her nursery; and so, to stout Labor’s iron lullaby, the blacksmith’s infants were rocked to slumber.
Oh, woe on woe! Oh, Death, why canst thou not sometimes be timely?
Hadst thou taken this old blacksmith to thyself ere his full ruin came upon him, then had the young widow had a delicious grief, and her orphans a truly venerable, legendary sire to dream of in their after years; and all of them a care-killing competency.
But Death plucked down some virtuous elder brother, on whose whistling daily toil solely hung the responsibilities of some other family, and left the worse than useless old man standing, till the hideous rot of life should make him easier to harvest.
Why tell the whole?
- The blows of the basement hammer every day grew more and more between;
- and each blow every day grew fainter than the last;
- the wife sat frozen at the window, with tearless eyes, glitteringly gazing into the weeping faces of her children;
- the bellows fell;
- the forge choked up with cinders;
- the house was sold;
- the mother dived down into the long churchyard grass;
- her children twice followed her thither;
- and the houseless, familyless old man staggered off a vagabond in crape;
- his every woe unreverenced;
- his grey head a scorn to flaxen curls!
Death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this; but Death is only a launching into the region of the strange Untried; it is but the first