If I had known, in the morning,How wearily all the dayThe words unkind would trouble my mindThat I said when you went away,I had been more careful, darling,Nor given you needless pain;But—we vex our own with look and toneWe might never take back again.For though in the quiet eveningYou may give me the kiss of peace,Yet it well might be that never for meThe pain of the heart should cease;How many go forth at morningWho never come home at night,And hearts have broken for harsh words spokenThat sorrow can ne'er set right.We have careful thought for the stranger,And smiles for the sometime guest,But oft for our own the bitter tone,Though we love our own the best.Ah, lip with the curve impatient,Ah, brow with the shade of scorn,'T were a cruel fate were the night too lateTo undue the work of morn.
If I had known, in the morning,How wearily all the dayThe words unkind would trouble my mindThat I said when you went away,I had been more careful, darling,Nor given you needless pain;But—we vex our own with look and toneWe might never take back again.
For though in the quiet eveningYou may give me the kiss of peace,Yet it well might be that never for meThe pain of the heart should cease;How many go forth at morningWho never come home at night,And hearts have broken for harsh words spokenThat sorrow can ne'er set right.
We have careful thought for the stranger,And smiles for the sometime guest,But oft for our own the bitter tone,Though we love our own the best.Ah, lip with the curve impatient,Ah, brow with the shade of scorn,'T were a cruel fate were the night too lateTo undue the work of morn.
A railroad train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. A curve was just ahead, and beyond it was a station, at which the cars usually passed each other. The conductor was late, so late that the period during which the down train was to wait had nearly elapsed; but he hoped yet to pass the curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in eternity; and all because an engineer had beenbehind time.
A great battle was going on. Column after column had been precipitated for eight mortal hours on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The summer sun was sinking to the west; re-inforcements for the obstinate defenders were already in sight; it was necessary to carry the position with one final charge, or everything would be lost. A powerful corps had been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in season all would yet be well. The great conqueror, confident in its arrival, formed his reserve into an attacking column, and ordered them to charge the enemy. Thewhole world knows the result. Grouchy failed to appear; the imperial guard was beaten back; Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St. Helena because one of his marshals wasbehind time.
A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled against bankruptcy. As it had enormous assets in California, it expected remittances by a certain day; and, if the sums promised arrived, its credit, its honor, and its future prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed without bringing the gold. At last came the fatal day on which the firm had bills maturing to enormous amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at daybreak; but it was found, on inquiry, that she brought no funds, and the house failed. The next arrival brought nearly half a million to the insolvents, but it was too late; they were ruined because their agent, in remitting, had beenbehind time.
A condemned man was led out for execution. He had taken human life, but under circumstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was active in his behalf. Thousands had signed petitions for a reprieve; a favorable answer had been expected the night before; and, though it had not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive in season. Thus the morning passed without the appearance ofthe messenger. The last moment had come. The prisoner took his place on the drop, the cap was drawn over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in the wind. Just at that moment a horse-man came into sight, galloping down hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, which he waved rapidly to the crowd. He was the express rider with the reprieve. But he had come too late. A comparatively innocent man had died an ignominious death, because a watch had been five minutes too slow, making its bearer arrivebehind time.
It is continually so in life. The best-laid plans, the most important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed because somebody is "behind time." There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply because they are "behind time." There are others who put off reformation year by year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because forever "behind time."
Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. It is but a little period, yet it has often saved a fortune or redeemed a people. If there is one virtue that should be cultivated more than another by him who would succeed in life, it is punctuality; if there is one error that should be avoided, it is beingbehind time.
There were two kittens, a black and a gray,And grandmamma said, with a frown,"It never will do to keep them both,The black one we'd better drown.""Don't cry, my dear," to tiny Bess,"One kitten's enough to keep;Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing lateAnd time you were fast asleep."The morrow dawned, and rosy and sweetCame little Bess from her nap.The nurse said, "Go into mamma's roomAnd look in grandma's lap.""Come here," said grandma, with a smile,From the rocking-chair where she sat,"God has sent you two little sisters;Now! what do you think of that?"Bess looked at the babies a moment,With their wee heads, yellow and brown,And then to grandma soberly said,"Which one are you going to drown?"
There were two kittens, a black and a gray,And grandmamma said, with a frown,"It never will do to keep them both,The black one we'd better drown."
"Don't cry, my dear," to tiny Bess,"One kitten's enough to keep;Now run to nurse, for 'tis growing lateAnd time you were fast asleep."
The morrow dawned, and rosy and sweetCame little Bess from her nap.The nurse said, "Go into mamma's roomAnd look in grandma's lap."
"Come here," said grandma, with a smile,From the rocking-chair where she sat,"God has sent you two little sisters;Now! what do you think of that?"
Bess looked at the babies a moment,With their wee heads, yellow and brown,And then to grandma soberly said,"Which one are you going to drown?"
