the highest pitch of voluptuous refinement, every motion must be grace and elegance; they live in a luxurious, endless dream, or
Siren sounds must float around them; smiling forms must everywhere meet their sight; they must tread a soft measure on painted carpets or smooth-shaven lawns; books, arts, jests, laughter occupy every thought and hour—what have they to do with the drudgery, the struggles, the poverty, the disease or anguish which are the common lot of humanity? These things are intolerable to them, even in imagination. They disturb the enchantment in which they are lapt. They cause a wrinkle in the clear and polished surface of their existence. They exclaim with impatience and in agony, “Oh, leave me to my repose!” How “they shall discourse the freezing hours away, when wind and rain beat dark December down,” or “bide the pelting of the pitiless storm,” gives them no concern, it never once enters their heads. They close the shutters, draw the curtains, and enjoy or shut out the whistling of the approaching tempest “They take no thought for the morrow,” not they. They do not anticipate evils. Let them come when they
