Elizabeth Gaskell
Elizabeth Gaskell
Elizabeth Cleghorn Gaskell,, often referred to as Mrs Gaskell, was an English novelist and short story writer during the Victorian era. Her novels offer a detailed portrait of the lives of many strata of society, including the very poor, and are of interest to social historians as well as lovers of literature. Her first novel, Mary Barton, was published in 1848. Gaskell's The Life of Charlotte Brontë, published in 1857, was the first biography about Brontë. Some of Gaskell's best...
NationalityBritish
ProfessionNovelist
Date of Birth29 September 1810
The cloud never comes from the quarter of the horizon from which we watch for it.
I am so tired - so tired of being of being whirled on through all these phases of my life, in which nothing abides by me, no creature, no place; it is like the circle in which the victims of earthly passion eddy continually.
I dare say there's many a woman makes as sad a mistake as I have done, and only finds it out too late.
Nevertheless, his moustachios are splendid.
As she realized what might have been, she grew to be thankful for what was.
There is always a pleasure in unravelling a mystery, in catching at the gossamer clue which will guide to certainty.
A solitary life cherishes mere fancies until they become manias.
What's the use of watching? A watched pot never boils ...
Th' longest lane will have a turning ...
Waiting is far more difficult than doing.
I would not trust a mouse to a woman if a man's judgment could be had.
There was a filmy veil of soft dull mist obscuring, but not hiding, all objects, giving them a lilac hue, for the sun had not yet fully set; a robin was singing ... The leaves were more gorgeous than ever; the first touch of frost would lay them all low to the ground. Already one or two kept constantly floating down, amber and golden in the low slanting sun-rays.
He had not an ounce of superfluous flesh on his bones, and leanness goes a great way towards gentility.
Again, stepping nearer, he besought her with another tremulous eager call upon her name. 'Margaret!' Still lower went the head; more closely hidden was the face, almost resting on the table before her. He came close to her. He knelt by her side, to bring his face to a level with her ear; and whispered-panted out the words: — 'Take care. — If you do not speak — I shall claim you as my own in some strange presumptuous way.