Intemperance is the strangest and most unaccountable mystery with which we have to deal. Why, as a rule, the human soul is passionately jealous of its own happiness,and tirelessly selfish as to its own interest. It delights to seek the sunshine and the flowers this side the grave: ardently hopes for heaven in the life to come. It flashes its penetrating thought through the dark chambers of the earth; or lighted by the lurid flames of smouldering, volcanic fires, wings them through buried ovens. It lights up the ocean's bed, melting its mysteries into solution, detecting its coral richness, and causing its buried pearls, which have rested for long centuries beneath the black waves, to glow with their long-hoarded beauty. It holds converse with the glittering planets of the skies and compels them to tell it of their mountain ranges, their landscapes, and their utility. It toys with the mad lightnings which break from the darkness, and guides death and destruction through the earth, until it allures the impetuous element into docility and subserviency. It bids the panting waters breathe their hot, heavy breath upon the piston-rod and make the locomotive a beautiful thing of life, majestically thundering its way over continents, screaming forth the music of civilization in the midst of wild forests and the heat of burning deserts, beneath scorching, torrid suns. It leaps over burning plains and scalding streams; restless and daring, it lights its casket over arctic zones and seas; and perhaps tiring of such incumbrance,deserts it in the cold shade of the ice mountain and speeds on untrammeled and alone. Franklin followed the beckonings of his tireless spirit until worn out and weary, his body laid down on the cold ice and slept. Kane coaxed himself home to the old churchyard, and then bade his spirit drop the machine it had so sadly wrenched and fly through earth or the eternities, as God might will. Livingstone marched through the jungles and cheerless forests of uninviting Africa, but his limbs were too feeble to keep up with his hungry soul, which tore itself from its burden and left it to crumble beneath the burning sun. And thus the soul flies from zone to zone and from world to world, sipping the sweets of wisdom, as the bee sucks honey from the flowers; reading lessons from the leaflet on the tree, studying the language of the soft whispering zephyr, and of the hurricane which springs from nothing into devastating power; and it is ever restless in its researches, for it seeks its own happiness and improvement in its new discoveries, and in a better knowledge of God's creation. Speak to the human soul of liberty, and swell it with gratitude, and, beaming with smiles, it will follow whereever you lead. Speak to it of its immortality and of the divine grandeur of its faculties, and, warmed by your appreciation, it will strive harder for a fuller developmentand brighter existence. Lead it among the roses, and it will seldom fail to light your pathway with smiles and to remind you of its gratitude. It loves to be noticed; loves to be assisted; loves to be made happy; loves to be warned of danger, and yet, with reference to that which pierces it with the most bleeding wounds, which more than anything else bars from it the sunlight and robs it of happiness—Intemperance—it is as heedless as the stone.
I wonder if ever a song was sung,But the singer's heart sang sweeter!I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung,But the thought surpassed the meter!I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought,Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought!Or if ever a painter, with light and shade,The dream of his inmost heart portrayed!I wonder if ever a rose was found,And there might not be a fairer!Or if ever a glittering gem was ground,And we dreamed not of a rarer!Ah! never on earth do we find the best,But it waits for us in a Land of Rest,And a perfect thing we shall never behold,Till we pass the portals of shining gold.
I wonder if ever a song was sung,But the singer's heart sang sweeter!I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung,But the thought surpassed the meter!I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought,Till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought!Or if ever a painter, with light and shade,The dream of his inmost heart portrayed!
I wonder if ever a rose was found,And there might not be a fairer!Or if ever a glittering gem was ground,And we dreamed not of a rarer!Ah! never on earth do we find the best,But it waits for us in a Land of Rest,And a perfect thing we shall never behold,Till we pass the portals of shining gold.
The most difficult thing to reach is a woman's pocket. This is especially the case if the dress is hung up in a closet, and the man is in a hurry. We think we are safe in saying that he always is in a hurry on such an occasion. The owner of the dress is in the sitting room serenely engrossed in a book. Having told him that the article which he is in quest of is in her dress pocket in the closet she has discharged her whole duty in the matter and can afford to feel serene. He goes at the task with a dim consciousness that he has been there before, but says nothing. On opening the closet door and finding himself confronted with a number of dresses, all turned inside out and presenting a most formidable front, he hastens back to ask "Which dress?" and being told the brown one, and also asked ifshehas somanydresses that there need be any great effort to find the right one, he returns to the closet with alacrity, and soon has his hands on the brown dress. It is inside out like the rest,—a fact he does not notice, however, until he has made several ineffectual attempts to get his hand into it. Then he turns it around very carefully and passes overthe pocket several times without knowing it. A nervous movement of his hands, and an appearance of perspiration on his forehead are perceptible. He now dives one hand in at the back, and feeling around, finds a place, and proceeds to explore it, when he discovers that he is following up the inside of a lining. The nervousness increases, also the perspiration. He twitches the dress on the hook, and suddenly the pocket, white, plump and exasperating, comes to view. Then he sighs the relief he feels and is mentally grateful he did not allow himself to use any offensive expressions. It is all right now. There is the pocket in plain view—not the inside but the outside—and all he has to do is to put his hand right around in the inside and take out the article. That is all. He can't help but smile to think how near he was to getting mad. Then he puts his hand around to the other side. He does not feel the opening. He pushes a little further—now he has got it; he shoves the hand down, and is very much surprised to see it appear opposite his knees. He had made a mistake. He tries again; again he feels the entrance and glides down it only to appear again as before. This makes him open his eyes and straighten his face. He feels of the outside of the pocket, pinches it curiously, lifts it up, shakes it, and, afterpeering closely about the roots of it, he says, "How funny!" and commences again. He does it calmly this time, because hurrying only makes matters worse. He holds up breadth after breadth, goes over them carefully, gets his hand first into a lining, then into the air again (where it always surprises him when it appears), and finally into a pocket, and is about to cry out with triumph, when he discovers that it is the pocket to another dress. He is mad now; the closet air almost stifles him; he is so nervous he can hardly contain himself, and the pocket looks at him so exasperatingly that he cannot help but "plug" it with his clenched fist, and immediately does it. Being somewhat relieved by this performance he has a chance to look about him, and sees that he has put his foot through a band-box and into the crown of his wife's bonnet; has broken the brim of his Panama hat which was hanging in the same closet, and torn about a yard of bugle trimming from a new cloak. All this trouble is due directly to his wife's infatuation in hanging up her dresses inside out, so he immediately starts after her, and impetuously urging her to the closet, excitedly and almost profanely intimates his doubts of their being a pocket in the dress, anyway. The cause of the unhappy disaster quietly inserts her hand inside the robe, and directly brings it forth withthe sought for article in its clasp. He doesn't know why, but this makes him madder than anything else.
