knight, for, lo! of all the way that he had ridden, there was naught for eye to see; but, at his horse's heels, there yawned a mighty gulf, whereof no man might every spy the bottom, so deep was that same gulf. Then, when Sir Ghelent saw that of going back there was none, he prayed to good Saint Cuthbert, and, setting spurs into his steed, rode forward bravely and most joyously. And naught harmed him.
There is no returning on the road of life. The frail bridge of Time, on which we tread, sinks back into eternity at every step we take. The past is gone from us for ever. It is gathered in and garnered. It belongs to us no more. No single word can ever be unspoken; no single step retraced. Therefore, it beseems us, as true knights, to prick on bravely, nor idly weep because we cannot now recall.
A new life begins for us with every second. Let us go forward joyously to meet it. We must press on, whether we will or no, and we shall walk better with our eyes before us than with them ever cast behind.
A friend came to me the other day, and urged me very eloquently to learn some wonderful system by which you never forgot anything. I don't know why he was so eager on the subject, unless it be that I occasionally borrow an umbrella, and have a knack of coming out, in the middle of a game of whist, with a mild, "Lor, I've been thinking all along that clubs were trumps." I declined the suggestion, however, in
