Hour by hour, with skillful pencil, wrought the artist, sad and lone,Day by day, he labored nobly, though to all the world unknown;He was brave, the youthful artist, but his soul grew weak and faint,As he strove to place before him, the fair features of a saint;Worn and weary, he strove vainly, for the touch of Heavenly grace,Till, one day, a radiant sunbeam fell upon the up-turned face,And the very air was flooded with a presence strangely sweet,For the soul, within the sunbeam, seemed to make the work complete;Swift as thought the artist's pencil deftly touched the features fair,Night came down, but one bright sunbeam left its soul imprisoned there;And around his dingy garret gazed the artist, wondering,For the work sublime illumed it like the palace of a king;And within the artist nature flamed his first fond love divine,Which bewildered all his senses, as with rare, old, ruby wine.Yearningly, he cried: "I love thee," to the radiant saintly face,But the never-ceasing answer was a look of Heavenly grace.Out into the world he wandered, questioning, searching everywhere,And the stars above, full often, heard his soul burst forth in prayer:"God in Heaven, in mercy, hear me! Hear thy suppliant's pleading cry,Lead, oh lead! my footsteps to her. Grant but this, or let me die."Friends forsook and want pursued him, still he struggled on alone,Till, at last, outworn and trembling, reason tottered on its throne,And he seemed the helpless plaything of some mad, relentless fate,Till the Sisterhood of Mercy found him lying at their gate;Made him welcome, gave him shelter and with ever-patient careBathed his brow and brushed the tangled, matted tresses of his hair.Long he lingered on the borders of the holy-land of death,One fair Sister, by his bedside, counting low each fluttering breath.Softly fell the evening shadows, shutting out the golden glow,Of a gorgeous, lingering sunset, gilding all the earth below,When, upon his pillow turning, swift came to him hope's bright gleams,For the anxious face above him was the loved one of his dreams.But her life was one of mercy, and the band across her brow,Gave the spotless testimony of a maiden's holy vow."Is this Heaven? Are you an angel?" swift he questioned her, the whileShe smoothed back his wavy tresses, only answering with a smile;"Tell me truly, couldst thou love me, since thou wouldst not let me die?"But she pointed to the band about her brow and breathed a sigh.In her hours of patient watching, she had learned the bitter truth,That the Sisterhood of Mercy has its anguish and its ruth;Nevermore she came, well-knowing, from temptation se must fly,For his eager, tender questions in her heart had found reply.Every morning he would question: "Will she come to me to-day?"And the tender, truthful Sisters shook their heads and turned away,For adown his classic features passed the shadow of his pain,As he closed his eyes and murmured: "She will never come again."In his dreams, one night, he fancied she had bent above his bed,And his loving arms reached upward, but the vision sweet had fled.Hopeless, in his great heart-hunger, through a storm of wind and rain,To his picture turned the artist, bowing low with grief and pain;Open wide he threw the shutters of his garret casement high,Heeding not the vivid lightning, as it flashed athwart the sky.On his lowly couch reclining, soon in weariness he slept,While the storm clouds o'er him thundering, long and loud their vigils kept.Wilder grew the night and fiercer blew the winds, until at last,Like a bird of prey or demon, through the shattered casement, passedThe old shutter, rending, tearing every wondrous touch and traceOf the artist's patient labor, from the radiant, saintly face;And the jagged bands of lightning, as they flashed along the floor,Lit the crushed and crumpled canvas, worthless now forevermore.And the artist, slowly rising, groped his way across the room,Feeling, knowing he had lost her, though enshrouded in the gloom.Then besought his couch and murmured: "It is well, God knoweth best."And the sunbeams of the morning found a weary soul—at rest.