I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys,'N feelin' kind o' blue,I thought I'd look in at "The Ranch,"Ter find out what wuz new;When I seed this sign a-hangin'On a shanty by the lake:"Here's whar yer get your doughnutsLike yer mother used ter make."I've seen a grizzly show his teeth,I've seen Kentucky PeteDraw out his shooter, 'n adviseA "tenderfoot" ter treat;But nuthin' ever tuk me down,'N made my benders shake,Like that sign about the doughnutsThat my mother used ter make.A sort o' mist shut out the ranch,'N standin' thar instead,I seen an old, white farm-house,With its doors all painted red.A whiff came through the open door—Wuz I sleepin' or awake?The smell wuz that of doughnutsLike my mother used ter make.The bees wuz hummin' round the porchWhar honeysuckles grew;A yellow dish of apple-sassWuz settin' thar in view.'N on the table, by the stove,An old-time "Johnny-cake,"'N a platter full of doughnutsLike my mother used ter make.A patient form I seemed ter see,In tidy dress of black,I almost thought I heard the words,"When will my boy come back?"'N then—the old sign creaked:But now it was the boss who spake:'Here's whar yer gets yer doughnutsLike yer mother used ter make.Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up,'N ez I've "struck pay gravel,"I ruther think I'll pack my kit,Vamoose the ranch, 'n travel.I'll make the old folks jubilant,'N if I don't mistake,I'll try some o' them doughnutsLike my mother used ter make.
I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys,'N feelin' kind o' blue,I thought I'd look in at "The Ranch,"Ter find out what wuz new;When I seed this sign a-hangin'On a shanty by the lake:"Here's whar yer get your doughnutsLike yer mother used ter make."
I've seen a grizzly show his teeth,I've seen Kentucky PeteDraw out his shooter, 'n adviseA "tenderfoot" ter treat;But nuthin' ever tuk me down,'N made my benders shake,Like that sign about the doughnutsThat my mother used ter make.
A sort o' mist shut out the ranch,'N standin' thar instead,I seen an old, white farm-house,With its doors all painted red.A whiff came through the open door—Wuz I sleepin' or awake?The smell wuz that of doughnutsLike my mother used ter make.
The bees wuz hummin' round the porchWhar honeysuckles grew;A yellow dish of apple-sassWuz settin' thar in view.'N on the table, by the stove,An old-time "Johnny-cake,"'N a platter full of doughnutsLike my mother used ter make.
A patient form I seemed ter see,In tidy dress of black,I almost thought I heard the words,"When will my boy come back?"'N then—the old sign creaked:But now it was the boss who spake:'Here's whar yer gets yer doughnutsLike yer mother used ter make.
Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up,'N ez I've "struck pay gravel,"I ruther think I'll pack my kit,Vamoose the ranch, 'n travel.I'll make the old folks jubilant,'N if I don't mistake,I'll try some o' them doughnutsLike my mother used ter make.
God made the present earth as the Home of Man; but had he meant it as a mere lodging, a world less beautiful would have served the purpose. There was no need for thecarpet of verdure, or the ceiling of blue; no need for the mountains, and cataracts, and forests; no need for the rainbow, no need for the flowers. A big, round island, half of it arable, and half of it pasture, with a clump of trees in one corner, and a magazine of fuel in another, might have held and fed ten millions of people; and a hundred islands, all made in the same pattern, big and round, might have held and fed the population of the globe.
