem to indigitate and point at our times. - SIR THOMAS BROWNE: Pseudodoxia Epidemica. (V.xlv)

I never heard such good preaching as his—such plain, easy eloquence. He would have done to preach at St Pauls Cross after old Latimer. His talk is just as good about all subjects: original, simple, clear. (V.1)

…to contemplate the frustration of his cunning of his cunning by the superior cunning of things in general was a cud of delight to Solomon. (V.liii)

Mr Raffles seemed greatly to enjoy his own wit, … (V.liii)

Mr Bulstrode had not yet fully learned that even the desire for cognac was not stronger in Raffles than the desire to torment, and that a hint of annoyance always served him as a fresh cue. (V.liii)

If youth is the season of hope, it is often so only in the sense that our elders are hopeful about us; for no age is so apt as youth to think its emotions, partings, and resolves are the last of their kind. Each crisis seems final, simply because it is new. (VI.lv)

"You must be sure of two things: you must love your work, and not be always looking over the edge of it, wanting your play to begin. And the other is, you must not be ashamed of your work, and think it would be more honorable to you to be doing something else. (VI.lvi)

At that time the opinion existed that it was beneath a gentleman to write legibly, or with a hand in the least suitable to a clerk. Fred wrote the lines demanded in a hand as gentlemanly as that of any viscount or bishop of the day: the vowels were all alike and the consonants only distinguishable as turning up or down, the strokes had a blotted solidity and the letters disdained to keep the line-in short, it was a manuscript of that venerable kind easy to interpret when you know beforehand what the writer means.

As Caleb looked on, his visage showed a growing depression, but when Fred handed him the paper he gave something like a snarl, and rapped the paper passionately with the back of his hand. Bad work like this dispelled all Caleb's mildness.

"The deuce!" he exclaimed, snarlingly. "To think that this is a country where a man's education may cost hundreds and hundreds, and it turns you out this!" (VI.lvi)

‘My dear, you are joking. You would have better reasons than these for slighting so respectable a class of men,’ said Mrs Farebrother, majestically. (VI.lvii)

Those words of Lydgate's were like a sad milestone marking how far he had travelled from his old dreamland, in which Rosamond Vincy appeared to be that perfect piece of womanhood who would reverence her husband's mind after the fashion of an accomplished mermaid, using her comb and looking-glass and singing her song for the relaxation of his adored wisdom alone. (VI.lviii)

In fact, she had been determined not to promise. Rosamond had that victorious obstinacy which never wastes its energy in impetuous resistance. What she liked to do was to her the right thing, and all her cleverness was directed to getting the means of doing it. She meant to go out riding again on the gray, and she did go on the next opportunity of her husband's absence, not intending that he should know until it was late enough not to signify to her. The temptation was certainly great: she was very fond of the exercise, and the gratification of riding on a fine horse, with Captain Lydgate, Sir Godwin's son, on another fine horse by her side, and of being met in this position by any one but her husband, was something as good as her dreams before marriage: moreover she was riveting the connection

with the family at Quallingham, which must be a wise thing to do.

But the gentle gray, unprepared for the crash of a tree that was being felled on the edge of Halsell wood, took fright, and caused a worse fright to Rosamond, leading finally to the loss of her baby. Lydgate could not show his anger towards her, but he was rather bearish to the Captain, whose visit naturally soon came to an end.  (VI.lviii) [too quick in comparison to what precedes]

Lydgate could only say, "Poor, poor darling!" - but he secretly wondered over the terrible tenacity of this mild creature. There was gathering within him an amazed sense of his powerlessness over Rosamond. His superior knowledge and mental force, instead of being, as he had imagined, a shrine to consult on all occasions, was simply set aside on every practical question. (VI.lviii)

When she repeated Fred's news to Lydgate, he said, "Take care you don't drop the faintest hint to Ladislaw, Rosy. He is likely to fly out as if you insulted him. Of course it is a painful affair."

