Year: 1873

There is an old story in an old book of Ger
tain well-to-do man who found his income 80
secure, his house 80 comfortable, his barns SO
we'll filled, that he began to look upon the
whole affair, both master and possessions, as
tho ono thing meant to be permanent in this
shifting world. ''Soul," he said, in jovial
humor one night, to tho Something out of
sight Of his healthy body, costly clothes, state
ly dwelling and estate, ''Soul, let us eat, drink
and be merry This live creature, at least
he was sure Of. Body and land and houses,
being dead matter, might wear out, but that
which had earned and ruled them all would
stay When dawn came, the old record goes
on to state, the morning sun found his fields
and Gocks uualtered There, too, were the
comfortable houses, and the rich clothes un-
changed Even tho body which had served
its master SO long was thero ready to do It's
bidding. But tho soul had gone, and nevcr
sent message back to say whittier. "For six
thousand years. says Schiller, tho dead have
been going from US, and not one hath returned
TO bring us tidings"


Certainly, this Wellto-do man did not belong
to these days Whatever else our crimes, We
are not indifferent We all OF us take keen
interest in that unknown country to which each
of us must 20 some day on an lnsxorabe jour
ney, never to come back, taking with US moth
ing that we have needed here. When we 60
into strange countries now, We can make
place for ourselves with our money or acqualn-
tances; even good clothes are Of use. But what
baggage or letters OF credit can we take with
us there Even the fair face Of bodily graces
which have covered up 50 much OF our real
selves must bo lett behind To think of the
dreadful nakedness of it 70 whom shall We
talk Of the matters which have always filled our
lives until an hour-fve minutes before? Who
will care there for the next election, or the
price of stocks in the market2 Who will ask for
the last joke or bit Of gossip? Who will know
of the fashions or the last new book? Things
that have our hands and brain for our whole
lives will have vanished from Us like o
breath, and hands and brain have gone with
them. If wo could but take bit Of hair
from tho child that lay in our bosom, if We
could but feel the kiss which tho one dearest to
US loft on our closed eyesl But the child will
grow up and forget US and the kiss and the
dead eyes will be together in the grave far be-
low; and what will be left to US? Who can
answer-what?


No man, however silly, is indifferent TO this
end of the history of each of us. Men nova.
days do not talk much about death, or heaven,
or hell. Why should thcy9 Have any returned
to bring them tidings7 But they stand peer
ing, rich and poor, boor and scholar, alike at
the closed gate, with the question of the
old Chaldean prophet on their lips: 'When
man deth shall he live again? lilo giveth up
the ghost, and where is he?" Why do the
poor crowd to funerals? Why do hosts of
unimaginative people accept table rappngs
and mediums? Why is death, from the lone
ly murder by midnight to the opening of the
great jaws of the sea and the engulfng
of hundreds in moment, the one subjects
which rencws in US oil, day by day, tho
same breathless morbid INTEREST," Not surely,
that the article of death, livid lips, and CLASSY
oyes are rare show that attracts any man. 1t
is the secret beyond; the hope that, halting in
tho open darkness, on tho verge of the gulf,
the departing soul may let fall some hint of that
which it sees on the other side, and which it
will never come back to tell us. Job, even, in
the first morning of the time, while the world
was yet young and fresh, cried out with impo-
tent despair against this 'land of darkness.
The poor Indian in Brazil goes out at night
into the forest to try to learn the song of the
bird which be fancies has come from the spirit
world with message from his dead. The wo-
man whose child died here to-day knows only
the old, unalterable longing of that savage and
of that man whom God and Satan put to trial,
when she kisses her baby's lips, they do not
move again to her's-N T. 7}abune