But man is something more than the animal which wants lodging and food. He has a spiritual nature, full of keen perceptions and deep sympathies. He has an eye for the sublime and the beautiful, and his kind Creator has provided man's abode with affluent materials for these nobler tastes. He has built Mont Blanc, and molten the lake in which its image sleeps. He has intoned Niagara's thunder, and has breathed the zephyr which sweeps its spray. He has shagged the steep with its cedars, and be-sprent the meadow with its king-cups and daisies. He has made it a world of fragrance and music,—a world of brightness and symmetry,—a world where the grand and the graceful, the awful and lovely, rejoice together. In fashioning the Home of Man, the Creator had an eye to something more than convenience, and built, not a barrack, but a palace—not a Union work-house,but an Alhambra; something which should not only be very comfortable, but very splendid and very fair; something which should inspire the soul of its inhabitant, and even draw forth the "very good" of complacent Deity.
God also made the Bible as the guide and oracle of man; but had He meant it as the mere lesson-book of duty, a volume less various and less attractive would have answered every end. But in giving that Bible, its divine Author had regard to the mind of man. He knew that man has more curiosity than piety, more taste than sanctity; and that more persons are anxious to hear some new, or read some beauteous thing, than to read or hear about God and the great salvation. He knew that few would ever ask, "What must I do to be saved?" till they came in contact with the Bible itself; and, therefore, He made the Bible not only an instructive book, but an attractive one,—not only true, but enticing. He filled it with marvelous incident and engaging history; with sunny pictures from Old World scenery, and affecting anecdotes from the patriarch times. He replenished it with stately argument and thrilling verse, and sprinkled it over with sententious wisdom and proverbial pungency. He made it a book of lofty thoughts and noble images,—a book of heavenly doctrine, but withalof earthly adaptation. In preparing a guide to immortality, Infinite Wisdom gave, not a dictionary, nor a grammar, but a Bible—a book which, in trying to reach the heart of man, should captivate his taste; and which, in transforming his affection, should also expand his intellect. The pearl is of great price; but even the casket is of exquisite beauty. The sword is of ethereal temper, and nothing cuts so keen as its double edge; but there are jewels on the hilt, an exquisite inlaying on the scabbard. The shekels are of the purest ore; but even the scrip which contains them is of a texture more curious than any which the artists of earth can fashion. The apples are gold; but even the basket is silver.
The Bible contains no ornamental passages, nothing written for mere display; its steadfast purpose is, "Glory to God in the highest," and the truest blessedness of man; it abounds in passages of the purest beauty and stateliest grandeur, all the grander and all the more beautiful because they are casual and unsought. The fire which flashes from the iron hoof of the Tartar steed as he scours the midnight path is grander than the artificial firework; for it is the casual effect of speed and power. The clang of ocean as he booms his billows on the rock, and the echoing caves give chorus, is more soul-filling and sublime than all themusic of the orchestra, for it is the music of that main so mighty that there is a grandeur in all it does,—in its sleep a melody, and in its march a stately psalm. And in the bow which paints the melting cloud there is a beauty which the stained glass or gorgeous drapery emulates in vain; for it is the glory which gilds beneficence, the brightness which bespeaks a double boon, the flush which cannot but come forth when both the sun and shower are there. The style of Scripture has all this glory. It has the gracefulness of a high utility; it has the majesty of intrinsic power; it has the charm of its own sanctity: it never labors, never strives, but, instinct with great realities and bent on blessed ends, it has all the translucent beauty and unstudied power which you might expect from its lofty object and all-wise Author.
"Tha'rt welcome, little bonny brid.But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did:Teimes are bad."English Ballad.
"Tha'rt welcome, little bonny brid.But shouldn't ha' come just when tha' did:Teimes are bad."
English Ballad.
Hoot! ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way,Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day,Knowin' that we already have three of ye, an' seven,An' tryin' to make yerself out a Christmas present o' Heaven?Ten of ye have we now, Sir, for this world to abuse;An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat, an' Nellie she have no shoes,An' Sammie he have no shirt, Sir (I tell it to his shame),An' the one that was just before ye we ain't had time to name!An, all o' the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folk fall;An' Boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all;An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight,An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night;An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somewhat to do,An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through,An' but for your poor dear mother a-doin' twice her part,Ye'd 'a seen us all in heaven aforeyewas ready to start!An' nowyehave come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound,A-weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound!With yer mother's eyes a flashin', yer father's flesh an' build,An' a big mouth an' stomach all ready for to be filled!No, no! don't cry, my baby! hush up, my pretty one!Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy—I only was just in fun.Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'us folks;But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes!Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest? come, sit upon my knee;I'll tell ye a secret, youngster, I'll name ye after me.Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play,An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day!Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old,But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold;An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, there,An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair!Say! when ye come from heaven, my little name-sake dear,Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here?That was yer little sister—she died a year ago,An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow!Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knewCame here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you,I'd show 'em to the door, Sir, so quick they'd think it odd,Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from God!
Hoot! ye little rascal! ye come it on me this way,Crowdin' yerself amongst us this blusterin' winter's day,Knowin' that we already have three of ye, an' seven,An' tryin' to make yerself out a Christmas present o' Heaven?
Ten of ye have we now, Sir, for this world to abuse;An' Bobbie he have no waistcoat, an' Nellie she have no shoes,An' Sammie he have no shirt, Sir (I tell it to his shame),An' the one that was just before ye we ain't had time to name!
