Life, joy, love.
The blessed, darling little bird, quivering, warbling, urging its way
farther and farther; and finally swooning with excess of delight, and
sinking back to earth! You see I am vainly trying to help you to an
idea of it, but I cannot do it. I do not understand why the skylark
should not rise from our meadows as well, and the nightingale sing to
our roses."
Society and the sternness of life were, however, but a hair's-breadth
away:--
"Monday evening Mr. Hawthorne went to Richmond Hill to meet Mr.
Buchanan. The service was entirely silver, plates and all, and in a
high state of sheen. The Queen's autograph letter was spoken of (which
you will see in the 'Northern Times' that goes with this); and as it
happens to be very clumsily expressed, Mr. Hawthorne was much
perplexed by Mr. Buchanan's asking him, before the whole company at
dinner, 'what he thought of the Queen's letter.' Mr. Hawthorne replied
that it showed very kind feeling. 'No,' persisted the wicked
Ambassador; 'but what do you think of the style?' Mr. Hawthorne was
equal to him, or rather, conquered him, however, for he said, 'The
Queen has a perfect right to do what she pleases with her own
English.' Mr. Hawthorne thought Miss Lane, Mr. Buchanan's niece, a
very elegant person, and far superior to any English lady present. The
next evening Mr. Hawthorne went to another dinner at Everton; so that
on Wednesday, when we again sat down together, I felt as if he had
been gone a month.
Pages:
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282