What lovely
creatures those French are! The women and children, carrying their poor
drowned sisters! that little baby in its coffin decked with roses! Don't
you yearn towards those dear souls? What are Agincourt and Waterloo in
the presence of such sweetness? Well, I love them anyway, and shall
brood over them and pray for them while I live....
[Sidenote: _T.E. Brown_]
I am generally rather a happy "sort" of man, but your letter makes me
very happy. How kind you are! Up in the morning betimes to catch people
still in their beds warm with a generous enthusiasm, to surprise their
sympathies before they had "faded into the light of common day," and to
collect all their "loving" words for me. That was a good and faithful
act; and I am deeply grateful.
Yes, the man was right. I do love the poor wastrels, and you are right,
I have it from my father. He had a way of taking for granted, not only
the innate virtue of these outcasts, but their unquestioned
respectability. He, at least, never questioned it. The effect was
twofold.
Some of the "weak brethren" felt uncomfortable at being met on those
terms of equality. My father might have been practising on them the most
dreadful irony; and they were "that shy" and confused. But it was not
irony, not a bit of it; just a sense of respect, fine consideration for
the poor "sowls," well--respect, that's it, respect for all human
beings; _his_ respect made _them_ respectable.
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