On, Stanley, on”—
or—
“Oh, mother, mother, what is bliss,
Oh, mother, what is bale—
Without my lover, what is Heaven?
And with him, what were Hell?”
And noble, practical idees, and solemn, historical ones wuz a-soundin’ in my ears. And figgers of noble knights and heroes and fair ladies wuz by my side, up and down the room they walked with me and in and out.
Some of the picters on the walls of the different rooms wuz dretful interestin’—dretful. The one on ’em that gin my heart and mind the deepest shock wuz the head of poor Mary, Queen of Scots, said to have been took a few hours after her execution. The mournful, noble beauty of that white, still face gin me feelin’s I couldn’t express, and I didn’t try to.
It seemed as if the home where her soul had so lately sojourned had a dignity and peace gin it, a-flowin’ out from the seens that soul wuz a-beholdin’ after it had cast off the tribulations and persecutions of earth.
It wuz a dretful interestin’ picter to me.