Beaufort Republican. [volume] (Beaufort, S.C.) 1871-1873, 1873-02-20
.GraYe Yard Pictures.

l.
west-side avenues the other afternoon,
says a New York magazine writer, my
way was oBstrpcted by some worHneh
who weFe carrying boxes from AN open
lot and piling them in cart which had
been backed up against the curb. The
boxes were OF unpainted pine, oblong,
and of various sizes-each with num=
Der chalked upon it. 1 soon found out
what was happening. The contents Of
an old city graveyard were being re-
moved to an out-ofstown cemetery, to
make room for a row of new brick
stores. The graves belonged to con-
gregation of early German settlers,
whose great grandchildren perpetuated
the ancient associations of church and
country, and had found ample room,
far from the impeftinence Of improve
ment, where they might be gathered to
their fathers--or, at least, where their
fathers might be gathered to them.
The mourners did not 60 about the
streets: there was not wet eye any
where; not so much as handkerchief.
No-not even the sable, squeak-soled
undertaken, to give that air OF solemn
decency to the oceasion-=ip its presence
dreadful, but in its unused absence
more awful still. And yet it was the
saddest funeral that ever 1 saw.
Yes, leather-faced, jovial workmen
hustling your pine boxes over the side
walk: YES, red d-cheeked girls and boys
peering between the fence-pailings with
eyes Of wonder; yes, twittering snow.
birds: YES, great hurrying procession OF
people, with hearts full of Christmas or
the devil; yes, dreamy loiterer.this is
what it all comes to! You shall have
your day to be wept over and honored,
dead: your one, own, only funeral: the
closed blinds; the decorous little BIZ
colored banner of woe at the door
knob; the rows of strange chairs in the
parlor; the scent of flowers; the hushed
crowd; the tremulous prayer; the low
voice of the singers; the tears; the
stihed sobs; the sudden, heart-broken
out-cryj the hearsej the dust-to-dust.
But the big world will move on IN its
way: aye-the little world that was all
the world to you,-it also will move on.
Not without difference, surely; for to
some others it will never again be the
same world. Still, twill move on. The
living will not forget you-O, no! Your
image in some hearts may grow dim
DINNER, but in others it will be ever
fresh and bright and beautiful. 1.-The
living!"-but what about the dead! LIS
there remembrance in the tomb =? Days
and nights, and summers and winters,
new moons and old moons, cloud and
sunshine-the old unending round
and some idle dreamer may stop mo-
ment to wonder what sort of mortal 1t
was that has come to be q ruckle OF
bones in box No. one hundred and
eleven.
With these thoughts came another
thought which is quite apt to follow
such "a sort of self-coHsciousness,
rather, that separates q man from his
fellows,-a saying to ones self-these
people are all mistaken. iDsanely busy
about matters of no earthly or heavenly
consequence, scampering to and fro on
fools errands; excited about nothing;
it is every bit vanity and vexation OF
spirit. 1 had the feeling of one who
looks at q play from behind the scenes,
and smiles to himself at his friends in
the parquet who seem to have forgotten
that they are only at show. Why! he
knows that Ophelia's flowers are made
of tissue paper; and that Hamlet's
calves are stuffed with sawdust, he can
lay his hand upon the absurd little
spectaclcd prompter whose sharp whis-
pers from the wings are translated on
the stage into tender murmurings or
passionate appeals.
He knows and sees this-but what
does he know of the master-mind that
informs all |? what does he see of the
mighty truth in untruth; the subtle,
resulting beauty that thrills the souls
of those who lend themselves freely to
the magnificent illusion? He and he
alone is the fool!
So with this last figure I put to flight
that old haunting demon Of mine-the
demon of the doctrine of Indifference
the philosophy that teaches the unre'
ality of things temporal. o the false.
hood of it! o the farce indeed itwould
make Of life!