WALKING TO THE MAIL. John. I'm glad I walked. How fresh the meadows look Above the river, and, but a month ago, The whole hill-side was redder than a fox. Is yon plantation where this byway joins The turnpike? James. Yes. John. And when does this come by? James. The mail? At one o'clock. John. What is it now? James. A quarter to. John. Whose house is that I see Beyond the watermills? James. Sir Edward Head's: But he's abroad: the place is to be sold. John. O, his. He was not broken. James. No sir, he, Vexed with a morbid devil in his blood That veiled the world with jaundice, hid his face From all men, and commercing with himself, He lost the sense that handles daily life That keeps us all in order more or less And sick of home, went overseas for change. James. Nay, who knows? he's here and there But let him go; his devil goes with him, James. You saw the man but yesterday: Sets forth, and meets a friend who hails him, "What! John. He left his wife behind; for so I heard. James. He left her, yes. I met my lady once: A woman like a butt, and harsh as crabs. John. O yet but I remember, ten years back 'Tis now at least ten years and then she was You could not light upon a sweeter thing: A body slight and round, and like a pear James. Ay, ay, the blossom fades, and they that loved Out of her sphere. What betwixt shame and pride, Like men, like manners: like breeds like, they say. Which are indeed the manners of the great. John. But I had heard it was this bill that past, And fear of change at home, that drove him hence. James. That was the last drop in the cup of gall. I once was near him when his bailiff brought A Chartist pike. You should have seen him wince The same old sore breaks out from age to age With much the same result. Now I myself, A Tory to the quick, was as a boy She, Destructive, when I had not what I would. John. They found you out? James. Not they. John. Well-after all What know we of the secret of a man? His nerves were wrong. What ails us who are sound, That we should mimic this raw fool the world, Which charts us all in its coarse blacks or whites, As ruthless as a baby with a worm, As cruel as a schoolboy ere he grows That we shall miss the mail: and here it comes As shall see three pyebalds and a roan. |