For seeing my woe through the splendor
That hovers about her above,
She puts from her forehead the glory,
And listens again to my love.
MY NOVEL:
OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[18]
BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON.
BOOK VII.—INITIAL CHAPTER.
"What is courage?" said my uncle Roland, rousing himself from a reverie into which he had fallen after the Sixth Book in this history had been read to our family circle.
"What is courage?" he repeated more earnestly. "Is it insensibility to fear? That may be the mere accident of constitution; and, if so, there is no more merit in being courageous than in being this table."
"I am very glad to hear you speak thus," observed Mr. Caxton, "for I should not like to consider myself a coward; yet I am very sensible to fear in all dangers, bodily and moral."
"La, Austin, how can you say so?" cried my mother, firing up; "was it not only last week that you faced the great bull that was rushing after Blanche and the children?"