The weekly Portage sentinel. [volume] (Ravenna, Ohio) 1854-1861, 1860-06-13
/" T.. F."

Sometimes the reader of newspapers will
notice bringing up the rear of an advertise
ment the letters eff" Probably they never
trouble him much; he might have regarded
them as sort Of cabaistic literature pecu.
liar to the press, and certainly not a fit theme
| for song or sermon.
However this may be, the pair Of letters
has significance beyond the range of types,
and on into the shadows, and -out into the
sunshine of that moslic work we call life.
To the uninitiated 1t is only "tf;" to the
printers eye it expands into "tll forbid" o
reminder that the advertisement it waits on
is to be continued from d'y to day, from
week to week, until ordered out by him who
ordered its publication.
The story of how many springs that have
brought the blue bird and the violet, has been
told in that eft" Wrought in the green
trocery Of leaves that rise and fall on the
bosom OF the air, painted on clouds at an.
chor in the summer SEQ, cGrvebon the stone
thresholds Of ever going foods, silvered on
the moons medallion, graved ON the round
ruby Of the morning sun. in the scroll o
storm it is woven, on the breath of song il
is embroidered, and "tf"-"tilI forbid"-is
the story Of the world.
"Tf" is written alike on the drop OF dew
that satellite OF sod-and on the great
world tha; dances in the breath and bright.
ems in the smile of God.
"Ti" rounds the summer of human hopes:
it is delcately traced on beauty's brow; you
( will find 1t in the roses blushing bud; you
may see it in the shining star.
"Tt" is wrought in the helmets Of the
sweeping Tamerlanes of all times, and the
silver thread of the small voiced brook will
not be broken without it.
Nature has no stereotypes; all her adver.
tisemeDts are published with "tf," and the
types that express loveliness are silently
"distributed," and the graves are filled with
the elcquence Of yesterday.
And even there, enomeled in the little
billows of turf that break up earth's green.
swsrd, like q sea, there is "till Forbid
and so the silent swell of the sod subsidies
where graves have been, and back to the
air, and up to the clouds, and away 10 glad
ness, goes the dust to be fashioned into new
expressions of truth and beauty.
"Ti" is woven into the scarlet robe oI
Power. Cor quests glowing wheels are
locked with eff" and the weariest bono;
that ever bound humanity bear those letters
stamped on every link.
The young mother bending with looks oil
love ever the fairest "copy" her eyes have
ever seen, forgets that in that little face, hid
in the dimple Of cheek, or shaded by a
tress Of golden hair, two words are traced in
life's blue autograph that ere long obeyed
may leave her gazing up to full heaven
and sighing that some breath Of air has watt.
ed away, for ever and ever, the sweetest
"copy" id all the world.
But the singer OF the little song th At goes
nto oil lands wherever it is spring, reads,
inc "tf'' upon its pinion. He knows that il
will carol on to other times, and win vel.
come; that it will be sung when he is dead
that the olive leaf it bears will never wither;
that by and by window will open in
heaven. and hand will be put forth, ant
singing still. that tuneful bird Of his will be
touched with the "white radi,nce" of immor
tai morning.
And the thinker who entrusts his Twin!
thought to time, his thought instinct will
beauty, feels that no "tf" will prove eth
end of all" its mission; that leaving the red
Threshold of his heart, it begins an inde
pendent being, and will stand sublimel
of time.
This is not TO die; this is the true TRANSMIT
grafton OF soul; clinging to no frail tenure
of"ti!l forbid" its types shall never full te
dust; not syllable OF all its utterance be
lost.
There is dignity in such a work; 10
bridge the narrow breadth OF graves-to
keep repaired the crumbling ashes of time
This has no emblem in the drop of rain tha,
builds the bow upon the cloud. and glitter
down the changeul ray that gilds stormy
world.
This is to pass like some Ormed warrior,
unchallenged down the ages as they stand
and hear his foot unfaltering, press the
Threshold of to morrow. Upon It's gates on
golden hinges turning, no "till forbid" was
ever traced, and to all truth and earnest
thought, bright hands are beckoning, and the
| line moves on.-B. F, Tdylor.