Charles Reade

Name: Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy
Author: Charles Reade

Biographical details

Charles Reade (1814–1884), a British novelist and dramatist, is best known for his historical novel The Cloister and the Hearth (1861), which combined thorough research with vivid storytelling. His productive career addressed social critiques on prison reform, private asylums, and trade unions, as seen in works like It Is Never Too Late to Mend (1856) and Hard Cash (1863).

Though his reputation declined after the 19th century, Reade’s novels remain notable for their unflinching exploration of societal issues, grounded in factual detail and narrative appeal, reflecting his distinctive blend of reportage and fiction.

Quotes by Charles Reade

Charles Reade, The Cloister and the Hearth

“ If he knew my heart, he would speak to me, he would not be so deaf to his poor Margaret. It is all a trick to make me cry out and betray him; but no! I love him too well for that. I'll choke first.” And she seized her own throat, to check her wild desire to scream in her terror and anguish.
“If he would but say one word. Oh, Gerard! don't die without a word. Have mercy on me and scold me, but speak to me: if you are angry with me, scold me! curse me! I deserve it: the idiot that killed the man she loved better than herself. Ah I am a murderess. The worst in all the world. ”

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Source: Gutenberg

Charles Reade, Love Me Little, Love Me Long

“ Can it be possible that a friend has abused your good nature?”
“A little,” with an angry sneer.
“Has he betrayed your confidence?”
“Hasn't he?”
“Oh dear! What has he done?”
“Died, that is all,” snarled the victim.
“Oh, uncle! Poor man!”
“Poor man, no doubt. But how about poor me? Why, it turns out I am sole executor.”
“But, dear uncle, how could the poor soul help dying?”
“That is not candid, Lucy,” said Mr. Fountain, severely. “Did ever I say he could help dying? But he could help coming here under false colors, a mahogany face, and trapping his friend.” ”

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Source: Gutenberg

Charles Reade, Hard Cash

“ You, Miss Dodd, for whom I profess love and constancy? Stand and see you swindled into poverty? Of what do you think I am made? My stomach rises against it, my blood boils against it, my flesh creeps at it, my soul loathes it:' then after this great burst he seemed to turn so feeble: 'Oh,' said he, faltering, 'I know what I have done; I have signed the death warrant of our love, dear to me as life. But I can't help it. Oh, Julia, Julia, my lost love, you can never look on me again; you must not love a man you cannot marry. Cheat Hardie's wretched son. ”

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Source: Gutenberg

Charles Reade, The Cloister and the Hearth: A Tale of the Middle Ages

“ Forgive thee? I thank God for thee and such rare men as thou art; and bow the knee to thee in just homage. Thy picture is immortal, and thou, that hast but a chest to sit on, art a king in thy most royal art. Viva, il maëstro! Viva!"
At this unexpected burst the painter, with all the abandon of his nation, flung himself on Gerard's neck. "They said it was a maniac's dream," he sobbed.
"Maniacs themselves! no, idiots!" shouted Gerard.
"Generous stranger! I will hate men no more since the world hath such as thee. I was a viper to fling thy poor dinner away; a wretch, a monster." ”

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Source: Gutenberg

Charles Reade, A Simpleton

“ Have you discovered the past?”
“I have, madam. I remember every leading incident of my life.”
“And has it made you happier?” said Phoebe softly.
“No,” said Christopher gravely. “Memory has brought me misery.”
“I feared as much; for you have lost your fine color, and your eyes are hollow, and lines on your poor brow that were not there before. Are you not sorry you have discovered the past?”
“No, Mrs. Falcon. Give me the sovereign gift of reason, with all the torture it can inflict. I thank God for returning memory, even with the misery it brings.” ”

[↩︎]

Source: Gutenberg

Charles Reade, Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy

“ You are afraid to tell me you love me and I am ashamed to own to you or anybody else that I love you, in spite of it all—I do, though."
"You love me! a wretch like me, Kate? 'Tis impossible. I cannot be so happy!"
"Child," said Mrs. Gaunt, "love is not reason; love is not common sense. 'Tis a passion; like your jealousy, poor fool. I love you, as a mother loves her child, all the more for all you have made me suffer. I might not say as much if I thought we should be long together. But something tells me I shall die this time: I never felt so before. I want you to bury me at Hernshaw. ”

Charles Reade

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