to a slattern, who slouches around the house with her hair in tins, a dime novel in her hand, with a temper like aqua fortis and a voice like a cat fight—­a voice that would make a cub wolf climb a tree; a fashionable butterfly, whose heart is in her finery and her feathers; who neglects her home to train with a lot of intellectual birds; whose glory is small talk; who saves her sweetest smiles for society and her ill temper for her family altar.  If I were tied to such a female as that, do you know what I would do?  You don’t, eh?  Well, neither do I. There was a time, we are told, when to be a Roman was to be greater than to be a king; yet there came a time when to be a Roman was to be a vassal or a slave.  Change is the order of the universe, and nothing stands.  We must go forward, or we must go backward.  We must press on to grander heights, to greater glory, or see the laurels already won turned to ashes upon our brow.  We may sometimes slip; shadows may obscure our paths; the boulders may bruise our feet; there may be months of mourning and days of agony; but however dark the night, hope, a poising eagle, will ever burn above the unrisen tomorrow.  Trials we may have, and tribulations sore, but I say unto you, O, brothers mine, that while God reigns and the human family endures, this nation, born of our father’s blood, and sanctified by our mother’s tears, shall not pass away, and under heaven, for this great boon, this great blessing, we’ll be indebted to the women of America—­God bless them.  Finally, brethren, be serious while I impart this concluding lesson:  “She—­was—­a—­good—­wife—­to—­me.  A good wife, God bless her!” The words were spoken in trembling accents over a coffin-lid.  The woman asleep there had borne the heat and burden of life’s long day, and no one had ever heard her murmur; her hand was quick to reach out in helping grasp to those who fell by the wayside, and her feet were swift on errands of mercy; the heart of her husband had trusted in her; he had left her to long hours of solitude, while he amused himself in scenes in which she had no part.  When boon companions deserted him, when fickle affection selfishly departed, when pleasure palled, he went home and found her waiting for him.

  “Come from your long, long roving,
    On life’s sea so bleak and rough;
  Come to me tender and loving,
    And I shall be blest enough.”

That hath been her long song, always on her lips or in her heart.  Children had been born to them.  She had reared them almost alone—­they were gone!  Her hand had led them to the uttermost edge of the morning that has no noon.  Then she had comforted him, and sent him out strong and whole-hearted while she stayed at home and—­cried.  What can a woman do but cry and trust?  Well, she is at rest now.  But she could not die until he had promised to “bear up,” not fret, but to remember how happy they had been.  They?  Yes, it was even so.