straightway begin to
develop it there. The atmosphere of eternity alone befits a nature
which feels itself living in the companionship of God. Everything
subject to decay cowers into oblivion from before the idea of that
august, incorruptible presence. The fear of death is but the
recoil of the immortal from mortality. When man voluntarily faces
death without fear, even courting martyrdom with a radiant joy, it
is because there is in him, deeper than consciousness, a mystic
knowledge that he is essentially eternal and cannot perish. He who
freely sacrifices anything thereby proves himself superior to that
which he sacrifices. Man freely sacrifices his life. Therefore he
is immortal.

The ancient Semitic philosopher and poet who wrote the book of
Job, brooding on the strange problem of life and death, murmured,
"Man giveth up the ghost, and where is he?" With each successive
generation, for many ages, countless millions have dissolved and
vanished into the vast, dumb mystery. Now, the spectator,
remembering all this, stands beneath the dome of midnight,
imploringly breathes the mystic sigh, "Man giveth up the ghost,
and where is he?" The only responses is the same dread silence
still maintained as of old. And, in a moment more, he who breathed
the wondering inquiry is himself gone. Whither? Into the vacant
dark of nothingness? Into the transparent sphere of perfect
intelligence? The sublimity of the demand seems to ally the finite
questioner with the infinite Creator; and, with a presentiment of
marvelous joy, we look beyond the ignorant veil at the close of
earth, and hold that eternity itself will not exhaust the
possibilities of the soul, whose career shall be kept from
stagnation by constant interspersals of death and birth,
refreshing disembodiments from worn out forms and reincarnations
in new.

If this life on the earth, where man feels himself a stranger, be
his all, how superfluously he is equipped with foresights and
longings that outrun every conceivable limit! Why is he gifted
with powers of reason and demands of love so far beyond his
conditions? If there be no future for him, why is he tortured with
the inspiring idea of the eternal pursuit of the still flying goal
of perfection? Is it possible that the hero and the martyr and the
saint, whose experience is laden with painful sacrifices for
humanity, are mistaken? and that the slattern and the voluptuary
and the sluggard, whose course is one of base se