Looking toward sunset

by Unknown

OLD AUNTY.

The following is a true story. I well remember the worthy old woman, who sat in Washington Park, behind a table covered with apples and nuts. I also know the family of the little Joanna, who used to carry her a cup of hot tea and warm rolls from one of the big houses in the adjoining Square, and who got up a petition to the Mayor in her behalf. It is a humble picture; but a soft, warm light falls on it from poor Old Aunty’s self-sacrificing devotion to her orphans, and from the mutual love between her and the children of the neighborhood.

L. M. C.

All the children knew Old Aunty. Every day, in rain or shine, she sat there in the Park, with her little store of candies, cakes, and cigars, spread on a wooden box. Her cheerful smile and hearty “God bless you!” were always ready for the children, whether they bought of her or not. If they stopped to purchase, she gave right generous measure, heaping the nuts till they rolled off the top of the pint, and often throwing in a cake or stick of candy; so generous was her heart.

Like all unselfish people, Aunty was happy as the days are long. Had you followed her home at night, you would have seen her travel down a poor old street, narrow and musty, and climb the broken stairs of a poor old house that was full of other lodgers, some of them noisy, disorderly, and intemperate. When she opened the creaking door of her one small room, you would have seen the boards loose in the floor, little furniture, very little that looked like rest or comfort, like home for a tired body that had toiled full seventy years, and had once known the pleasure of a cheerful fireside and a full house.

But presently you would hear the patter of little feet, and the music of children’s voices, and little hands at work with the rusty door-latch, till open it flew. You would have heard two merry little creatures shouting, “Granny’s come home! Dear Granny’s come home!” You would have seen them dancing about her, clapping their hands, and saying, “O we’re so glad, so glad you’ve come back!” These are the orphan grandchildren, to feed and clothe whom Old Aunty is willing to walk so far, and sit so long in the cold, and earn penny by penny, as the days go by.

She kindles no fire, for it is not winter yet, and the poor can eat their supper cold; but the children’s love and a well-spent day kindle a warmth and a light in the good dame’s heart, such as I fear seldom beams in some of those great stately houses in the Square.

With such a home, it is not strange that Aunty liked to sit under the pleasant trees of the Parade Ground (for so the Park was called), breathe the fresh air, and watch the orderly people going to and fro. Many stopped to exchange a word with her; even the police officers, in their uniforms, liked a chat with the sociable old lady; and the children, on their way to school, were never too hurried for a “Good morning, Aunty!” that would leave a smile on her wrinkled face, long after they had bounded out of sight.

It was nearly as good as if Aunty had a farm of her own; for it is always country up in the sky, you know; in the beautiful blue, among the soft clouds, and along the tops of the trees. Even in that dismal, musty street, where she lived, she could see the sunshine, and the wonderful stars at evening. Then all about the Parade Ground stood the fine great houses of Washington Square; and leading from it, that Fifth Avenue, which is said to be the most splendid street in the world,—whole miles of palaces.

“Don’t I enjoy them all, without having the care of them?” Aunty used to say.

When we asked if she didn’t grow tired of sitting there all day, she would answer, “Sure, and who isn’t tired sometimes, rich or poor?”

“But is not the ground damp, Aunty?”

“I expect it is, especially after a rain; but what then? It only gives me the rheumatism; and that is all the trouble I have. God be praised!”

“But it is so cold now, Aunty; so late in November; and you are so old; it isn’t safe.”

“O, but it’s safer than to have my children starve or turn beggars, I guess. I have my old umbrella when it rains or snows, and them’s my harvest-days, you see; for there’s a deal of pity in the world. And besides, the children in that house yonder, often bring me out a hot cup of tea at luncheon-time, or cakes of good warm bread in the morning. Let me alone for being happy!”

But earthly happiness hangs on a slight thread. There came a change in the city government; Aunty’s good friends among the police were removed; the new officers proved their zeal by making every change they could think of. “New brooms sweep clean,” and they swept off from the Parade Ground, poor Aunty, and all her stock in trade.

But in one of the houses opposite Aunty’s corner of the Park, lived a family of children who took especial interest in her; Charlie, Willie, Vincent, and Joanna, and I can’t tell how many more. It was they who christened her “Aunty,” till all the neighbors, old and young, took up the name; it was they who, on wintry days, had offered her the hot cup of tea, and the warm bread. They almost felt as if she were an own relative, or a grown-up child given them to protect and comfort.

One morning, Joanna looked up from the breakfast-table, and exclaimed, “There! Aunty is not in the Park; they have sent her away!”

The children had feared this change. You may guess how eagerly they ran to the window, and with what mournful faces they exclaimed again and again, “It is too bad!” They would eat no more breakfast; they could think and talk of nothing but Aunty’s wrongs.

It was a bleak December day, and there the poor old woman sat outside the iron railing, no pleasant trees above her, but dust and dead leaves blowing wildly about. Charlie said, with tears in his eyes, “It’s enough to blind poor Old Aunty.”

“It’s enough to ruin her candy,” said Joanna, who was a practical little body. She had a look in her eyes that was better than tears; a look that seemed to say, “Her candy shall not be ruined. Aunty shall go back to her rightful place.”

We did not know about Aunty’s having any right to her old seat; but we all agreed that it was far better for her to sit near the path that ran slantwise through the Park, and was trodden by hundreds and thousands of feet every day; clerks going to Sixth Avenue, and merchants to Broadway; newsmen, porters, school-children, teachers, preachers, invalids; there was no end to the people. Many a cake or apple they had taken from Aunty’s board, and in their haste, or kindness, never waited for change to the bit of silver they tossed her.

In New York every one is in such a hurry that unless you are almost under their feet they cannot see you. For this reason, on the day of Aunty’s absence, she had the grief of watching many old friends and customers go past, give a surprised look at her old seat, and hurry on, never observing her, though she sat so near.

A few, who espied Aunty, stopped in their haste to hear her story and condole with her. The children found her out, you may be sure, and gathered about her, telling her how much too bad it was; and how they should like to set the policemen, Mayor and all, out there on a bench in the dust, for one half-hour; but what could children do? So they passed on. Some of the fashionable ladies in the Square stopped to tell Aunty how they pitied her, begged her not to feel unhappy, and passed on. Only Trouble stood still and frowned at her; all the rest passed on.

No, not all; not our little Joanna. She came home with a thoughtful face, and asked, very energetically, “What do you mean to do about Aunty? It is a shame that all these rich, strong, grown-up people on the Square, cannot stand up for the rights of one poor old woman.”

