Pittsburg dispatch. [volume] (Pittsburg [Pa.]) 1880-1923, 1891-05-17

4
! smiths mark upon his jewel stamps the
pure metal that all men may know it.
'tYou need no sign like that to show me
what you are," said she, with a lbn9
glance.
"Nor to tell me you are in my heart,
he answered. SIT was foolish speech.
| Would you have me wise now?"
eff wisdom is loye-yes. 1fnot-." She
laughed softly.
dThen folly?"
f'Then folly, madness, anything-so that
|, this last as last it must, or shall dier'
"And why should it not last? Is there
any reason, in earth or heaven, why we two
should part? Ifthere isl will make that
reason itself folly, and madness and unrea-
son. Dear, do not speak of this not last
ing. Die, you say? Worse, far worse; as
much as eternal death is worse than bodily
dying. Last? Does anyone know what
forever means. if we do not? Die we must,
in these dying bodies of ours, but part-no.
Love has burned the cruel sense out of that
word, and bleached its blackness white. We
wounded the devil, parting, with one kiss,
we killed him with the next-this buries
him-ah, love, how sweet
There was neither resistance nor the
thought of resisting. Their lips met and
were withdrawn, only that their eyes might
drink again the draught the lips had tasted,
long draughts of sweetness and liquid light
and love unfathomable. And in the inter-
val of speech half false, the truth of what
was all true welled up from the clear
depths and overhowed the falseness,
till it grew falser and more feeting
still-as thing lying deep in bright water
casts up distorted image on refracted rays.
Glance and kiss, when two love, are as
body and soul, supremely human and trans
cendently divine. The look alone, when
the. lips cannot meet, is but the disembodied
spirit, beautiful even in its sorrow, sad,
despairing, saying ''eyer," and yet signing
i'never," tasting and knowing all the bitter
ness of both. The kiss without the glance7
The body without the soul? The mortal
thing without the undying thought? Draw
down the thick veil and hide the sight, lest
devils sicken at it, and lest man should
loathe himself for what man can be-
Truth or untruth, their love was real, hers
as much as his She remembered only what
her heart had been without it. What her
goal might be, now that it had come, she
guessed even then, but she would not ask.
Was there never a martyr in old times more
human than the rest, who turned back, for
love perhaps, if not for fear and said that
for loves sake life was still sweet, and
brought milk-white dove to Aphrodite's
altar, or dropped a rose before
Demeter's feet? There must have been,
for man is man, and woman woman,
and if in the next month, or even the next.
year, or after many years, that youth or
maid took heart to bear Christian death,
was there no forgiveness, no sign of holy
cross upon the sandstone in the deep laby-
rinth of graves, no crown, no sainthood and
no reverent memory of his name or hers
among those of men and women worthier,
perhaps, but not more suffering.
No one can kill Self. No one can be al
together another, save in the passing passion
of a moments acting. lin that syllable
lies the whole history of each human life, in
that history lies the individuality, in the
clear and true conception of that individu-
ality, dwells such Joint foreknowledge of
the future as we can have, such vague solu-
ton as to us is impossible of that vast equa-
tion in which all quantities are unknown
save that alone, that 1 which we know as we
can know nothing else.
''Bury it p she said 'fBury that part
ing-the thing, the word and the thought
bury it with all others of its kind, with
change and old age, and stealing indiffer-
ence, and growing eoldness, and all that
canker's love-bury them all, together, in
one wide, deep grave-then build on it the
house of what we are"
''Change? Indifference do not. know
those Words" the Wanderer said. "Have
they been in your dream, love? They have
never been in mine"
He spoke tenderly, but with the faintest
echo of sadness in his voice. The mere sug-