An, all o' the banks be smashin', an' on us poor folk fall;An' Boss he whittles the wages when work's to be had at all;An' Tom he have cut his foot off, an' lies in a woful plight,An' all of us wonders at mornin' as what we shall eat at night;
An' but for your father an' Sandy a-findin' somewhat to do,An' but for the preacher's woman, who often helps us through,An' but for your poor dear mother a-doin' twice her part,Ye'd 'a seen us all in heaven aforeyewas ready to start!
An' nowyehave come, ye rascal! so healthy an' fat an' sound,A-weighin', I'll wager a dollar, the full of a dozen pound!With yer mother's eyes a flashin', yer father's flesh an' build,An' a big mouth an' stomach all ready for to be filled!
No, no! don't cry, my baby! hush up, my pretty one!Don't get my chaff in yer eye, boy—I only was just in fun.Ye'll like us when ye know us, although we're cur'us folks;But we don't get much victual, and half our livin' is jokes!
Why, boy, did ye take me in earnest? come, sit upon my knee;I'll tell ye a secret, youngster, I'll name ye after me.Ye shall have all yer brothers an' sisters with ye to play,An' ye shall have yer carriage, an' ride out every day!
Why, boy, do ye think ye'll suffer? I'm gettin' a trifle old,But it'll be many years yet before I lose my hold;An' if I should fall on the road, boy, still, them's yer brothers, there,An' not a rogue of 'em ever would see ye harmed a hair!
Say! when ye come from heaven, my little name-sake dear,Did ye see, 'mongst the little girls there, a face like this one here?That was yer little sister—she died a year ago,An' all of us cried like babies when they laid her under the snow!
Hang it! if all the rich men I ever see or knewCame here with all their traps, boy, an' offered 'em for you,I'd show 'em to the door, Sir, so quick they'd think it odd,Before I'd sell to another my Christmas gift from God!
Into the great vestibule of heaven, God called up a man from dreams, saying, "Come thou hither, and see the glory of my house." And, to the servants that stood around His throne, He said, "Take him, and undress him from his robes of flesh; cleanse his vision, and put a new breath into his nostrils; only touch not with any change his human heart,—the heart that weeps and trembles."
It was done; and, with a mighty angel for his guide, the man stood ready for his infinite voyage; and from the terraces of heaven, without sound or farewell, at once they wheeled away into endless space. Sometimes, with solemn flight of angel wings, they fled through Saharas of darkness,—through wildernesses of death, that divided the world of life; sometimes they swept over frontiers that were quickening under the prophetic motions from God.
Then, from a distance that is counted only in heaven, light dawned for a time through a sleepy film; by unutterable pace the light swept to them; they by unutterable pace to the light. In a moment, the rushing ofplanets was upon them; in a moment, the blazing of suns was around them.
Then came eternities of twilight, that revealed, but were not revealed. On the right hand and on the left, towered mighty constellations, that by self-repetition and answers from afar, that by counter-positions, built up triumphal gates, whose architraves, whose archways—horizontal, upright—rested, rose—at altitudes by spans that seemed ghostly from infinitude. Without measure were the architraves, past number were the archways, beyond memory the gates.
Within were stairs that scaled the eternities below; above was below,—below was above, to the man stripped of gravitating body; depth was swallowed up in height insurmountable; height was swallowed up in depth unfathomable. Suddenly, as thus they rode from infinite to infinite; suddenly, as thus they tilted over abysmal worlds, a mighty cry arose that systems more mysterious, that worlds more billowy, other heights and other depths, were coming—were nearing—were at hand.
Then the man sighed, and stopped, and shuddered, and wept. His overladen heart uttered itself in tears; and he said, "Angel, I will go no farther; for the spirit of man acheth with this infinity. Insufferable is the glory of God. Let me lie down in thegrave, and hide me from the persecutions of the Infinite; for end, I see, there is none."
And from all the listening stars that shone around, issued a choral cry, "The man speaks truly; end there is none that ever yet we heard of." "End is there none?" the angel solemnly demanded: "Is there indeed no end, and is this the sorrow that kills you?" But no voice answered that he might answer himself. Then the angel threw up his glorious hands toward the heaven of heavens, saying, "End is there none to the universe of God! Lo, also there is no beginning!"
