Connecticut western news., 1873-02-14
Grave Yard Pictures.

As was passing along one of the west-side avenues the other afternoon, says New York magazine writer, my way.was obstructed by some workmen who were carrying boxes from an open lot and bling 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. I soon found out what was happening. The contents of an old city graveyard were being re- moved to an out-of-town cemetery, to make room for row of new brick stores. The graves belonged to a 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 impertinence 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 go about the streets: there was not 8 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 occasion-in it's presence dreadful, but in it's unused absence more awful still. And yet 1t was the saddest funeral that ever l saw.
 Yes, leather-faced, jovial workmen hustling your pine boxes over the side walk; yes, red-cheeked girls and boys peering between the fence-pailings with eyes of wonder; yes, twltterlng 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 bi- 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 stifed sobs; the sudden, heart-broken out-cry; the hearse; the dust-to-dust. But the big world will move on in its way; aye-the little world that was all the world oyou,-it also will move on. Not without difference, surely; for to some others it will never again be the same world. Still, it will 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. "The livingp-but what about the dead! Is there remembrance in the tomb Days and nights, and summers and winters, new moons and old moons, cloud and sunshine-the old intending round and some idle dreamer may stop mo- ment to wonder what sort of a mortal 1t was that has come to be 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-consciousness, rather, that separates man from his fellows,-a saying to ones self-these people are all mistaken, insanely 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. I had the feeling of one who looks at 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 s calves are stuffed with sawdust; he can lay h1S hand upon the aDsurd ntUle spectacled 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 fooll
 So with this last figure 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 it would make of life!