Let it
lie there--though the dead miser valued it above all his bank-stock, and
kissed it oftener than he did his living and lawful wife and
children--what is it worth now? Say, as the grim Dean of St. Patrick
wrote on _his_ love-token, "Only a woman's hair."
Now these men, unknown to their best friend perhaps, had gone through
the affliction which is so common that it is hard to speak of it without
launching into truisms. This sorrow has made some men famous, by forcing
them out into the world and shutting the door behind them. It has made
the fortunes of some poets, who choose the world for their confidant,
setting their bereavement to music, and bewailing Eurydice in charming
volumes, that are cheap at "3_s._ 6_d._ in cloth, lettered." It has made
some--I think the best and bravest--somewhat silent for the rest of
their lives. I read some lines the other day wise enough to have sprung
from an older brain than Owen Meredith's.
"They were pedants who could speak--
Grander souls have passed unheard;
Such as felt all language weak;
Choosing rather to record
Secrets before Heaven, than break
Faith with angels, by a word--"
Yes, many men have their Rachel; but--there being a prejudice against
bigamy--few have even the Patriarch's luck, to marry her at last; for
the wife _de convenance_ generally outlives her younger sister; and so,
one afternoon, we turn again from a grave in Ephrata-Green Cemetery,
somewhat drearily, into our tent pitched in the plains of Belgravia,
where Leah--(there was ever jealousy between those two)--meets us with a
sharp glance of triumph in her "tender eyes.
Pages:
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60
61
62
63
64
65
66
67
68
69
70