The sun had set;The leaves with dew were wet;Down fell a bloody duskOn the woods, that second of May,Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey,Tore through, with angry tusk."They've trapped us, boys!"—Rose from our flank a voice.With a rush of steel and smokeOn came the Rebels straight,Eager as love and wild as hate:And our line reeled and broke;Broke and fled.No one staid—but the dead!With curses, shrieks and cries,Horses and wagons and menTumbled back through the shuddering glen,And above us the fading skies.There's one hope, still,—Those batteries parked on the hill!"Battery, wheel!" (mid the roar)"Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fireRetiring. Trot!" In the panic direA bugle rings "Trot"—and no more.The horses plunged,The cannon lurched and lunged,To join the hopeless rout.But suddenly rode a formCalmly in front of the human storm,With a stern, commanding shout:"Align those guns!"(We knew it was Pleasonton's)The cannoneers bent to obey,And worked with a will, at his word:And the black guns moved as iftheyhad heard.But ah, the dread delay!"To wait is crime;O God, for ten minutes' time!"The general looked around.There Keenan sat, like a stone,With his three hundred horse alone—Less shaken than the ground."Major, your men?""Are soldiers, General." "Then,Charge, Major! Do your best:Hold the enemy back, at all cost,Till my guns are placed;—else the army is lost.You die to save the rest!"By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyesFor an instant,—clear, and cool, and still;Then, with a smile, he said: "I will.""Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,Rose joyously, with a willing breath,Rose like a greeting hail to death.Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed;Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed;Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;And above in the air with an instinct true,Like a bird of war their pennon flew.With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,And strong brown faces bravely paleFor fear their proud attempt shall fail,Three hundred Pennsylvanians closeOn twice ten thousand gallant foes.Line after line the troopers cameTo the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame;Rode in and sabered and shot—and fell;Nor came one back his wounds to tell.And full in the midst rose Keenan, tallIn the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,While the circle-stroke of his saber, swungRound his head like a halo there, luminous hung.Line after line, ay, whole platoons,Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoonsBy the maddened horses were onward borneAnd into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.So they rode, till there were no more to ride.But over them, lying there, shattered and mute,What deep echo rolls?—'Tis a death-saluteFrom the cannon in place; for heroes, you bravedYour fate not in vain: the army was saved!Over them now,—year following year,Over their graves the pine-cones fall,And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call;But they stir not again; they raise no cheer:They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.The rush of their charge is resounding stillThat saved the army at Chancellorsville.
The sun had set;The leaves with dew were wet;Down fell a bloody duskOn the woods, that second of May,Where Stonewall's corps, like a beast of prey,Tore through, with angry tusk.
"They've trapped us, boys!"—Rose from our flank a voice.With a rush of steel and smokeOn came the Rebels straight,Eager as love and wild as hate:And our line reeled and broke;Broke and fled.No one staid—but the dead!With curses, shrieks and cries,Horses and wagons and menTumbled back through the shuddering glen,And above us the fading skies.
There's one hope, still,—Those batteries parked on the hill!"Battery, wheel!" (mid the roar)"Pass pieces; fix prolonge to fireRetiring. Trot!" In the panic direA bugle rings "Trot"—and no more.
The horses plunged,The cannon lurched and lunged,To join the hopeless rout.But suddenly rode a formCalmly in front of the human storm,With a stern, commanding shout:
"Align those guns!"(We knew it was Pleasonton's)The cannoneers bent to obey,And worked with a will, at his word:And the black guns moved as iftheyhad heard.But ah, the dread delay!
"To wait is crime;O God, for ten minutes' time!"The general looked around.There Keenan sat, like a stone,With his three hundred horse alone—Less shaken than the ground.
"Major, your men?""Are soldiers, General." "Then,Charge, Major! Do your best:Hold the enemy back, at all cost,Till my guns are placed;—else the army is lost.You die to save the rest!"
By the shrouded gleam of the western skies,Brave Keenan looked in Pleasonton's eyesFor an instant,—clear, and cool, and still;Then, with a smile, he said: "I will.""Cavalry, charge!" Not a man of them shrank.Their sharp, full cheer, from rank on rank,Rose joyously, with a willing breath,Rose like a greeting hail to death.Then forward they sprang, and spurred and clashed;Shouted the officers, crimson-sashed;Rode well the men, each brave as his fellow,In their faded coats of the blue and yellow;And above in the air with an instinct true,Like a bird of war their pennon flew.
With clank of scabbards and thunder of steeds,And blades that shine like sunlit reeds,And strong brown faces bravely paleFor fear their proud attempt shall fail,Three hundred Pennsylvanians closeOn twice ten thousand gallant foes.
Line after line the troopers cameTo the edge of the wood that was ringed with flame;Rode in and sabered and shot—and fell;Nor came one back his wounds to tell.And full in the midst rose Keenan, tallIn the gloom, like a martyr awaiting his fall,While the circle-stroke of his saber, swungRound his head like a halo there, luminous hung.Line after line, ay, whole platoons,Struck dead in their saddles, of brave dragoonsBy the maddened horses were onward borneAnd into the vortex flung, trampled and torn;As Keenan fought with his men, side by side.So they rode, till there were no more to ride.
But over them, lying there, shattered and mute,What deep echo rolls?—'Tis a death-saluteFrom the cannon in place; for heroes, you bravedYour fate not in vain: the army was saved!
Over them now,—year following year,Over their graves the pine-cones fall,And the whip-poor-will chants his spectre-call;But they stir not again; they raise no cheer:They have ceased. But their glory shall never cease,Nor their light be quenched in the light of peace.The rush of their charge is resounding stillThat saved the army at Chancellorsville.
First catch your lover.
Hold him when you have him.
Don't let go of him to catch every new one that comes along.
Try to get very well acquainted with him before you take him for life.
Unless you intend to support him, find out whether he earns enough to support you.
