The Project Gutenberg eBook of Wise Or Otherwise, by Lydia Leavitt.

"Lead, kindly light," The words are lightly spoken by the young, who tread life's pathway with nimble feet, whose eager hands are outstretched to gather life's roses, regardless of thorns, whose voice is rippling with laughter and mirth, with blood coursing through the veins and bright eyes looking fearlessly into the future; the words have merely a joyous, musical ring. "Lead, kindly light."

"Lead, kindly light." The words are gravely spoken by the middle-aged, whose feet have grown a trifle weary, whose hands have gathered the roses, only to find them turned to ashes, whose laughter has more sadness than mirth, whose eyes have grown dim, whose lips tremblingly plead, "Lead, kindly light." "Lead, kindly light." The words are whispered by the old, whose tired feet are unable to move, whose palsied hands are helpless, whose head is bowed by the weight of years, whose eyes are sightless, from whose trembling lips are scarcely heard the whispered prayer, "Lead, kindly light."

"Lead, kindly light." The sunken eyes are closed in death, the tired hands are folded, the heart has ceased to beat, the mute lips are stilled, the weary feet are at rest, a look of ineffable peace rests upon the still face, while all the air is filled with sweet music and the murmur of gentle voices pleading, "Lead, kindly light."

A FABLE

In one of the German forests the stood a tree, which could not be classified by any of the learned scientists. It was not more beautiful than many others, but there were distinctive peculiarities which no other tree possessed. Her dress was of a sadder hue than that of her companions, and the birds refused to build their nests in her branches. She was unable to understand the language of her brothers and sisters and so stood alone and unheeded in the dense forest. One morning she awakened and found standing by her side a companion tree, odd, like herself, and she said in her heart:—"I shall be no longer alone. He will understand my language and we shall hold sweet converse." But he, in his heart, was saying—"What strange tree is this? We two are unlike all our companions. I like it not." But she did not hear the murmur of discontent, and her heart grew glad within her at the great joy that had come to her and she said in her heart:—"I will cause him to forget that we are unlike our companions; I will sing to him my softest songs and gradually her dress of sombre green assumed a brighter hue, young buds sprang forth, her branches waved softly in the breeze and she wooed the birds by gentle voice to build their nests in her arms, and,

At eventide she folded them in her bosom, that their songs might not disturb the sleep of her companion, and while all the forest slept, she alone was awake and, in the silence of the night, she murmured softly, "Ich liebe Dich," and when the sun arose the birds from her arms flew through the forest, singing, "Ich liebe Dich," and all the trees took up the song; the birds, the trees and the brooks caught up the refrain and all the great forest sang, "Ich liebe Dich, Ich liebe Dich."

So the summer passed and her heart grew sad, for she saw the discontent of her companion, but she said to herself, "When the winter comes I will shelter him from the blasts," but he said complainingly, "I would I were like the other trees; I would like my garments to be as those I see around me. I would my limbs were as those of my companions all through the forest." And she heard, and said to herself, "I will make his garments of brilliant green." So she sent from her own roots and branches the sap—her life blood—to enrich the roots and beautify the dress of her companion. When the cold blast of winter swept through the forest she sheltered him with her long limbs, when the snow fell she covered his head with her branches and caught the weight of snow in her own arms; so all through the long winter she sheltered him from the blasts and the weight of snow bore heavily on her branches and at times they grew weary almost to breaking but her great heart never faltered.

So the spring came and day by day she sent from her own store of life-blood to enrich that of her companion and soon his garments assumed the most brilliant hues of all the trees in the forest; the leaves glinted and glistened in the sunlight, and from the branches there was ever a low murmur of song; the birds came to build their nests and rear their young in his arms; and over all there floated a delicate perfume born of the love which she had breathed over him all the long winter. So in all the forest there was none so beautiful and stately as he.

His companion said, "Now will he be happy," but her own great heart began to beat more slowly, the life-blood of which she had given him could not be replaced, and her garments gradually assumed a sombre hue and her arms were empty, for the birds no longer nested there.

