You say so, milliner's apprentice, as you sit down to sew gay
ribbons on gay bonnets, and stand up to try gay bonnets on gay
heads.
You say so, housemaid or housekeeper, when the song of the early
bird reminds you of crying children, whose faces are to be washed;
when the rustling of fallen leaves in the wind makes you wonder how
the new broom is going to sweep; when the aroma of roses suggests
the inquiry whether the box of burnt coffee is empty; and when the
rising sun, encircled by vapoury clouds, brings up the similitude of
a huge fire-proof platter, and the smoke of hot potatoes.
There is a principle in human nature which rebels against
repetitions. Who likes to fall asleep, thinking that to-morrow
morning he must get up and do exactly the same things that he did
to-day, the next day ditto, and so forth, until the chapter of
earthly existence is finished!
It is very irksome for these soaring thoughts winged to "wander
through eternity," to come down and work out the terms of a tedious
apprenticeship to the senses. And yet, what were thoughts
unlocalized and unembodied? Mere comets or vague nebulosities in the
firmament, without a form, and without a home.
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