A LOAD of virtue will never hurt you, if modestly it’s borne; the
saintly relic who’s too angelic for week days, makes us mourn. The
gloomy mortal who by a chortle or joke is deeply vexed, the turgid
person who’s still disbursin’ the precept and the text, is dull and
dreary, he makes us weary, we hate to see him come; oh, gent so pious,
please don’t come nigh us—your creed is too blamed glum! The saint who
mumbles, when some one stumbles, “That man’s forever lost,” is but a
fellow with streak of yellow, his words are all a frost. Not what we’re
saying, as we go straying adown this tinhorn globe, not words or
phrases, though loud as blazes, will gain us harp and robe. It’s what
we’re doing while we’re pursuing our course with other skates, that will
be counted when we have mounted the ladder to the Gates. A drink of
water to tramps who totter with weakness in the sun will help us better
than text and letter of sermons by the ton. So let each action give
satisfaction, let words be few and wise, and, after dying, we’ll all go
flying and whooping through the skies.
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