FOOTSTEPS ON THE OTHER SIDE Sitting in my humble doorway, Wait I for the loved who comes not, Soft! he comes,-now heart be quick, Gone by on the other side. All the night seems filled with weeping, I can fancy, sea, your murmur, Branches, bid your guests be silent; In my cheek the blood is rosy, Ah! how many wait forever For the steps that do not come! Many, in the still of midnight, CAUDLE HAS BEEN MADE A MASON. Now, Mr. Caudle,-Mr. Caudle, I say: oh! you can't be asleep already, I know. Now, what I mean to say is this: there's no use, none at all, in our having any disturbance about the matter; but at last my mind's made up, Mr. Caudle; I shall leave you. Either I know all you've been doing to-night, or to-morrow morning I quit the house. No, no; There's an end of the marriage state, I think,—an end of all confidence between man and wife, —if a husband's to have secrets and keep 'em all to himself. Pretty secrets they must be, when his own wife can't know 'em. Not fit for any decent person to know, I'm sure, if that's the case. Now, Caudle, don't let us quarrel, there's a good soul: tell me, what's it all about? A pack of nonsense, I dare say; still,-not that I care much about it,—still, I should like to know. There's a dear. Eh? Oh, don't tell me there's nothing in it; I know better. I'm not a fool, Mr. Caudle; I know there's a good deal in it. Now, Caudle, just tell me a little bit of it. I'm sure I'd tell you anything. You know I would. Well? And you're not going to let me know the secret, eh? You mean to say-you're not? Now, Caudle, you know it's a hard matter to put me in a passion,-not that I care about the secret itself; no, I wouldn't give a button to know it, for it's all nonsense, I'm sure. It isn't the secret I care about; it's the slight, Mr. Caudle; it's the studied insult that a man pays to his wife, when he thinks of going through the world keeping something to himself which he won't let her know. Man and wife one, indeed! I should like to know how that can be when a man's a mason,-when he keeps a secret that sets him and his wife apart? Ha! you men make the laws, and so you take good care to have all the best of them to yourselves; otherwise a woman ought to be al lowed a divorce when a man becomes a mason,-when he's got a sort of corner-cupboard in his heart, a secret place in his mind, that his poor wife isn't allowed to rummage. Was there ever such a man? A man, indeed! A brute!—yes, Mr. Caudle, an unfeeling, brutal creature, when you might oblige me, and you won't. I'm sure I don't object to your being a mason; not at all, Caudle; I dare say it's a very good thing; I dare say it is: it's only your making a secret of it that vexes me. But you'll tell me,-you'll tell your own Margaret? You won't? You're a wretch, Mr. Caudle. D. Jerrold. THE OLD CLOCK ON THE STAIRS. Somewhat back from the village street Tall poplar trees their shadows throw; Never-forever!" Half-way up the stairs it stands, By day its voice is low and light; Never-forever!" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe, "Forever-never! Never-forever!" In that mansion used to be His great fires up the chimney roared; There groups of merry children played; Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told,-. "Forever-never! Never-forever!" From that chamber, clothed in white, The dead lay, in his shroud of snow; And, in the hush that followed the prayer, "Forever-never! Never-forever!" All are scattered, now, and fled,- Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, "Forever-never! Never-forever!" H. W. Longfellow. Strange we never prize the music Till the sweet-voiced bird has flown; Strange that we should slight the violets Till the lovely flowers are gone; Strange that summer skies and sunshine Never seem one-half so fair As when winter's snowy pinions Shake their white down in the air. Lips from which the seal of silence With their beautiful perfume, Come to us in sweeter accents Through the portals of the tomb. |