Chapter 15

Well, wife, I've been to church to-day--been to a stylish one-- And, seein' you can't go from home, I'll tell you what was done; You would have been surprised to see what I saw there to-day; The sisters were fixed up so fine they hardly bowed to pray. I had on these coarse clothes of mine, not much the worse for wear, But then they knew I wasn't one they call a millionaire; So they led the old man to a seat away back by the door-- 'Twas bookless and uncushioned--_a reserved seat for the poor_. Pretty soon in came a stranger with gold ring and clothing fine; They led him to a cushioned seat far in advance of mine. I thought that wasn't exactly right to seat him up so near, When he was young, and I was old and very hard to hear. But then there's no accountin' for what some people do; The finest clothing nowadays oft gets the finest pew, But when we reach the blessed home, all undefiled by sin, We'll see wealth beggin' at the gate, while poverty goes in. I couldn't hear the sermon, I sat so far away, So, through the hours of service, I could only "watch and pray;" Watch the doin's of the Christians sitting near me, round about; Pray God to make them pure within, as they were pure without. While I sat there, lookin' 'round upon the rich and great, I kept thinkin' of the rich man and the beggar at his gate; How, by all but dogs forsaken, the poor beggar's form grew cold, And the angels bore his spirit to the mansions built of gold. How, at last, the rich man perished, and his spirit took its flight, From the purple and fine linen to the home of endless night; There he learned, as he stood gazin' at the beggar in the sky, "It isn't all of life to live, nor all of death to die." I doubt not there were wealthy sires in that religious fold, Who went up from their dwellings like the Pharisee of old, Then returned home from their worship, with a head uplifted high, To spurn the hungry from their door, with naught to satisfy. Out, out with such professions! they are doin' more to-day To stop the weary sinner from the Gospel's shinin' way Than all the books of infidels; than all that has been tried Since Christ was born at Bethlehem--since Christ was crucified. How simple are the works of God, and yet how very grand; The shells in ocean caverns, the flowers on the land; He gilds the clouds of evenin' with the gold right from his throne, Not for the rich man _only_--not for the poor alone. Then why should man look down on man because of lack of gold? Why seat him in the poorest pew because his clothes are old? A heart with noble motives--a heart that God has blest-- May be beatin' Heaven's music 'neath that faded coat and vest. I'm old--I may be childish--but I love simplicity; I love to see it shinin' in a Christian's piety. Jesus told us in His sermons in Judea's mountains wild, He that wants to go to Heaven must be like a little child. Our heads are growin' gray, dear wife; our hearts are beatin' slow; In a little while the Master will call us for to go. When we reach the pearly gateways, and look in with joyful eyes, We'll see _no stylish worship_ in the temple of the skies.

THE OLD MAN IN THE MODEL CHURCH.

JOHN H. YATES.

A companion to the foregoing.

Well, wife, I've found the model church! I worshipped there to-day! It made me think of good old times before my hairs were gray; The meetin' house was fixed up more than they were years ago, But then I felt, when I went in, it wasn't built for show. The sexton didn't seat me away back by the door; He knew that I was old and deaf, as well as old and poor; He must have been a Christian, for he led me boldly through The long isle of that crowded church to find a pleasant pew. I wish you'd heard the singin'; it had the old-time ring; The preacher said, with trumpet voice: "Let all the people sing!" The tune was "Coronation," and the music upward rolled, Till I thought I heard the angels striking all their harps of gold. My deafness seemed to melt away; my spirit caught the fire; I joined my feeble, trembling voice with that melodious choir, And sang as in my youthful days: "Let angels prostrate fall; Bring forth the royal diadem, and crown him Lord of all." I tell you, wife, it did me good to sing that hymn once more; I felt like some wrecked mariner who gets a glimpse of shore; I almost wanted to lay down this weather-beaten form, And anchor in that blessed port, forever from the storm. The prechen'? Well, I can't just tell all that the preacher said; I know it wasn't written; I know it wasn't read; He hadn't time to read it, for the lightnin' of his eye Went flashin' 'long from pew to pew, nor passed a sinner by. The sermon wasn't flowery; 'twas simple Gospel truth; It fitted poor old men like me; it fitted hopeful youth; 'Twas full of consolation for weary hearts that bleed; 'Twas full of invitations to Christ and not to creed. The preacher made sin hideous in Gentiles and in Jews; He shot the golden sentences down in the finest pews; And--though I can't see very well--I saw the falling tear That told me hell was some ways off, and heaven very near. How swift the golden moments fled within that holy place; How brightly beamed the light of heaven from every happy face; Again I longed for that sweet time when friend shall meet with friend, "When congregations ne'er break up, and Sabbath has no end." I hope to meet that minister--that congregation, too-- In that dear home beyond the stars that shine from heaven's blue; I doubt not I'll remember, beyond life's evenin' gray, The happy hour of worship in that model church to-day. Dear wife, the fight will soon be fought--the victory soon be won; The shinin' goal is just ahead; the race is nearly run; O'er the river we are nearin', they are throngin' to the shore, To shout our safe arrival where the weary weep no more.

