Music follows their footsteps: Hamlet and
Esther; Caractacus and Iphigenia; Napoleon and Hermione; The Man in the
Iron Mask and Sappho; Garibaldi and Boadicea; an Arab sheikh and Joan of
Arc; Mahomet and Casablanca; Cleopatra and Hannibal--a resurrected world.
But the illusion is short and slight. This world is very sordid--of
shreds and patches, after all. It is but a pretty masquerade, in which
feminine vanity beats hard against strangely-clothed bosoms; and
masculine conceit is shown in the work of the barber's curling-irons and
the ship-carpenter's wooden swords and paper helmets. The pride of these
folk is not diminished because Hamlet's wig gets awry, or a Roman has
trouble with his foolish garters. Few men or women can resist mumming;
they fancy themselves as somebody else, dead or living. Yet these seem
happy in this nonsense. The indolent days appear to have deadened hatred,
malice, and all uncharitableness. They shall strut and fret their hour
upon this little stage. Let that sprightly girl forget the sudden death
which made her an orphan; the nervous broker his faithless wife; the
grey-haired soldier his silly and haunting sins; the bankrupt his
creditors.
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