And her father's face no longer shines with its
proud love, and her mother's voice no longer whispers to her with sweet
anxiety. Clouded is the brow of her bold brother, and dimmed is the
radiancy of her budding sister's bloom.
Poor creature! that is to say, wicked woman! for we are not of those who
set themselves against the verdict of society, or ever omit to expedite,
by a gentle kick, a falling friend. And yet, when we just remember
beauty is beauty, and grace is grace, and kindness is kindness, although
the beautiful, the graceful, and the amiable do get in a scrape, we
don't know how it is, we confess it is a weakness, but, under these
circumstances, we do not feel quite inclined to sneer.
But this is wrong. We should not pity or pardon those who have yielded
to great temptation, or perchance great provocation. Besides, it is
right that our sympathy should be kept for the injured.
To stand amid the cold ashes of your desolate hearth, with all your
Penates shivered at your feet; to find no smiling face meet your return,
no brow look gloomy when you leave your door; to eat and sleep alone;
to be bored with grumbling servants and with weekly bills; to have your
children asking after mamma; and no one to nurse your gout, or cure the
influenza that rages in your household: all this is doubtless hard to
digest, and would tell in a novel, particularly if written by my friends
Mr.
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