I do not
choose to give the street and number of the house where she lives, but
a-great many poor people know very well where it is, and as a matter of
course the rich ones roll up to her door in their carriages by the dozen
every fine Monday while anybody is in town.
It is whispered that our two young folks are to be married before another
season, and that the Lady has asked them to come and stay with her for a
while. Our Scheherezade is to write no more stories. It is astonishing
to see what a change for the better in her aspect a few weeks of
brain-rest and heart's ease have wrought in her. I doubt very much
whether she ever returns to literary labor. The work itself was almost
heart-breaking, but the effect upon her of the sneers and cynical
insolences of the literary rough who came at her in mask and brass
knuckles was to give her what I fear will be a lifelong disgust against
any writing for the public, especially in any of the periodicals. I am
not sorry that she should stop writing, but I am sorry that she should
have been silenced in such a rude way. I doubt, too, whether the Young
Astronomer will pass the rest of his life in hunting for comets and
planets. I think he has found an attraction that will call him down from
the celestial luminaries to a light not less pure and far less remote.
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