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not beat his wife. I know that there are wives
who are very aggravating and that a wife can
provoke a good husband into wishing he were not
a gentleman for a while, that he might admin
ister a dose of hickory; but if he is a truly manly
man he will not lay his hand upon his wife in
anger; he would leave her instead.
Dr. Botts, those Garden of Eden apples were
not green; they were deliciously ripe, and they
looked very tempting to blithe young Eve. Be
sides, there was a higher temptation. She was
aspiring and she ,had been assured that to eat of
this fruit would give her knowledge of both sides
of life and endow her with the wisdom of the an
gels. No such noble ambition appealed to Adam.
He merely wished to please his bride (the honey
moon having not yet waned), and at the same time
to gratify his appetite. It is likely he climbed the
tree to get the fruit, or—as my hubby suggests—he
pushed Eve up the tree to get them that he might
say: “The woman did it.” Eve bore the blame
for their mental wrong doing, as so many of her
daughters have done.
I am truly sorry to learn that our other House
hold doctor, genial, bright-spirited Dr. Nat, is ill, and
I sincerely hope that he is restored to health by
this time. OLD WOMAN.
*
OVERHEARD ON A TRAIN.
By Mary E. Bryan.
They were talking about books, or rather the self
satisfied young man with the gold eye-glasses was
discoursing of books—airing his knowledge for the
benefit of the brown-eyed, modest-looking girl be
side him. When he paused for an instant to adjust
his glasses, she ventured to say, “I am reading
poetry this spring, that is, Tennyson and —.”
“Oh, poetry!” he interrupted. “There’s very lit
tle good in poetry. All syllabub, no solid mind-food
to speak of. Most of the poets were sorry fellows.
There’s Burns, whom they make such a fuss over,
celebrating his birthday every year. He was really
a low kind of person, and his verses show it. Byron
and Shelley were hardly respectable. As for Ten
nyson, he was a skeptic .”
“Oh, no!” exclaimed the girl, losing her timidity
in her earnestness. “Tennyson’s poems are full of
reverence for the divine—all of them, at least, that
I have read.”
“His earlier poems, perhaps, but not those writ
ten in his last years. Why, there is one called
‘Despair’ that’s the most blasphemous thing 1 ever
read. I’ll just quote you a few lines —.”
The train, which had stopped at a water-tank for
a few minutes, now moved off, puffing and coughing,
so as to drown the voices of the two sitting in front
of me. No doubt he of the gold eye-glasses and
the Sir Oracle style,- proceeded to demolish the poets
one after another, dealing out rank injustice through
his ignorance, and his narrow bigotry. The idea of
Tennyson being a skeptic in his later years, when
the last poem he wrote, “Crossing the Bar,” has
cheered and strengthened so many, who were about
to cross the bar into the sea of eternity, by its calm
faith and courage, and its perfect trust. Os his
later poems, it has been well said that the art is
mellower, the thought, richer, than anything he gave
us in his youth. Every life is a fragment, broken off,
always, never rounded to a close, but in most unusual
degree the latest poems of Tennyson summarize all
the qualities of his earlier songs. “The Ring” and
“Romney’s Remorse” bring back all he has done in
drama and lyric, “Demeter and Persephone,” with
its clear prescience of the divine, its full breath
of the larger hope which transmutes despair into a
trust in the mercy that endures forever.
This faith was the dominant note in all the noble
music that Tennyson has poured out for us. We
hear it more clearly in these later poems—“ Demeter,”
“Vastness,” “The Leper’s Bride,” “Romney's Re
morse,” “Parnassus.” and “By An Evolutionist.” Yet
more than one of the commentors on his work have
alluded to his “later pessimistic skepticism,” found
ing this idea solely on the poem “Despair,” a dram
atic monologue which is intended to be received
only as the half-crazed utterance of a man who was
rescued from the waves in which he and his wife —
poor, old, and feeling themselves abandoned by God
and man—had sought death by 'drowning. The
woman is drowned, but the man is rescued against
his will by a minister of the sect he had abandoned.
