er singing their low-toned _miserere_ in our ears.
In the day we are angry, disappointed, or indignant, but never "in the
blues" and never melancholy. When things go wrong at ten o'clock in the
morning we--or rather you--swear and knock the furniture about; but if
the misfortune comes at ten P.M., we read poetry or sit in the dark and
think what a hollow world this is.

But, as a rule, it is not trouble that makes us melancholy. The
actuality is too stern a thing for sentiment. We linger to weep over
a picture, but from the original we should quickly turn our eyes away.
There is no pathos in real misery: no luxury in real grief. We do not
toy with sharp swords nor hug a gnawing fox to our breast for choice.
When a man or woman loves to brood over a sorrow and takes care to keep
it green in their memory, you may be sure it is no longer a pain to
them. However they may have suffered from it at first, the recollection
has become by then a pleasure. Many dear old ladies who daily look at
tiny shoes lying in lavender-scented drawers, and weep as they think of
the tiny feet whose toddling march is done, and sweet-faced young ones
who place each night beneath their pillow some lock that once curled on
a boyish head that the salt waves have kissed to death, will call me
a nasty cynical brute and say I'm talking nonsense; but I believe,
nevertheless, that if they will ask themselves truthfully whether they
find it unpleasant to dwell thus on their sorrow, they will be compelled
to answer "No." Tears are as sweet as laughter to some natures. The
proverbial Englishman, we know from old chronicler Froissart, takes his
pleasures sadly, and the Englishwoman goes a step further and takes her
pleasures in sadness itself.

I am not sneering. I would not for a moment sneer at anything that
helps to keep hearts tender in this hard old world. We men are cold and
common-sensed enough for all; we would not have women the same. No, no,
ladies dear, be always sentimental and soft-hearted, as you are--be the
soothing butter to our coarse dry bread. Besides, sentiment is to women
what fun is to us. They do not care for our humor, surely it would be
unfair to deny them their grief. And who shall say that their mode of
enjoyment is not as sensible as ours? Why assume that a doubled-up
body, a contorted, purple face, and a gaping mouth emitting a series
of ear-splitting shrieks point to a state of more intelligent happiness
than a pensive face rep