all, it is plain the poets have been fooling with mankind
since the foundation of the world. And you have only to look
these happy couples in the face, to see they have never been
in love, or in hate, or in any other high passion, all their
days. When you see a dish of fruit at dessert, you sometimes
set your affections upon one particular peach or nectarine,
watch it with some anxiety as it comes round the table, and
feel quite a sensible disappointment when it is taken by some
one else. I have used the phrase "high passion." Well, I
should say this was about as high a passion as generally leads
to marriage. One husband hears after marriage that some poor
fellow is dying of his wife's love. "What a pity!" he
exclaims; "you know I could so easily have got another!" And
yet that is a very happy union. Or again: A young man was
telling me the sweet story of his loves. "I like it well
enough as long as her sisters are there," said this amorous
swain; "but I don't know what to do when we're alone." Once
more: A married lady was debating the subject with another
lady. "You know, dear," said the first, "after ten years of
marriage, if he is nothing else, your husband is always an old
friend." "I have many old friends," returned the other, "but
I prefer them to be nothing more." "Oh, perhaps I might
PREFER that also!" There is a common note in these three
illustrations of the modern idyll; and it must be owned the
god goes among us with a limping gait and blear eyes. You
wonder whether it was so always; whether desire was always
equally dull and spiritless, and possession equally cold. I
cannot help fancying most people make, ere they marry, some
such table of recommendations as Hannah Godwin wrote to her
brother William anent her friend, Miss Gay. It is so