a hundred crowns and yet—Oh Lord, how long shall this evil continue?” and he tottered to where Rachel was sitting.
Rachel attempted to soothe Samuel.
“Thou knowest not the evil I have just done thee,” he said, pointing to the letter, “ aye, me. I am cruel to myself and much more to thee.” The tears glistened in his eyes. “ My days are numbered and yet—yet have I written Solomon to stay awhile so that he might gather me some money.”
Rachel looked at him surprised. “ Yea, so that he might bring thee a store of gold coins,” there was a huskiness in his voice, “ and he is a rare kind of boy; perchance he would mix in this broil and I would not have it so.”
A question was on her lips, but Rachel remained silent, staring vacantly into the fire, until the old man left the room, when she burst into tears.
Presently Isaac of Spiers entered, bustling. “ So, my pretty heart, seeing dream gold in the fire? For my part give me a batzen, green, dirty and solid in preference to your dream money. Hush, Samuel hath written his son a letter to get money, but hush, it’s not for thee, though some of it might become thine. Now it’s nearly out. Samuel will fill the coffers of the Killah (congregation) against these Nazarenes’ blood-sucking, now who knows womankind? not I, even an old pedlar that has haggled with thousands, thou art smiling out of thy tears. Would I could laugh that have to leave my pack and see this letter safe and speedy to Rome or elsewhere.”
(To be continued.)
[Written for the MACCABÆAN.]
Dumb Despair
SOL. BLOOMGARDEN.
Thrice blessed the gift Of those who shift The burden from their souls in song, Or into sounds harmonious melt The griefs and joys that they have felt— That have oppressed their bosom long.
In tuneful words Or sweet accords They shape of grief a sweet delight; And when quarried from the heart, And hewn and chiseled into art, The heavy griefs become so light.
Such happy lot The muse did not Upon my suffering soul bestow. My sorrows are a shapeless mass— They grind the heart, but never pass In word or sound of rhythmic flow.
An ugly block Of barren rock Is every grief that racks my mind; A clumsy heap of dumb despair So few will ever see and share The pangs within my breast confined.