We told her the city was richer than the richest, stronger than the strongest.

“O,” persisted Joanna, “if we, or any of them, wanted a new lamp-post, or a hydrant mended, we should muster strength fast enough. And now, what’s to become of Aunty and her poor children? that is all I ask.”

We smiled at Joey’s enthusiasm, and thought it would soon pass away. When she came home from school that afternoon, with a whole troop of little girls, we thought it had already passed away. As they ran down the area-steps, we wondered what amusement they were planning now. Presently, Joanna came up-stairs, her eyes looking very bright, and said, “Please give me the inkstand.”

We asked, “What now, child?”

“O, do just give me the inkstand!” said she, impatiently. “We are not in any mischief; we are attending to business”; and off she ran.

Before very long she appeared again with a paper, her black eyes burning like stars. “There, mother,—and all of you,—you must sign this letter, as quick as ever you can. I have made a statement of Aunty’s case; all the children have signed their names; and now we are going to every house in the Square, till we have a good long list.”

“And what then?”

“I shall ask father to take it to the Mayor. He won’t be so unreasonable as to refuse us; no one could.”

Joanna had written out Aunty’s story, in her own simple, direct way. She told how this nice, neat, pleasant old person had been turned out of the Park; how the children all had liked her, and found it convenient to buy at her table; and how she never scolded if they dropped papers and nutshells about, but took her own little pan and brush and swept them away; she was so orderly. She ended her letter with a petition that the Mayor would be so good to the children, and this excellent old grandmother, as to let her go back to her old seat.

If the Mayor could refuse, we could not; so our names went down on the paper; and before the ink was dry, off ran Joanna. The hall-door slammed, and we saw her with all her friends run up the steps of the neighboring houses, full of excitement and hope.

Nearly all the families that lived in the great houses of Washington Square were rich; and some of them proud and selfish, perhaps; for money sometimes does sad mischief to the hearts of people. We asked ourselves, “What will they care for old Aunty?”

Whatever their tempers might be, however, when the lady or gentleman came and saw the bright, eager faces, and the young eyes glistening with sympathy, and the little hands pointing out there at the aged woman on the sidewalk,—while they were in their gilded and cushioned houses,—they could not refuse a name, and the list swelled fast.

At one house lived three Jewesses, who were so pleased with the children’s scheme, that they not only gave their own names, but obtained many more. “They are Jews, ma’am, but they’re Christians!” said Aunty afterwards; by which she meant, it is not names, but actions, that prove us followers of the loving, compassionate Christ.

So large was the Square, so many houses to visit, that the ladies’ help was very welcome. They could state Aunty’s case with propriety; and what with their words and the children’s eloquent faces, all went well.

So the paper was filled with signatures, and Joanna’s father took it to the Mayor. He smiled, and signed his name, in big letters, to an order that Aunty should return at once to her old seat, and have all the privileges she had ever enjoyed in the Park; and the next morning there she was, in her own old corner!

As soon as she came, the children ran out to welcome her. As she shook hands with them, and looked up in their pleased faces, we saw her again and again wipe the tears from her old eyes.

Everybody that spoke to Aunty that day, congratulated her; and when the schools in the neighborhood were dismissed, the scholars and teachers went together, in procession, and bought everything Aunty had to sell; till the poor old woman could only cover her face and cry, to think that she had so many friends. If ever you go to the Parade Ground, in New York, you may talk with old Aunty, and ask her if this story is not true.

B.

RICHARD AND KATE.
A SUFFOLK BALLAD.

The following verses were written by Robert Bloomfield, an English shoemaker, more than sixty years ago, when the working-classes of England had far more limited opportunities for obtaining education than they now have. Criticism could easily point out imperfections in the style of this simple story, but the consolations of age among the poor are presented in such a touching manner that it is worthy of preservation.

“Come, Goody! stop your humdrum wheel!

Sweep up your orts, and get your hat!

Old joys revived once more I feel,

’Tis Fair-day! Ay, and more than that!

“Have you forgot, Kate, prithee say,

How many seasons here we’ve tarried?

’Tis forty years, this very day,

Since you and I, old girl, were married.

“Look out! The sun shines warm and bright;

The stiles are low, the paths all dry:

I know you cut your corns last night;

Come! be as free from care as I.

“For I’m resolved once more to see

That place where we so often met;

Though few have had more cares than we,

We’ve none just now to make us fret.”

Kate scorned to damp the generous flame,

That warmed her aged partner’s breast;

Yet, ere determination came,

She thus some trifling doubts expressed:—

“Night will come on, when seated snug,

And you’ve perhaps begun some tale;

Can you then leave your dear stone mug?

Leave all the folks, and all the ale?”

“Ay, Kate, I wool; because I know,

Though time has been we both could run,

Such days are gone and over now.

I only mean to see the fun.”

His mattock he behind the door,

And hedging gloves, again replaced;

And looked across the yellow moor,

And urged his tottering spouse to haste.

The day was up, the air serene,

The firmament without a cloud;

The bees hummed o’er the level green,

Where knots of trembling cowslips bowed.

And Richard thus, with heart elate,

As past things rushed across his mind,

Over his shoulder talked to Kate,

Who, snug tucked up, walked slow behind:

“When once a giggling mauther[G] you,

And I a red-faced, chubby boy,

Sly tricks you played me, not a few;

For mischief was your greatest joy.

“Once, passing by this very tree,

A gotch[H] of milk I’d been to fill;

You shouldered me; then laughed to see

Me and my gotch spin down the hill.”

“’Tis true,” she said; “but here behold,

And marvel at the course of time!

Though you and I are both grown old,

This tree is only in its prime.”

“Well, Goody, don’t stand preaching now!

Folks don’t preach sermons at a Fair.

We’ve reared ten boys and girls, you know;

And I’ll be bound they’ll all be there.”

Now friendly nods and smiles had they,

From many a kind Fair-going face;

And many a pinch Kate gave away,

While Richard kept his usual pace.

At length, arrived amid the throng,

Grandchildren, bawling, hemmed them round,

And dragged them by the skirts along,

Where gingerbread bestrewed the ground.

And soon the aged couple spied

Their lusty sons, and daughters dear;

When Richard thus exulting cried:

“Didn’t I tell you they’d be here?”

The cordial greetings of the soul

Were visible in every face;

Affection, void of all control,

Governed with a resistless grace.

