gentlemen and gentlewomen, proving thereby their empty heads and cold hearts and the essential cruelties of "polite society."

I have told the story of Jess, hoping that it may do something to increase a sense of the sanctities of life, all life, in our hearts. Jess is no solitary horse, no exceptional one. Dr. Edward Emerson, the son of Ralph Waldo, riding to relieve suffering in a cold, dark, and stormy night, found his horse slipping under him. They both fell into the ditch from which the horse recovered himself, while the rider lay there with a broken leg. But the faithful animal stood there in the pitiless storm beside his helpless master until the slow relief came. When General Gillespie of the English army fell in the Indian war, the privates of the Eighth Dragoons bought his old horse, and he always marched at the head of the regiment, taking his stand by the colors and receiving the salute on review. When the regiment was ordered home, they provided a comfortable paddock for the old veteran, but when the corps was gone his appetite failed. One day he broke from his groom, galloped to his old position on the parade grounds, neighed aloud, dropped down and died.

It would be a noticeable and unjustifiable omission if I failed in this connection to allude to that other "Jess" who has come to warm the hearts of all readers of good books, since we laid the bones of my beloved Jess to rest under the roots of the gracious willow. course I refer to the "Jess" of the good Scotch physician of the countryside of whom Ian Maclaren has told us in "The Bonnie Brier Bush," that most human and humane of recent books.

Of

"A' wadna like ye tae sell Jess, for she's been a faithfu' servant, an' a freend tae. There's a note or two in that drawer a' savit, an' if ye kent ony man that wud gie her a bite o' grass and a sta' in his stable till she followed her maister,' — said the good Doctor McClure on his death-bed. A few days later, as the coffin passed the stable door, a horse neighed within, and every man looked at his neighbor. It was the old mare crying to her master. Drumsheugh took her to his own barn, where she had soft, dry straw to lie on and such things as horses love to eat. But the faithful horse languished, and in the night-time she was heard crying as if she expected to be taken out for some sudden journey. The Kildrummie veterinary said:

'A've seen it aince afore. Gin she were a Chreestan instead o' a horse, ye micht say she wes dying o' a broken hert.' And a week after the good Doctor fell on sleep Jess was resting at last, but her eyes were open and her face was turned to the door."

I have ventured to tell these stories of Jess and her peers, hoping they will help us to realize that this kinship with all sentient beings is a part of the modern gospel revealed by science and foretold by the most ancient prophecy, the pitying paganism that is thoughtful of the lower life, and gentle toward our dumb fellow-citizens in this commonwealth of the Lord. "Aha!" sneered the Arab at the cruelty of the London horseman, “it is not in your Book not to hurt the horse!" But it is in our Book. Does it not say, "A merciful man is merciful to his beast"? But we do not live up to the Book.

Finally, I have told the story of Jess, that it might suggest that subtle thought which brings reassurance to the human soul as it looks forward into the mysteries beyond. I know not what realities await us; I only know that the qualities upon which I base my hope of immortality I found far along in their development in

my companion of the road and the many humble acquaintances we made together. The buoyant thrush, singing her song most clearly when the stress of wind and fall of rain is upon her, is herself an "intimation of immortality," to use Wordsworth's great phrase. great phrase. "Love me, love my dog," is the chivalric demand of man upon his brother man. Some of these days this will be the spiritual demand of man from his God. I would not be importunate or impatient; but an immortality that leaves out the singing, loving world below, curtails my dream and hope of the serving, thinking, and growing world beyond. When Buffalo Bill buried his favorite horse at sea, after wrapping him around with the American flag, rough hands wiped the tears from cheeks unfamiliar to that dew of the soul, and the gallant scout said as he looked at his old. horse:

Charley, but for your willing speed and tireless courage, I would many years ago have lain low as you are now, and my Indian foe would have claimed for his slave. Yet you never failed me, Charley, old fellow. I have had many friends, but very few of whom I would say that. Men tell me you have no soul, but if there be

you

a heaven and scouts can enter there, I'll wait at for you, old friend.”

the gate

Here is no irreverence, no profanation of the higher hopes or tenderer griefs of the soul. If our lesser loves are rudely dealt with, the more sacred sanctities of the human heart will shortly be profaned. Surely,

"A horse misused upon the road

Calls to heaven for human blood.
Each outcry of the hunted hare
A fibre from the brain doth tear;

A skylark wounded on the wing

Doth make a cherub cease to sing."

One thing is sure, and that is worth more than the question of immortality. Such sensibilities as are aroused by this new thought of universal comradeship to all living things, will make life heavenly with or without heaven. And the absence of these sensibilities will make life earthly, sordid, hellish, no matter how many heavens we may go to.

Gentleness and sympathy are not voluntary graces which the soul may accept or refuse at its pleasure. They are rather the exactions of the universe. He who refuses them a place in his life cheats God and debases his own soul.