But in vain the Mufti, and the
Patriarch, and the Pope flout at your past traditions. They are married
to man's memory by the sweetest chain that ever Fancy wove for Love. The
poet is a priest, who does not doubt the inspiration of his oracles; and
your shrines are still served by a faithful band, who love the beautiful
and adore the glorious! In vain, in vain they tell us your divinity is
a dream. From the cradle to the grave, our thoughts and feelings take
their colour from you! O! AEgiochus, the birch has often proved thou
art still a thunderer; and, although thy twanging bow murmur no longer
through the avenging air, many an apple twig still vindicates thy
outraged dignity, _pulcher_ Apollo.
O, ye immortal Gods! nothing so difficult as to begin a chapter, and
therefore have we flown to you. In literature, as in life, it is the
first step; you know the rest. After a paragraph or so our blood Is up,
and even our jaded hackneys scud along, and warm up into friskiness.
The Duke awoke: another day of his eventful life is now to run its
course. He found that the Bird of Paradise had not returned from an
excursion to a neighbouring park: he left a note for her, apprising her
of his departure to London, and he despatched an affectionate letter to
Lady Aphrodite, which was the least that he could do, considering that
he perhaps quitted Brighton the day of her arrival.
Pages:
393
394
395
396
397
398
399
400
401
402
403
404
405
406
407
408
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417