THE PARADISE OF FOOLS PART XII

I saw a poor old bachelor live all the days of his life in sight of paradise, too cowardly to put his arm around it and press it to his bosom. He shaved and primped and resolved to marry every day in the year for forty years. But when the hour for love’s duel arrived, when he stood trembling in the presence of rosy cheeks and glancing eyes, and beauty shook her curls and gave the challenge, his courage always oozed away, and he fled ingloriously from the field of honor.

Far happier than the bachelor is old Uncle Rastus in his cabin, when he holds Aunt Dinah’s hand in his and asks: “Who’s sweet?” And Dinah drops her head over on his shoulder and answers, “Bofe uv us.”

A thousand times happier is the frisky old widower with his pink bald head, his wrinkles and his rheumatism, who

He “toils not, neither does he spin,” yet Solomon in all his glory was not more popular with the ladies. He is as light-hearted as “Mary’s little lamb.” He is acquainted with every hog path in the matrimonial paradise and knows all the nearest cuts to the sanctum sanctorum of woman’s heart. But his jealousy is as cruel as the grave. Woe unto the bachelor who dares to cross his path!

An old bachelor in my native mountains once rose in church to give his experience, in the presence of his old rival, who was a widower, and with whom he was at dagger’s points in the race to win the affections of one of the sisters in Zion. Thus the pious old bachelor spake: “Brethren, this is a beautiful world. I love to live in it just as well to-day as I ever did in my life. And the saddest thought that ever crossed this old brain of mine is, that in a few short days at best, these old eyes will be glazed in death and I’ll never get to see my loved ones in this world any more.” And his old rival shouted from the amen corner:

“Thank God!”

Oliver Wendell Holmes says:

“Our brains are seventy year clocks. The angel of life winds them up once for all, closes the case, and gives the key into the hand of the resurrection angel.” When I read this I thought, what a stupendous task awaits the angel of the resurrection, when all the countless millions of old rickety, rusty, worm-eaten clocks are to be resurrected, and wiped, and dusted, and repaired, for mansions in the skies! There will be every kind and character of clock and clockwork resurrected on that day. There will be the Catholic clock with his beads, and the Episcopalian clock with his ritual. There will be an old clock resurrected on that day wearing a broadcloth coat buttoned up to the throat; and when he is wound up he will go off with a whizz and a bang. He will get up out of the dust shouting, “Hallelujah!” and he will proclaim “sanctification!” and “falling from grace!” as the only true doctrine by which men shall go sweeping through the pearly gates into the new Jerusalem. And he will be recognized as a Methodist preacher, a little noisy, a little clogged with chicken feathers, but ripe for the Kingdom of Heaven.

There will be another old clock resurrected on that day, dressed like the former, but a little stiffer and straighter in the back, and armed with a pair of gold spectacles and a manuscript. When he is wound up he will break out in a cold sepulchral tone with, firstly: “foreordination!” secondly: “predestination!” and, thirdly: “the final perseverance of the saints!” He will be recognized as a Presbyterian preacher, a little blue and frigid, a little dry and formal, but one of God’s own elect, and he will be labeled for Paradise.

There will be an old Hard-shell clock resurrected, with throat whiskers, and wearing a shad-bellied coat and flap breeches. And when he is wound up a little, and a little oil is poured into his old wheels, he will swing out into space on the wings of the gospel with:

“My Dearly Beloved Brethren-ah; I was a-ridin’ along this mornin’ a-tryin’ to study up somethin’ to preach to this dyin’ congregation-ah; and as I rid up by the old mill pond-ah; lo and behold! there was an old snag a-stickin’ up out of the middle of the pond-ah; and an old mud turtle had clim up out uv the water and was a settin’ up on the old snag a-sunnin’ uv himself-ah; and lo! and behold-ah! when I rid up a leetle nearer to him-ah, he jumped off of the snag, ‘ker chug’ into the water, thereby proving emersion-eh!”

Our brains are clocks, and our hearts are the pendulums. If we live right in this world, when the Resurrection Day shall come, the Lord God will polish the wheels, and jewel the bearings, and crown the casements with stars and with gold. And the pendulums will be harps encrusted with precious stones. They will swing to and fro on angel wings, making music in the ear of God, and flashing His glory through all the blissful cycles of eternity!

The mornings are the rapturous thoughts of God; the evenings are His glorious dreams. We think within His thoughts, and dream within His dreams. The sun and stars are His mighty looms on which he weaves the lights and shadows that tint the earth and sky with colors divine. But let those looms of light for a moment stop; let their blissful shuttles cease to fly, and instantly, this beautiful world of ours, with all its bloom and beauty blighted, with all its mirth and music hushed, would lie naked and dead on the cold bosom of eternal night.

So it is with human life. It hath its spirit looms, and its throbbing shuttles forever delivering to the warp and woof of hope and memory, the shining threads of human kindness, and weaving them into gossamer webs of love around our hearts and in our homes. Every tender word we speak; every blessing we bestow is a thread of sunshine woven into somebody’s life; and all the smiles and sympathies which come to us from other hearts are threads of light and love woven into our own. But let the loom of love for a moment stop; let its blissful shuttle cease to fly, and that moment happiness will lie dead on the hearthstone, and laughter will perish among the roses at the door.

All men are Kings, but love is King of Kings. His imperial chariot rumbles over the cobblestones of human hearts, and the sighing millions are his worshipers. Wealth bows its haughty head before his throne, and pays penance with jewels and gold; labor bends the reverent knee and counts its beads of sweat; commerce folds its snowy wings and kneels on the billows in mute but eloquent adoration, and art chisels down the cold white prison walls of shapeless marble and leads dumb beauty forth, a breathless prayer to love.

Love is the only despot against whose tyranny no nation ever rebels; his yoke is the twining of tender arms, and the crack of his whip is a guileless kiss. Love is a regal anarchist; he climbs the ladder of laughter and throws bomb shells of mirth into the palace of the heart. Love is a royal minstrel; he scales the harp strings of song and serenades the soul. Love rides on the wings of butterflies, and, with his silken lariat, lassoes strolling lovers, and leads them down among the golden rod and clover blossoms. The dimples in the chin of mirth are the tell-tale tracks of love; and he lurks among the roses that bloom on beauty’s cheek.