’Twas good to see the honest strife,

Who should contribute most to please;

And hear the long-recounted life,

Of infant tricks and happy days.

But now, as at some nobler places,

Among the leaders ’twas decreed

Time to begin the Dicky-Races,

More famed for laughter than for speed.

Richard looked on with wondrous glee,

And praised the lad who chanced to win.

“Kate, wa’n’t I such a one as he?

As like him, ay, as pin to pin?

“Full fifty years have passed away,

Since I rode this same ground about;

Lord! I was lively as the day!

I won the High-lows, out and out.

“I’m surely growing young again,

I feel myself so kedge and plump!

From head to feet I’ve not one pain.

Nay, hang me, if I couldn’t jump!”

Thus spake the ale in Richard’s pate;

A very little made him mellow;

But still he loved his faithful Kate,

Who whispered thus: “My good old fellow,

“Remember what you promised me!

And, see, the sun is getting low!

The children want an hour, ye see,

To talk a bit before we go.”

Like youthful lover, most complying,

He turned and chucked her by the chin

Then all across the green grass hieing;

Right merry faces, all akin.

Their farewell quart beneath a tree,

That drooped its branches from above,

Awaked the pure felicity,

That waits upon parental love.

Kate viewed her blooming daughters round,

And sons who shook her withered hand;

Her features spoke what joy she found.

But utterance had made a stand.

The children toppled on the green,

And bowled their fairings down the hill

Richard with pride beheld the scene,

Nor could he, for his life, sit still.

A father’s unchecked feelings gave

A tenderness to all he said:

“My boys, how proud am I to have

My name thus round the country spread.

“Through all my days I’ve labored hard,

And could of pains and crosses tell;

But this is labor’s great reward,

To meet ye thus, and see ye well.

“My good old partner, when at home,

Sometimes with wishes mingles tears;

Goody, says I, let what wool come,

We’ve nothing for them but our prayers.

“May you be all as old as I,

And see your sons to manhood grow;

And many a time, before you die,

Be just as pleased as I am now.”

Then (raising still his mug and voice),

“An old man’s weakness don’t despise!

I love you well, my girls and boys.

God bless you all!” So said his eyes;

For, as he spoke, a big round drop

Fell bounding on his ample sleeve;

A witness which he could not stop;

A witness which all hearts believe.

Thou, filial piety, wert there;

And round the ring, benignly bright,

Dwelt in the luscious half-shed tear,

And in the parting words, “Good Night!”

With thankful hearts and strengthened love

The poor old pair, supremely blest,

Saw the sun sink behind the grove,

And gained once more their lowly rest.

[G] A giddy young girl.

[H] A pitcher.

LUDOVICO CORNARO.
DERIVED FROM THE WRITINGS OF CORNARO.

“I do not woo

The means of weakness and debility;

Therefore, my age is as a lusty winter,

Frosty, but kindly.”

Varied from Shakespeare.

Ludovico Cornaro, descended from a noble family in Venice, was born in 1462, thirty years before America was discovered. He removed to Padua, where he married, and late in life had an only child, a daughter, who married one of the Cornaro family.

As an illustration of the physical laws of our being, the outlines of his history are worthy of preservation. He was wealthy, and indulged in the habits common to young men of his class. He was fond of sensual indulgences, and especially drank wine intemperately. The consequence was, that from twenty-five years of age to forty, he was afflicted with dyspepsia, gout, and frequent slow fevers. Medicines failed to do any permanent good, and physicians told him that nothing could restore him but simplicity and regularity of living. This advice was very contrary to his taste, and he continued to indulge in the luxuries of the table, paying the penalty of suffering for it afterwards. At last his health was so nearly ruined, that the doctors predicted he could not live many months. At this crisis, being about forty years old, he resolved to become temperate and abstemious; but it required so much effort to change his dissipated habits, that he frequently resorted to prayer for aid in keeping the virtuous resolution. His perseverance was more speedily rewarded than might have been expected; for in less than a year he was freed from the diseases which had so long tormented him. In order to preserve the health thus restored to him, he observed the peculiarities of his constitution, and carefully conformed to them in his habits and modes of living. He says: “It is a favorite maxim with epicures that whatever pleases the palate must agree with the stomach and nourish the body; but this I found to be false; for pork, pastry, salads, rough wines, &c., were very agreeable to my palate, yet they disagreed with me.” There seems to have been nothing peculiar in the kinds of food which constituted his nourishment; moderation as to quantity, and simplicity in modes of cooking, were the principal things he deemed of importance. He speaks of mutton, fish, poultry, birds, eggs, light soups and broths, and new wine in moderate quantities, as among his customary articles of diet. He is particularly earnest in his praises of bread. He says: “Bread, above all things, is man’s proper food, and always relishes well when seasoned by a good appetite; and this natural sauce is never wanting to those who eat but little; for when the stomach is not burdened, there is no need to wait long for an appetite. I speak from experience; for I find such sweetness in bread, that I should be afraid of sinning against temperance in eating it, were it not for my being convinced of the absolute necessity for nourishment, and that we cannot make use of a more natural kind of food.”

He does not lay down specific rules for others, but very wisely advises each one to govern himself according to the laws of his own constitution. He says every man ought carefully to observe what kinds of food and drink agree or disagree with him, and indulge or refrain accordingly; but whatever he eats or drinks, it should be in quantities so moderate as to be easily digested. He grows eloquent in his warnings against the fashionable luxury, by which he had himself suffered so severely. He exclaims: “O, unhappy Italy! Do you not see that intemperance causes more deaths than plague, or fire, or many battles? These profuse feasts, now so much in fashion, where the tables are not large enough to hold the variety of dishes, I tell you these cause more murders than so many battles. I beseech you to put a stop to these abuses. Banish luxury, as you would the plague. I am certain there is no vice more abominable in the eyes of the Divine Majesty. It brings on the body a long and lasting train of disagreeable sensations and diseases, and at length it destroys the soul also. I have seen men of fine understanding and amiable disposition carried off by this plague, in the flower of their youth, who, if they had lived abstemiously, might now be among us, to benefit and adorn society.”

His dissertations on health may be condensed into the following concise general rules, which are worthy of all acceptance:—

Let every man study his own constitution, and regulate food, drink, and other habits in conformity thereto.

Never indulge in anything which has the effect to render the body uncomfortable or lethargic, or the mind restless and irritable.

