Woe to thee! woe! the child crying on the lap of its nurse, the field flower unconscious of its gift of perfume, have more merit before the eyes of the Lord than thou! * * * * * What has been thy origin, thou empty shadow, bearing witness to the Light, yet knowing not the Light, which thou seest not, and wilt not see! In anger, or in mockery, wert thou made? Who was thy creator? Who gave thee thy short and mobile life, and taught thee such seductive magic, that thou seemst to glitter for a moment like an angel before thou sinkest into clay, to creep like a worm, and be stifled in thine own corruption? Thy beginning is one with that of the woman. * * * * * Yet, alas! thou sufferest, although thy agony brings nought to the birth, and avails thee nothing. The groans of the lowest beggar are counted in heaven, compensated amid the music of angels' harps--but thy sighs, thy despair, fall into the bottomless abyss, and Satan gathers them together, and joyfully adds them to the pile of his own lies and delusions--and the Lord will deny and disown them, as they have denied and disowned the Lord! * * * * * But not for this do I pity thee, spirit of Poetry, mother of Beauty and Freedom! No. I mourn for the unhappy souls who are forced to remember or divine thee upon chaotic worlds destined to destruction--alas! thou ruinest only those who consecrate themselves to thee, who become the living voices of thy fame! And yet, blessed is it when thou takest up thine abode in a man, as God dwelt in the world, unseen, unknown, yet everywhere great and mighty, the Lord, before whom all creatures bow and say: 'He is here!' Such a man will bear thee like a star upon his radiant brow; he will never turn from thee even for the duration of a little word; he will love men, and, like a man, walk with his brethren. And he who guards thee not, who is willing to betray thee, to devote thee to the idle pleasure of men--from him thou turnest sadly away, scattering in pity a few fading flowers upon his head; he plays with the dying bloom, and weaves his death-wreath all the days of his short life. Thy beginning is one with that of the woman! * * * * * 'De toutes les bouffonneries la plus serieuse est le mariage.'--_Figaro._ Of all jests the most serious is marriage. GUARDIAN ANGEL. Peace be to men of good will! Blessed is he among the created who has still a heart; he may yet be saved! Good and true wife, reveal thyself to him; and a child be born to their house! He flies onward.