Of course, I do not mean that these times are gone: they are
alive (in a modern fashion) in many places in the world; some of
my friends have described them in prose and verse. I only mean
to say that I never was there; I was born unlucky. I am willing
to do my best, but I live in the commonplace. Once or twice I
have rashly tried my hand at dark conspiracies, and women rare
and radiant in Italian bowers; but I have a friend who is sure to
say, "Try and tell us about the butcher next door, my dear." If
I look up from my paper now, I shall be just as apt to see our
dog and his kennel as the white sky stained with blood and Tyrian
purple. I never saw a full-blooded saint or sinner in my life.
The coldest villain I ever knew was the only son of his mother,
and she a widow,--and a kinder son never lived. Doubtless there
are people capable of a love terrible in its strength; but I
never knew such a case that some one did not consider its
expediency as "a match" in the light of dollars and cents. As
for heroines, of course I have seen beautiful women, and good as
fair. The most beautiful is delicate and pure enough for a type
of the Madonna, and has a heart almost as warm and holy. (Very
pure blood is in her veins, too, if you care about blood.) But at
home they call her Tode for a nickname; all we can do, she will
sing, and sing through her nose; and on washing-days she often
cooks the dinner, and scolds wholesomely, if the tea-napkins are
not in order.
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