Most of us have been startled to observe how very far real life falls
short of the standard of books. The realisation has come home to me
with great force after reading _Whispers of Passion_, a collection of
love-letters by "Amorosa," which I could not refrain from comparing
with certain authentic love-letters (as I suppose I must call them)
which happen to be in my possession.
What a contrast! What a melancholy contrast!
Here, for example, is the tender opening of one of "Amorosa's"
efforts:
"BELOVED,--This morning I saw the sun rise from behind the
grey hills that rampart our secluded vale. Slowly, almost
imperceptibly, as I watched, the sombre robes of the Night
were irradiated and enrosed by the mysterious fires of the
Dawn. And herein, my dear one, I seemed to grasp a deathless
symbol of the awakening of Love between us, the first
slow gilding of our grey lives by the roseate glamour of
romance...."
And so on. Now read this, taken from one in my own collection treating
of the same subject:--
"DEAR WOGGLES,--How _dare_ you hint that I'm lazy? As a matter
of fact I saw the sunrise only this morning, which reminds me
of a story. I daresay you know it already. A small boy decided
to keep a diary, and the first entry he made was: '_1st
January--Got up at 8.15._' His mater objected to this on the
ground that _got up_ was too slangy. 'Look at the sun,'
she said. 'The sun doesn't _get up_; it _rises_.' The same
evening, after the boy had gone to bed, she looked at the
diary again. There was only one other entry: '_Set at 9._'
Not much of a yarn, is it, Woggles? But still it's good enough
for you...."
Or consider this beautiful conclusion:
"... Dear, I am all thine. My soul calls to thee across
the night; the beating of my heart cries through the
darkness--Thine, thine, thine!
Good night, adored one, good night.