One morning she awakened and found her companion gone. He had joined the other trees in the forest; and now the limbs that had borne the weight of snow began to wither, her leaves began to fall, and when the winter came again there was no raiment to cover her.

THE WIND

"Hark to the voice of the wind!" we say, as the windows rattle and house shakes; the winds as they shout in angry voices, clamoring louder in their fury, are telling of storms at sea, of the battles with the ships and the brave hearts that have gone to their death.

It shakes angrily the trees whose limbs are swaying in protest against the onslaught; it carries the leaves rustling to the ground, and in its fury uproots the giant oaks, which groan in agony as they are hurled to the ground, lying like soldiers on the field of battle.

Its fury is abated, and softly, like a benediction it enters the room where the weary mother is watching by the bedside of her sick child; it gently fans the fevered head; it touches with a caress the parched lips of the babe, and with murmur of song it lulls the child to rest.

It enters the counting room of the tired man of business, bringing a perfume of flowers: he lays down his pen, while his thoughts go back to the home of his boyhood, to the meadows, to the hillside covered with flowers, the new-mown hay, and the tired brain is refreshed, he knows not how, and the unseen messenger is gone—

It visits the silent City of the Dead and gently scatters the leaves over the new-made grave of a young child, sighing softly the while, the voice now rising, now falling, sobbing and moaning, and at last dies away in a melancholy sound, like the strings of an Aeolian harp touched by unseen hands.

Human nature approaches the Divine in moments of great sacrifice, forgiveness and self-forgetfulness.

PASSING THOUGHTS

"It seems the fate of woman to wait in silence while men act," 'Men must work and woman must weep.'

How delightful it must be to understand one's own nature thoroughly, to know that no whirlwind will ever sweep us off the beaten track, no stormy passions stir the calm placidity of our life. But is that life? No, give me the glories of expectation, the wildest exhaltation; the heart beating, the brain throbbing, the stormiest passions with force enough to carry everything before them, even if they bring deep grief—that is life.

People who deal in dry, hard facts are not interesting. They may make themselves names in the financial world, may become railway magnates and coal kings, may control the money market; but they are not interesting. They are the prose of life. They who see the clouds forming into fantastic shapes, the glories of a sunset, the shadows in pools, the colour on a bird's wing, the rose tint on the cheek of a child,—they and such as they are the poetry of life.

Man's inhumanity to man is proverbial, woman's inhumanity to woman is diabolical.

"Society, as it exists at present moment in Colonial towns and cities, possesses neither birth, brains or breeding."

"We hear men speak so frequently of womanly women, ending their praises with, 'she is essentially womanly.' I knew one of these womanly women, whose voice was like liquid music, whose ways were gentle, whose eyes filled with tears at the recital of some tale of woe, and always about her was an air of gentle, womanly sweetness and dainty femininity. She had a friend who loved her, one whose voice was not so soft, whose manner was brusque, who was considered, "not quite good form, you know." My womanly woman allowed this friend to take upon herself the burden of a sin which she herself had committed, allowed her to bear the brunt of scorn and contumely of her world, allowed her to die without righting the great wrong. A lonely grave and a plain marble slab mark the spot where she who was "not quite good form," lies: while she, to whom she had given more than life, gathers the rose leaves with dainty grace, for she is so essentially 'womanly.'"

Nothing can hurt so cruelly as the hand of love. The hand of hate is velvet in comparison.

There are women who consider the world well lost for the man whom they love and idealize; while upon close acquaintance they would discover that he was not worth even the loss of a dinner.

Twelve "good men and true", will, after mature deliberation, consign a man to the gallows. Twelve women, good and true, will, without any deliberation, send a woman to death by their venomous tongues.

There are a few people who would change their individuality for that of another. We might be willing to exchange positions, to exchange all that is apparent to the eyes of the world, but our inner consciousness, our memories, our thoughts, feelings and desires; all that is part and parcel of ourselves, we hold sacred.

At times one is inclined to believe that even the gods are guilty of favouritism.

