Which pipeth the semblance of a tune and mechanically draweth up water.
For verily, O my daughter, the world is a masquerade,
And God made thee one thing that thou mightest make thyself another.
A maiden's heart is as champagne, ever aspiring and struggling upwards,
And it needed that its motions be checked by the silvered cork of Propriety.
He that can afford the price, his be the precious treasure,
Let him drink deeply of its sweetness nor grumble if it tasteth of the cork."
Enoch Arden was published in 1864, and was not enthusiastically received by true lovers of Tennyson, though people who had never read him before thought it wonderfully fine. A kinsman of mine always contended that the story ended wrongly, and that the really human, and therefore dramatic, conclusion would have been as follows:—
"For Philip's dwelling fronted on the street,
And Enoch, coming, saw the house a blaze