Hour by hour, with skillful pencil, wrought the artist, sad and lone,Day by day, he labored nobly, though to all the world unknown;He was brave, the youthful artist, but his soul grew weak and faint,As he strove to place before him, the fair features of a saint;Worn and weary, he strove vainly, for the touch of Heavenly grace,Till, one day, a radiant sunbeam fell upon the up-turned face,And the very air was flooded with a presence strangely sweet,For the soul, within the sunbeam, seemed to make the work complete;Swift as thought the artist's pencil deftly touched the features fair,Night came down, but one bright sunbeam left its soul imprisoned there;And around his dingy garret gazed the artist, wondering,For the work sublime illumed it like the palace of a king;And within the artist nature flamed his first fond love divine,Which bewildered all his senses, as with rare, old, ruby wine.Yearningly, he cried: "I love thee," to the radiant saintly face,But the never-ceasing answer was a look of Heavenly grace.Out into the world he wandered, questioning, searching everywhere,And the stars above, full often, heard his soul burst forth in prayer:"God in Heaven, in mercy, hear me! Hear thy suppliant's pleading cry,Lead, oh lead! my footsteps to her. Grant but this, or let me die."Friends forsook and want pursued him, still he struggled on alone,Till, at last, outworn and trembling, reason tottered on its throne,And he seemed the helpless plaything of some mad, relentless fate,Till the Sisterhood of Mercy found him lying at their gate;Made him welcome, gave him shelter and with ever-patient careBathed his brow and brushed the tangled, matted tresses of his hair.Long he lingered on the borders of the holy-land of death,One fair Sister, by his bedside, counting low each fluttering breath.Softly fell the evening shadows, shutting out the golden glow,Of a gorgeous, lingering sunset, gilding all the earth below,When, upon his pillow turning, swift came to him hope's bright gleams,For the anxious face above him was the loved one of his dreams.But her life was one of mercy, and the band across her brow,Gave the spotless testimony of a maiden's holy vow."Is this Heaven? Are you an angel?" swift he questioned her, the whileShe smoothed back his wavy tresses, only answering with a smile;"Tell me truly, couldst thou love me, since thou wouldst not let me die?"But she pointed to the band about her brow and breathed a sigh.In her hours of patient watching, she had learned the bitter truth,That the Sisterhood of Mercy has its anguish and its ruth;Nevermore she came, well-knowing, from temptation se must fly,For his eager, tender questions in her heart had found reply.Every morning he would question: "Will she come to me to-day?"And the tender, truthful Sisters shook their heads and turned away,For adown his classic features passed the shadow of his pain,As he closed his eyes and murmured: "She will never come again."In his dreams, one night, he fancied she had bent above his bed,And his loving arms reached upward, but the vision sweet had fled.Hopeless, in his great heart-hunger, through a storm of wind and rain,To his picture turned the artist, bowing low with grief and pain;Open wide he threw the shutters of his garret casement high,Heeding not the vivid lightning, as it flashed athwart the sky.On his lowly couch reclining, soon in weariness he slept,While the storm clouds o'er him thundering, long and loud their vigils kept.Wilder grew the night and fiercer blew the winds, until at last,Like a bird of prey or demon, through the shattered casement, passedThe old shutter, rending, tearing every wondrous touch and traceOf the artist's patient labor, from the radiant, saintly face;And the jagged bands of lightning, as they flashed along the floor,Lit the crushed and crumpled canvas, worthless now forevermore.And the artist, slowly rising, groped his way across the room,Feeling, knowing he had lost her, though enshrouded in the gloom.Then besought his couch and murmured: "It is well, God knoweth best."And the sunbeams of the morning found a weary soul—at rest.
With a fly-screen under one arm and a bundle of sticky fly-paper under the other, an honest agent entered a grocery store one day in the summer and said: "Why don't you keep 'em out?"
"Who vash dot?" asked the grocery-man.
"Why, the pesky flies. You've got 'em by the thousand in here, and the fly season has only begun. Shall I put fly-screens in the doors?"
"What for?"
"To keep the flies out."
"Why should I keep der flies oudt? Flies like some shance to go aroundt und see der city de same ash agents. If a fly ish keptout on der street all der time he might ash vhell be a horse."
"Yes, but they are a great nuisance. I'll put you up a screen door there for three dollars."
"Not any for me. If a fly vhants to come in here, und he behaves himself in a respectable manner, I have notings to say. If he don't behave, I bounce him oudt pooty queek, und don't he forget her!"
"Well, try this fly-paper. Every sheet will catch five hundred flies."
"Who vhants to catch 'em?"
"I do—you—everybody."
"I don't see it like dot. If I put dot fly-paper on der counter somebody comes along und wipes his nose mit it, or somebody leans his elbow on her und vhalks off mit him. It would be shust like my boy Shake to come in und lick all der molasses off, to play a shoke on his fadder."
"Say, I'll put down a sheet, and if it doesn't catch twenty flies in five minutes I'll say no more."
"If you catch twenty flies I have to pry 'em loose mit a stick und let 'em go, und dot vhas too much work. No, my agent friendt; flies must have a shance to get along und take some comfort. I vhas poor once myself, und I know all about it."
"I'll give you seven sheets for ten cents."
"Oxactly, but I won't do it. It looks tome like shmall beesness for a big agent like you to go around mit some confidence games to shwindle flies. A fly vhas born to be a fly, und to come into my shtore ash often ash he likes. When he comes I shall treat him like a shentleman. I gif him a fair show. I don't keep an axe to knock him in der headt, und I don't put some molasses all oafer a sheet of paper und coax him to come und be all stuck up mit his feet till he can't fly away. You can pass along—I'm no such person like dot."
I prayed for riches, and achieved success,—All that I touched turned into gold. Alas!My cares were greater, and my peace was lessWhen that wish came to pass.I prayed for glory; and I heard my nameSung by sweet children and by hoary men.But ah! the hurts, the hurts that come with fame!I was not happy then.I prayed for love, and had my soul's desire;Through quivering heart and body and through brainThere swept the flame of its devouring fire;And there the scars remain.I prayed for a contented mind. At lengthGreat light upon my darkened spirit burst.Great peace fell on me, also, and great strength.Oh! had that prayer been first!
