in the thing, for there was Jupiter
high above us, sneering at our little world of policemen and oystermen.

His grin disagreeably reminded me--had I not myself that very night
ignorantly flourished on a brass knocker?

It is so hard to remember the respect we owe to death. Yet for me there is
always a feeling that if we direct our lives cautiously, with
proportionate seriousness and no more, not presuming on life as our
natural birthright, but taking it with simple thankfulness as a boon which
we have done nothing to deserve, and which may be snatched from us before
our next breath: that, if we so order our days, Death may respect our
humility.

'The lusty lord, rejoicing in his pride,
He draweth down; before the armed knight
With jingling bridle-rein he still doth ride;
He crosseth the strong captain in the fight';

but such are proud people, arrogant in beauty and strength. With a humble
person, who is careful not to flourish beneath his signature, who knocks
just as much as he means on the knocker, bows just as much as he respects,
smiles cautiously, and never fails to touch his hat to the King of
Terrors--may he not deal more gently with such a one?

And yet Death is not a pleasant companion at Life's feast, however kindly
disposed. One cannot quite trust him, and he doesn't go well with flowers.
Perhaps, after all, they are wisest who forget him, and happy indeed are
they who have not yet caught sight of him grinning to himself among the
green branches of their Paradise.

Yes, it is good that youth should go with a feather in his cap, that
spring should garland herself with blossom, and love's vows make light of
death. He is a bad companion for young people. But for older folk the
wisdom of that knocker in Gray's Inn applies.

A TAVERN NIGHT

Looking back, in weak moments, we are sometimes heard to say: 'After all,
youth was a great fool. Look at the tinsel he was sure was solid gold. Can
you imagine it? This tawdry tinkling bit of womanhood, a silly doll that
says "Don't" when you squeeze it,--he actually mistook her for a goddess.'
Ah! reader, don't you wish you could make such a splendid mistake? I do.
I'd give anything to be once more sitting before the footlights for the
first time, with the wonderful overture just beginning to steal through my
senses.

Ah! violins, whither would you take my soul? You call to it like the voice
of one waiting by the sea, bathed in sunset