I was carried home. Seated by my fire-side,
solitary and sad, the following dialogue took place between my Head and
my Heart.
Head. Well, friend, you seem to be in a pretty trim.
Heart. I am indeed the most wretched of all earthly beings. Overwhelmed
with grief, every fibre of my frame distended beyond its natural powers
to bear, I would willingly meet whatever catastrophe should leave me no
more to feel, or to fear.
Head. These are the eternal consequences of your warmth and
precipitation. This is one of the scrapes into which you are ever
leading us. You confess your follies, indeed; but still you hug and
cherish them; and no reformation can be hoped, where there is no
repentance.
Heart. Oh, my friend! this is no moment to upbraid my foibles. I am rent
into fragments by the force of my grief! If you have any balm, pour it
into my wounds; if none, do not harrow them by new torments. Spare me
in this awful moment! At any other, I will attend with patience to your
admonitions.
Head. On the contrary, I never found that the moment of triumph, with
you, was the moment of attention to my admonitions.
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