Even healthy food should be cooked with simplicity, and eaten with moderation. Never eat or drink to repletion, but make it a rule to rise from the table with inclination for a little more.

Be regular in the hours for meals and sleep.

Be in the open air frequently; riding, walking, or using other moderate exercise.

Avoid extremes of heat or cold, excessive fatigue, and places where the air is unwholesome, for want of ventilation.

Restrain anger and fretfulness, and keep all malignant or sensual passions in constant check. Banish melancholy, and do everything to promote cheerfulness. All these things have great influence over bodily health.

Interest yourself constantly in employments of some kind.

He gives it as his opinion that anger, peevishness, and despondency are not likely to trouble those who are temperate and regular in their habits, and diligent in their occupations. He says: “I was born with a very choleric disposition, insomuch that there was no living with me. But I reflected that a person under the sway of passion was for the time being no better than a lunatic. I therefore resolved to make my temper give way to reason. I have so far succeeded, that anger never entirely overcomes me, though I do not guard myself so well as not to be sometimes hurried away by it. I have, however, learned by experience that hurtful passions of any kind have but little power over those who lead a sober and useful life. Neither despondency nor any other affection of the mind will harm bodies governed by temperance and regularity.”

In answer to the objection that he lived too sparingly to make the change which is sometimes necessary in case of sickness, he replies: “Nature is so desirous to preserve men in good health, that she herself teaches them how to ward off illness. When it is not good for them to eat, appetite usually diminishes. Whether a man has been abstemious or not, when he is ill it is necessary to take only such nourishment as is suited to his disorder, and even that in smaller quantities than he was accustomed to in health. But the best answer to this objection is, that those who live very temperately are not liable to be sick. By removing the cause of diseases, they prevent the effects.”

He also maintains that external injuries are very easily cured, when the blood has been kept in a pure state by abstemious living and regular habits. In proof of it, he tells his own experience when, at seventy years of age, he was overturned in a coach, and dragged a considerable distance by the frightened horses. He was severely bruised, and a leg and arm were broken; but his recovery was so rapid and complete, that physicians were astonished.

Much of his health and cheerfulness he attributes to constant occupation. He says: “The greatest source of my happiness is the power to render some service to my dear country. O, what a glorious amusement! I delight to show Venice how her important harbor can be improved, and how large tracts of lands, marshes and barren sands can be rendered productive; how her fortifications can be strengthened; how her air, though excellent, can be made still purer; and how, beautiful as she is, the beauty of her buildings can still be increased. For two months together, during the heat of summer, I have been with those who were appointed to drain the public marshes; and though I was seventy-five years old, yet, such is the efficacy of an orderly life, that I found myself none the worse for the fatigue and inconveniences I suffered. It is also a source of satisfaction to me that, having lost a considerable portion of my income, I was enabled to repair it for my grandchildren, by that most commendable of arts, agriculture. I did this by infallible methods, worked out by dint of thought, without any fatigue of body, and very little of mind. I owned an extensive marshy district, where the air was so unwholesome that it was more fit for snakes than men. I drained off the stagnant waters, and the air became pure. People resorted thither so fast, that a village soon grew up, laid out in regular streets, all terminating in a large square, in the middle of which stands the church. The village is divided by a wide and rapid branch of the river Brenta, on both sides of which is a considerable extent of well-cultivated fertile fields. I may say with truth, that in this place I have erected an altar to God, and brought thither souls to adore him. When I visit these people, the sight of these things affords me infinite satisfaction and enjoyment. In my gardens, too, I always find something to do that amuses me. It is also a great satisfaction to me, that I can write treatises with my own hand, for the service of others; and that, old as I am, I can study important, sublime, and difficult subjects, without fatigue.”

His writings consisted of short treatises on health, agriculture, architecture, etc. In an essay, entitled, “A Guide to Health,” written when he was eighty-three years old, he says: “My faculties are all perfect; particularly my palate, which now relishes better the simple fare I eat than it formerly did the most luxurious dishes, when I led an irregular life. Change of beds gives me no uneasiness. I sleep everywhere soundly and quietly, and my dreams are always pleasant. I climb hills from bottom to top, afoot, with the greatest ease and unconcern. I am cheerful and good-humored, being free from perturbations and disagreeable thoughts. Joy and peace have so firmly fixed their residence in my bosom, that they never depart from it.”

In another essay, called “A Compendium of a Sober Life,” he says: “I now find myself sound and hearty, at the age of eighty-six. My senses continue perfect; even my teeth, my voice, my memory, and my strength. What is more, the powers of my mind do not diminish, as I advance in years; because, as I grow older, I lessen the quantity of my solid food. I greatly enjoy the beautiful expanse of this visible world, which is really beautiful to those who know how to view it with a philosophic eye. O, thrice-holy Sobriety, thou hast conferred such favors on thine old man, that he better relishes his dry bread, than he did the most dainty dishes in the days of his youth! My spirits, not oppressed by too much food, are always brisk, especially after eating; so that I am accustomed then to sing a song, and afterward to write. I do not find myself the worse for writing immediately after meals; I am not apt to be drowsy, and my understanding is always clearer, the food I take being too small in quantity to send up any fumes into my brain. O, how advantageous it is to an old man to eat but little!”

In a letter to a friend, written when he was ninety-one, the old man rejoices over his vigor and friskiness, as a boy does over his exploits on the ice. He says: “The more I advance in years, the sounder and heartier I grow, to the amazement of the world. My memory, spirits, and understanding, and even my voice and my teeth, remain unimpaired. I employ eight hours a day in writing treatises with my own hand; and when I tell you that I write to be useful to mankind, you may easily conceive what pleasure I enjoy. I spend many hours daily in walking and singing. And O, how melodious my voice has grown! Were you to hear me chant my prayers to my lyre, after the example of David, I am certain it would give you great pleasure, my voice is so musical.”

