When the name of assassin is chanted as one with the name of a saint.
And thou the pale poet of Passion, who art wanton to strike and to kill,
Lest her wrath and her splendour abash thee and scorch thee and crush thee, be still.
A VERY SHORT HOLIDAY.
(By One who enjoyed it.)
It having occurred to me that within a few days I might get an entire change by visiting some thoroughly French seaside places on the coast of Normandy, I started viâ Southampton for Havre.
I started mysteriously at midnight. Lights down. We glided out, almost sneaked out, as if ashamed of ourselves. I had pictured to myself sitting out on deck, enjoying the lovely air and the picturesque view. L'homme propose, la mer dispose. I retired early, and enjoyed neither the lovely air nor the picturesque view. "The rest is—silence," or as much silence as possible, and as much rest as possible.
