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are angry； disappointed； or indignant； but never 〃in the blues〃 and never
melancholy。 When things go wrong at ten o'clock in the morning weor
rather youswear and knock the furniture about； but if the misfortune
comes at ten P。M。； we read poetry or sit in the dark and think what a
hollow world this is。
But； as a rule； it is not trouble that makes us melancholy。 The actuality
is too stern a thing for sentiment。 We linger to weep over a picture； but
from the original we should quickly turn our eyes away。 There is no pathos
in real misery： no luxury in real grief。 We do not toy with sharp swords
nor hug a gnawing fox to our breast for choice。 When a man or woman
loves to brood over a sorrow and takes care to keep it green in their
memory； you may be sure it is no longer a pain to them。 However they
may have suffered from it at first； the recollection has become by then a
pleasure。 Many dear old ladies who daily look at tiny shoes lying in
lavender…scented drawers； and weep as they think of the tiny feet whose
toddling march is done； and sweet…faced young ones who place each night
beneath their pillow some lock that once curled on a boyish head that the
salt waves have kissed to death； will call me a nasty cynical brute and say
I'm talking nonsense； but I believe； nevertheless； that if they will ask
themselves truthfully whether they find it unpleasant to dwell thus on their
sorrow； they will be compelled to answer 〃No。〃 Tears are as sweet as
laughter to some natures。 The proverbial Englishman； we know from old
chronicler Froissart； takes his pleasures sadly； and the Englishwoman goes
a step further and takes her pleasures in sadness itself。
I am not sneering。 I would not for a moment sneer at anything that
helps to keep hearts tender in this hard old world。 We men are cold and
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THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW。
common…sensed enough for all； we would not have women the same。 No；
no； ladies dear； be always sentimental and soft…hearted； as you arebe the
soothing butter to our coarse dry bread。 Besides； sentiment is to women
what fun is to us。 They do not care for our humor； surely it would be unfair
to deny them their grief。 And who shall say that their mode of enjoyment
is not as sensible as ours？ Why assume that a doubled…up body； a
contorted； purple face； and a gaping mouth emitting a series of ear…
splitting shrieks point to a state of more intelligent happiness than a
pensive face reposing upon a little white hand； and a pair of gentle tear…
dimmed eyes looking back through Time's dark avenue upon a fading
past？
I am glad when I see Regret walked with as a friendglad because I
know the saltness has been washed from out the tears； and that the sting
must have been plucked from the beautiful face of Sorrow ere we dare
press her pale lips to ours。 Time has laid his healing hand upon the wound
when we can look back upon the pain we once fainted under and no
bitterness or despair rises in our hearts。 The burden is no longer heavy
when we have for our past troubles only the same sweet mingling of
pleasure and pity that we feel when old knight…hearted Colonel Newcome
answers 〃_adsum_〃 to the great roll…call； or when Tom and Maggie
Tulliver； clasping hands through the mists that have divided them； go
down； locked in each other's arms； beneath the swollen waters of the
Floss。
Talking of poor Tom and Maggie Tulliver brings to my mind a saying
of George Eliot's in connection with this subject of melancholy。 She
speaks somewhere of the 〃sadness of a summer's evening。〃 How
wonderfully truelike everything that came from that wonderful penthe
observation is！ Who has not felt the sorrowful enchantment of those
lingering sunsets？ The world belongs to Melancholy then； a thoughtful
deep…eyed maiden who loves not the glare of day。 It is not till 〃light
thickens and the crow wings to the rocky wood〃 that she steals forth from
her groves。 Her palace is in twilight land。 It is there she meets us。 At her
shadowy gate she takes our hand in hers and walks beside us through her
mystic realm。 We see no form； but seem to hear the rustling of her wings。
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THE IDLE THOUGHTS OF AN IDLE FELLOW。
Even in the toiling hum…drum city her spirit comes to us。 There is a
somber presence in each long； dull street； and the dark river creeps
ghostlike under the black arches； as if bearing some hidden secret beneath
its muddy waves。
In the silent country； when the trees and hedges loom dim and blurred
against the rising night； and the bat's wing flutters in our face； and the
land…rail's cry sounds drearily across the fields； the spell sinks deeper still
into our hearts。 We seem in that hour to be standing by some unseen death…
bed； and in the swaying of the elms we hear the sigh of the dying day。
A solemn sadness reigns。 A great peace is around us。 In its light our
cares of the working day grow small and trivial； and bread and cheeseay；
and even kissesdo not seem the only things worth striving for。 Thoughts
we cannot speak but only listen to flood in upon us； and standing in the
stillness under earth's darkening dome； we feel that we are greater than our
petty lives。 Hung round with those dusky curtains； the world is no longer a
mere dingy workshop； but a stately temple wherein man may worship； and
where at times in the dimness his groping hands touch God's。
ON BEING HARD UP。
It is a most remarkable thing。 I sat down with the full intention of
writing something clever and original； but for the life of me I can't think of
anything clever and originalat least； not at this moment。 The only thing I
can think about now is being hard up。 I suppose having my hands in my
pockets has made me think about this。 I always do sit with my hands in my
pockets except when I am in the company of my sisters； my cousins； or
my aunts； and they kick up such a shindyI should say expostulate so
eloquently upon the subjectthat I have to give in and take them outmy
hands