horizon is when their faces are turned as if they were bound for the New Jerusalem, upward and onward. I think there is no other point of

doctrine that is so vital to the heart of mankind as this-we shall live again; we shall live a better and a higher and a nobler life. Paul says: "If in this life only we have hope, we are, of all men, most miserable"; and ten thousand weary spirits in every community are saying: "Oh, this life has been a stormy one to me; full of disappointments, full of pains and sorrows and shames and poverty and suffering, and now comes this vagabond philosophy, and dashes out of my hand the consolation of believing that I am to live again." And it is the cry of the soul: "Lord, let me live again." The accumulated experience of this life ought to have a sphere in which it can develop itself and prove itself. Now, I have this feeling-I thank God that the belief in a future and in an immortal state is in the world; I thank God that it is the interest of every man to keep it in the world; I thank God that there is no power of proof in science that we shall not live. Science may say: "You cannot demonstrate it"; but I believe it; then it is my joy. Can you go to the body of the companion of your love, the lamp of your life, and bid it farewell at the grave? One of the most extraordinary passages in the Gospels is that where the disciples John and Peter ran to the grave of Jesus and saw the angels sitting, and they said to them: "I know whom ye seek; He is not here; He is risen." But what a woe if one bore mother or father, wife or child, to the open grave, and there was no angel in it; if you said farewell forever as the body was let down to its kindred earth. It is the hope of a joyful meeting by-and-by that sustains grief and bereavement in these bitter losses in life. Science cannot destroy belief such as this of immortality after resurrection; it cannot take it away; it cannot destroy it, and it is the most precious boon we have in life-the faith that, through Jesus Christ, we shall live again, and live forever.

Jones Very.

BORN in Salem, Mass., 1813. DIED there, 1880.

YOURSELF.

[Poems, with a Memoir by William P. Andrews. 1883.]

'TIS to yourself I speak; you cannot know
Him whom I call in speaking such a one,
For you beneath the earth lie buried low,
Which he alone as living walks upon:

You may at times have heard him speak to you,
And often wished perchance that you were he;
And I must ever wish that it were true,
For then you could hold fellowship with me:
But now you hear us talk as strangers, met
Above the room wherein you lie abed;
A word perhaps loud spoken you may get,
Or hear our feet when heavily they tread;
But he who speaks, or him who's spoken to,
Must both remain as strangers still to you.

I

THE DEAD.

SEE them,-crowd on crowd they walk the earth, Dry leafless trees no autumn wind laid bare; And in their nakedness find cause for mirth,

And all unclad would winter's rudeness dare;

No sap doth through their clattering branches flow,
Whence springing leaves and blossoms bright appear;
Their hearts the living God have ceased to know
Who gives the springtime to th' expectant year.
They mimic life, as if from Him to steal

His glow of health to paint the livid cheek;

They borrow words for thoughts they cannot feel,
That with a seeming heart their tongue may speak;

And in their show of life more dead they live

Than those that to the earth with many tears they give.

'Tis all unheard, that Silent Voice,
Whose goings forth, unknown to all,
Bids bending reed and bird rejoice,

And fills with music Nature's hall.

And in the speechless human heart

It speaks, where'er man's feet have trod;
Beyond the lip's deceitful art,

To tell of Him, the Unseen God.

HE

Cyrus Augustus Bartol.

BORN in Freeport, Me., 1813.

FATHER TAYLOR: A MAN OF GENIUS.

[Radical Problems. 1872.]

E stands for the sea. the congress of intellect. In thousands of ships, by almost millions. of mariners, to whom by baptism of the Holy Ghost he was father who christened their babes, his fame was borne to every port. The sailor says. he has been where the United States had not been heard of, but never where Father Taylor had not. How did a man,-no discoverer in the kingdom of ideas, no martyr of principle, nor marshal of opinion,-so touch the common mind? The answer is that word about whose application we are always in quarrel or doubt,-genius.

