The man, who wins it, wins only a poor sort of womanly
distinction. Without power to cope with men, he triumphs over the
weakness of the other sex only by hypocrisy. He wears none of the armor
of Romans, and he parleys with Punic faith.
----Yet even now there is a lurking goodness in you that traces its
beginning to the old garret-home,--there is an air in the harvest heats
that whispers of the bloom of spring.
And over your brilliant career as man of the world, however lit up by a
morbid vanity, or galvanized by a lascivious passion, there will come at
times the consciousness of a better heart, struggling beneath your
cankered action,--like the low Vesuvian fire, reeking vainly under rough
beds of tufa and scoriated lava. And as you smile in _loge_ or _salon_,
with daring smiles, or press with villain fondness the hand of those
lady-votaries of the same god you serve, there will gleam upon you over
the waste of rolling years a memory that quickens again the nobler and
bolder instincts of the heart.
Childish recollections, with their purity and earnestness,--a sister's
love,--a mother's solicitude, will flood your soul once more with a
gushing sensibility that yearns for enjoyment.
Pages:
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207