A young man, traveling in Italy, writes to me of his passion

They are still making my mistakes,

I find, yet I've seamlessly declared,

without false valour, that they were

marvelous beyond price. A youth tells

me, his Italian journey has acquainted

him with a girl who's gone to New Zea-

land, and that he must dash home to

northern Virginia to amass funds to

commit himself to a permanent reloca-

tion. And, by the way, would I recom-

mend him to colleagues there in agri-

culture, for the usual reasons?

I wouldn't mention it, but his note

happens to reach me on the anniversary

of a wedding in which I was a princi-

pal, which I was expecting to observe

this evening with customary discretion.

Just now my English Cocker is gnawing

a post-prandial rawhide, with more than

enough concentration to revive the high-

lights of that occasion, its indifferent

aspects suspended by the little fellow's

startling pleasure.

I'll not reproach this lad for conduct

he exults in confessing now, for I was

not even cognisant of it, then. I refer

to that abrogation of all ties in the

pursuit of the betrothed. People who've

written about it outnumber the rest of

us in that particular, only. Nor is this

merely a male trait, either by destiny

or cultural tradition. My shatteringly

Jamesian wife committed it, too, very

much on time. And of course youth has al-

most nothing to do with it, for all the

commotion attending its helpless ardour.

I've cited too much Lamb, lately, so I

won't bog you down this evening with A

Bachelor's Complaint. Mine is not the

bachelor's. It's the spouse's dawning

comprehension of subscribing to adieux

almost on the scale of renunciation:

forsaking all others, almost disowning

them. (I thought, Damon and Affleck got

this very well, in their undergraduate

masterpiece). Of course there is always 

hope for a rare exception or two, to 

those dismissals. They are the trustees

of our truest, constant love.

I had mine, possibly he will, too.