In an essay, entitled, “An Earnest Exhortation,” he says: “Arrived at my ninety-fifth year, I still find myself sound and hearty, content and cheerful. I eat with good appetite, and sleep soundly. My understanding is clear, and my memory tenacious. I write seven or eight hours a day, walk, converse, and occasionally attend concerts. My voice, which is apt to be the first thing to fail, grows so strong and sonorous, that I cannot help chanting my prayers aloud, morning and evening, instead of murmuring them to myself, as was formerly my custom. Apprehensions of death do not disturb my mind, for I have no sensuality to nourish such thoughts. I have reason to think that my soul, having so agreeable a dwelling in my body, as not to meet with anything in it but peace, love, and harmony, not only between its humors, but between my reason and my senses, is exceedingly contented and pleased with her present situation, and that, of course, it will require many years to dislodge her. Whence I conclude that I have still a series of years to live in health and spirits, and enjoy this beautiful world, which is indeed beautiful to those who know how to make it so by virtue and divine regularity of life. If men would betake themselves to a sober, regular, and abstemious course of life, they would not grow infirm in their old age, but would continue strong and hearty as I am, and might attain to a hundred years and upwards, as I expect will be my case. God has ordained that whoever reaches his natural term should end his days without sickness or pain, by mere dissolution. This is the natural way of quitting mortal life to enter upon immortality, as will be my case.”

Once only, in the course of his long life, did Cornaro depart from the strict rules he had laid down for himself. When he was seventy-eight years old, his physician and family united in urging him to take more nutrition; saying, that he required it to keep up his strength, now that he was growing so old. He argued that habit had become with him a second nature, and that it was unsafe to change; moreover, that as the stomach grew more feeble, it was reasonable to suppose that it ought to have less work to do, rather than more. But as they continued to remonstrate, he finally consented to add a little to his daily portion of food and wine. He says: “In eight days, this had such an effect upon me, that from being cheerful and brisk, I began to be peevish and melancholy, so that nothing could please me. I was so strangely disposed, that I neither knew what to say to others, nor what to do with myself.” The result was a terrible fever, which lasted thirty-five days, and reduced him almost to a skeleton. He attributes his recovery to the abstinence he had practised for so many years. “During all which time,” says he, “I never knew what sickness was; unless it might be some slight indisposition, that continued merely for a day or two.” He gives it, as the result of his long experience, that it is well for people, as they become aged, to diminish the quantity of solid food. He also advises that such nourishment as they take should be less at any one time, and taken more frequently.

Never had longevity such a zealous panegyrist as this venerable Italian. He says: “Some sensual, inconsiderate persons affirm that long life is not a blessing; that the state of a man who has passed his seventy-fifth year does not deserve to be called life, but is rather a lingering death. This is a great mistake. And I, who have experienced the salutary effects of temperate, regular habits, am bound to prove that a man may enjoy a terrestrial paradise after he is eighty years old. My own existence, so far from being a lingering death, is a perpetual round of pleasures; and it is my sincere wish that all men would endeavor to attain my age, in order that they also may enjoy that period of life which of all others is the most desirable. For that reason I will give an account of my recreations, and of the relish I find in life at its present advanced stage. I can climb my horse without any assistance, or advantage of situation, and now and then I make one of a hunting party suitable to my age and taste. I have frequent opportunities to converse with intelligent, worthy gentlemen, well acquainted with literature. When I have not such conversation to enjoy, I betake myself to reading some good book. When I have read as much as I like, I write, endeavoring in this, as in everything else, to be of service to others. This I do in my own commodious house, in the most beautiful quarter of this noble and learned city of Padua, and around it are gardens supplied with running waters, where I always find something to do that amuses me. Every spring and autumn I go to a handsome hunting-lodge, belonging to me, in the Euganean mountains, which is also adorned with fountains and gardens. Then I visit my village in the plain, the soil of which I redeemed from the marshes. I visit neighboring cities, to meet old friends, and to converse with architects, painters, sculptors, musicians, and husbandmen, from all of whom I learn something that gives me satisfaction. I visit their new works, and I revisit their old ones. I see churches, palaces, gardens, fortifications, and antiquities, leaving nothing unobserved from which either entertainment or instruction can be derived. But what delights me most is the scenery I pass through, in my journeys backwards and forwards. When I was young, and debauched by an irregular life, I did not observe the beauties of nature; so that I never knew, till I grew old, that the world was beautiful. That no comfort may be wanting to the fulness of my years, I enjoy a kind of immortality in a succession of descendants. When I return home from my journeys, I am greeted by eleven grandchildren, the oldest eighteen, the youngest two years old; all the offspring of one father and mother. They all have good parts and morals, are blessed with the best of health, and fond of learning. I play with the youngest, and make companions of the older ones. Nature has bestowed on them fine voices. I delight in hearing them sing and play on various instruments, and I myself sing with them, for I have a clearer and louder pipe now than at any other period of life. Such gayety of spirits has been imparted by my temperate life, that at my present age of eighty-three I have been able to write a very entertaining comedy, abounding with innocent mirth and pleasant jests. I declare I would not exchange my gray hairs, or my mode of living, with any young men, even of the best constitutions, who seek pleasure through the indulgence of their appetites. I take an interest in seeing the draining of marshes and the improvement of the harbor going on, and it is a great comfort to me that my treatises on a temperate life have proved useful to others, as many have assured me, both by word of mouth, and by letter. I may further add, that I enjoy two lives at once. I enjoy this terrestrial life, in consequence of sobriety and temperance; and, by the grace of God, I enjoy the celestial life, which he makes me anticipate by thought,—a thought so lively, that I affirm the enjoyment to be of the utmost certainty. To die in the manner that I expect to die is not really death, but merely a passage of the soul from this earthly life to an infinitely perfect existence. The prospect of terminating the high gratifications I have enjoyed here gives me no uneasiness; it rather affords me pleasure, as it will be only to make room for another glorious and immortal life. How beautiful the life I lead! How happy my exit!”

His prophecy proved true. He lived to be one hundred and four years old, and passed away without pain, sitting in his elbow-chair. His wife,

who was nearly as old as himself, survived
him but a short time, and died easily.
They were buried in St. Anthony’s
Church, at Padua, in a very
unostentatious manner,
according to their
testamentary
directions.

When Dr. Priestley was young, he preached that old age was the happiest period of life; and when he was himself eighty, he wrote, “I have found it so.”

ROBIN AND JEANNIE.
By DORA GREENWELL.

“Do you think of the days that are gone, Jeannie,

As you sit by the fire at night?

Do you wish that the morn would bring back the time,

When your heart and your step were so light?”

“I think of the days that are gone, Robin,

And of all that I joyed in then;

But the brightest that ever arose on me,

I have never wished back again.”

“Do you think of the hopes that are gone, Jeannie,

As you sit by the fire at night?

Do you gather them up, as they faded fast,

Like buds with an early blight?”

“I think of the hopes that are gone, Robin,

And I mourn not their stay was fleet,

For they fell as the leaves of the roses fall,

And were even in falling sweet.”