THE SAN FRANCISCO AUCTIONEER.

ANON.

Now, ladies and gentlemen, I have the honour of putting up a fine pocket-handkerchief, a yard wide, a yard long, and almost a yard thick; one-half cotton, and t'other half cotton too, beautifully printed with stars and stripes on one side, and the stripes and stars on t'other. It will wipe dust from the eyes so completely as to be death to demagogues, and make politics as bad a business as printing papers. Its great length, breadth and thickness, together with its dark colour, will enable it to hide dirt, and never need washing. Going at one dollar? seventy-five cents? fifty cents? twenty-five cents? one bit? Nobody wants it! Oh, thank you, sir! Next, gentlemen--for the ladies won't be permitted to bid on this article--is a real, simon pure, tempered, highly-polished, keen-edged Sheffield razor; bran spanking new; never opened before to sunlight, moonlight, starlight, daylight or gaslight; sharp enough to shave a lawyer or cut a disagreeable acquaintance or poor relation; handle of buck-horn, with all the rivets but the two at the ends of pure gold. Who will give two dollars? one dollar? half a dollar? Why, ye long-bearded, dirty-faced reprobates, with not room on your phizzes for a Chinese woman to kiss, I'm offering you a bargain at half a dollar! Well, I'll throw in this strop at half a dollar! razor and strop! a recent patent; two rubs upon it will sharpen the city attorney; all for four bits; and a piece of soap, sweeter than roses, lathers better than a school-master, and strong enough to wash all the stains from a California politician's countenance, all for four bits. Why, you have only to put the razor, strop and soap under your pillow at night, and wake up in the morning clean shaved. Won't anybody give two bits, then, for the lot? I knew I would sell them! Next, ladies and gentlemen, I offer three pair socks, hose, stockings, or half-hose, just as you're a mind to call them, knit by a machine made on purpose, out of cotton wool. The man that buys these will be enabled to walk till he gets tired; and, provided his boots are big enough, needn't have any corns; the legs are as long as bills against the corporation, and as thick as the heads of the members of the legislature. Who wants 'em at one half dollar? Thank-ee, madame, the money. Next I offer you a pair of boots made especially for San Francisco, with heels long enough to raise a man up to the Hoadley grades, and nails to ensure against being carried over by a land slide; legs wide enough to carry two revolvers and a bowie-knife, and the upper of the very best horse leather. A man in these boots can move about as easy as the State Capitol. Who says twenty dollars? All the tax-payers ought to buy a pair to kick the council with, everybody ought to buy a pair to kick the legislature with, and they will be found of assistance in kicking the bucket especially if somebody should kick at being kicked. Ten dollars for legs, uppers and soles! while souls, and miserable souls at that, are bringing twenty thousand dollars in Sacramento! Ten dollars! ten dollars! gone at ten dollars! Next is something that you ought to have, gentlemen,--a lot of good gallowses--sometimes called suspenders. I know that some of you will, after a while, be furnished at the State's expense, but you can't tell which one, so buy where they're cheap. All that deserve to be hanged are not supplied with a gallows; if so, there would be nobody to make laws, condemn criminals, or hang culprits, until a new election. Made of pure gum-elastic--stretch like a judge's conscience, and last as long as a California office-holder will steal; buckles of pure iron, and warranted to hold so tight that no man's wife can rob him of his breeches; are, in short, as strong, as good, as perfect, as effectual and as bona-fide as the ordinance against Chinese shops on Dupont Street--gone at twenty-five cents.

PAT-ENT GUN.

I've heard a good joke on Emerald Pat, Who kept a few brains and a brick in his hat; He was bound to go hunting; so taking his gun He rammed down a charge--this was load number one; Then he put in the priming, and when all was done, By way of experiment, he thought he would try And see if by perchance he might hit the "bull's eye."

