"One tenderer word, a little longer kiss,
Would fill my soul with music and with song;
And if you seem abstracted, or I miss
The heart-tone from your voice, my world goes wrong."
Men seldom make perfect lovers. I deeply regret being obliged to say
this, as they are about all we girls have to depend upon in that line;
but it is the solemn truth. I do not pretend to say why this is so. I
suppose it is because a man never dwells upon the sentimental side of
life, nor understands the emotions, unless he is either a poet or a
Miss Nancy, and it is almost equally dangerous to marry either of
those.
Pray, do not be offended, my friends the poets, at being mentioned in
the same paragraph with a Miss Nancy, until you discover the exact
meaning of that effective term of opprobrium. A Miss Nancy is a poet
without genius, one who has a talent for discovering the fineness of
life, but who lacks the wit to keep his views from ridicule. It is not
a step of the seven-league boots between the sublime and the
ridiculous. Sometimes it is only an invisible step of the tiniest
patent-leathers.
I never could understand why a man who plays a good game of whist
should not know how to make love. There are so many points in common.
You can play a game of whist with only enough skill to keep your
partner's hands from your throat, or you can play it for all there is
in it.
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