He is the great delegate from the waves to

His vision was passion. It made a train of his faculties. His insight was enactment. It was said of one, "In company he leaves the scholar behind in his study he is a different man." Taylor never left nor lost himself, nor seemed made up of parts and pieces. He moved altogether if he moved at all. His casual talk was better than any preparation; his impromptu, his finest performance. A gown would have "wrapped his talent in a napkin." He put on no dress nor garland. He was as inspired at the street-corner as addressing a throng. There was grandeur in his trivial converse, and humor in his grave discourse. He provoked laughter in the congregation, and wet your eyes with his private greeting; put you in church with his grace at table, made an April day of smiles and tears at his evening vestry, or overcame you with solemnity in your house, so dered, or an angel spake to him. on the Common than in a parlor. a flute. He was a man-of-war, or

that you were inclined to say it thunOne said he was like a cannon, better But in your sitting-room he could be tender and soft as a maid. In acci

dental encounters he melted hard-faced persons with his pathos, or surprised the despondent into good cheer with consolations effectual because before undreamed. In all this was no calculation. As the Spiritualists say, he was under control. He was an Italian improvisator in America, an extemporaneous speaker condensed beyond example, with combustion and no dilution. In many a wit we see the diamond shining: he was the diamond burning. "Do not get worn out," a friend said to him. “I tear out," was his reply. He served some strange power, having its way with him, and which he could not resist. The spirit of this prophet was not subject to the prophet.

He was as ingrained an actor as Garrick or Kean. He did not believe in preaching from notes; and, making a speech at a meeting of his brethren, he took off a clergyman confined to his manuscript, looking from his page to his hearers, gazing one way and gesticulating another, to the convulsive laughter of the victims he scored. I remember his impersonating a dervish in his spinning raptures, so that to see that Oriental character one had no need to travel. There was in his word a primitive force none could withstand. "Move a little: accommodation is a part of religion," he saiu to some who took up too much room in a crowded seat; and, as though his request were a favor, and in such quaint phrase they had received a present, they moved. Every subject was to him such an object, he marvelled at our philosophic self-fingering.

He preached as the birds sang. He could not help it or help himself. Where he stood was a drama, not a desk. He was the character in "Midsummer Night's Dream": it mattered not what part he took. Riches dropped from him unawares, like pearls from Prince Esterhazy's dress. His concern was wide as his race. Genius is love. Was Byron misanthrope? So far no poet. Taylor was no cold peak. His mountain stood on fire. His was a southern heart married to a northern brain. He went back to Virginia, and asked to see Johnny, the little boy he had played with at school fifty years before, and they brought in a white-haired old man; and Taylor came home and represented lad and gray-beard with his marvellous transformations, needing no stage-dress. He entered into every nature; with the Dutch painter could have become a sheep, and seemed only a larger one among the pigeons that swarmed round him in his back yard to be fed. As he walked in the Public Garden, a sparrow flew startled from its bush. He stretched his hand after it, saying, "I will not squeeze you." For a moment I thought the bird might come.

In his illustration of genius, liberality was a mark. A Methodist, Methodism was not his gaol or goal. Like the Indian on the prairie, he said he walked large. He knocked at every door, Orthodox, Episco

pal, Romish, Radical; and, as in the Arabian Nights' tale, every door opened. He had the freedom of the city. Thirty years ago he attended a meeting of the Transcendental Club. There were in the company, as he entered, doubtful looks! He was asked to speak, and began in his chair; but soon saying, "I must get up," he rose, rubbed the rumples out of his trousers with a laugh, and pictured our climbing like spiders with such vivacity that when, as he concluded, another ventured to speak, our leader said, "When the spirit has orbed itself in a man, there is nothing more to offer." Who shall come after the king?

Christopher Pearse Cranch.

BORN in Alexandria, Va., 1813. DIED at Cambridge, Mass., 1892.

STANZAS.

[Poems. 1844.]

THOUGHT is deeper than all speech,

Feeling deeper than all thought;

Souls to souls can never teach
What unto themselves was taught.

We are spirits clad in veils:

Man by man was never seen;
All our deep communion fails
To remove the shadowy screen.

Heart to heart was never known;
Mind with mind did never meet;
We are columns left alone,

Of a temple once complete.

Like the stars that gem the sky,
Far apart, though seeming near,

In our light we scattered lie;

All is thus but starlight here.

What is social company

But a babbling summer stream?

What our wise philosophy

But the glancing of a dream?

Only when the sun of love

Melts the scattered stars of thought;

Only when we live above

What the dim-eyed world hath taught;