Don't make up your mind he is an angel. Don't palm yourself off on him for one either.
Don't let him spend his salary on you; that right should be reserved until after marriage.
If you have any conscientious scruples about marrying a man with a mother, say so in time that he may either get rid of her to oblige you, or get rid of you to oblige her, as he thinks best.
If you object to secret societies and tobacco, it is better to come with your objections now than to reserve them for curtain lectures hereafter.
If your adorer happens to fancy a certain shade of hair, don't color bleach yours to oblige him. Remember your hair belongs to you and he doesn't.
Be very sure it is the man you are in love with, and not the clothes he wears. Fortune and fashion are both so fickle it is foolish to take a stylish suit for better or worse.
If you intend to keep three servants after marriage, settle the matter beforehand. The man who is making love to you may expect you to do your own washing.
Don't try to hurry up a proposal by carrying on a flirtation with some other fellow. Different men are made of different material, and the one you want might go off in a fit of jealousy and forget to come back.
If you have a love letter to write, do not copy it out of a "letter writer." If your young man ever happened to consult the same book he would know your sentiments were borrowed.
Don't marry a man to oblige any third person in existence. It is your right to suit yourself in the matter. But remember at the same time that love is blind, and a little friendly advice from one whose advice is worth having may insure you a lifetime of happiness, or prevent one of misery.
In love affairs always keep your eyes wide open, so that when the right man comes along you may see him.
When you see him you will recognize him and the recognition will be mutual.
If you have no fault to find with him personally, financially, conscientiously, socially, morally, politically, religiously, or in any other way, he is probably perfect enough to suit you, and you can afford to—
Believe in him; hope in him; love him; marry him!
I'm fifty, I'm fair, and without a gray hair,An' I feel just ez young as a girl.When I think o' Zerubbabel Lee, I declareIt sets me all into a whirl.Last night he waz here, an' I told him to "clear"—An' my! How supprised he did look:Perhaps I wuz rash, but he's after mycash—I see through his plans like a book.Some offers I've had that I cannot call bad;There was Deacon Philander Breezee;I'd a sartin sedYes, when he wanted a kiss,Ef he hadn't so flustrated me.It took me so quick that it felt like a kick—I flew all to pieces at once;Sez I, "You kin go—I'm not wanting a beau;"I acted, I know, like a dunce.Sez he, ez he rose, "I hev come to propose."I stopped him afore he began:Sez I, "You kin go, an' see Hepzibah Stow—I won't be tied down to a man.""Mariar," ses he, "Widder Tompkins an' meKin strike up a bargain, I know;An', seein' ez we can't decide to agree,I guess that I hed better go."He picked up his hat from the chair where it sat,An' solemnly started away.Sez I, with a look that I'msurehe mistook,"You're perfectly welcome to stay."My face got ez red ez our old waggin-shed—I thought for the land I should melt.Sez he, "I am done. Good night, leetle one,"Iwishhe'd a known how I felt.To-day, Isaac Beers, with his snickers and sneers,Whose face is ez ugly ez sin,Dropped in just to see about buyin' my steers,An' tickled the mole on my chin.Sez I, "You jest quit; I don't like you a bit;You can't come your sawder on me.You'd better behave till Jane's cold in her grave,Your manners is ruther too free."When dear David died (sniff—sniff), ez I sot by his side (sniff—sniff);He ketched up my hand in his own (sniff—sniff);He squeezed it awhile (sniff—sniff), an' he sez with a smile (sniff—sniff),"You'll soon be a widder alone (sniff—sniff—sniff),An' when I am gone (sniff—sniff) don't you fuss an' take on (sniff—sniff)Like old Widder Dorothy Day (sniff—sniff).Look out for your tin (sniff—sniff) if you marry agin (sniff—sniff),Nor throw your affections away (sniff—sniff—sniff)."My children hev grown, an' have homes o' their own—They're doin' ez well ez they can (wipes her eyes and nose):An' I'm gettin' sick o' this livin' alone—I wouldn't mind havin' a man.Fur David hez gone to the mansion above—His body is cold in the ground,Ef you know of a man who would marry for love,Jest find him an' send him around.
I'm fifty, I'm fair, and without a gray hair,An' I feel just ez young as a girl.When I think o' Zerubbabel Lee, I declareIt sets me all into a whirl.Last night he waz here, an' I told him to "clear"—An' my! How supprised he did look:Perhaps I wuz rash, but he's after mycash—I see through his plans like a book.
Some offers I've had that I cannot call bad;There was Deacon Philander Breezee;I'd a sartin sedYes, when he wanted a kiss,Ef he hadn't so flustrated me.It took me so quick that it felt like a kick—I flew all to pieces at once;Sez I, "You kin go—I'm not wanting a beau;"I acted, I know, like a dunce.
Sez he, ez he rose, "I hev come to propose."I stopped him afore he began:Sez I, "You kin go, an' see Hepzibah Stow—I won't be tied down to a man.""Mariar," ses he, "Widder Tompkins an' meKin strike up a bargain, I know;An', seein' ez we can't decide to agree,I guess that I hed better go."