He straightened himself until he made a good figure, Took a deliberate aim and then pulled the trigger. Click! went the hammer, but nothing exploded; "And sure," muttered Paddy, "the gun isn't loaded." So down went another charge, just as before, Unless this contained a grain or two more; Once more he made ready and took a good aim And pulled on the trigger--effect quite the same. "I wonder, can this be, still shootin'?" said Pat; "I put down a load, now I'm certain of that; I'll try it again, and then we shall see!" So down went the cartridge of load number three. Then trying again with a confident air, And succeeding no better, he gave up in despair. Just at that moment he happened to spy His friend, Michael Milligan, hurrying by. "Hello, Mike! Come here and try on my gun; I've been trying to shoot until I'm tired and done!" So Mike took the gun and picked up the powder, Remarking to Pat, "it would make it go louder." Then placing it firmly against his right arm, And never suspecting it might do him harm, He pointed the piece in the proper direction, And pulled on the trigger without more reflection, When off went the gun like a county election Where whisky and gin have exclusive selection Of those who are chosen to guard the inspection-- There's a great deal of noise--and some little inspection, And Michael "went off" in another direction. "Hold on!" shouted Pat, "Hold on to the gun, I put in three loads, and you fired off but one! Get up, and be careful, don't hold it so level, Or else we are both us gone to the--cemetery!" "I'm goin'," says Michael, "it's time that I wint, I've got meself kicked and I'll just take the hint."

Now, old boys, and young, here's a moral for you; Don't make Pat your pattern whatever you do. Don't carry too much in the crown of your hat; Of all things you lodge there beware of the bat!

I don't mean the little mouse flying in the air, The ladies so fear that may get into their hair, But the dangerous brick bat, so much worse than that, Nobody can wear it that isn't a "flat," And then don't forget it is one of Old Nick's Diabolical methods of playing his tricks On foolish young men who become "perfect bricks;" He don't give the hint until _after_ he kicks!

A PSALM OF LIFE.

H.W. LONGFELLOW.

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, "Life is but an empty dream!" For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act that each to-morrow, Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating, Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle. In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead.

Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time.

Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing Learn to labour and to wait.

THE LAST MAN.

THOMAS CAMPBELL.

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, the sun himself must die, before this mortal shall assume its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep that gave my spirit strength to sweep adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould that shall Creation's death behold, as Adam saw her prime! The Sun's eye had a sickly glare, the earth with age was wan; the skeletons of nations were around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight--the brands still rusted in their bony hands; in plague and famine some. Earth's cities had no sound or tread, and ships were drifting with the dead to shores where all was dumb. Yet, prophet-like, that Lone One stood, with dauntless words and high, that shook the sere leaves from the wood as if a storm passed by, saying--"We are twins in death, proud Sun! thy face is cold, thy race is run, 'tis mercy bids thee go; for thou ten thousand years hast seen the tide of human tears--that shall no longer flow. What though beneath thee, man put forth his pomp, his pride, his skill; and arts that made fire, flood, and earth, the vassals of his will?--yet mourn I not thy parted sway, thou dim, discrownèd king of day; for all those trophied arts and triumphs, that beneath thee sprang, healed not a passion or a pang entailed on human hearts. Go! let Oblivion's curtain fall upon the stage of men! nor with thy rising beams recall life's tragedy again! Its piteous pageants bring not back, nor waken flesh upon the rack of pain anew to writhe, stretched in Disease's shapes abhorred, or mown in battle by the sword, like grass beneath the scythe! Even I am weary in yon skies to watch thy fading fire: test of all sumless agonies, behold not me expire! My lips, that speak thy dirge of death, their rounded gasp and gurgling breath to see, thou shalt not boast; the eclipse of Nature spreads my pall, the majesty of Darkness shall receive my parting ghost! The spirit shall return to Him who gave its heavenly spark; yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim when thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine in bliss unknown to beams of thine; by Him recalled to breath, who captive led captivity, who robbed the grave of victory, and took the sting from Death! Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up on Nature's awful waste, to drink this last and bitter cup of grief that man shall taste,--go! tell the night that hides thy face thou saw'st the last of Adam's race on earth's sepulchral clod, the darkening universe defy to quench his immortality, or shake his trust in God!"

THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA.

JOHN G. WHITTIER.

A LEGEND OF "THE RED, WHITE, AND BLUE."

A.D. 1154-1864.

A strong and mighty Angel, Calm, terrible and bright, The cross in blended red and blue Upon his mantle white!

Two captives by him kneeling, Each on his broken chain, Sang praise to God who raiseth The dead to life again!

Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the Angel said; "Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign-- The white, the blue, the red."

Then rose up John de Matha In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France The ransom of the slave.

The gates of tower and castle Before him open flew, The drawbridge at his coming fell, The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand, And paid his righteous tax; And the hearts of lord and peasant Were in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis, His bark her anchor weighed, Freighted with seven score Christian souls Whose ransom he had paid.

But, torn by Paynim hatred, Her sails in tatters hung; And on the wild waves rudderless, A shattered hulk she swung.

"God save us!" cried the captain, For naught can man avail: O, woe betide the ship that lacks Her rudder and her sail!

