They were a lady and a gentleman, and the latter seemed
actually supporting the former, who leaned heavily upon his arm, as it
appeared from her manner of carriage, so weakly and wearily she stood.
Her form was extremely slight, and the outline of her countenance sharp
from attenuation, and in that uncertain light, or rather shade, she
looked almost as pale as the carved faces before us. The gentleman, who
was of a stately height, bent over her with an anxious air, while she
gazed fixedly upon the monument. Her silence seemed to oppress him, for
after a minute or two he asked her whether it was not very beautiful.
"You know," she answered, in one of those low voices that are more
impressive than the loudest, "You know I always suspect those memorials.
I would rather have a niche in the heart."
They passed on, and left me standing there. I know not whether the
fragile speaker has earned the monument she desired, whether those
feeble footsteps have found their repose,--"a quiet conscience in a
quiet breast,"--but her words struck me, and I have often thought of
them since.
There is always something which seems less than the intention in a
monument to heroism or to goodness, the patriot of the country, or the
missionary of civilization. Every one feels that the graves of War, the
many in the one, where link is welded to link in the chain of glory, are
more sublime, more sacred, than the exceptional mausoleum.
Pages:
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328