I prayed for riches, and achieved success,—All that I touched turned into gold. Alas!My cares were greater, and my peace was lessWhen that wish came to pass.
I prayed for glory; and I heard my nameSung by sweet children and by hoary men.But ah! the hurts, the hurts that come with fame!I was not happy then.
I prayed for love, and had my soul's desire;Through quivering heart and body and through brainThere swept the flame of its devouring fire;And there the scars remain.
I prayed for a contented mind. At lengthGreat light upon my darkened spirit burst.Great peace fell on me, also, and great strength.Oh! had that prayer been first!
Not only because of the kindness of God to this nation in the past should such a reverential insertion be made, but because of the fact that we are going to want Divine interposition still further in our national history. This gold and silver question will never be settled until God settles it. This question of tariff and free trade will never be settled until God settles it. This question between the East and the West, which is getting hotter and hotter, and looks toward a Republic of the Pacific, will not be settled until God settles it. We needed God in the one hundred and twenty years of our past national life, and we will need Him still more in the next one hundred and twenty years. Lift up your heads, ye everlasting gates of our glorious Constitution, and let the King of Glory come in! Make one line of that immortal document radiant with Omnipotence! Spell at least one word with Thrones! At the beginning, or at the close, or in the centre, recognize Him from whom as a nation we have received all the blessing of the past and upon whom we are dependent for the future.Print that one word "God," or "Lord," or "Eternal Father," or "Ruler of Nations," somewhere between the first word and the last. The Great Expounder of the Constitution sleeps at Marshfield, Massachusetts, the Atlantic Ocean still humming near his pillow of dust its prolonged lullaby; but is there not some one now living, who, in the white marble palace of the nation on yonder hill, not ten minutes away, will become the Irradiator of the Constitution by causing to be added the most tremendous word of our English vocabulary, the name of that Being before whom all nations must bow or go into defeat and annihilation,—"God?"
The king was sick. His cheek was red,And his eye was clear and bright;He ate and drank with a kingly zest,And peacefully snored at night.But he said he was sick—and a king should know;And doctors came by the score;They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,And sent to the schools for more.At last two famous doctors came,And one was poor as a rat;He had passed his life in studious toilAnd never found time to grow fat.The other had never looked in a book;His patients gave him no trouble;If they recovered, they paid him well,If they died, their heirs paid double.Together they looked at the royal tongue,As the king on his couch reclined;In succession they thumped his august chest,But no trace of disease could find.The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut.""Hang him up!" roared the king, in a gale,In a ten-knot gale of royal range;The other grew a shadow pale;But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,And thus his prescription ran:"The king will be well if he sleeps one nightIn the shirt of a happy man."Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode,And fast their horses ran,And many they saw, and to many they spake,But they found no happy man.They found poor men who would fain be rich,And rich who thought they were poor;And men who twisted their waists in stays,And women that short hose wore.They saw two men by the roadside sit,And both bemoaned their lot;For one had buried his wife he said,And the other one had not.At last they came to a village gate;A beggar lay whistling there;He whistled and sang and laughed, and rolledOn the grass in the soft June air.The weary couriers paused and lookedAt the scamp so blithe and gay,And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend,Yon seem to be happy to-day.""Oh yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed,And his voice rang free and glad;"An idle man has so much to doThat he never has time to be sad.""This is our man," the courier said,"Our luck has led us aright.I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,For the loan of your shirt to-night."The merry blackguard lay back on the grassAnd laughed till his face was black;"I would do it, God wot," and he roared with fun,"But I haven't a shirt to my back."Each day to the king the reports came inOf his unsuccessful spies,And the sad panorama of human woesPassed daily under his eyes.And he grew ashamed of his useless life,And his maladies hatched in gloom;He opened the windows, and let in the airOf the free heaven into his room;And out he went in the world, and toiledIn his own appointed way,And the people blessed him, the land was glad,And the king was well and gay.
The king was sick. His cheek was red,And his eye was clear and bright;He ate and drank with a kingly zest,And peacefully snored at night.
But he said he was sick—and a king should know;And doctors came by the score;They did not cure him. He cut off their heads,And sent to the schools for more.
At last two famous doctors came,And one was poor as a rat;He had passed his life in studious toilAnd never found time to grow fat.
The other had never looked in a book;His patients gave him no trouble;If they recovered, they paid him well,If they died, their heirs paid double.
Together they looked at the royal tongue,As the king on his couch reclined;In succession they thumped his august chest,But no trace of disease could find.
The old sage said, "You're as sound as a nut.""Hang him up!" roared the king, in a gale,In a ten-knot gale of royal range;The other grew a shadow pale;
But he pensively rubbed his sagacious nose,And thus his prescription ran:"The king will be well if he sleeps one nightIn the shirt of a happy man."