It is not the poet who speaks, but the desolate, des
pairing man who, lying on the seashore, tells the
minister his story—how he and his wife had been
brought up “in a hard and loveless faith, that had
broken away from Christ, our human brother and
friend.”
As well say that lago's sneers at woman’s vir-
The Golden Age for May 7, 1908.
tue expressed the belief of Shakespeare about wo
men. as to say that Tennyson’s creed was embodied
in the wild utterance of this being who, in the next
breath says:
“Blasphemy! Yes, but yours is the fault, for why
would you save •
A madman to vex you with wretched words who is
best in his grave?”
The poem in truth, is a protest against agnostic
teachings, and also against, the cold, narrow, un-
Christlike spirit of some churches which have
driven men of ardent, impulsive temperaments into
ths belief that blind nature is a kinder mother
than God, who is pictured to them as a relentless
despot rather than as a loving and forgiving Father.
Faith in a supreme wisdom, and a supreme mercy
has always been the inner pulse of Tennyson’s
poetry. Its highest, reach was always its impas
sioned spirituality. The “flash of supernal mean
ing” was always to be caught in his portrayal of the
drama of life, either by parable or by direct story.
He was the poet of the age. If he had not the stormy
strength of Browning, Tennyson’s calm, splendid
lucidity, his errless aim, make him more than the
equal of the author of “The Ring and the Book.”
*
THE CHILDREN.
(By Request.)
When the lessons and tasks are all ended.
And the school for the day is dismissed,
And the little ones gather around me,
To bid me good-night, and be kissed;
Oh, the little white arms that encircle
My neck in a tender embrace,
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,
Shedding sunlight of love on my face!
And when they are gone I sit dreaming
Os childhood too lovely to last;
Os love that my heart will remember
When it, wakes to the pulse of the past,
Ere the world and its witcheries made me
A partner of sorrow and sin,
When the glory of God was about me,
And the glory of gladness within.
Oh. my heart grows weak as a woman’s.
And the fountain of feeling will flow
When I think of the paths steep and stony,
Where the feet of the dear ones must go.
Os the mountains of sin hanging o’er them,
Os the tempest of faith growing wild,
Oh, there’s nothing on earth half so holy
As the innocent heart of a child!
They are idols of hearths and of hearthstones,
They are angels of God in disguise;
His sunlight, still sleeps in their tresses,
His glory still gleams in their eyes.
Oh. those truants from homes and from heaven,
They have made me more manly and mild,
And I know now how Jesus could liken
The kingdom of God to a, child.
I ask not a, life for the dear ones,
All radiant as others have done.
But. that life may have just enough shadow,
To temper the glare of the sun.
I would pray God to save them from evil,
But my prayer would bound back to myself;
Ah. a seraph may pray for a sinner.
But a sinner must, pray for himself.
The twig is so easily bended,
I’ve banished the rule and the rod;
I have taught, them the goodness of knowledge,
They have taught, me the goodness of God.
My heart is a. dungeon of darkness.
When I shut, them from breaking a rule,
My frown is sufficient, correction,
My love is the law of the school.
I shall leave the old house in the autumn,
To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah! how T shall sigh for the dear ones
Who met me each morn at the door,
I shall miss the “good-night,” and the kisses,
And the gush of innocent glee,
The groups on the grass, and the flowers
That were brought each morning to me.
I shall miss them at mom and at, evening.
Their songs in the school and the street,
I shall miss the low hum of their voices,
And the tramp of their unresting feet.
When the lessons and tasks are all ended,
And death says. “The school is dismissed,”
May the little feet patter around me,
To bid me “good-night” and be kissed.
CHARLES DICKENSON.
A LETTER FROM DOBBS.
