The earthly life of such as she--
immeasurably less sordid than that of the poet who will not work
for his daily bread, or that of the speculator who, having settled
money on his wife, risks that of his neighbour--passing away like
a cloud, will hang in their west, stained indeed, but with gold,
blotted, but with roses. Dull as it all was now, Clementina yet
gained from her unfoldings a new outlook upon life, its needs, its
sorrows, its consolations, and its hopes; nor was there any vulgar
pity in the smile of the one, or of degrading acknowledgment in
the tears of the other, when a piece of gold passed from hand to
hand, as they parted.
The Sunday sealed door of the stationer's shop--for there was no
private entrance to the house--was opened by another sad faced
woman. What a place to seek the secret of life in! Lovelily enfolds
the husk its kernel; but what the human eye turns from as squalid
and unclean may enfold the seed that clasps, couched in infinite
withdrawment, the vital germ of all that is lovely and graceful,
harmonious and strong, all without which no poet would sing, no
martyr burn, no king rule in righteousness, no geometrician pore
over the marvellous must.
The woman led her through the counter into a little dingy room
behind the shop, looking out on a yard a few feet square, with a
water butt, half a dozen flower pots, and a maimed plaster Cupid
perched on the windowsill.
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