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Updated: May 9, 2025
In a twinkling it had passed him, high in the dome of heaven, only to erase in a fabulous blast the moaning multitude. And prone upon the strand between the stormy waters and the field of muddy dead, Gerald Shannon prayed for a second cataclysm which might bring oblivion to him alone. Where are the sins of yester-year?
Where are the snows of yester-year; where is the animosity which in the years between the burking of the Conciliation Bill and the spring of 1914 grew up between the disinterested Reformers who wanted Woman enfranchised and the Liberal ministers who fought so doggedly, so unscrupulously, against such a rational completion of representative government? "How could I what?"
Could there be a more poignant symbol of irreclaimable vanished things than that so happily hit on by the old ballade-maker: Nay, never ask this week, fair lord, Where they are gone, nor yet this year, Save with thus much for an overword But where are the snows of yester-year? Villon, as we know, has a melancholy fondness for asking these sad, hopeless questions of snow and wind.
And that all the more, my knight, because thou art changed since yester-year, and since we met on the want-way of the Wood Perilous, when I bade thee remember that thou wert a King's son and I a yeoman's daughter; for then thou wert but a lad, high-born and beautiful, but simple maybe, and untried; whereas now thou art meet to sit in the Kaiser's throne and rule the world from the Holy City."
"Bless you my dear, dear children for though my own happiness has gone with yester-year, at least I have made you find each other and perhaps, when you sit at evening among the happy shouts of your posterity " but here Oliver broke off into a snort of laughter.
So it is in the world of books. François Villon cannot be called an edifying specimen of the human family, yet he unmistakably belongs there, and it was to that prince of scalawags that we owe not merely that loveliest sigh in literature "Where are the snows of yester-year?" but so striking a picture of the underworld of medieval Paris that without it we should hardly be able to know the times as they were.
A polite young Greek it was who stood waiting respectfully for my order, knowing nothing of all it meant for me me to be seated at that table again whereas, had he been one of half a dozen of the waiters of yester-year, he would have known almost as much as I of the "secret memoirs" of that historic table.
Besides, these men looked oafs, in spite of the fine build of some of them they were not so bad in their working clothes, with their leggings and velveteen breeches, but in their Sunday best, which they always wore on these occasions, they looked clumsy and ridiculous, their broad black coats in the cut of yester-year and smelling of camphor, their high-winged collars scraping and reddening their necks ... in their presence Ellen was rather sidling and sweet, but away from them in the riotous privacy of her new bedroom, she laughed to herself and jeered.
And the linen she had been storing for Jenny might indeed have been the very stuff of which lilies are made, lilies smelling of lavender. Such pairs of sheets! A queen might even fear to await her lord lying amid such linen; for white indeed must be the body that dares rivalry with Mrs. Talbot's sheets, sheets which might indeed be said to settle that old question of the snows of yester-year.
That no rancor lingered in the mind of Raymond Mortimer toward the too-demonstrative Margaret Hamilton was proved by the careless remark he made to his father when, some days later, that gentleman uttered a jocund inquiry as to the health of Lily Bell. His son stared at him for an instant, as one who seeks to recall the snows of yester-year.
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