Some people's lives are like a flower, the more they are crushed, the sweeter the perfume they exhale.

There are some people who look so rigidly virtuous and repellant that it is a satisfaction to feel one's self just a little bit wicked.

We look to the higher classes and to the lower for good breeding. Middle class people are proverbially ill-bred. What can equal the airs and assumptions of the retired grocer's wife, who has neither the breeding of a lady, nor the unaffected manner of the working-woman.

What a pity there is such an incessant babbling of human tongues, when the daisies by the wayside, the trees of the forest, the birds in their nests, could tell us such wondrous things if our ears were attuned to hear, but the senses are deadened by the discordant din of dismal sounds.

One-half of our lives is spent in making blunders, the other half in trying to rectify them.

How useless to tell many people to think, for they have nothing to think. A man reasons, a woman divines.

There are so many inconsistencies in life that at times one is appalled. Take marriage, for instance:—A young woman marries a man who is tottering on the brink of the grave; old, blaze, a worn-out roue; but with money enough to gild and gloss the antiquated ruin. She goes before a clergyman and promises to love, honour and obey. Yes; she loves the luxury with which she will be surrounded, the glitter of diamonds, the equipages, the great house, all the paraphanalia of wealth, but she hates the trembling, tottering, blear-eyed object who bought her.

The clergyman gives his blessing, society receives them with open arms, and legalized prostitution is upheld by the majesty of the law and encircled by the sanctified robes of the Church.

A woman ceases to think of self when she looks in the face of her new-born child.

There are people who go through life as if they were going to their own funeral—and did not enjoy it.

I would rather have for a friend the most thorough-paced scamp, with a generous heart, than the most respectable, canting, whining, Pharisee.

To stand in a rarefied atmosphere on a mountain height and view the struggles of ordinary mortals below may be poetic, but it is very lonely.

A woman may defy the world for a man she loves, and imagine that he will love her for the sacrifice, but no greater mistake can be made. Men are not so constituted. When he sees her standing alone, dishonored, a mark for the finger of scorn, her charm for him is forever lost.

Truth and sincerity are only found in the face of a child and the eyes of a dog.

A young face and an old heart are sorry companions, but an old face and a young heart are sorrier still.

Kind words and a sympathetic handclasp have done more to reclaim lost souls than all the tracts ever published.

A minute is a short duration of time, yet in that interval one may experience the whole gamut of human emotions.

If the world valued us as we value ourselves the heavens would not be sufficiently large whereon to inscribe our greatness.

What becomes of the characters who play an important part in fiction; the strong, brave, true fiction-people, whom we love as we read? Is there no place for them in the world peopled by shadows?

There are men who will accept any and every sacrifice from a woman and after making her a wreck, socially and morally, will say to her, "I fear that I am injuring you, so I will sacrifice myself and deny myself the pleasure of your society." Such men would sneak into heaven by a side entrance.

Fate, in a sportive mood, performs some wonderful acrobatic feats with human nature; gives love of oriental luxury to the woman with nothing a year; appreciation of all that is beautiful and artistic, to the ploughman; an epicurian taste to the starving mechanic; while to the woman rolling in wealth is given the manners and tastes of the fish-wife; to the multi-millionaire the habits of the canaille, and fate laughs with glee over the fantastic, incongruous muddle of the thing called Life.

BOOK THE SECOND

THAD. W.H. LEAVITT

ODDS AND-ENDS

It is easier to remove a mountain than to wash out a spot on a woman's reputation.

If you keep your eyes fixed upon the stars you will fall into the first mill pond.

You are told, "That if you violate a sacrament of the church you will howl in hell for it." You know that if you violate nature's laws you will howl here.

While poverty spins threads of gold with which to weave a garment to cover her nakedness, the plutocrat melts the threads into sovereigns for his own use.

Angels walk on threads of gold from heaven to earth. These threads are only spun in the loom of the human heart.

If we peep behind a curtain we may see the ghost of our own hopes grinning at us.

The albatross, like a great soul, remains aloft without the flutter of a feather.

