The day had been clear, though cold, and late in the afternoon

Beulah wrapped a shawl about her, and ran out into the front yard

for a walk. The rippling tones of the fountain were hushed; the

shrubs were bare, and, outside the greenhouse, not a flower was to

be seen. Even the hardy chrysanthemums were brown and shriveled.

Here vegetation slumbered in the grave of winter. The hedges were

green, and occasional clumps of cassina bent their branches beneath

the weight of coral fruitage. Tall poplars lifted their leafless

arms helplessly toward the sky, and threw grotesque shadows on the

ground beneath, while the wintry wind chanted a mournful dirge

through the somber foliage of the aged, solemn cedars. Noisy flocks

of robins fluttered among the trees, eating the ripe, red yaupon

berries, and now and then parties of pigeons circled round and round

the house. Charon lay on the doorstep, blinking at the setting sun,

with his sage face dropped on his paws. Afar off was heard the hum

of the city; but here all was quiet and peaceful. Beulah looked over

the beds, lately so brilliant and fragrant in their wealth of floral

beauty; at the bare gray poplars, whose musical rustling had so

often hushed her to sleep in cloudless summer nights, and an

expression of serious thoughtfulness settled on her face. Many

months before she had watched the opening spring in this same

garden. Had seen young leaves and delicate blossoms bud out from

naked stems, had noted their rich luxuriance as the summer heat came

on--their mature beauty; and when the first breath of autumn sighed

through the land she saw them flush and decline, and gradually die

and rustle down to their graves. Now, where green boughs and

perfumed petals had gayly looked up in the sunlight, all was

desolate. The piercing northern wind seemed to whisper as it passed,

"Life is but the germ of death, and death the development of a

higher life." Was the cycle eternal then? Were the beautiful

ephemeras she had loved so dearly gone down into the night of death,

but for a season, to be born again, in some distant springtime,

mature, and return, as before, to the charnel-house? Were the

threescore and ten years of human life analogous? Life, too, had its

springtime, its summer of maturity, its autumnal decline, and its

wintry night of death. Were the cold sleepers in the neighboring

cemetery waiting, like those dead flowers, for the tireless

processes of nature, whereby their dust was to be reanimated,

remolded, lighted with a soul, and set forward for another journey

of threescore and ten years of life and labor? Men lived and died;

their ashes enriched Mother Earth; new creations sprang, phoenix-

like, from the sepulcher of the old. Another generation trod life's

path in the dim footprints of their predecessors, and that, too,

vanished in the appointed process, mingling dust with dust, that

Protean matter might hold the even tenor of its way, in accordance

with the oracular decrees of Isis. Was it true that, since the

original Genesis, "nothing had been gained, and nothing lost?" Was

earth, indeed, a monstrous Kronos? If so, was not she as old as

creation? To how many other souls had her body given shelter? How

was her identity to be maintained? True, she had read that identity

was housed in "consciousness," not bones and muscles? But could

there be consciousness without bones and muscles? She drew her shawl

closely around her, and looked up at the cloudless sea of azure. The

sun had sunk below the horizon; the birds had all gone to rest;

Charon had sought the study rug; even the distant hum of the city

was no longer heard. "The silver sparks of stars were rising on the

altar of the east, and falling down in the red sea of the west."

Beulah was chilled; there were cold thoughts in her mind--icy

specters in her heart; and she quickened her pace up and down the

avenue, dusky beneath the ancient gloomy cedars. One idea haunted

her: aside from revelation, what proof had she that, unlike those

moldering flowers, her spirit should never die? No trace was to be

found of the myriads of souls who had preceded her. Where were the

countless hosts? Were life and death balanced? was her own soul

chiliads old, forgetting its former existences, save as dim,

undefinable reminiscences, flashed fitfully upon it? If so, was it a

progression? How did she know that her soul had not entered her body

fresh from the release of the hangman, instead of coming down on

angel wings from its starry home, as she had loved to think? A

passage which she had read many weeks before flashed upon her mind:

"Upon the dead mother, in peace and utter gloom, are reposing the

dead children. After a time uprises the everlasting sun; and the

mother starts up at the summons of the heavenly dawn, with a

resurrection of her ancient bloom. And her children? Yes, but they

must wait a while!" This resurrection was springtime, beckoning

dormant beauty from the icy arms of winter; how long must the

children wait for the uprising of the morning star of eternity? From

childhood these unvoiced queries had perplexed her mind, and,

strengthening with her growth, now cried out peremptorily for

answers. With shuddering dread she strove to stifle the spirit

which, once thoroughly awakened, threatened to explore every nook

and cranny of mystery. She longed to talk freely with her guardian

regarding many of the suggestions which puzzled her, but shrank

instinctively from broaching such topics. Now, in her need, the

sublime words of Job came to her: "Oh, that my words were now

written! oh, that they were printed in a book; for I know that my

Redeemer liveth, and that he shall stand at the latter day upon the

earth; and though worms destroy this body, yet in my flesh shall I

see God." Handel's "Messiah" had invested this passage with

resistless grandeur, and, leaving the cold, dreary garden, she sat

down before the melodeon and sang a portion of the Oratorio. The

sublime strains seemed to bear her worshiping soul up to the

presence-chamber of Deity, and exultingly she repeated the

concluding words: "For now is Christ risen from the dead:

The first-fruits of them that sleep."




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