Atlantic Monthly, Vol. 4, no. 24 October 1859 | Page 5

mean, hypocritical, and
insufferably vulgar letters would be turned out of any respectable,
well-bred spelling-book. Vanity, frivolity, dishonesty, meanness,
hypocrisy, and vulgarity can be exhibited in all the affairs of life, not
excepting those whose proper office is to sweeten and to beautify it; but
it does not need all your logical faculty to discover that there is not,
therefore, any connection between a pretty bonnet, or an elegantly
furnished house, and the disposition to snub and sneer at those who are

without them,--between dishonesty and the desire to live handsomely
and hospitably,--between a cultivated taste for the fine arts and
hypocrisy or a vulgar desire for notoriety and consequence.
_Tomes._ Perhaps so. But they are very often in each other's company.
_Grey._ And then, of course, the evil taints the reputation of the good,
even with thinking men like you; and how much more with those who
have your prejudices without your sense! But note well that they are
not oftener in company--these tastes and vices--than honesty and
meanness, good-nature and clownishness, sincerity and brutality,
hospitality and debauchery, chastity and the absence of that virtue
without which all others are as nothing. And let me remind you, by the
way, that we of this age and generation make it our business, in fact,
feel it our duty, to violate the injunction of the English Catechism, and
get out of that state of life in which we find ourselves, into a better, as
soon as possible. And even old Mother Church does not insist upon
content so strongly as you made her seem to do; she speaks of the state
of life to which her catechumen "shall" be, not "has" been, called; and
thus makes it possible for a dean to resolve to be content with a
bishopric, and a bishop to muse upon the complete satisfaction with
which he would grasp an archbishop's crosier, without forfeiture of
orthodoxy.
Tomes would doubtless have replied; but at this point the attention of
the disputants was attracted by the rustle of silk; there was a light,
quick tap at the glass-door which separated the den of books from the
middle room, and before an answer could be given the emblazoned
valves opened partly, and a sweet, decided voice asked, "Please, may
we come in? or" (and the speaker opened the doors wide) "are you and
Mr. Tomes so absorbed in construing a sentence in a book that nobody
ever reads, that ladies must give place to lexicons?"
"Enter, of course," cried Grey, "and save me from annihilation by
Tomes's next reply, and both of us from our joint stupidity."
And so Mrs. Grey entered, and there were salutations, and presentation
of Mr. Tomes to Miss Laura Larches, and introduction to each other of

the same gentleman and Mr. Carleton Key, who attended the ladies.
Abandoning the only four chairs in the room to the others, Mrs. Grey
sank down upon a hassock with a sigh of satisfaction, and was lost for a
moment in the rising swell of silken-crested waves of crinoline.
Emerging in another moment as far as the shoulders, she turned a look
of intelligence and inquiry upon her husband, who said, "When you
came in, Tomes and I were talking about"--
_Mrs. Grey._ Something very important, I've no doubt; but we've your
own confession that you were stupid, and I've no notion of permitting a
relapse. You were doubtless discussing your favorite subject, Dante,
who, as far as I can discover, was more a politician than a poet, and
went to his Inferno only for the pleasure of sending the opposite party
there, and quartering them according to his notion of their deserts. But
he and they are dead and buried long ago. Let them rest. We should
much rather have you tell us whether his poor countrymen of to-day are
to have their liberty when that ugly Emperor beats the Austrians; for
beat them he surely will.
_Grey._ That is a subject of great moment, and one in which I, perhaps,
feel no less interest than you; but did you never think that the question,
whether these thousands of Italians have liberty or even food to-day, is
one of a few months', or, at most, a few years', concern, while the soul's
experience of that one Italian who died more than five hundred years
ago will be a fruitful theme forever?
_Mrs. Grey._ Why, so it will! I never did think of that. And now I'll not
think of it. Here we are just come from a wedding, and before you ask
us how the bride looked, or even what she had on, you begin to talk to
us about that grim old Florentine, who looks like a hard-featured
Scotch woman in her husband's night-cap, and who wrote such a