The Anderson intelligencer. [volume] (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, 1903-04-15
Victor iim.' mi The Immortality OF he
Soul.

and tour athcists---not speaking Of the
ladies', who were all too clever to be
infdels. Victor Hugo, Of course, was
among the believers.
'To believe in God is to believe
nothing" said one Of the atheists.
'To believe in God is to believe
everything" cried Yicto Hugo; cit
is to believe in the infinite, and in
ones immortal soul. I will provo it
to you"
His face was bright with heavenly
halo. You know he was born with
the century. His face is Drowned
with white hair, but il is the volcano
under the snow. His eyes shone like
burning Goals; his brow is archcd like
an Olympian's; the nose is refined,
with distended nostrils; the mouth is
eager and smiling, still full Of valiant
teeth; the chin finishes profile de-
signed after the laws of artistic gram
mar. 1t isa wcll-made head on ro-
bust body. BY robust ! do not mean
enormous. lie h not the stature Of
u giant nor tho torso Of q Hercules.
But he is q man of steel, with no sign
Of old age about him. 1lo has all the
agility, the supplencss, the case and
grace of his past years. He is now
enjoying his third or fourth youth;
| do not doubt he will see the century
through.
II feel in myself" he continued,
'the future life. I am like a forest
which has been more than once cut
down. The new shoots are stronger
and livelier than ever. / am rising, l
know, to the sky. The sunshine is on
my head. The earth gives me it's gen.
erous sap, but heaven lights me with
the reflection Of unknown worlds.
You cay the soul is nothing but the
resultant Of bodily poFers. Why
then is my soul the more luminous
than my bodily powers? Winter ia
on my head and eternal spring is in
my heart. Then I breathe at this
hour the fragrance Of the lilacs, the
violets and the roses, as at twenty
years. The nearer I approach the
end, the palmer hear around me the.
immortal symphonies of the worlds
which invite Inc. It is marvellous get
simple. it is fairy iaie and it is
history. For half o century have
been writing my thoughts in prose
and verse; history, philosophy, drama,
romance, tradition, satire, ode and
song-I have tried all. But I feel 1
have not said the thousandth part of
what is in me. When Igo down to
the grave, I can say, like so many
others, I have finished my days
work, but cannot say Il have finish
ed my life.' My days work will begin
again the next morning. The tomb is
not blind alley; it is thoroughfare.
It closes on the twilight to open with
the dawn. I improve every hour, be.
cause I love this world as my father
land, and the truth compels me as it
compelled Voltaire, that human divin-
ity. My work is only beginning.
My monument 10 hardly above It's
foundations. would be glad TO see
it {mounting and mounting forever.
The thirst for the infinite proves in
finity. What do you soy Of that, Mes
sieurs Atheists?" s4.
II say you are wonderful man."
II am not wonderful man. I
obey my soul. MY soul has its des-
tiny, and obeys unknown laws"
"It obeys the laws Of creation, ("
said the atheist. "If you should sud
denly have . headache, plight would
come over your soul, and you would
feel that it vas che creature Of your
brain. Here, for instance, is the cof-
fee. Take some as I do, in this pretty
Japanese cup, and your blood ~ill be
quickened, and your wit livelier, and
for an hour you will bo greater poet
than ever" aeift rs
Don't talk suoh nonsehse, my wit.
ty friend. I never drank coffee nor
champagne. Why do not those who
take these stimulants write either my
verse or my prose2'' c
ut is because nature has not SO
we'll fashioned their brains" i
"There I have you,". said Victor
Hugo. "What is nature?"
ut is an occult force," said the
atheist.
"There are no occult forces; there
are only luminous forces, Occult
force is chaos, the luminous force is
God. Man is an infinitely little copy