“Do you think of the friends that are gone, Jeannie,

As you sit by the fire at night?

Do you wish they were round you again once more,

By the hearth that they made so bright?”

“I think of the friends that are gone, Robin;

They are dear to my heart as then;

But the best and the dearest among them all

I have never wished back again.”

* * * * *

“We have lived and loved together,

Through many changing years;

We have shared each other’s gladness,

We have wept each other’s tears.

“I have never known a sorrow

That was long unsoothed by thee;

For thy smile can make a summer,

Where darkness else would be.

“And let us hope the future

As the past has been, will be;

I will share with thee thy sorrows,

And thou thy smiles with me.”

Anonymous.

A GOOD OLD AGE.
FROM MOUNTFORD’S EUTHANASY.

A good old age is a beautiful sight, and there is nothing earthly that is as noble,—in my eyes, at least. And so I have often thought. A ship is a fine object, when it comes up into a port, with all its sails set, and quite safely, from a long voyage. Many a thousand miles it has come, with the sun for guidance, and the sea for its path, and the winds for its speed. What might have been its grave, a thousand fathoms deep, has yielded it a ready way; and winds that might have been its wreck have been its service. It has come from another meridian than ours; it has come through day and night; it has come by reefs and banks that have been avoided, and past rocks that have been watched for. Not a plank has started, nor one timber in it proved rotten. And now it comes like an answer to the prayers of many hearts; a delight to the owner, a joy to many a sailor’s family, and a pleasure to all ashore, that see it. It has been steered over the ocean, and been piloted through dangers, and now it is safe.

But still more interesting than this is a good life, as it approaches its threescore years and ten. It began in the century before the present; it has lasted on through storms and sunshine; and it has been guarded against many a rock, on which shipwreck of a good conscience might have been made. On the course it has taken, there has been the influence of Providence; and it has been guided by Christ, that day-star from on high. Yes, old age is even a nobler sight than a ship completing a long, long voyage.

On a summer’s evening, the setting sun is grand to look at. In his morning beams, the birds awoke and sang, men rose for their work, and the world grew light. In his mid-day heat, wheat-fields grew yellower, and fruits were ripened, and a thousand natural purposes were answered, which we mortals do not know of. And at his setting, all things seem to grow harmonious and solemn in his light.

But what is all this to the sight of a good life, in those years that go down into the grave? In the early days of it, old events had their happening; with the light of it many a house has been brightened; and under the good influence of it, souls have grown better, some of whom are now on high. And then the closing period of such a life,—how almost awful is the beauty of it! From his setting, the sun will rise again to-morrow; and he will shine on men and their work, and on children’s children and their labors. But when once finished, even a good life has no renewal in this

world. It will begin again; but it will be in
a new earth, and under new heavens.
Yes, nobler than a ship safely
ending a long voyage, and
sublimer than the setting
sun, is the old age of
a just, a kind,
and useful
life.

A good old man is the best antiquity; one whom time hath been thus long a working, and, like winter fruit, ripened when others are shaken down. He looks over his former life as a danger well past, and would not hazard himself to begin again. The next door of death saps him not, but he expects it calmly, as his turn in nature. All men look on him as a common father, and on old age, for his sake, as a reverent thing. He practises his experience on youth, without harshness or reproof, and in his council is good company. You must pardon him if he likes his own times better than these, because those things are follies to him now, that were wisdom then; yet he makes us of that opinion, too, when we see him, and conjecture those times by so good a relic.—Bishop Earle.

MY PSALM.
By JOHN G. WHITTIER.

I mourn no more my vanished years:

Beneath a tender rain,—

An April rain of smiles and tears,—

My heart is young again.

The west winds blow, and, singing low,

I hear the glad streams run;

The windows of my soul I throw

Wide open to the sun.

No longer forward nor behind

I look in hope or fear;

But, grateful, take the good I find,

The best of now and here.

I plough no more a desert land,

To harvest weed and tare;

The manna dropping from God’s hand

Rebukes my painful care.

I break my pilgrim staff, I lay

Aside the toiling oar;

The angel sought so far away,

I welcome at my door.

The airs of Spring may never play

Among the ripening corn,

Nor freshness of the flowers of May

Blow through the Autumn morn;—

Yet shall the blue-eyed Gentian look

Through fringèd lids to Heaven,

And the pale Aster in the brook

Shall see its image given;—

The woods shall wear their robes of praise,

The south-wind softly sigh;

And sweet, calm days, in golden haze,

Melt down the amber sky.

Not less shall manly deed and word

Rebuke an age of wrong;

The graven flowers that wreathe the sword

Make not the blade less strong.

But smiting hands shall learn to heal,

To build, as to destroy;

Nor less my heart for others feel,

That I the more enjoy.

All as God wills, who wisely heeds

To give or to withhold,

And knoweth more of all my needs

Than all my prayers have told.

Enough that blessings undeserved

Have marked my erring track,—

That, wheresoe’er my feet have swerved,

His chastening turned me back,—

That more and more a Providence

Of love is understood,

Making the springs of time and sense

Sweet with eternal good,—

That death seems but a covered way

Which opens into light,

Wherein no blinded child can stray

Beyond the Father’s sight,—

That care and trial seem at last,

Through Memory’s sunset air,

Like mountain-ranges, overpast,

In purple distance fair,—

That all the jarring notes of life

Seem blending in a psalm,

And all the angles of its strife

Slow rounding into calm.

And so the shadows fall apart,

And so the west winds play;

And all the windows of my heart

I open to the day.

* * * * *

Over the winter glaciers,

I see the summer glow,

And, through the wild piled snow-drift,

The warm rosebuds below.

R. W. Emerson.

JOHN HENRY VON DANNECKER.
DERIVED FROM MRS. JAMESON’S SKETCHES, LONGFELLOW’S HYPERION, AND FROM VARIOUS EUROPEAN LETTERS.

This celebrated German sculptor was born in 1758, at Stuttgard. His father, who was one of the grooms of the Duke of Würtemberg, was a stupid, harsh man. He thought it sufficient for his son to know how to work in the stable; and how the gifted boy contrived to pick up the rudiments of reading and writing, he could not remember in after life. He had an extraordinary passion for drawing, and being too poor to buy paper and pencils, he used to scrawl figures with charcoal on the slabs of a neighboring stone-cutter. When his father discovered this, he beat him for his idleness; but his mother interfered to protect him. After he arrived at manhood, he was accustomed to speak of her with the utmost tenderness and reverence; saying that her promptings were the first softening and elevating influences he ever knew. His bright countenance and alert ways sometimes attracted the notice of the Duke, who saw him running about the precincts of the palace, ragged and barefoot; but he was far enough from foreseeing the wonderful genius that would be developed in this child of one of his meanest servants.

