Long, dear aunt,
before thy venerable nose peeps from beneath the quilted coverlid to scent
an atmosphere made odorous by cosmetics--long, dear Emmeline, ere those
bright orbs that one day will fire the hearts of thousands are unclosed,
the artizan has blessed his sleeping children, and closed the door upon
his household gods. The murky fog, the drizzling shower, welcome him back
to toil. Labour runs before him, and with ready hand unlocks the doors of
dreary cellars or towering and chilly edifices; mind hath not yet
promulgated or received the noble doctrine that toil is dignity; and you,
yes, even you, dear, gentle hearts! would feel the artizan a slave, if
some clever limner showed you the toiling wretch sooted or japanned. Would
you then rob him of one means of happiness? No--not even of his pipe!
Ladies, you tread on carpets or on marble floors--I will tell you where my
foot has been. I have walked where the air was circumscribed--where man
was manacled by space, for no other crimes but those of poverty and
misfortune. I've seen the broken merchant seated round a hearth that had
not one endearment--they looked about for faces that were wont to smile
upon them, and they saw but mirrors of their own sad lineaments--some
laughed in mockery of their sorrows, as though they thought that mirth
would come for asking; others, grown brutal by being caged, made up in
noise what they lacked in peace.
Pages:
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26