Rosamond turned her neck and patted her hair, looking the image of placid indifference. But the next time Will came when Lydgate was away, she spoke archly about his not going to London as he had threatened. (VI.lix)

…the Middlemarch tribes… who sneered at his Polish blood, and were themselves of a breed very much in need of crossing. (VI.lx)

That was the happiest time of his life: that was the spot he would have chosen now to awake in and find the rest a dream. (VI.lxi)

"The shutters are open, madam," said Mrs. Kell, following Dorothea, who had walked along as she spoke. "Mr. Ladislaw is there, looking for something."

(Will had come to fetch a portfolio of his own sketches which he had missed in the act of packing his movables, and did not choose to leave behind.) [Lazy] (VI.lxii)

Rosamond was perfectly graceful and calm, and only a subtle observation such as the Vicar had not been roused to bestow on her would have perceived the total absence of that interest in her husband's presence which a loving wife is sure to betray, even if etiquette keeps her aloof from him. When Lydgate was taking part in the conversation, she never looked towards him any more than if she had been a sculptured Psyche modelled to look another way: and when, after being called out for an hour or two, he re-entered the room, she seemed unconscious of the fact, which eighteen months before would have had the effect of a numeral before ciphers. In reality, however, she was intensely aware of Lydgate's voice and movements; and her pretty good-tempered air of unconsciousness was a studied negation by which she satisfied her inward opposition to him without compromise of propriety. (VII.lxiii)

…harness of routine which enables silly men to live respectably and unhappy men to live calmly… (VII.lxvi)

"it is a strange story. So our mercurial Ladislaw has a queer genealogy! A high-spirited young lady and a musical Polish patriot made a likely enough stock for him to spring from, but I should never have suspected a grafting of the Jew pawnbroker. However, there's no knowing what a mixture will turn out beforehand. Some sorts of dirt serve to clarify."  (VII.lxxi)

In Middlemarch a wife could not long remain ignorant that the town held a bad opinion of her husband. … Then, again, there was the love of truth - a wide phrase, but meaning in this relation, a lively objection to seeing a wife look happier than her husband's character warranted, or manifest too much satisfaction in her lot - the poor thing should have some hint given her that if she knew the truth she would have less complacency in her bonnet, and in light dishes for a supper-party. (VIII.lxxiv)

‘Let us hope that there will be no more cases of cholera to be buried in it,’ said Mrs. Bulstrode. ‘It is an awful visitation. (VIII.lxxiv)

Rosamond being one of those women who live much in the idea that each man they meet would have preferred them if the preference had not been hopeless. (VIII.lxxv)

We must remember that he was in a morbid state of mind, in which almost all contact was pain. (VIII.lxxv)

There are natures in which, if they love us, we are conscious of having a sort of baptism and consecration: they bind us over to rectitude and purity by their pure belief about us; and our sins become that worst kind of sacrilege which tears down the invisible altar of trust. "If you are not good, none is good"-those little words may give a terrific meaning to responsibility, may hold a vitriolic intensity for remorse. (VIII.lxxvii)

It was as if she had drunk a great draught of scorn… (VIII.lxxvii)

Let it be forgiven to Will that he had no such movement of pity. He had felt no bond beforehand to this woman who had spoiled the ideal treasure of his life, and he held himself blameless. (VIII.lxxviii)

For there is no creature whose inward being is so strong that it is not greatly determined by what lies outside it. (VIII.finale)

But the effect of her being on those around her was incalculably diffusive: for the growing good of the world is partly dependent on unhistoric acts; and that things are not so ill with you and me as they might have been, is half owing to the number who lived faithfully a hidden life, and rest in unvisited tombs. (VIII.finale)

Lord Byron, The Major Works

Lord Byron, The Major Works, including Don Juan and Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Ed. Jerome J. McGann, Oxford University Press, 2000.

Even Satan’s self with thee might dread to dwell,

And in thy skull discern a deeper hell.

(English Bards and Scotch Reviewers)

But since life at most a jest is,

…

Still to laugh by far the best is,

(Lines to Mr Hodgson)

Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell,

In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.

(Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto I)

Vitality of poison,—a quick root

Which feeds these deadly branches; for it were

As nothing did we die; but Life will suit

Itself to Sorrow’s most detested fruit,

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea’s shore,

All ashes to the taste: Did man compute

Existence by enjoyment, and count o’er

Such hours ’gainst years of life,—say, would he name threescore?

(Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto III)

But these are deeds which should not pass away,

And names that must not wither, though the earth

Forgets her empires with a just decay,

The enslavers and the enslaved, their death and birth;

The high, the mountain-majesty of worth

Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe,

And from its immortality look forth

In the sun’s face, like yonder Alpine snow,

Imperishably pure beyond all things below.

(Childe Harold Pilgrimages, Canto III)

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so,

Not for thy faults, but mine; it is a curse

To understand, not feel thy lyric flow,

To comprehend, but never love thy verse,

Although no deeper Moralist rehearse

Our little life, …

(Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, Canto IV)

His early dreams of good outsripp’d the truth,

And troubled manhood followed baffled youth;

(Lara)

But haughty still, and loth himself to blame,

He called on Nature’s self to share the shame,

And charged all faults upon the fleshly form,

She gave to clog the soul, and feast the worm;

(Lara)

Then haste thee to thy sullen Isle,

And gaze upon the sea;

That element may meet thy smile,

It ne’er was ruled by thee!

(Ode to Napoleon Buonaparte)

There’s not a joy the world can give like that it takes away,

When the glow of early thought declines in feeling’s dull decay;

(Stanzas for Music [paradox])

The underearth inhabitants—are they

But mingled millions decomposed to clay—

…

Or have they their own language—and a sense

Of breathless being—darkened and intense—

As midnight in her solitude—…

…

The dead are thy inheritors—and we

But bubbles on thy serface: —and the key

Of thy profundity is in the grave, …

(A Fragment)

I have been cunning in mine overthrow

The careful pilot of my proper woe.

(Epistle to Augusta)

Manfred: The lamp must be replenish’d, but even then

It will not burn so long as I must watch:

My slumbers—if I slumber—are not sleep,

But a continuance of enduring thought,

Which then I can resist not: in my heart

There is a vigil, and these eyes but close

To look within; …

(Manfred, I.I.)

Manfred: Sorrow is knowledge: they who know the most

Must mourn the deepest o’er the fatal truth,

(Manfred, I.I., sorrow is knowledge and knowledge is sorrow)

…Good, or evil, life,

Powers, passions, all I see in other beings,

Have been to me as rain unto the sands,

Since that all-nameless hour. I have no dread,

And feel the curse to have no natural fear,

(Manfred, I.I., the curse is estrangement)

…ye, to whom the tops

Of mountains inaccessible are haunts,

And earth’s and ocean’s caves familiar things—

I call upon ye by the written charm

Which gives me power upon you—Rise! Appear!

…

By the strong curse which is upon my soul,

(Manfred, I.I., sin is the cause of the curse; curse is estrangement and power over language)

First Spirit: Mortal! to thy bidding bow’d,

From my mansion in the cloud,

Which the breath of twilight builds,

And the summer’s sun-set gilds

With the azure and vermillion,

Which is mix’d for my pavilion;

(Manfred, I.I)

Second Spirit: Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains,

They crowned him long ago

On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,

With a diadem of snow.

…

The Avalanche is his hand;

But ere it fall, that thundering ball

Must pause for my command.

…

I am the spirit of the place,

Could make the mountain bow

And quiver to his cavern’d base—

And what with me wouldst Thou?

(Manfred, I.I.)

Seventh Spirit: The star which rules thy destiny,

Was ruled, ere earth began, by me:

…

An thou! beneath its influence born—

Thou worm! whom I obey and scorn—

Forced by a power (which is not thine,

And lent thee but to make thee mine)

For this brief moment to descend,

(Manfred, I.I., language)

The Seven Spirits: What wouldst thou with us, son of mortals—say?

Manfred: Forgetfulness—

First Spirit: Of what—of whom—and why?

