It knows
too well the results and the value of things to care about them; that
the ache will subside, the pain be lulled, the estate we coveted be
worth little; the titles, ribbons, gewgaws, honors, be all more or less
worthless. "Who has honor? He that died o' Wednesday!" Such a one passed
us in the race, and gained it but to fall. We are still up and doing; we
may be frosty and shrewd, but kindly. We can wish all men well; like
them, too, so far as they may be liked, and smile at the fuss, bother,
hurry, and turmoil, which they make about matters which to us are
worthless dross. The greatest prize in the whole market--in any and in
every market--success, is to the old man nothing. He little cares who is
up and who is down; the present he lives in and delights in. Thus, in
one of those admirable comedies in which Robson acted, we find the son a
wanderer, the mother's heart nearly broken, the father torn and broken
by a suspicion of his son's dishonesty, but the grandfather all the
while concerned only about his gruel and his handkerchief. Even the
pains and troubles incident to his state visit the old man lightly.
Because Southey sat for months in his library, unable to read or touch
the books he loved, we are not to infer that he was unhappy. If the
stage darkens as the curtain falls, certain it also is that the senses
grow duller and more blunted. "Don't cry for me, my dear," said an old
lady undergoing an operation; "I do not feel it.
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