will not be stamped out. Rave on, wild wind, eternal voice of human
misery; fall, dead footsteps, eternal echo of human memory; stamp, miry
feet; stamp into forgetfulness that which will not be forgotten.

And so on, on to the end.



Pretty ideas these for a man about to be married, especially when they
float into his brain at night like ominous clouds into a summer sky, and
he is going to be married to-morrow. There is no mistake about it--the
wedding, I mean. To be plain and matter-of-fact, why there stand the
presents, or some of them, and very handsome presents they are, ranged
in solemn rows upon the long table. It is a remarkable thing to observe
when one is about to make a really satisfactory marriage how scores of
unsuspected or forgotten friends crop up and send little tokens of their
esteem. It was very different when I married my first wife, I remember,
but then that match was not satisfactory--just a love-match, no more.

There they stand in solemn rows, as I have said, and inspire me with
beautiful thoughts about the innate kindness of human nature, especially
the human nature of our distant cousins. It is possible to grow almost
poetical over a silver teapot when one is going to be married to-morrow.
On how many future mornings shall I be confronted with that tea-pot?
Probably for all my life; and on the other side of the teapot will be
the cream jug, and the electro-plated urn will hiss away behind them
both. Also the chased sugar basin will be in front, full of sugar, and
behind everything will be my second wife.

"My dear," she will say, "will you have another cup of tea?" and