When John Henry was about thirteen years old, the Duke established a military school, into which poor boys, who manifested sufficient intelligence, might be admitted. As soon as he heard of this opportunity, he eagerly announced the intention of presenting himself as a candidate. His surly father became very angry at this, and told him he should stay at home and work. When the lad persisted in saying he wanted to get a chance to learn something, he beat him and locked him up. The persevering boy jumped out of the window, collected several of his comrades together, and proposed to them to go to the Duke and ask to be admitted into his school. The whole court happened to be assembled at the palace when the little troop marched up. Being asked by one of the attendants what they wanted, Dannecker replied, “Tell his Highness the Duke that we want to be admitted to the Charles School.” The Duke, who was amused by this specimen of juvenile earnestness, went out to inspect the boys. He led aside one after another, till only Dannecker and two others remained. He used to say afterward that he supposed himself rejected, and suffered such an agony of shame, that he was on the point of running away and hiding himself, when he discovered that those who had been led aside were the rejected ones. The Duke ordered the successful candidates to go next morning to the school, and dismissed them. The father did not dare to resist such high authority, but he was so enraged with his son, that he turned him out of the house and forbade him ever to enter it again. But his good mother packed up a little bundle of necessaries for him, accompanied him some distance on the road, and parted with him with tears and blessings.

He did not find himself well situated in this school. The teachers were accustomed to employ the poorer boys as servants, and he was kept so constantly at work, that what little he learned was mostly accomplished by stealth. But he met with one piece of great good fortune. Schiller, who afterward became world-renowned as a writer, was at this school. The two boys recognized kindred genius in each other, and formed a friendship which lasted through life. When he was fifteen years old, his remarkable talent for drawing caused him to be removed to the School of Art in Stuttgard, where he received instruction from Grubel, the sculptor. The next year, he obtained the highest prize for a statue of Milo, modelled in clay. The Duke, who had forgotten the bright, ragged boy that formerly attracted his attention, was astonished to hear he had carried off the highest honors of the School of Art. He employed him to carve cornices and ornaments for two new palaces he was building. Ten years were thus spent, during which he acquired a great deal of mere mechanical skill and dexterity. But he longed to improve himself by the sight of noble models; and at last he obtained leave to travel. The allowance granted him by his ducal patron was only one hundred and twenty dollars a year. With this he set off for Paris, where he studied in the galleries of the Louvre, often going the whole day without food, and in a dress too shabby to be considered respectable. Those who saw him thus perseveringly employed, passed by without recognizing the divine soul that dwelt within the forlorn exterior. He afterward went to Rome, where for some months, he wandered about among monuments and ruins, friendless and homesick. But luckily his illustrious countrymen, Herder and Goethe were there. He was introduced to them, and their conversation imbued him with higher ideas of Art than he had ever before received. The celebrated Italian sculptor, Canova, also became acquainted with him, and often visited him in his studio. There was but a year’s difference in their ages, and their friendship became intimate. He remained five years in Rome, and distinguished himself by the production of several fine statues. He then returned to his native country, where he married. At fifty years of age he was considered the greatest sculptor in Germany. The Grand Duke ennobled him, as the phrase is; though it seems absurd enough that wearing a ribbon in his button-hole, and being allowed to put von before the name his genius had rendered illustrious, could add any nobility to a man like Dannecker.

His two most celebrated works are Ariadne riding on a panther, and his statue of Christ. The circumstances under which the latter was produced are very peculiar. Dannecker was a devout Lutheran, and he often meditated upon a statue of the Mediator between God and man as the highest problem of Art. He sought to embody it, but felt that something was wanting. A child, who was accustomed to run about his studio, came in while he was at his work. “Who do you think that is?” said the artist, pointing to his model. The child looked, and replied: “I don’t know; I guess it is some great king.” Ah, thought Dannecker, I have made the expression of power to predominate over love. The search after a perfect ideal of the Divine and human combined took complete possession of his mind. Filled with such thoughts, he fell asleep and dreamed of a face and form transcending anything he had conceived. He hastened to model it in clay, while the vision was still fresh in his mind. When it was shown to the child, he at once exclaimed, “That is the Redeemer. Mother reads to me about him, where he says, ‘Suffer little children to come unto me.’” This confirmed Dannecker in the belief that he had been directly inspired from above. Others regarded it as a dream produced by the intense activity of his thoughts concentrated upon one subject; but he always viewed it as an immediate revelation. He was fifty-eight years old when this sublime vision was presented to him in his sleep, and for eight years he devoted to it all the energies of mind and heart. He studied the Scriptures intently, and prayed for Divine assistance. His enthusiasm was a compound of Religion and Art. Under this combined influence, he said he felt as if he were pursued by some irresistible power, which visited him in his sleep, and often compelled him to rise in the night and embody the ideas which had been presented to him. When he was sixty-six years old, the glorious statue was completed. It is clothed in a simple robe reaching to the feet. The hair is parted on the forehead, and falls in ringlets over the shoulders. The head is purely moral and intellectual in its outline. One hand is pressed upon the bosom, the other extended, and the lips are partially unclosed, as if in the act of speaking. The expression is said to be a remarkable combination of majesty and tenderness, exciting involuntary reverence in all who look upon it.

Mrs. Jameson visited Dannecker in 1830. The statue was still standing in his studio. She says: “He told me that the figure had visited him in a dream three several times, and that he firmly believed he had been predestined to the work, and divinely inspired. I shall not easily forget the countenance of the good and gifted old man, as he leaned on the pedestal, with his cap in his hand, and his long gray hair waving round his face, looking up at his work with a mixture of reverence and exultation.”