Wide o'er the realm the couriers rode,And fast their horses ran,And many they saw, and to many they spake,But they found no happy man.
They found poor men who would fain be rich,And rich who thought they were poor;And men who twisted their waists in stays,And women that short hose wore.
They saw two men by the roadside sit,And both bemoaned their lot;For one had buried his wife he said,And the other one had not.
At last they came to a village gate;A beggar lay whistling there;He whistled and sang and laughed, and rolledOn the grass in the soft June air.
The weary couriers paused and lookedAt the scamp so blithe and gay,And one of them said, "Heaven save you, friend,Yon seem to be happy to-day."
"Oh yes, fair sirs," the rascal laughed,And his voice rang free and glad;"An idle man has so much to doThat he never has time to be sad."
"This is our man," the courier said,"Our luck has led us aright.I will give you a hundred ducats, friend,For the loan of your shirt to-night."
The merry blackguard lay back on the grassAnd laughed till his face was black;"I would do it, God wot," and he roared with fun,"But I haven't a shirt to my back."
Each day to the king the reports came inOf his unsuccessful spies,And the sad panorama of human woesPassed daily under his eyes.
And he grew ashamed of his useless life,And his maladies hatched in gloom;He opened the windows, and let in the airOf the free heaven into his room;
And out he went in the world, and toiledIn his own appointed way,And the people blessed him, the land was glad,And the king was well and gay.
A man who had been walking for some time in the downward path, came out of his house and started down town for a night of carousal with some old companions he had promised to meet. His young wife had besought him with imploring eyes to spend the evening with her, and had reminded him of the time when evenings passed in her company were all too short. His little daughter had clung about his knees and coaxed in her pretty, wilful way for "papa" to tell her some bedtime stories, but habit was stronger than love for wife and child, and he eluded their tender questioning by the special sophistries the father of evil advances at such times from his credit fund, and went his way.
But when he was a few blocks distant from his home, he found that in changing his coat he had forgotten to remove his wallet, and he could not go out on a drinking bout without money, even though he knew his family needed it, and his wife was economizing every day more and more in order to make up his deficits, and he hurried back and crept softly past the windows of the little house, in order that he might steal in and obtain it without running the gauntlet of either questions or caresses.
But something stayed his feet; there was a fire in the grate within—for the night was chilly—and it lit up the little parlor and brought out in startling effects the pictures on the wall. But these were as nothing to the pictures on the hearth. There, in the soft glow of the fire-light knelt his child at the mother's feet, its small hands clasped in prayer, its fair head bowed; and as its rosy lips whispered each word with distinctness, the father listened, spell-bound to the spot:
"Now I lay me down to sleep,I pray the Lord my soul to keep;If I should die before I wake,I pray the Lord my soul to take."
"Now I lay me down to sleep,I pray the Lord my soul to keep;If I should die before I wake,I pray the Lord my soul to take."
Sweet petition! The man himself, who stood there with bearded lips shut tightly together, had said that prayer once at his mother's knee. Where was that mother now? The sunset gates had long ago unbarred to let her through. But the child had not finished; he heard her say "God bless mamma, papa, and my ownself"—and there was a pause, and she lifted her troubled blue eyes to her mother's face.
"God bless papa," prompted the mother, softly.
"God bless papa," lisped the little one.
"And—please send papa home sober"—he could not hear the mother as she said this, but the child followed in a clear, inspired tone:
"God—bless—papa—and—please—send—him—home—sober. Amen."
Mother and child sprang to their feet in alarm when the door opened so suddenly, but they were not afraid when they saw who it was, returned so soon. That night, when little Mamie was being tucked up in bed after such a romp with papa, she said in the sleepiest and most contented of voices:
"Mamma, God answers most as quick as the telegraph, doesn't he?"
