ful
that it never doubted but that it should live for ever, are all of no
avail towards making love eternal: it dies, in spite of the banns and
the priest; and I have often thought there should be a visitation of the
sick for it, and a funeral service, and an extreme unction, and an
abi in pace. It has its course, like all mortal things--its beginning,
progress, and decay. It buds and it blooms out into sunshine, and it
withers and ends. Strephon and Chloe languish apart; join in a rapture:
and presently you hear that Chloe is crying, and Strephon has broken
his crook across her back. Can you mend it so as to show no marks of
rupture? Not all the priests of Hymen, not all the incantations to the
gods, can make it whole!

Waking up from dreams, books, and visions of college honors, in which
for two years, Harry Esmond had been immersed, he found himself,
instantly, on his return home, in the midst of this actual tragedy of
life, which absorbed and interested him more than all his tutor had
taught him. The persons whom he loved best in the world, and to whom he
owed most, were living unhappily together. The gentlest and kindest of
women was suffering ill usage and shedding tears in secret: the man who
made her wretched by neglect, if not by violence, was Harry's benefactor
and patron. In houses where, in place of that sacred, inmost flame
of love, there is discord at the centre, the whole household becomes
hypocritical, and each lies to his neighbor. The husband (or it may
be the wife) lies when the visitor comes in, and wears a grin of
reconciliation or politeness before him. The wife lies (indeed, her
business is to do that, and to smile, however much she is beaten),
swallows her tears, and lies to her lord and master; lies in bidding
little Jackey respect dear papa; lies in assuring grandpapa that she
is perfectly happy. The servants lie, wearing grave faces behind their
master's chair, and pretending to be unconscious of the fighting;
and so, from morning till bedtime, life is passed in falsehood. And
wiseacres call this a proper regard of morals, and point out Baucis and
Philemon as examples of a good life.

If my lady did not speak of her griefs to Harry Esmond, my lord was
by no means reserved when in his cups, and spoke his mind very freely,
bidding Harry in his coarse way, and with his blunt language, beware
of all women as cheats, jades, jilts, and using other unmistakable
monosyllables in speaking of them. In