He picked up his hat from the chair where it sat,An' solemnly started away.Sez I, with a look that I'msurehe mistook,"You're perfectly welcome to stay."My face got ez red ez our old waggin-shed—I thought for the land I should melt.Sez he, "I am done. Good night, leetle one,"Iwishhe'd a known how I felt.
To-day, Isaac Beers, with his snickers and sneers,Whose face is ez ugly ez sin,Dropped in just to see about buyin' my steers,An' tickled the mole on my chin.Sez I, "You jest quit; I don't like you a bit;You can't come your sawder on me.You'd better behave till Jane's cold in her grave,Your manners is ruther too free."
When dear David died (sniff—sniff), ez I sot by his side (sniff—sniff);He ketched up my hand in his own (sniff—sniff);He squeezed it awhile (sniff—sniff), an' he sez with a smile (sniff—sniff),"You'll soon be a widder alone (sniff—sniff—sniff),An' when I am gone (sniff—sniff) don't you fuss an' take on (sniff—sniff)Like old Widder Dorothy Day (sniff—sniff).Look out for your tin (sniff—sniff) if you marry agin (sniff—sniff),Nor throw your affections away (sniff—sniff—sniff)."
My children hev grown, an' have homes o' their own—They're doin' ez well ez they can (wipes her eyes and nose):An' I'm gettin' sick o' this livin' alone—I wouldn't mind havin' a man.Fur David hez gone to the mansion above—His body is cold in the ground,Ef you know of a man who would marry for love,Jest find him an' send him around.
Old Judge Grepson, a justice of the peace, was never known to smile. He came to Arkansas years ago, and year after year, by the will of the voters, he held his place as magistrate. The lawyers who practiced in his court never joked with him, because every one soon learned that the old man never engaged in levity. Every morning, no matter how bad the weather might be, the old man took his place behind the bar which, with his own hands, he had made, and every evening, just at a certain time, he closed his books and went home. No one ever engaged him in private conversation, because he would talk to no one. No one ever went to his home, a little cottage among the trees in the city's outskirts, because he had never shown a disposition to makewelcome the visits of those who even lived in the immediate vicinity. His office was not given him through the influence of "electioneering," because he never asked any man for his vote. He was first elected because, having been once summoned in a case of arbitration, he exhibited the executive side of such a legal mind that the people nominated and elected him. He soon gained the name of the "hard justice," and every lawyer in Arkansas referred to his decision. His rulings were never reversed by the higher courts. He showed no sentiment in decision. He stood upon the platform of a law which he made a study, and no one disputed him.
One day, a woman, charged with misdemeanor, was arraigned before him. "The old man seems more than ever unsteady," remarked a lawyer as the magistrate took his seat. "I don't see how a man so old can stand the vexation of a court much longer."
"I am not well to-day," said the Judge, turning to the lawyers, "and any cases that you may have you will please dispatch them to the best, and let me add, quickest of your ability."
Every one saw that the old man was unusually feeble, and no one thought of a scheme to prolong a discussion, for all the lawyers had learned to reverence him.
"Is this the woman?" asked the Judge. "Who is defending her?"
"I have no defence, your Honor," the woman replied. "In fact, I do not think I need any, for I am here to confess my guilt. No man can defend me," and she looked at the magistrate with a curious gaze. "I have been arrested on a charge of disturbing the peace, and I am willing to submit my case. I am dying of consumption, Judge, and I know that any ruling made by the law can have but little effect on me;" and she coughed a hollow, hacking cough, and drew around her an old black shawl that she wore. The expression on the face of the magistrate remained unchanged, but his eyelids dropped and he did not raise them when the woman continued:
"As I say, no man can defend me. I am too near that awful separation of soul and body. Years ago I was a child of brightest promise. I lived with my parents in Kentucky. Wayward and light-hearted, I was admired by all the gay society known in the neighborhood. A man came and professed his love for me. I don't say this, Judge, to excite your sympathy. I have many and many a time been drawn before courts, but I never before spoke of my past life."
She coughed again and caught a flow of blood on a handkerchief which she pressed toher lips. "I speak of it now because I know that this is the last court on earth before which I will be arraigned. I was fifteen years old when I fell in love with the man. My father said he was bad, but I loved him. He came again and again, and when my father said that he should come no more I ran away and married him. My father said I should never come home again. I had always been his pride and had loved him dearly, but he said that I must never again come to his home,—my home, the home of my youth and happiness. How I longed to see him. How I yearned to put my head on his breast. My husband became addicted to drink. He abused me. I wrote to my father, asking him to let me come home, but the answer that came was 'I don't know you!' My husband died—yes, cursed God and died! Homeless and wretched, and with my little boy I went out into the world. My child died, and I bowed down and wept over a pauper's grave. I wrote to my father again, but he answered: 'I know not those who disobey my commandments!' I turned away from that letter, hardened. I spurned my teachings. Now I am here."
Several lawyers rushed forward. A crimson stream flowed from her lips. They leaned her lifeless head back against the chair. The old magistrate had not raisedhis eyes; "Great God!" said a lawyer, "he is dead!"
The woman was his daughter.