Year: 1874




his steady and perfect loyalty to truth
and goodness-but his wife was the wo-
man of century. while he was so noble
and great of soul as to be glad and proud
of her greatness, and at the same time
he seemed all the greater for his worship,
a feat, | notice, few men are able to ac-
complish.


Audubon, our great Naturalist, mar
ried a good, sweet woman, and when she
began to find him out she found he would
wander off a thousand miles in quest of
bird She said "AmenF' and went
with him, camped in the woods lived in
log huts and shanties on the frontier, any
where to be with him She entered into
his enthusiasm, shared his labor and
counted all things but loss for the excel
Iency of the glory of being Audubon's
wife When the children began to come
to them, he had to wander off alone, but
he could not go into valley so deep,or
wilderness so distant, that the light would
not shine on him out of their windows. He
knew exactly where he would find her,
and how she would look, for while, as
Ruskin reminds us, the clouds are never
twice alike, the sunshine is always IA
miliar, and it was sunshine he saw when
he looked homeward. So, if you have
read his notes, you will remember how





sorts of unexpected places as he thinks
of the wife and children waiting his re-
turn; and in that way they lived their
life until they dropped into the lap OF
God like mellow fruit. 1t was laid on
the man to do this curious wild work.
How the woman's heart yearned to have
him home we may well imagine, and how
gladly she would have given up some of
his greatness to keep her childrens' faith
er at her side, but she did not tell him
so, if she was the woman | think she was;
and so she is changed into the same i'm
age, from glory to glory. Growing aged
together in the body they are touched
now in the spirit with immortal youth.


The little Idyl ends without telling us
how the answer came to this cry on
wedding night, or whether it came at all
as they expected and hoped. But that 1t
did come in some good, sweet way, is GER
tain, for there is no word about con-
vulsion, and they have six sons. They
move away, when Tobit and his good
wife are dead, and after that we only see
the man who lives, the neighbors believe,
to be 127 1t makes little difference that
we do not know exactly how their life
together ended. If they kept these safe
guards and followed this inspiration [
have tried to touch, l know it was all
right.


When Oberlin was so years old and
very infirm, climbing one of his native
mountains one day, he was obliged to
lean on the arm of a younger man, while
his wife, who was still strong. walked by
herself. Meeting one of his parishioners,
the old man felt so awkward at his seem
ing lack of gallantry, that he insisted on
stopping and telling just how it was; she
could not lean on his arm, but she leaned
on his heart all the same; they had
grown aged together, but heshad shot a
little ahead; they must not think there
was any other reason; it was as it always
had been, only he was the weaker vessel
now, and would his friend please say so
when he happened to mention what he
had SEEN SO it would be with these
twain, in that far away Eastern valley:
they would keep together, and when the
arm failed the heart would still abide-in
the old beautiful strength


.And what did you seeP' l said once
to a friend who had been into the Lake
country, and who, on his return, told me
he had gone to Wordsworth home. Il
saw the old man." he said, walking in
the garden with his wife. They are both
quite old, and he is almost blind but
they seemed just like sweethearts court
ing, they were so tender to each other





the same story, with the additional par
ticulars of a near neighbor, how the old
wife would miss her husband and trot
out and find him asleep perhaps in the
sun, run for his hat, tend him and watch
over him till he awoke; and so it was
that when he died they made one grave
deep enough for both, and when she died
they were one-one in the dust as they
were one in heaven, and had been on
earth for over forty years. The world
came to Wordsworth at last but the
wife at first. Worse and worse JEFF
frey said, when a new poem came out;
better and better" said the wife. The
world might scoff, the wife believed.
OF the Lord. What wonder, then, they
were sweethearts still at three score and
ten.


So the wife of Thomas Carlyle the
woman with the brave blood of old John
Knox coursing through her heart, up
held her husband through all weathers,
proud of his strength, tender of his weak
ness, and never saying, Thomas, pray do
write so that people can understand
vou." His wild, weird words might puz-
zle her brain, but they were simple Saxon
to her heart and so when she died he
had craven on her tomb, For forty years
she was the true and loving helpmate of
her husband, and unweariedly forwarded
him. E0he else could in all of worthy
thatz1B did or attempted"


And this is prayer we can all make
to God on our wedding day, and If we
will, on any day, and every day after, and
always find the same answer in the cry.
Is there danger that we shall make it
hard for heaven to answer US in the tale
of the years, because we are using them
up like candle lighted at both ends? we
can guard against that. Is Shere danger
that while we may grow aged together,
in years there still may be such a fatal diff
ference of spirit and purpose that at
three score and ten we may merely be
two old people who have found each 9th
er out, and in our knowledge have made
shipwreck of our love? we can guard
against that No man and woman ever
cried out with their whole heart, "Mer-
cifully ardain that we may grow aged to-
gether," who did not find well-springs in
their dryest deserts, CLEANS of sunlight
stealing through their darkest shadows,
an arm of power for their most appalling
sleeps and sunny resting places all the
way


l think the average novel is making
sad mischief in the average mind in its
pictures of true love- 1t makes the ten
der glow and glamour which related ma
lures feel when they meet true love- 1t
is no such thing; it is true passion, that
is all blessed power purely and rightly
used, but no more true love than those
| little hooks and tendrils we see in June,
on a shooting vine, are the ripe clusters
of October. For true love grows out of
/ i i