Mary Gresley and an Editor's Tales

Nonfiction, Religion & Spirituality, New Age, History, Fiction & Literature
Cover of the book Mary Gresley and an Editor's Tales by Anthony Trollope, Library of Alexandria
View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart
Author: Anthony Trollope ISBN: 9781465616913
Publisher: Library of Alexandria Publication: March 8, 2015
Imprint: Language: English
Author: Anthony Trollope
ISBN: 9781465616913
Publisher: Library of Alexandria
Publication: March 8, 2015
Imprint:
Language: English
WE have known many prettier girls than Mary Gresley, and many handsomer women—but we never knew girl or woman gifted with a face which in supplication was more suasive, in grief more sad, in mirth more merry. It was a face that compelled sympathy, and it did so with the conviction on the mind of the sympathiser that the girl was altogether unconscious of her own power. In her intercourse with us there was, alas! much more of sorrow than of mirth, and we may truly say that in her sufferings we suffered; but still there came to us from our intercourse with her much of delight mingled with the sorrow; and that delight arose, partly no doubt from her woman’s charms, from the bright eye, the beseeching mouth, the soft little hand, and the feminine grace of her unpretending garments; but chiefly, we think, from the extreme humanity of the girl. She had little, indeed none, of that which the world calls society, but yet she was pre-eminently social. Her troubles were very heavy, but she was making ever an unconscious effort to throw them aside, and to be jocund in spite of their weight. She would even laugh at them, and at herself as bearing them. She was a little fair-haired creature, with broad brow and small nose and dimpled chin, with no brightness of complexion, no luxuriance of hair, no swelling glory of bust and shoulders; but with a pair of eyes which, as they looked at you, would be gemmed always either with a tear or with some spark of laughter, and with a mouth in the corners of which was ever lurking some little spark of humour, unless when some unspoken prayer seemed to be hanging on her lips. Of woman’s vanity she had absolutely none. Of her corporeal self, as having charms to rivet man’s love, she thought no more than does a dog. It was a fault with her that she lacked that quality of womanhood. To be loved was to her all the world; unconscious desire for the admiration of men was as strong in her as in other women; and her instinct taught her, as such instincts do teach all women, that such love and admiration was to be the fruit of what feminine gifts she possessed; but the gifts on which she depended,—depending on them without thinking on the matter,—were her softness, her trust, her woman’s weakness, and that power of supplicating by her eye without putting her petition into words which was absolutely irresistible. Where is the man of fifty, who in the course of his life has not learned to love some woman simply because it has come in his way to help her, and to be good to her in her struggles? And if added to that source of affection there be brightness, some spark of humour, social gifts, and a strong flavour of that which we have ventured to call humanity, such love may become almost a passion without the addition of much real beauty.
View on Amazon View on AbeBooks View on Kobo View on B.Depository View on eBay View on Walmart
WE have known many prettier girls than Mary Gresley, and many handsomer women—but we never knew girl or woman gifted with a face which in supplication was more suasive, in grief more sad, in mirth more merry. It was a face that compelled sympathy, and it did so with the conviction on the mind of the sympathiser that the girl was altogether unconscious of her own power. In her intercourse with us there was, alas! much more of sorrow than of mirth, and we may truly say that in her sufferings we suffered; but still there came to us from our intercourse with her much of delight mingled with the sorrow; and that delight arose, partly no doubt from her woman’s charms, from the bright eye, the beseeching mouth, the soft little hand, and the feminine grace of her unpretending garments; but chiefly, we think, from the extreme humanity of the girl. She had little, indeed none, of that which the world calls society, but yet she was pre-eminently social. Her troubles were very heavy, but she was making ever an unconscious effort to throw them aside, and to be jocund in spite of their weight. She would even laugh at them, and at herself as bearing them. She was a little fair-haired creature, with broad brow and small nose and dimpled chin, with no brightness of complexion, no luxuriance of hair, no swelling glory of bust and shoulders; but with a pair of eyes which, as they looked at you, would be gemmed always either with a tear or with some spark of laughter, and with a mouth in the corners of which was ever lurking some little spark of humour, unless when some unspoken prayer seemed to be hanging on her lips. Of woman’s vanity she had absolutely none. Of her corporeal self, as having charms to rivet man’s love, she thought no more than does a dog. It was a fault with her that she lacked that quality of womanhood. To be loved was to her all the world; unconscious desire for the admiration of men was as strong in her as in other women; and her instinct taught her, as such instincts do teach all women, that such love and admiration was to be the fruit of what feminine gifts she possessed; but the gifts on which she depended,—depending on them without thinking on the matter,—were her softness, her trust, her woman’s weakness, and that power of supplicating by her eye without putting her petition into words which was absolutely irresistible. Where is the man of fifty, who in the course of his life has not learned to love some woman simply because it has come in his way to help her, and to be good to her in her struggles? And if added to that source of affection there be brightness, some spark of humour, social gifts, and a strong flavour of that which we have ventured to call humanity, such love may become almost a passion without the addition of much real beauty.

More books from Library of Alexandria

Cover of the book The Powers and Maxine by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book In Mr. Knox's Country by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book Ticonderoga: A Story of Early Frontier Life In The Mohawk Valley by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book The Rogues and Vagabonds of Shakespeare's Youth Awdeley's 'Fraternitye of Vacabondes' and Harman's 'Caveat' by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book Lord Elgin by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book Seven Minor Epics of the English Renaissance (1596-1624) by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book The Sufi Message of Hazrat Murshid Inayat Khan: The Sufi Teachings by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book In a Cheshire Garden: Natural History Notes by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book Steve P. Holcombe, the Converted Gambler: His Life and Work by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book Rural Tales, Ballads and Songs by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book The Grasshopper by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book Charley Laurel: A Story of Adventure by Sea and Land by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book The Witch of Salem or Credulity Run Mad by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book From Bapaume to Passchendaele, 1917 by Anthony Trollope
Cover of the book Cudjo's Cave by Anthony Trollope
We use our own "cookies" and third party cookies to improve services and to see statistical information. By using this website, you agree to our Privacy Policy