nothing had happened
in between, as if all that might then have come true ... well, could
come true still.

These thoughts came into my head that morning in the promenade at
Cassel, brought to the surface by the mellow autumn sun and the special
pleasure of being again in Germany. There mingled with them also that
recent conversation about the lady with the bonnet from Hanover, who had
written that paper so precious to my American friend. And I determined
to take my pen some day I should feel suitably happy, and offer up
thanks for all of us to our governesses, to those dear women, dead,
dispersed, faded into distance, but not forgotten; our spiritual
foster-mothers who put a few drops of the milk of German kindness, of
German simplicity and quaintness and romance, between our lips when we
were children.

ON GOING TO THE PLAY

We were comparing notes the other day on plays and play-going. My friend
was Irish; so, finding to our joy that we disliked this form of
entertainment equally, we swore with fervour that we would go to the
play together.

Mankind may be divided into playgoers and not playgoers; and the first
are far more numerous, and also far more illustrious. It evidently is a
defect, and perhaps a sign of degeneracy, akin to deafness or to
Daltonism, not to enjoy the theatre; not to enjoy it, at least in the
reality, when there or just after coming away. For I can enjoy the
thought of the play, and the thought of other folks liking it, so long
as I am not taken there. There is something pleasant in thinking of
those brilliant places, full of unrealities, with crowds engulfing
themselves into this light from out of the dreary, foggy streets. Also,
of young enthusiastic creatures, foregoing dinner, waiting for hours in
cheap seats (like Charles and Mary Lamb before they had money to buy
rare prints and blue china), with the delight of spending hoarded
pennies; all under circumstances of the deepest bodily discomfort. I
leave out of the question the thought of Greek theatres, of that
semicircle of steps on the top of Fiesole, with, cypresses for side
scenes, and, even now, lyric tragedies more than AEschylean enacted by
clouds and winds in the amphitheatre of mountains beyond. I am thinking
of the play as we moderns know it, with a sense of stuffiness as an
integral part. Indeed, that stuffiness is by no means its worst feature.
The most thrilling moment, I will confess, which theatres can still give