Mr. Moggridge's resignation of his post in the Customs was received
without expressed regret. He has since married Sophia Buzza, and
edits a Conservative paper in Wales. I see that another volume of
his verse is in the press. It is to be called "Throbs: and other
Trifles," and will include the epithalamium written by him for his
own nuptials, as well as his "Farewell to Troy!"--a composition which
Mrs. Buzza said she defied "you to read without feeling as if geese
were walking over your grave."
Sam Buzza has gone to College.
And what of Troy Town? By degrees the old phrases, old catch-words,
and old opinions have come to reign again. Troy's unchanged
loveliness too, the daily round full of experiences familiar as old
friends, the dear monotony of sight and sound in the little port--all
have made for healing and oblivion. If you question us on a certain
three months in our life, the chances are you will get no answer.
We have agreed to forget, you see; and so we are beginning to
persuade ourselves, almost, that those months have never been.
Almost. But, as a fact, Mrs. Buzza had been right. "It will never
be the same again-never!" Something we have lost, and I think that
something is Troy. For strangers have come amongst us, and have
formed a society of their own.
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