This remarkable statue was purchased by the Emperor Alexander, and is now in Russia. A year after its completion, he made a colossal statue of the Evangelist John, for the royal chapel at Rothenberg. He had for many years been Professor of the Fine Arts at the Academy in Stuttgard, and the instructions he was obliged to give there, combined with the labors of his studio, kept him very constantly occupied. Mrs. Jameson again visited him in 1833, when he was seventy five years old. She says: “A change had come over him. His trembling hand could no longer grasp the mallet or guide the chisel. His fine benevolent countenance wore a childish smile, and was only now and then crossed by a gleam of awakened memory or thought. Yet he seemed perfectly happy. He walked backward and forward from his statue of Christ to his bust of Schiller, with an unwearied self-complacency, in which there was something mournful, yet delightful. While I was looking at the magnificent head of Schiller, he took my hand, and trembling with emotion, said, ‘We were friends from boyhood. I worked upon it with love and grief; and one can do no more.’ I took leave of Dannecker with emotion. I shall never see him again. But he is one of those who cannot die. Canova, after he was a melancholy invalid, visited his studio, and was so much struck by his childlike simplicity, his pure, unworldly nature, his genuine goodness, and lively, happy temperament, that he gave him the surname of Il Beato, The Blessed. And surely if that epithet can with propriety be bestowed upon any mortal, it is on him whose long life has been one of labor and of love; who has left behind him lasting memorials of his genius; who has never profaned to any unworthy purpose the talents which God has given him, but, in the midst of all the beautiful and exciting influences of Poetry and Art, has kept, from youth to age, a soul serene, a conscience and a life pure in the sight of God and man.”

Longfellow, in his prose-poem called “Hyperion,” thus introduces the renowned German artist, on a calm Sabbath forenoon:—“Flemming stole out into the deserted street, and went to visit the veteran sculptor Dannecker. He found him in his parlor, sitting alone, with his psalm-book and the reminiscences of his long life. As Flemming entered, he arose from the sofa and tottered toward him; a venerable old man, of low stature, and dressed in a loose white jacket, with a face like Franklin’s, his white hair flowing over his shoulders, and a pale blue eye.

“‘So you are from America,’ said he. ‘I have never been in America. I shall never go there. I am now too old. I have been in Paris and in Rome. But that was long ago. I am now seventy-eight years old.’

“He took Flemming by the hand, and made him sit by his side on the sofa. And Flemming felt a mysterious awe creep over him, on touching the hand of the good old man, who sat so serenely amid the gathering shade of years, and listened to life’s curfew-bell, telling, with eight and seventy solemn strokes, that the hour had come, when the fires of all earthly passion must be quenched within, and man must prepare to lie down and rest till morning.

“‘You see,’ he continued, ‘my hands are cold. They were warmer once. I am now an old man.’

“‘Yet these are the hands that sculptured the beautiful Ariadne and the Panther,’ replied Flemming. ‘The soul never grows old.’

“‘Nor does Nature,’ said the old man, pleased with this allusion to his great work, and pointing to the green trees before his window. ‘This pleasure I have left to me. My sight is still good. I can even distinguish objects on the side of yonder mountain. My hearing is also unimpaired. For all which I thank God.’

“Directing Flemming’s attention to a fine engraving which hung on the opposite wall of the room, he continued: ‘That is an engraving of Canova’s Religion. I love to sit here and look at it, for hours together. It is beautiful. He made the statue for his native town, where they had no church, until he built them one. He placed the statue in it. He sent me this engraving as a present. Ah, he was a dear, good man! The name of his native town I have forgotten. My memory fails me. I cannot remember names.’

“Fearful that he had disturbed the old man in his morning devotions, Flemming did not remain long; but he took his leave with regret. There was something impressive in the scene he had witnessed;—this beautiful old age of the artist; sitting by the open window, in the bright summer morning; the labor of life accomplished; the horizon reached, where heaven and earth meet; thinking it was angel’s music when he heard the church bells ring; himself too old to go. As he walked back to his chamber, he thought within himself whether he likewise might not accomplish something which should live after him;—might not bring something permanent out of this fast-fleeting life of man, and then sit down, like the artist, in serene old age, and fold his hands in silence. He wondered how a man felt when he grew so old, that he could no longer go to church, but must sit at home, and read the Bible in large print. His heart was full of indefinite longings, mingled with regrets; longings to accomplish something worthy of life; regret that as yet he had accomplished nothing, but had felt and dreamed only. Thus the warm days in spring bring forth passion-flowers and forget-me-nots. It is only after mid-summer, when the days grow shorter and hotter, that fruit begins to appear. Then the heat of the day brings forward the harvest; and after the harvest, the leaves fall, and there is a gray frost.”

Dannecker lived eighty-five years. His last drawing, done when he was extremely old, represented

an angel guiding an aged man from
the grave, and pointing to him
the opening heaven. It was
a beautiful occupation to
console the last days
of this truly
Christian
artist’s
life.

When a good man dies,—one that hath lived innocently,—then the joys break forth through the clouds of sickness, and the conscience stands upright, and confesses the glories of God, and owns so much integrity that it can hope for pardon and obtain it too. Then the sorrows of sickness do but untie the soul from its chain, and let it go forth, first into liberty and then into glory.

Jeremy Taylor.

THE KITTEN AND THE FALLING LEAVES.
By WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

That way look, my infant, lo!

What a pretty baby-show!

See the kitten on the wall,

Sporting with the leaves that fall!

Withered leaves—one, two, and three—

From the lofty Elder-tree!

—See the kitten! how she starts,

Crouches, stretches, paws, and darts,

First at one, and then its fellow,

Just as light and just as yellow!

Such a light of gladness breaks,

Pretty kitten, from thy freaks,

Spreads, with such a living grace,

O’er my little Laura’s face!

Yes, the sight so stirs and charms

Thee, baby, laughing in my arms,

That almost I could repine

That your transports are not mine;

That I do not wholly fare

Even as ye do, thoughtless pair!

And I wall have my careless season,

Spite of melancholy reason;

Will walk through life in such a way,

That, when time brings on decay,

Now and then I may possess

Hours of perfect gladsomeness.

—Pleased by any random toy;

By a kitten’s busy joy,

Or an infant’s laughing eye,

Sharing in the ecstasy.

I would fare like that, or this;

Find my wisdom in my bliss;

Keep the sprightly soul awake;

And have faculties to take,

Even from things by sorrow wrought,

Matter for a jocund thought;

Spite of care and spite of grief,

To gambol with Life’s falling leaf.

* * * * *

His sixty summers—what are they in truth?

By Providence peculiarly blest,

With him the strong hilarity of youth

Abides, despite gray hairs, a constant guest.

His sun has veered a point toward the west,

But light as dawn his heart is glowing yet,—

That heart the simplest, gentlest, kindliest, best,

Where truth and manly tenderness are met

With faith and heavenward hope, the suns that never set.

Henry Taylor.