Plainly, it is our selfishness, our indulgence, our idleness, our
vanity, which make us allow such wretched company within our walls.
See what wily creatures the _blues_ are!--full of conceit! They
grow powerful while looking at us. They are like those little wood
creatures which can take the hue of the tree on which they rest, so
that for a long time we do not perceive them. They sit beside us by
hundreds when we fancy we are alone; and change their colors and their
wheedling tones to suit our inclinations, while they pour into our
ears deceitful whisperings that the world is all wrong, and we are
all right,--the vile flatterers! They paint all our surroundings with
dark colors, make all our pictures Mater Dolorosas or St. Sebastians,
turn all our music into requiems, and all our books into Stygian epics.
I cannot think there is any thing much more destructive to human
happiness than the _blues_. I wonder how they ever came by their
name? It must have arisen from the weirdness of the tempest, from the
changing hues of the snake's skin and the lizard's back, from the blue
of sharp steel, from lighted brimstone, and from driving sleet.
Now, girls, why do you, of all people in the world, allow yourselves
to be mastered by freaks? Do you not have troubles? Of course you
do,--real troubles, which are full of pain and discouragement.
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