It was as calm as calm could be;A death-still night in June;A silver sail on a silver sea,Under a silver moon.Not the least low air the still sea stirred;But all on the dreaming deepThe white ship lay, like a white sea-bird,With folded wings, asleep.For a long, long month, not a breath of air;For a month, not a drop of rain;And the gaunt crew watched in wild despair,With a fever in throat and brain.And they saw the shore, like a dim cloud, standOn the far horizon-sea;It was only a day's short sail to the land,And the haven where they would be.Too faint to row—no signal broughtAn answer, far or nigh.Father, have mercy; leave them notAlone, on the deep, to die.And the gaunt crew prayed on the decks above;And the women prayed below:"One drop of rain, for Heaven's great love!Oh, Heaven, for a breeze to blow!"But never a shower from the cloud would burst,And never a breeze would come:O God, to think that man can thirstAnd starve in sight of home!But out to sea with the drifting tideThe vessel drifted away—Till the far-off shore, like the dim cloud, died;And the wild crew ceased to pray!Like fiends they glared, with their eyes aglow;Like beasts with hunger wild:But a mother prayed, in the cabin below,By the bed of her little child.It slept, and lo! in its sleep it smiled,—A babe of summers three:"O Father, save my little child,Whatever comes to me!"Calm gleamed the sea, calm gleamed the sky,No cloud—no sail in view;And they cast them lots, for who should dieTo feed the starving crew!Like beasts they glared, with hunger wild,And their red-glazed eyes aglow,And the death-lot fell on the little childThat slept in the cabin below!And the mother shrieked in wild despair:"O God, my child—my son.They will take his life, it is hard to bear;Yet, Father, Thy will be done."And she waked the child from its happy sleep,And she kneeled by the cradle bed;"We thirst, my child, on the lonely deep;We are dying, my child, for bread."On the lone, lone sea no sail—no breeze;Not a drop of rain in the sky;We thirst—we starve—on the lonely seas;And thou, my child, must die!"She wept: what tears her wild soul shedNot I, but Heaven knows best.And the child rose up from its cradle bed,And crossed its hands on its breast:"Father," he lisped, "so good, so kind,Have pity on mother's pain:For mother's sake, a little wind;Father, a little rain!"And she heard them shout for the child from the deck,And she knelt on the cabin stairs:"The child!" they cry, "the child—stand back—And a curse on your idiot prayers!"And the mother rose in her wild despair,And she bared her throat to the knife:"Strike—strike me—me; but spare, oh, spareMy child, my dear son's life!"O God, it was a ghastly sight,—Red eyes, like flaming brands,And a hundred belt-knives flashing brightIn the clutch of skeleton hands!"Me—me—strike—strike, ye fiends of death!"But soft—through the ghastly airWhose falling tear was that? whose breathWaves through the mother's hair?A flutter of sail—a ripple of seas—A speck on the cabin pane;O God; it's a breeze—a breeze—And a drop of blessed rain!And the mother rushed to the cabin below,And she wept on the babe's bright hair."The sweet rain falls the sweet winds blow;Father has heard thy prayer!"Bu the child had fallen asleep again,And lo! in its sleep it smiled."Thank God," she cried, "for His wind and His rain!Thank God, for my little child!"
It was as calm as calm could be;A death-still night in June;A silver sail on a silver sea,Under a silver moon.
Not the least low air the still sea stirred;But all on the dreaming deepThe white ship lay, like a white sea-bird,With folded wings, asleep.
For a long, long month, not a breath of air;For a month, not a drop of rain;And the gaunt crew watched in wild despair,With a fever in throat and brain.
And they saw the shore, like a dim cloud, standOn the far horizon-sea;It was only a day's short sail to the land,And the haven where they would be.
Too faint to row—no signal broughtAn answer, far or nigh.Father, have mercy; leave them notAlone, on the deep, to die.
And the gaunt crew prayed on the decks above;And the women prayed below:"One drop of rain, for Heaven's great love!Oh, Heaven, for a breeze to blow!"
But never a shower from the cloud would burst,And never a breeze would come:O God, to think that man can thirstAnd starve in sight of home!
But out to sea with the drifting tideThe vessel drifted away—Till the far-off shore, like the dim cloud, died;And the wild crew ceased to pray!
Like fiends they glared, with their eyes aglow;Like beasts with hunger wild:But a mother prayed, in the cabin below,By the bed of her little child.
It slept, and lo! in its sleep it smiled,—A babe of summers three:"O Father, save my little child,Whatever comes to me!"
Calm gleamed the sea, calm gleamed the sky,No cloud—no sail in view;And they cast them lots, for who should dieTo feed the starving crew!
Like beasts they glared, with hunger wild,And their red-glazed eyes aglow,And the death-lot fell on the little childThat slept in the cabin below!
And the mother shrieked in wild despair:"O God, my child—my son.They will take his life, it is hard to bear;Yet, Father, Thy will be done."
And she waked the child from its happy sleep,And she kneeled by the cradle bed;"We thirst, my child, on the lonely deep;We are dying, my child, for bread.
"On the lone, lone sea no sail—no breeze;Not a drop of rain in the sky;We thirst—we starve—on the lonely seas;And thou, my child, must die!"
She wept: what tears her wild soul shedNot I, but Heaven knows best.And the child rose up from its cradle bed,And crossed its hands on its breast:
"Father," he lisped, "so good, so kind,Have pity on mother's pain:For mother's sake, a little wind;Father, a little rain!"
And she heard them shout for the child from the deck,And she knelt on the cabin stairs:"The child!" they cry, "the child—stand back—And a curse on your idiot prayers!"
And the mother rose in her wild despair,And she bared her throat to the knife:"Strike—strike me—me; but spare, oh, spareMy child, my dear son's life!"
O God, it was a ghastly sight,—Red eyes, like flaming brands,And a hundred belt-knives flashing brightIn the clutch of skeleton hands!
"Me—me—strike—strike, ye fiends of death!"But soft—through the ghastly airWhose falling tear was that? whose breathWaves through the mother's hair?
