oots it to you, now that you have been at rest for a
hundred and twenty years, not divided in death from the cold heart which
caused yours, whilst it beat, such faithful pangs of love and grief--boots
it to you now, that the whole world loves and deplores you? Scarce any
man, I believe, ever thought of that grave, that did not cast a flower of
pity on it, and write over it a sweet epitaph. Gentle lady, so lovely, so
loving, so unhappy! you have had countless champions; millions of manly
hearts mourning for you. From generation to generation we take up the fond
tradition of your beauty; we watch and follow your tragedy, your bright
morning love and purity, your constancy, your grief, your sweet martyrdom.
We know your legend by heart. You are one of the saints of English story.
And if Stella's love and innocence are charming to contemplate, I will say
that in spite of ill-usage, in spite of drawbacks, in spite of mysterious
separation and union, of hope delayed and sickened heart--in the teeth of
Vanessa, and that little episodical aberration which plunged Swift into
such woful pitfalls and quagmires of amorous perplexity--in spite of the
verdicts of most women, I believe, who, as far as my experience and
conversation go, generally take Vanessa's part in the controversy--in spite
of the tears which Swift caused Stella to shed, and the rocks and barriers
which fate and temper interposed, and which prevented the pure course of
that true love from running smoothly--the brightest part of Swift's story,
the pure star in that dark and tempestuous life of Swift's, is his love
for Hester Johnson. It has been my business, professionally of course, to
go through a deal of sentimental reading in my time, and to acquaint
myself with love-making, as it has been described in various languages,
and at various ages of the world; and I know of nothing more manly, more
tender, more exquisitely touching, than some of these brief notes, written
in what Swift calls "his little language" in his journal to Stella.(50) He
writes to her night and morning often. He never sends away a letter to her
but he begins a new one on the same day. He can't bear to let go her kind
little hand, as it were. He knows that she is thinking of him, and longing
for him far away in Dublin yonder. He takes her letters from under his
pillow and talks to them, familiarly, paternally, with fond epithets and
pretty caresses--as he would to the sweet and artless creature w
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