Manfred: Of that which is within me; read it thee—

Ye know it, and I cannot utter it.

First Spirit: We can but give thee that which we possess:

Ask of us subjects, sovereignty, the power

O’er earth, the whole, or portion…

(Manfred, I.I.)

First Spirit: It is not in our essence, in our skill;

But—thou mayst die.

Manfred:                    Will death bestow it on me?

First Spirit: We are immortal, and do not forget;

…

Manfred: Ye mock me—but the power which brought ye here

Hath made you mine. Slaves, scoff not at my will!

The mind, the spirit, the Promethean spark,

The lightning of my being, is as bright,

Pervading, and far-darting as your own,

(Manfred, I.I., language)

Manfred: I feel the impulse—yet I do not plunge;

I see the peril—yet do not recede;

And my brain reels—and yet my foot is firm:

(Manfred, I.II.)

[The Shepherd’s pipe in the distance is heard]

Manfred: The natural music of the mountain reed—

For here the patriarchal days are not

A pastoral fable—pipes in the liberal air,

Mix’d with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd;

My soul would drink those echoes.—Oh, that I were

The viewless spirit of a lovely sound,

A living voice, a breathing harmony,

A bodiless enjoyment—born and dying

With the blest tone which made me!

(Manfred, I.II)

Manfred: I tell thee, man! I have lived many years,

Many long years, but they are nothing now

To those which I must number: ages—ages—

…

Chamois Hunter: Why, on the brow the seal of middle age

Hath scarce been set; I am thine elder far.

Manfred: Think’st thou existence doth depend on time?

It doth; but actions are our epochs: mine

Have made my days and nights imperishable,

(Manfred, II.I., guilt and hell extend time)

Manfred: …I can bear—

However wretchedly, ’tis still to bear—

In life what others could not brook to dream,

(Manfred, II.I)

Manfred: … From my youth upwards

My spirits walk’d not with the souls of men,

Nor look’d upon the earth with human eyes;

The thirst of their ambition was not mine,

The aim of their existence was not mine;

…

I said, with men, and with the thoughts of men,

I held but slight communion; but instead,

My joy was in the Wilderness, …

…

Or to look, list’ning, on the scattered leaves,

While Autumn winds were at their evening song.

These were my pastimes, and to be alone;

For if the beings, of whom I was one,—

Hating to be so,—cross’d me in my path,

I felt myself degraded back to them,

And was all clay again. …

(Manfred, II.II)

Manfred: …I have not named to thee

Father or mother, mistress, friend, or being,

With whom I wore the chain of human ties;

If I had such, they seem’d not such to me—

Yet there was one—

(Manfred, II.II)

Manfred: … yet we live,

Loathing our life, and dreading still to die.

(Manfred, II.II. How I hate this live I never want to leave)

All the Spirits: Prostrate thyself, and thy condemned clay,

Child of the Earth! or dread the worst.

Manfred: I know it;

And yet ye see I kneel not.

Fourth Spirit: ’Twill be taught thee.

Manfred. ’Tis taught already;—many a night on the earth,

On the bare ground, have I bow’d down my face,

And strew’d my head with ashes; I have known

The fullness of humiliation, for

I sunk before my vain despair, and knelt

To my own desolation.

Fifth Spirit: Dost thou dare

Refuse to Arimanes on his throne

What the whole earth accords, behold not

The terror of his Glory—Crouch! I say.

Manfred: Bid him bow down to that which is above him,

The overruling Infinite—the Maker

Who made him not for worship—let him kneel,

And we will kneel together.

(Manfred, II.IV)

Herman: … thou hast dwelt within the castle—

How many years is’t?

Manuel: Ere Count Manfred’s birth,

I served his father, whom he nought resembles.

…

Manuel: Count Sigismund was proud,—but gay and free,—

A warrior and a reveler; he dwelt not

With books and solitude, nor made the night

A gloomy vigil, but a festal time,

Merrier than day;

(Manfred, III.III, Hamlet)

Manfred: Look there, I say,

And steadfastly;—now tell me what thou seest?