A flutter of sail—a ripple of seas—A speck on the cabin pane;O God; it's a breeze—a breeze—And a drop of blessed rain!
And the mother rushed to the cabin below,And she wept on the babe's bright hair."The sweet rain falls the sweet winds blow;Father has heard thy prayer!"
Bu the child had fallen asleep again,And lo! in its sleep it smiled."Thank God," she cried, "for His wind and His rain!Thank God, for my little child!"
I saw wife pull out the bottom drawer of the old family bureau this evening, and went softly out, and wandered up and down, until I knew that she had shut it up and gone to her sewing. We have some things laid away in that drawer which the gold of kings could not buy, and yet they are relics which grieve us until both our hearts are sore. I haven't dared look at them for a year, but I remember each article.
There are two worn shoes, a little chiphat with part of the brim gone, some stockings, pants, a coat, two or three spools, bits of broken crockery, a whip and several toys. Wife—poor thing—goes to that drawer every day of her life, and prays over it, and lets her tears fall upon the precious articles; but I dare not go.
Sometimes we speak of little Jack, but not often. It has been a long time, but somehow we can't get over grieving. He was such a burst of sunshine into our lives that his going away has been like covering our every-day existence with a pall. Sometimes, when we sit alone of an evening, I writing and she sewing, a child on the street will call out as our boy used to, and we will both start up with beating hearts and a wild hope, only to find the darkness more of a burden than ever.
It is so still and quiet now. I look up at the window where his blue eyes used to sparkle at my coming, but he is not there. I listen for his pattering feet, his merry shout, and his ringing laugh; but there is no sound. There is no one to climb over my knees, no one to search my pockets and tease for presents: and I never find the chairs turned over, the broom down, or ropes tied to the door-knobs.
I want some one to tease me for my knife; to ride on my shoulder; to lose my axe; to follow me to the gate when I go, and bethere to meet me when I come; to call "good-night" from the little bed, now empty. And wife, she misses him still more; there are no little feet to wash, no prayers to say; no voice teasing for lumps of sugar, or sobbing with the pain of a hurt toe; and she would give her own life, almost, to awake at midnight, and look across to the crib and see our boy there as he used to be.
So we preserve our relics; and when we are dead we hope that strangers will handle them tenderly, even if they shed no tears over them.
"He who would thrive must rise at five,"The old folks used to say,And so, of course, to thrive the more,Tis better still to rise at four,And make a longer day.Still smarter he who wakes at three,And hurries out of bed;And he who would this man outdoMust rise when clocks are striking two,To earn his daily bread.To rise and run at stroke of one,Advantage still may keep;But he who would them all forestallMust never go to bed at all,And die for lack of sleep.
"He who would thrive must rise at five,"The old folks used to say,And so, of course, to thrive the more,Tis better still to rise at four,And make a longer day.
Still smarter he who wakes at three,And hurries out of bed;And he who would this man outdoMust rise when clocks are striking two,To earn his daily bread.
To rise and run at stroke of one,Advantage still may keep;But he who would them all forestallMust never go to bed at all,And die for lack of sleep.
Here, then, sir, I bring these remarks to a close. I have explained, to the best of my ability, the views which I entertain of the great questions of the day. Those views may be misrepresented hereafter, as they have been heretofore; but they cannot be misunderstood by any one who desires, or who is even willing, to understand them.
Most gladly would I have found myself agreeing more entirely with some of the friends whom I see around me, and with more than one of those elsewhere, with whom I have always been proud to be associated, and whose lead, on almost all occasions, I have rejoiced to follow.
Our tie, however, I am persuaded, still remains to us all—a common devotion to the Union of these States, and a common determination to sacrifice everything but principle to its preservation. Our responsibilities are indeed great. This vast republic, stretching from sea to sea, and rapidly outgrowing everything but our affections, looks anxiously to us, this day, to take care that it receives no detriment.
Nor is it too much to say, that the eyes and the hearts of the friends of constitutional freedom throughout the world are at thismoment turned eagerly here,—more eagerly than ever before,—to behold an example of successful republican institutions, and to see them come out safely and triumphantly from the fiery trial to which they are now subjected!
I have the firmest faith that these eyes and these hearts will not be disappointed. I have the strongest belief that the visions and phantoms of disunion which now appall us will soon be remembered only like the clouds of some April morning, or "the dissolving views" of some evening spectacle.
I have the fullest conviction that this glorious republic is destined to outlast all, all, at either end of the Union, who may be plotting against its peace, or predicting its downfall.
"Fond, impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine cloudRaised by thy breath, can quench the orb of day?To morrow, it repairs its golden flood,And warms the nations with redoubled ray!"
"Fond, impious man! think'st thou yon sanguine cloudRaised by thy breath, can quench the orb of day?To morrow, it repairs its golden flood,And warms the nations with redoubled ray!"
