orming 'a nobler counsellor'
than his wife's 'poor heart'--his prowess--his glorious death--his
bringing home as a corpse--the desolation of Panthea--the visit and
tears of the Persian king to the sorrowing widow stretched upon the
ground by the corpse of her hero--the fine incident of the right hand,
by which Cyrus had endeavoured to renew his pledges of friendship with
the deceased prince, coming away from the corpse and following the royal
touch (this hand having been struck off in the battle)--the burial--and
the subsequent death of Panthea, who refused to be comforted under all
the kind assurances, the kindest protection from the Persian king--these
traits, though surviving in Greek, are undoubtedly Persian. For Xenophon
had less sensibility than any Greek author that survives. And besides,
abstracting from the writer, how is it that Greek records offer no such
story; nothing like it; no love between married people of that chivalric
order--no conjugal fidelity--no capacity of that beautiful reply--that
she saw him not, for that _her_ mind had no leisure for any other
thought than _one_?
_XX. OMITTED PASSAGES AND VARIED READINGS._
1.--DINNER.
In London and other great capitals it is well known that new diseases
have manifested themselves of late years: and more would be known about
them, were it not for the tremulous delicacy which waits on the
afflictions of the rich. We do not say this invidiously. It is right
that such forbearance should exist. Medical men, as a body, are as manly
a race as any amongst us, and as little prone to servility. But
obviously the case of exposure under circumstances of humiliating
affliction is a very different thing for the man whose rank and
consideration place him upon a hill conspicuous to a whole city or
nation, and for the unknown labourer whose name excites no feeling
whatever in the reader of his case. Meantime it is precisely amongst the
higher classes, privileged so justly from an exposure pressing so
unequally upon _their_ rank, that these new forms of malady emerge. Any
man who visits London at intervals long enough to make the spectacle of
that great vision impressive to him from novelty and the force of
contrast, more especially if this contrast is deepened by a general
residence in some quiet rural seclusion, will not fail to be struck by
the fever and tumult of London as its primary features. _Struck_ is not
the word: _awed_ is the only adequate expression
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