Abbot: That which should shake me,—but I fear it not—

I see a dusk and awful figure rise

Like an infernal god from out the earth;

(Manfred, III, III)

Spirit: Come!

Abbot: What are thou, unknown being? Answer!—Speak!

Spirit: The genius of this mortal.—Come! ’tis time.

Manfred: I am prepared for all things, but deny

The power which summons me. Who sent thee here?

Spirit: Thou’lt know anon—Come! Come!

Manfred: I have commanded

Things of an essence greater far than thine,

And striven with thy masters. Get thee hence!

Spirit: Mortal! thine hour is come—Away! I say.

Manfred: I knew, and know my hour is come, but not

To render up my soul to such as thee:

Away! I’ll die as I have lived—alone.

(Manfred, III, III)

I love the language, that soft bastard Latin,

Which melts like kisses from a female mouth,

…

…not a single accent seems uncouth,

Like our harsh northern whistling, grunting, guttural,

Which we’re oblig’d to hiss, and spit, and sputter all.

(Beppo)

Perfect she was, but as perfection is

Inspid in this naughty world of ours,

(Don Juan)

A little curly-headed, good-for-nothing,

And mischief-making monkey from his birth;

(Don Juan)

’Tis sweet to hear the watchdog’s honest bark

Bay deep-mouth’d welcome as we draw near home;

(Don Juan)

…this ambrosial sin, …

(Don Juan)

I’m fond of fire, and crickets, and all that,

A lobster-salad, and champagne, and chat.

(Don Juan)

My poem’s epic, and is meant to be

Divided in twelve books; each book containing,

With love, and war, a heavy gale at sea,

A list of ships, and captains, and kings reigning,

(Don Juan, The Tunnel)

My days of love are over, …

…

The copious use of claret is forbid too,

So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,

I think I must take up with avarice.

(Don Juan)

But I being fond of true philosophy,

Say very often to myself, ‘Alas!

All things that have been born were born to die,

And flesh (which Death mows down to hay) is grass;

You’ve pass’d your youth not so unpleasantly,

And if you had it o’er again—’twould pass—

So thank your stars that matters are no worse,

And read your Bible, sir, and mind your purse.’

(Don Juan)

There’s nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms

As rum and true religion; …

(Don Juan)

But man is a carnivorous production,

And must have meals, at least one meal a day;

(Don Juan)

And the same night there fell a shower of rain,

For which their mouths gaped, like the cracks of earth

When dried to summer dust; till taught by pain,

Men really know not what good water’s worth;

If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,

Or with a famish’d boat’s –crew had your berth,

Or in the desert heard the camel’s bell,

You’d wish yourself where Truth is—in a well.

(Don Juan)

A virgin always on her maid relies

(Don Juan)

Much English I cannot pretend to speak,

Learning that language chiefly from its preachers,

Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week

I study, also Blair, the highest reachers

Of eloquence in piety and prose—

I hate your poets, so read none of those.

(Don Juan)

Then came her freedom, for she had no mother,

So that, her father being at sea, she was

Free as a married woman, …

…

The freest she that ever…

(Don Juan)

And the small ripple split upon the beach

Scarcely o’erpassed the cream of your champagne,

When o’er the brim the sparkling bumpers reach,

That spring-dew of the spirit! the heart’s rain!

Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach

Who please,—the more because they preach in vain,—

Let us have wine and woman, mirth and laughter,

Sermons and soda water the day after.

…

…Get very drunk; and when

You wake with head-ache, you shall see what then.

/

Ring for your valet—bid him quickly bring

Some hock and soda-water, then you’ll know

A pleasure worthy Xerxes the great king;

(Don Juan)

They fear’d no eyes nor ears on that lone beach,

(Don Juan)

‘Eat, drink, and love, what can the rest avail us?’

(Don Juan)

Marriage from love, like vinegar from wine—

(Don Juan)

A day of gold from out an age of iron

Is all that life allows the luckiest sinner;

(Don Juan)