Let us proceed in the settlement of the unfortunate controversies in which we find ourselves involved, in a spirit of mutual conciliation and concession:—let us invoke fervently upon our efforts the blessings of that Almighty Being who is "the author of peace and lover of concord:"—and we shall still find order springing out ofconfusion, harmony evoked from discord, and peace, union and liberty, once more reassured to our land!
Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead,Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head!Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south;Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth;It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way,And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone,In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone;It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or whenThere was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men.When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he!Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea,Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said,Had saved some hundred lives apiece—at a shilling or so a head!So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar,And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar.Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons!Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns;Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love,Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed,For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew!And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;And then the anchor parted—'twas a tussle to keep afloat!But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat.Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high!"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye!"Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,And saw in the boiling breakers a figure,—a fighting form;It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath;It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death,It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lipsOf the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships.They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more,Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land.'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven menWho stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir—and thenOff went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent,Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper, "For God's sake, girls, come back!"As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack."Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea,"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!""Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale,"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!""Come back!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town,We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!""Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand!Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land!Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more,And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore."Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest—Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,And many a hearty cheer was raised for "The Women of Mumbles Head!"
Bring, novelist, your note-book! bring, dramatist, your pen!And I'll tell you a simple story of what women do for men.It's only a tale of a lifeboat, of the dying and the dead,Of the terrible storm and shipwreck that happened off Mumbles Head!Maybe you have traveled in Wales, sir, and know it north and south;Maybe you are friends with the "natives" that dwell at Oystermouth;It happens, no doubt, that from Bristol you've crossed in a casual way,And have sailed your yacht in the summer in the blue of Swansea Bay.
Well! it isn't like that in the winter, when the lighthouse stands alone,In the teeth of Atlantic breakers that foam on its face of stone;It wasn't like that when the hurricane blew, and the storm-bell tolled, or whenThere was news of a wreck, and the lifeboat launched, and a desperate cry for men.When in the world did the coxswain shirk? a brave old salt was he!Proud to the bone of as four strong lads as ever had tasted the sea,Welshmen all to the lungs and loins, who, about that coast, 'twas said,Had saved some hundred lives apiece—at a shilling or so a head!
So the father launched the lifeboat, in the teeth of the tempest's roar,And he stood like a man at the rudder, with an eye on his boys at the oar.Out to the wreck went the father! out to the wreck went the sons!Leaving the weeping of women, and booming of signal guns;Leaving the mother who loved them, and the girls that the sailors love,Going to death for duty, and trusting to God above!Do you murmur a prayer, my brothers, when cozy and safe in bed,For men like these, who are ready to die for a wreck off Mumbles Head?
It didn't go well with the lifeboat! 'twas a terrible storm that blew!And it snapped the rope in a second that was flung to the drowning crew;And then the anchor parted—'twas a tussle to keep afloat!But the father stuck to the rudder, and the boys to the brave old boat.Then at last on the poor doomed lifeboat a wave broke mountains high!"God help us now!" said the father. "It's over, my lads! Good-bye!"Half of the crew swam shoreward, half to the sheltered caves,But father and sons were fighting death in the foam of the angry waves.
Up at a lighthouse window two women beheld the storm,And saw in the boiling breakers a figure,—a fighting form;It might be a gray-haired father, then the women held their breath;It might be a fair-haired brother, who was having a round with death,It might be a lover, a husband, whose kisses were on the lipsOf the women whose love is the life of men going down to the sea in ships.They had seen the launch of the lifeboat, they had seen the worst, and more,Then, kissing each other, these women went down from the lighthouse, straight to shore.
There by the rocks on the breakers these sisters, hand in hand,Beheld once more that desperate man who struggled to reach the land.'Twas only aid he wanted to help him across the wave,But what are a couple of women with only a man to save?What are a couple of women? well, more than three craven menWho stood by the shore with chattering teeth, refusing to stir—and thenOff went the women's shawls, sir; in a second they're torn and rent,Then knotting them into a rope of love, straight into the sea they went!
"Come back!" cried the lighthouse-keeper, "For God's sake, girls, come back!"As they caught the waves on their foreheads, resisting the fierce attack."Come back!" moaned the gray-haired mother, as she stood by the angry sea,"If the waves take you, my darlings, there's nobody left to me!""Come back!" said the three strong soldiers, who still stood faint and pale,"You will drown if you face the breakers! you will fall if you brave the gale!""Come back!" said the girls, "we will not! go tell it to all the town,We'll lose our lives, God willing, before that man shall drown!"
"Give one more knot to the shawls, Bess! give one strong clutch of your hand!Just follow me, brave, to the shingle, and we'll bring him safe to land!Wait for the next wave, darling! only a minute more,And I'll have him safe in my arms, dear, and we'll drag him to the shore."Up to the arms in the water, fighting it breast to breast,They caught and saved a brother alive. God bless them! you know the rest—Well, many a heart beat stronger, and many a tear was shed,And many a hearty cheer was raised for "The Women of Mumbles Head!"