In reply to an inquiry as to where I should send
Elam’s umbrella came the following letter from
Dobbs, his valet: “Dear Miss Annice, Mr. Elam
was sure enough blowed up when that old musket
exploded. He is now under the care of Dr. Nat,
who says his head and his heart, is both kind of
fractured, but he hopes to mend him up shortly.
Dr. Nat, has received a good many kind inquiring
letters about Mr. Elam. Mattie Howard sent, some
beautiful flowers, and ‘Old Woman’ wrote that he
musn’t lose heart, for there was lots of nice girls to
be had for the askin’, and maybe, as ’twas leap year,
they’d do the askin’ theirselves.. Mr. Matt. Clark
wrote him the same thing, and told him about a
very sweet young lady of the Household named
Violet, and another he called S. T. P.; also he said
Miss Eugenia was a lovely Tennessee blonde and
she had always admired Mr. Elam’s style. Mr. Pierre
Le Bean wrote Mr. Elam to cheer up, that when he
was a married man he’d get, used to being blown
up and wouldn’t, mind it. Yours respectfully,
“DOBBS.
“P- S.—Your cook has just left me, and so has
your chickens. Surely, I have troubles of my
own.—D.”
The cook came back yesterday: also a large coop
full of my chickens, which came by express. I
received a card from Dr. Gem, the design, a peal
of wedding 'bells with “Best wishes for your happi
ness,” beneath it.
With thanks to Elam’s “guide, philosopher and
friend,’’ I beg leave to say there is not the faint
est sound of wedding bells in the air nor a sus
picion of orange blossom perfume Elam has sim
ply “dreamt, a dream.” ANNICE.
Tennessee.
*
HOW TWO WOMEN MADE MONEY.
Some time ago a member of The Golden Age
Household, a young widow left with little means of
support, asked how she might add to her income.
A few days ago I heard how one woman had made
a support and established a bank account besides.
She lived in a town of considerable size, which
the country farmers and fruit growers supplied with
vegetables and fruits. She noticed that her grocer
often had these left, over to dry up and be thrown
away. Disliking to see such waste she proposed
to take all vegetables and fruits that were sound
and good, yet not fresh enough to bring the best
price, and preserve, can or pickle them on shares,
he to dispose of them in his shop. He was quite
favorable to the arrangement, and now, said the lady,
I have been for two years making as many pickles
and preserves as I have time to give to the work.
All that is left over the grocer sends to me. I make
them up and return them to his store, to be sold
at a fair price.
I make cordials and ketchups on the same terms.
Year before last was a splendid season for fruits
and vegetables and my share of the profits amounted
to several hundred dollars. When you consider that,
I made little outlay of money—as the grocer fur
nished the sugar and vinegar that were needed, tak
ing pay for these out, of the profits of the sale, I
think this was doing pretty well. I am now making
up the left overs of six grocers, and think of running
a preserving and pickling factory. Home-made ar
ticles of this kind are always in demand.
Another lady whose husband sells fresh meats got
him to send her all his unsalable pieces, which she
makes up into good soup stock, puts this into jars,
labels the jars neatly and sells them in his store.
Many housewives are glad to buy soup stock as it
saves them much time, trouble, and fuel.
ELIZABETH BROWN.
FACE TO FACE.
To M. E. B.
“My rose among women,” you say from afar,
As you lovingly think of me;
My heartsease, my comfort, inspirer and joy,
Is my answering thought of thee.
A thought, all abiding I’ll never forget,
My heartsease, —your sweet, tender grace;
And I'll cherish the hope to meet with you yet.
And greet you, dear friend, face to face.
ANNICE.
Boiled Liver en Brochette.—Cut bacon and slices
of liver into pieces of the same length and width.
Run a wooden skewer or stout straw through each
piece of liver and alternately through a slice of
bacon. Proceed in this way until each slice of bacon
is fastened to a slice of liver, and each skewer is
full. Lay on a broiler and broil over a clear fire.
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