"Behind us are the Moormen; At sea we sink or strand: There's death upon the water, There's death upon the land!"

Then up spake John de Matha: "God's errands never fail! Take thou the mantle which I wear, And make of it a sail."

They raised the cross-wrought mantle, The blue, the white, the red; And straight before the wind off-shore The ship of Freedom sped.

"God help us!" cried the seamen, "For vain is mortal skill; The good ship on a stormy sea Is drifting at its will."

Then up spake John de Matha: "My mariners, never fear! The Lord whose breath has filled her sail May well our vessel steer!"

So on through storm and darkness They drove for weary hours; And lo! the third gray morning shone On Ostia's friendly towers.

And on the walls the watchers The ship of mercy knew-- They knew far off its holy cross, The red, the white, the blue.

And the bells in all the steeples Rang out in glad accord, To welcome home to Christian soil The ransomed of the Lord.

So runs the ancient legend By bard and painter told; And lo! the cycle rounds again, The new is as the old!

With rudder foully broken, And sails by traitors torn, Our country on a midnight sea Is waiting for the morn.

Before her, nameless terror; Behind, the pirate foe; The clouds are black above her, The sea is white below.

The hope of all who suffer, The dread of all who wrong, She drifts in darkness and in storm, How long, O Lord! how long?

But courage, O my mariners! Ye shall not suffer wreck, While up to God the freedman's prayers Are rising from your deck.

Is not your sail the banner Which God hath blest anew, The mantle that de Matha wore, The red, the white, the blue?

Its hues are all of heaven-- The red of sunset's dye The whiteness of the moonlit cloud, The blue of morning's sky.

Wait cheerily, then, O mariners, For daylight and for land; The breath of God is on your sail, Your rudder in His hand.

Sail on, sail on, deep freighted With blessings and with hopes; The saints of old with shadowy hands Are pulling at your ropes.

Behind ye, holy martyrs Uplift the palm and crown; Before ye, unborn ages send Their benedictions down.

Take heart from John de Matha!-- God's errands never fail! Sweep on through storm and darkness, The thunder and the hail!

Sail on! The morning cometh, The port ye yet shall win; And all the bells of God shall ring The good ship bravely in!

THE POLISH BOY.

ANN S. STEPHENS.

Whence come those shrieks so wild and shrill, That cut, like blades of steel, the air, Causing the creeping blood to chill With the sharp cadence of despair?

Again they come, as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe.

Whence came they? from yon temple where An altar, raised for private prayer, Now forms the warrior's marble bed Who Warsaw's gallant armies led.

The dim funereal tapers throw A holy lustre o'er his brow, And burnish with their rays of light The mass of curls that gather bright Above the haughty brow and eye Of a young boy that's kneeling by.

What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress? No thrilling fingers seek its clasp? It is the hand of her whose cry Rang wildly, late, upon the air, When the dead warrior met her eye Outstretched upon the altar there.

With pallid lip and stony brow She murmurs forth her anguish now. But hark! the tramp of heavy feet Is heard along the bloody street; Nearer and nearer yet they come With clanking arms and noiseless drum. Now whispered curses, low and deep, Around the holy temple creep; The gate is burst; a ruffian band Rush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain.

The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child; Then with pale cheek and flashing eye Shouted with fearful energy, "Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead; Nor touch the living boy--I stand Between him and your lawless band. Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, And drag me to Siberia's wild To perish, if 'twill save my child!"

"Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, Tearing the pale boy from her side, And in his ruffian grasp he bore His victim to the temple door.

"One moment!" shrieked the mother; "one! Will land or gold redeem my son? Take heritage, take name, take all, But leave him free from Russian thrall! Take these!" and her white arms and hands She stripped of rings and diamond bands, And tore from braids of long black hair The gems that gleamed like starlight there; Her cross of blazing rubies last Down at the Russian's feet she cast. He stooped to seize the glittering store-- Upspringing from the marble floor, The mother, with a cry of joy, Snatched to her leaping heart the boy. But no! the Russian's iron grasp Again undid the mother's clasp. Forward she fell, with one long cry Of more than mortal agony.

But the brave child is roused at length, And breaking from the Russian's hold, He stands, a giant in the strength Of his young spirit, fierce and bold. Proudly he towers; his flashing eye, So blue, and yet so bright, Seems kindled from the eternal sky, So brilliant is its light. His curling lips and crimson cheeks Foretell the thought before he speaks; With a full voice of proud command He turned upon the wondering band: "Ye hold me not! no, no, nor can! This hour has made the boy a man! I knelt before my slaughtered sire, Nor felt one throb of vengeful ire. I wept upon his marble brow, Yes, wept! I was a child; but now-- My noble mother, on her knee, Hath done the work of years for me!"