Love is as much higher, than justice as is the tallest mountain above an ant hill.

The people have so often been beguiled that now they refuse to believe the truth.

Many of our good intentions are so feeble, that like snow flakes, they melt as they come.

The earth is a fertile womb bringing forth fruits for all. A few men claim they are God's first sons and take the crop.

There are women who breath forth intoxicating perfumes. The man who inhales them is in danger of great good or of great evil.

Every life leads up to a precipice, over which a few jump, the others tumble in and are lost.

We know that death is ever marching behind us but we never name the day when he will catch up.

A painter's description of matrimony—
Introduction: the background.
Courtship: the middle ground.
Engagement: the foreground.
Marriage: the nude subject.

He who writes with a feather plucked from the wing of the first bird will not be listened to for ages to come.

He who writes with a feather plucked from the wing of the second bird will receive the plaudits of the people.

He who writes with a feather plucked from the wing of the third bird will be worshipped by the mob.

Not gold, not broad acres, not vast power, not blazoned titles, not eloquence, but truth is the lever which moves the world.

When Europe completes the process of Christianizing China that nation will have disappeared from the map.

I have read of the dog-like affection of woman—I have seen their cat-like characteristics.

Bread snatched from the poor becomes a stone in the rich man's belly. He has only to eat his fill to sink.

What a gas lamp is to a moth, the same is a rose diamond to a woman—neither see the danger till they are dead.

In olden times Sodom and Gomorrah swallowed up the wicked. In modern times Chicago swallows up the good.

Chinaman's soliloquy. "First come missionary, big prayers, little book. Singee 'Peace on earth and good willee to all men.' Russian Bear swallow Manchuria, French Eagle strippe off Yellow Jacket, Bille Emperor stealee Peacock Feather, English Lion grabbe Pig Tail. Damme, hungry lion want everything."

You cannot squander ten thousand a year and then balance the account by thrusting a stale bun, dipped in charity soup, into a beggar's hand.

Lolling on a velvet cushion in a fashionable church will not be a valid answer when you meet the poor girl 'beyond' whom you ground down to make trousers for twenty cents a pair. You didn't do it? You wore the trousers, it's all the same.

A cynic's description of the honeymoon—
Kisses allopathic.
Kisses homeopathic.
The cold douche.
Hot mustard plasters.

A lawyer's description of matrimony in the United States—
Court—Appeal. The suit filed.
Rival—an interpleader.
Marriage. Judgement given.
Household expenses. Costs.
Family jars. Proceedings for alimony.
Final hearing. Divorce absolute.
Quit claim. Deed to another man.

The shark turns on his back to devour his prey—the hypocrite prays that he may devour.

The money lender should provide himself with an asbestos overcoat when he leaves this world.

Every girl in store or office means a man without employment. Every man without employment is a man incapable of supporting a wife. Do you see the inevitable result?

If churches were made as attractive as gin palaces, the former, not the latter, would be open six days in the week.

When you get there, you will find that Eternal Justice is not built on the departmental store system. Some pale-faced girl will offer the evidence.

Once Pity and Charity perched on every cloistered gate and cried, 'welcome.' Now they only venture forth on public occasions, when they will be seen of all men.

The witch doctor taboos a banana tree, the parson the joyous dance. Both are bigots.

The nigger who has learned to drink rum does not regard civilization as an unmixed blessing.

We cannot turn water into wine but some men come very near turning wine into water.

The coral shell stores up the glorious tints of the sun's rays—the thoughtful man the words of the wise.

A returned Klondiker with gold very much resembles charity—frequently read of, seldom seen.

Whence comes eternal truths? They are written in the rocks, they are breathed out of the soft, South wind; they are painted in the sunset, they speak in the flowers and the tiny blade of grass, they twinkle in distant stars. Ages go by and yet man grasps but one, here and there. They are messengers to every man, gifted or untaught. He who seizes but one and embalms it has done a greater service to mankind than the mightiest king.

Church choirs are always at sixes and sevens. One day of harmony and six of discord.

