Lucile [57]
Is a mystery, doubtless. You trace it in art:-- The Greek Psyche,--that's beauty,--the perfect ideal. But then comes the imperfect, perfectible real, With its pain'd aspiration and strife. In those pale Ill-drawn virgins of Giotto you see it prevail. You have studied all this. Then, the universe, too, Is not a mere house to be lived in, for you. Geology opens the mind. So you know Something also of strata and fossils; these show The bases of cosmical structure: some mention Of the nebulous theory demands your attention; And so on. "In short, it is clear the interior Of your brain, my dear Alfred, is vastly superior In fibre, and fulness, and function, and fire, To that of my poor parliamentary squire; But your life leaves upon me (forgive me this heat Due to friendship) the sense of a thing incomplete. You fly high. But what is it, in truth, you fly at? My mind is not satisfied quite as to that. An old illustration's as good as a new, Provided the old illustration be true. We are children. Mere kites are the fancies we fly, Though we marvel to see them ascending so high; Things slight in themselves,--long-tail'd toys, and no more: What is it that makes the kite steadily soar Through the realms where the cloud and the whirlwind have birth But the tie that attaches the kite to the earth? I remember the lessons of childhood, you see, And the hornbook I learn'd on my poor mother's knee. In truth, I suspect little else do we learn From this great book of life, which so shrewdly we turn, Saving how to apply, with a good or bad grace, What we learn'd in the hornbook of childhood. "Your case Is exactly in point. "Fly your kite, if you please, Out of sight: let it go where it will, on the breeze; But cut not the one thread by which it is bound, Be it never so high, to this poor human ground. No man is the absolute lord of his life. You, my friend, have a home, and a sweet and dear wife. If I often have sigh'd by my own silent fire, With the sense of a sometimes recurring desire For a voice sweet and low, or a face fond and fair, Some dull winter evening to solace and share With the love which the world its good children allows To shake hands with,--in short, a legitimate spouse, This thought has consoled me: 'At least I have given For my own good behavior no hostage to heaven.' You have, though. Forget it not! faith, if you do, I would rather break stones on a road than be you. If any man wilfully injured, or led That little girl wrong, I would sit on his head, Even though you yourself were the sinner! "And this Leads me back (do not take it, dear cousin, amiss!) To the matter I meant to have mention'd at once, But these thoughts put it out of my head for the nonce. Of all the preposterous humbugs and shams, Of all the old wolves ever taken for lambs, The wolf best received by the flock he devours Is that uncle-in-law, my dear Alfred, of yours. At least, this has long been my unsettled conviction, And I almost would venture at once the prediction That before very long--but no matter! I trust, For his sake and our own, that I may be unjust. But Heaven forgive me, if cautious I am on The score of such men as with both God and Mammon Seem so shrewdly familiar. "Neglect not this warning. There were rumors afloat in the City this morning Which I scarce like the sound of. Who knows? would he fleece At a pinch, the old hypocrite, even his own niece? For the sake of Matilda I cannot importune Your attention too early. If all your wife's fortune Is yet in the hands of that specious old sinner, Who would dice with the devil, and yet rise up winner, I say, lose no time! get it out of the grab Of her trustee and uncle, Sir Ridley McNab. I trust those deposits, at least, are drawn out, And safe at this moment from danger or doubt. A wink is as good as a nod to the wise. Verbum sap. I admit nothing yet justifies My mistrust; but I have in my own mind a notion That old Ridley's white