grasp will
prove only Moccasin-beds! Why should they,--unless God abdicates and
Satan reigns? I have found, to my cost, that existence is not made
entirely of rainless June days; but I doubt whether darkness and
storms shut out the warm glow and perpetually curtain the stars.
Obviously I am no saint; still, I am disposed to believe I am not
altogether wicked. I have committed no capital sins, nor grievously
transgressed the decalogue,--and why should I despair of my share of
the good things of life? I am neither Cain nor Jezebel, and therefore
Fates and Furies have no warrant to dog my footsteps. Moreover, how do
I know that Destiny is indeed the hideous, vindictive crone that
luckless wretches have painted her, instead of an amiable, good soul,
who is quite as willing to scatter blessings as curses? Because some
dyspeptic Greek dreamed of three pitiless old weavers, blind to human
tears, deaf to human petitions, why should we wise and enlightened
people of the nineteenth century scare ourselves with the skeleton of
Paganism? I have as inalienable a right to brocades, crown-jewels, and
a string of titles, as any reigning queen, provided I can only get my
hands upon them; and, since life seems to be a sort of snatch-and-hold
game, quick keen eyes and nimble fingers decide the question. I have
never trodden on the world's tender toes, nor smitten its pet follies,
nor set myself aloft to gaze pityingly on its degradation, therefore,
the world honors me with no special grudge. But one thing is
mournfully certain,--my path is not strewn with loaves and fishes
ready baked and broiled, and I must even go gleaning and fishing for
myself. Almost everybody has some gift or some mission; but I really
do not see in what direction I can set to work. Work! How I hate the
bare thought! I have not sufficient education to teach, nor genius to
write, nor a talent for drawing, and barely music enough in my soul to
enable me to carry the church tunes respectably. Come, Salome Owen!
Shake off your sloth, and face the abominable fact that you must earn
your own bread. It is a great shame, and I ought not to be obliged to
work, for I am not responsible for my existence, and those who brought
me into the world owed it to me to provide for my wants. I cannot and
will not forgive my father and mother; but that will not mend matters,
since, nevertheless, here I am, with a body to feed and clothe, and
God only knows how I am to accomplish it. I fin