A Brother, who put down his crown of glory
that you might take it up. For many years he has been striving, night
and day, to win your affections. There is nothing in heaven that he
is not willing to give you. He came with blistered feet and streaming
eyes, with aching head and broken heart to relieve you. On the craft
of a doomed humanity he pushed out into the sea, to pick you off the
rock. Who will ever again malign his name? Is there a hand that will
ever again be lifted to wound him? If so, let that hand, blood-dipped,
be lifted now. Which one of my readers will ever again utter his
sacred name in imprecation? If any, now let them speak. Not one! Not
one!
One summer among the New England hills there was an evening memorable
for storm and darkness. The clouds, which had been all day gathering,
at last unlimbered their batteries. The Housatonic, that flows
in silence save as the paddles of pleasure-parties rattle in the
row-lock, was lashed into foam and its waves staggered, not knowing
where to lay themselves.
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