"It is so sudden, Mr. Darnelle."
"I know it is," responded the young man gently.
He stood before her with his weight resting easily on one foot, his left elbow on the mantel-piece, his right arm behind him, and his whole attitude one of careless, unstudied ease and grace, acquired only by long and patient practice.
"I know it is," he repeated. "Measured by ordinary standards and by the cold conventionalities of society, it is indeed sudden. We have known each other only twenty-four hours. Until 8.25 o'clock last night neither of us had ever heard of the other. Yet with the heart one day is as one hundred years. Could we have known one another better, darling," he went on, with a tremor in his cultivated B flat baritone voice, "if we had attended the theatre, the concert, the church and the oyster parlor together for a dozen seasons? Does not your heart beat responsive to mine?"
"I will not pretend to deny, Mr. Darnelle," replied the young lady, with a richblush mantling her cheek and brow, "that your avowal moves me strangely."
"I know it—I feel it," he responded eagerly. "Love is not the slow, vegetable-like growth of years. It does not move in its course with the measured, leisurely step of a man working by the day. It springs up like a mushr—like an electric flash. It takes instant possession. It does not need to be jerked in, as it were. It needs not the agonized coaxing of—of a young man's first chin whiskers, my darling. It is here! You will forgive my presumption, will you not, and speak the words that tremble on your lips—the words that will fill my cup of joy to overflowing?"
The evening had passed like a beautiful dream. Mr. Darnelle, admonished by the clock that it was time to go, had risen reluctantly to his feet, and stood holding the hand of his beautiful betrothed.
"My love," he said, in eager passionate accents, "now that you have blessed my life with a measureless, ineffable joy, and made all my future radiant with golden hope, you will not think I am asking too much if I plead for just one favor?"
"What is it?" shyly responded the lovely maiden.
"Will you please tell me your first name?"
There is no flock, however watched and tended,But one dead lamb is there!There is no fireside howso'er defended,But has one vacant chair!The air is full of farewells to the dying;And mournings for the dead;The heart of Rachel, for her children crying.Will not be comforted!Let us be patient! These severe afflictionsNot from the ground arise,But oftentimes celestial benedictionsAssume this dark disguise.We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;Amid these earthly dampsWhat seem to us but sad, funereal tapersMay be heaven's distant lamps.There is no Death! What seems so is transition;This life of mortal breathIs but a suburb of the life elysian,Whose portal we call Death.She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ himself doth rule.In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,She lives, whom we call dead.Day after day we think what she is doingIn those bright realms of air;Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,Behold her grown more fair.Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbrokenThe bond which nature gives,Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,May reach her where she lives.Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child;But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,Clothed with celestial grace;And beautiful with all the soul's expansionShall we behold her face.And though at times impetuous with emotionAnd anguish long suppressed,The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,That cannot be at rest,—We will be patient and assuage the feelingWe may not wholly stay;By silence sanctifying, not concealing,The grief that must have way.
There is no flock, however watched and tended,But one dead lamb is there!There is no fireside howso'er defended,But has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying;And mournings for the dead;The heart of Rachel, for her children crying.Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afflictionsNot from the ground arise,But oftentimes celestial benedictionsAssume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;Amid these earthly dampsWhat seem to us but sad, funereal tapersMay be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition;This life of mortal breathIs but a suburb of the life elysian,Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,She lives, whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doingIn those bright realms of air;Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbrokenThe bond which nature gives,Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child;
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,Clothed with celestial grace;And beautiful with all the soul's expansionShall we behold her face.
And though at times impetuous with emotionAnd anguish long suppressed,The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,That cannot be at rest,—
We will be patient and assuage the feelingWe may not wholly stay;By silence sanctifying, not concealing,The grief that must have way.
My Dear Nephew:
I have not heard anything of you sens the last time I wrote ye. I have moved from the place where I now live, or I should have written to you before. I did not know where a letter might find you first, but I now take my pen in hand to drop you a few lines, to inform you of the death of your own living uncle, Kilpatrick. He died very suddenly after a long illness of six months. Poor man, he suffered a great deal. He lay a long time in convulsions, perfectly quiet and speechless, and all the time talking incoherently and inquiring for water.
I'm much at a loss to tell you what his death was occasioned by, but the doctor thinks it was caused by his last sickness, for he was not well ten days during his confinement.
His age ye know jist as well as I can tell ye; he was 25 years old last March, lacking fifteen months; and if he had lived till this time he would be just six months dead.
N. B. Take notis. I inclose to you a tin pound note, which ye father sends to ye unbeknown to me. Your mother often speaks of ye; she would like to send ye the brindlecow, and I would inclose her to ye but for the horns.
I would beg of ye not to break the sale of this letter until two or three days after ye read it, for thin ye will be better prepared for the sorrowful news.
Patrick O'Branigan.
To Michael Glancy, No. — Broad Street, United States of Ameriky, State of Massachusetts, in Boston.