"'There would be far less of this sort of iniquity, if there were fewer blatant philosophy-mongers afloat on the tide of the times, inculcating their morbid, detestable, blasphemous, brothel-filling, "Harmonial" theories, all of which directly pander to the worst vice a man can have—Meanness.
"'People insanely look for and expect perfection in others—not only without the slightest claim thereto themselves, but without the least attempt in that direction—which is a very suicidal policy to pursue. Such soon come to be vampires, consuming themselves and destroying others—ravening tigers at their own fold's side! Sometimes one person's affection—which is akin to love—goes out toward and clings round another; but Death ever flaps his wings by the side of such, when that other fails to give it back. The unloving loved one, if such a thing be possible, is a born thief, from the cradle to the clouds; and there are a great many such robbers in the world.'
"'But how is one to love when one don't feel like it, or has attractions in another direction?' asked Betsey.
"'Where duty and honor point, there should the attraction lie! Whosoever shall render themselves lovable and lovely, can no more help being loved than smoke can help ascending through the air. Make yourself agreeable to the partner of your lot in life, and that partner can no more help loving you than mirrors can help reflecting.
"'The heart of yonder statue, which is that of the man who is destined to be a future husband of yours,' said the old man—pointing to the first figure of the previous day, which had, together with the second, re-appeared upon the scene, 'will be only half full by reason of your withholding and refusing all tender wifeliness; you will rob him and yourself of the better meat of life; your years will be gloomy ones; you will make him wretched, and be the same yourself—cheat your bodies of health, your souls of happiness and vigor! Take heed; correct the fault. You "can't?" There's no such word. Try!'
"Turning now to the second figure of the previous day, he observed: 'See! Tom Clark's heart is empty. All its cells are filled with a void—hollow as the apples of Persia's arid wastes. Have mercy, Heaven, on him whose heart throbs not with the rapturous burden of a woman's love! Pity him whose soul groweth not tender with the love-light beaming from a baby's eyes! Ah, what a world of nameless glory flashes from an infant's eyes! They are telescopes through which my soul sees Heaven—through which I watch the mazy dance of starry worlds, and behold the joys of seraphim. We Rosicrucians love babies—seed of the ages—and their mothers, too—because they are such; for we believe that after death the maids fair worst—the wives fare better; but no tongue or pen can express the rapture that awaits those who have borne sons and daughters to the world and heaven! Bachelors! Bah! I will pass by such cattle, merely remarking that their place is not to be found in heaven, or the other place. They repair in a body to Fiddler's Green—and ought to stay there, if they do not!'
"And Betsey gazed on the forlorn figure of poor Tom—who was all one-sided, crooked, lean; his hopes and joys were flown, because no one loved him, not even his wife; and who else should, if not she? And so he was wretched, like full many another whom I have seen as I journeyed down life's glades. His soul was driven back upon, and forced to eat itself, day by day, and year after year. 'And this great wrong you will do,' said the hermit; and 'This great wrong I have already done,' thought the girl—wife—widow—wife—four in one, with that strange, anomalous inconsistency, peculiar to Dream-Life. 'I have done badly; but this I will do no more—not another second longer!'
"Bravely, royally thought and said! Better, if more gloriously done!—and that's just the difference—saying and doing. The first is common; the last is very rare. 'Better still, if truly said, and still more nobly done!'—was whispered in the woman's ear, in the same low, silvery voice, she had heard the day before. Who was it that spoke these melodious words? Not the hermit in grey. Was it the invisible Hesperina, telegraphing Betsey's soul across the vast expanse of the Continent of Dream? Who shall answer me these questions?
"Said the silver-girdled hermit, as he smiled a smile of more than human gladness—more than human meaning—'It is Well.' She looked again toward the magic globe, and lo! within a moment, its disk had changed. The first two figures had disappeared; the third had once more come upon the scene—a conspicuous actor in such a terrific drama, as neither earth nor starry eyes ever saw before, may they never see again!
"The Gorgon, War, had glutted himself on Europe's bloody fields, and had flown across the salt sea, alighting on our shores. The demon landed with a howl, midway between Moultrie and Sumter. He had seized the reins of government, proclaimed himself sole Lord and King; strangled Reason in his dreadful gripe, until she lay bleeding on the gory earth, and meek-eyed Peace fled tearfully away from his grim presence, and hid herself upon a distant mountain-top, whence she could survey the shock of armies on the plains beneath, and sigh, and long for Liberty and rule.