Nursing of a military invalid awakens tenderer anxieties
     Old houses are doomed to burnings
     Our lawyers have us inside out, like our physicians
     Paying compliments and spoiling a game! 
     Philip was a Spartan for keeping his feelings under
     Secret of the art was his meaning what he said
     Suggestion of possible danger might more dangerous than silence
     Taste a wound from the lightest touch, and they nurse the venom
     Tears of men sink plummet-deep
     Tears of such a man have more of blood than of water in them
     That fiery dragon, a beautiful woman with brains
     The race is for domestic peace, my boy
     They laugh, but they laugh extinguishingly
     Time, whose trick is to turn corners of unanticipated sharpness
     Twisted by a nature that would not allow of open eyes
     We’re all of us hit at last, and generally by our own weapon
     We’re smitten to-day in our hearts and our pockets
     Welsh blood is queer blood
     Where one won’t and can’t, poor t’ other must
     Winds of panic are violently engaged in occupying the vacuum
     With a frozen fish of admirable principles for wife
     With death; we’d rather not, because of a qualm
     Withdrew into the entrenchments of contempt
     Woman’s precious word No at the sentinel’s post, and alert
     Would like to feel he was doing a bit of good
     You’ll tell her you couldn’t sit down in her presence undressed

THE ENTIRE SHORT WORKS OF GEORGE MEREDITH

CONTENTS:  Farina Case of General Ople The Tale of Chloe The House on the Beach The Gentleman of Fifty The Sentimentalists Miscellaneous Prose

FARINA

By George Meredith

THE WHITE ROSE CLUB

In those lusty ages when the Kaisers lifted high the golden goblet of Aachen, and drank, elbow upward, the green-eyed wine of old romance, there lived, a bow-shot from the bones of the Eleven Thousand Virgins and the Three Holy Kings, a prosperous Rhinelander, by name Gottlieb Groschen, or, as it was sometimes ennobled, Gottlieb von Groschen; than whom no wealthier merchant bartered for the glory of his ancient mother-city, nor more honoured burgess swallowed impartially red juice and white under the shadow of his own fig-tree.

Vine-hills, among the hottest sun-bibbers of the Rheingau, glistened in the roll of Gottlieb’s possessions; corn-acres below Cologne; basalt-quarries about Linz; mineral-springs in Nassau, a legacy of the Romans to the genius and enterprise of the first of German traders.  He could have bought up every hawking crag, owner and all, from Hatto’s Tower to Rheineck.  Lore-ley, combing her yellow locks against the night-cloud, beheld old Gottlieb’s rafts endlessly stealing on the moonlight through the iron pass she peoples above St. Goar.  A wailful host were the wives of his raftsmen widowed there by her watery music!