Like Ouida's high-born heroes, they "stick
to their order," and do not mingle with the rest of us. They ignore us
so completely that we cannot help looking up to them in spite of their
vices--just as we should do outside.
And we, of the middle class, we stick to our order, too, and do not
mingle with the small shop-keepers--who do not mingle with the laborers,
artisans, and mechanics--who (alas, for them!) have nobody to look down
upon but each other--but they do not; and are the best-bred people in
the place.
Such are we! It is only when our madness is upon us that we cease to be
commonplace, and wax tragical and great, or else original and grotesque
and humorous, with that true deep humor that compels both our laughter
and our tears, and leaves us older, sadder, and wiser than it found us.
"_Sunt lacrimae rerum, et mentem mortalia tangunt_."
(So much, if little more, can I recall of the benign Virgil.)
And now to my small beer again, which will have more of a head to it
henceforward.
* * * * *
Thus did I pursue my solitary way, like Bryant's Water-fowl, only with a
less definite purpose before me--till at last there dawned for me an
ever-memorable Saturday in June.
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