A young widow's sorrow for her husband is a phantom minnow—looks genuine but hides the hook.

While the bankrupt tradesman rides in his carriage, his honest competitor is in the back yard sawing wood.

The uglier a woman's face, the nearer to her chin is the hem of her bathing skirt, no doubt to hide her blushes.

English poet in the Soudan,—"We are carrying 'Sweetness and light' into darkest Africa!"

Tommy,—"Yes, we let the light in with the Lee-Metford and the Egyptian tax-collector will sweeten these coves later on."

Mayor of New York,—"We must return the 'Torch of Liberty' by the first French steamer."

Irate Mother-in-law (to son-in-law about to marry second wife),—"Is this the way you treat my daughter, lying in the dark grave?"

Out of the loins of pride and avarice comes the innocent child. Why is this? It cannot be chance. It means something. When we discover what that something is we shall remain innocent.

The time must come when the dragon's teeth, sown by the rich, will bring forth a harvest of cold steel.

Mother in the kitchen at the wash tub. Daughter in the parlor at the piano. Quite proper; its a case of rub-a-dub-dub.

Why came we here? By blind chance or design? The books are full of guesses, half-truths and lies. We only know that we are here. From whence we came and whither we go is the problem. Being here, our highest endeavors should be to do some little good. Then close our eyes and wait for the answer. We can find it in no other way.

When faults lie thick and die, the crop of good deeds to follow will be the greater.

A priest at ten thousand a year is a monument erected over the grave of Christianity.

The cry of the child for bread reaches further into the universe than peans sung to kings.

When Eve was created nature must have cried 'no,' for ever since woman has continued to repeat the word.

The rich go about the world on stilts, lest the poor should touch the hems of their garments. They are so so high in the air that they gather no perfume from the wild flowers blooming by the wayside.

The mathemetician can measure a world, yet he cannot weigh the secret thing which stirs a poet's heart.

Man has waited for ages for heaven to help him. Heaven has waited equally long for man to help himself.

Slaves are bound with fetters of steel—poor men with fetters of law. One corrodes with age, the other is perpetually renewed.

The devil fish of the sea claws his victim, then sinks to the bottom. The devil fish of the land claws his, then rises to the top.

The white flowers of sympathy shall yet bloom over graves in which the rich rot.

There is colour in the statement that one nigger in a missionary report throws a shadow greater than ten white men.

She who walks the street by night is an outcast. She who seduces a Prince may die a Queen.

Princes on sale for gold, women for titles, virtue for bread, statesmen for place, and priests for salary.

Monopoly. A whip in the hands of plutocrats, which bites the backs of men and saddens the hearts of women.

We should not blot out the sun because its rays will hatch the eggs of a serpent.

The lion of the jungle seizes his prey by night. The lion of the city by day; one is stripped to the bone, the other to the shirt.

Birds are charmed by snakes, women by beasts in human form. The glitter of the eye subdues the one, the glitter of gold, the other.

Over the grave of each child which dies in the slums should stand a tablet inscribed, "Died for want of sunlight and pure air." "Who stole the land?"

It is better to lavish your affections upon a faithful dog than upon an unfaithful friend.

Hills sunlit with promise are easier to traverse than the level road upon which hope died.

It is as easy for the poor man to pluck money from the rich as for the missionary to pick the pocket's of a naked savage.

The bombastic egotist floats on the crest of prosperity while the philosopher starves in his tub.

The priest counsels men in the sterile present to feed upon a pregnant future. Tomorrows dinner never yet fed a hungry man.

The private ownership of land is crystalized in the question "Is the unborn child an heir or a bastard?"

Love of the artistic does not account for the crookedness of men, though the curve is the only true line of beauty.

If the weakness of the present industrial system were realized it would cease to be dangerous.

Snakes eggs are hatched by the sun. Misers eggs—gold—by labor. Young snakes hiss at their mother, misers at men.

The bloodless wreath of love is stronger than a tyrant's chain. The one shall yet bind the world, the other be broken by a simple wish.

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