less generously to the genial warmth of spring and the leaves will assume a paler green in the fierce glare of summer. The life-current turns backward and the wonderful organism, which through months and years and, it may be, centuries, has felt "the instinct of might" imparted by life and growth, now hastens to death and decay.

Neither the earth istelf nor anything on it or in it, is still. This great globe is ever whirling on its axis and flying along its orbit with a velocity which can only be expressed by a row of figures that in their significance far transcend the limits of finite comprehension, while on its surface the tide of life rises and falls, flows and ebbs, with the restless persistency, with the fateful regularity of the oceanic waters that lash the beach and beat the bases of the rocky cliffs in their mad efforts to follow the smiling moon on her serene and silent journey.

Nations grow up and spread themselves like multitudinous hosts of locusts; dynasties rise, and reign, and fall; the Celt yields to the Teuton, and the Teuton to the Norseman, and everywhere the strong races trample down the weak and grow stronger, and by virtue of their strength lay claim to the earth as an inheritance. They cover the plains with cities and whiten the seas with the sails of commerce; they lay hold of the forces of Nature and bid them multiply luxuries and minister to greed and pride and vanity; they babble secrets that have been kept

from the foundations of the world and march with measured tread toward the realm of unlimited achievement and universal dominion. And this is the world's life, and the tide is on the flow. Will it go on rising and rising forever?

A

Not with this generation-not with the nations that now compass the seas with their power and fill the earth with their fame. The limits of a nation's life and power and glory are as definitely fixed as the duration of a man's life and achievements. nation's life may be long but it is none the less limited. It may have been born so long ago that its origin was wrapped in the nebulous haze of legend and fable, and countless generations may have come and gone in long succession before history ever recorded its deeds or fame ever celebrated its story. And then it may flourish for centuries in the rosy light of morning and shine for centuries more in the dazzling noonday of power and glory, but the evening draws on apace, the shadows gather around its monuments, the dust settles upon its records, and the scene closes in endless, rayless night. Thus it was with Greece and Rome, with Palmyra and Babylon. Thus it will be with the mightiest nations of to-day-with the great republic of America, with the mighty empire of Britain, with the vast monarchy of Russia, with all the mighty aggregations of people that band together and push their conquests of peace and war "from

the rivers to the ends of the earth." These shall all fade like the leaves of the forest-shall all pass like gigantic shadows down the great highway of centuries.

But it is only the bodies of nations that perishonly forms that change and vanish. The souls of nations, like the souls of men, are immortal. In the ever-ringing changes of land and sea, old forms vanish that new and higher forms may come. The great ocean of life is ever swelling and rising. Its waves are ever beating more and more strongly up on the shore-ever mounting higher towards the clear, ethereal blue, with its setting of glittering stars, up the sides of "the Delectable Mountains" whose lofty tops are ablaze forever with the ineffable glory of God.

OLD BRAGG.

On the 27th of last January at Columbia, Tenn., a large crowd of the best people of the town and the surrounding country through a cold drizzling rain followed to the grave the remains of a man who was known to the country only because he had been associated with others who were widely known. The man was old Bragg-not the famous general, the hero of two wars and the lion of Chickamauga ---but the faithful body servant of that hero, a humble negro with black skin, but a true, faithful, hon

est heart. The funeral was unique, nothing like it perhaps ever having before occurred on this continent. It was conducted entirely by white people. A white preacher spoke loving and tender words over the body, white pall-bearers bore it gently to the grave, and lovely white girls, the daughters of the Confederacy, brought gorgeous floral offerings and stood reverently in the chilling rain throughout the ceremonies. The veterans turned out in a body and with bare heads and sorrowful faces paid the tribute of respect and love always due from the brave to the brave.

It is told as a remarkable coincidence, that just as the filled grave was being rounded and smoothed and the last tender words of the ritual were being pronounced, the clouds parted in a long rift and the glorious sunshine came streaming down on the scene, dissipating the gloom and darkness, kissing the wreaths of bright flowers that were placed on the grave and bathing the fresh mound of earth in a flood of joyous light, as if Heaven were setting the seal of "Well done thou good and faithful servant" on the scene that honored the life and character of old Bragg. May we not believe that the sunshine which chased away the shadows from the resting place of all that remained of old Bragg on earth, was but a faint emblem of the glory that broke in upon his disembodied spirit as it winged its flight to the realms above to take its place in the

ranks of all those, who, because they were true to their trusts, are made kings and priests of God?

The people of Tennessee honored themselves in honoring old Bragg-more, they honored human nature, for they paid a voluntary tribute to virtue on its merits, independent of condition, circumstance, or surroundings.

The old negro had done his duty as he saw it; he had been faithful and true to a trust that was measured by his slender abilities; he had done his best in the narrow degraded sphere which had been assigned him. That is true manhood; that is sublime heroism, whether it be found in the humble ignorant negro clothed in filthy rags or in princes and presidents arrayed in robes of royal purple. All honor to the man who is faithful and true; whether he be high or low, rich or poor, white or black, bond or free, "he's king of men for a' that." We envy not the man whose mind is so clouded with prejudice and whose heart is so tainted with malice. that he cannot be moved with love and reverence and admiration by the story of the life and character of old Bragg-who could not stand uncovered at his grave and feel his pride and ambition rebuked and his soul swell within him with longings for something truer and purer and nobler than men have ever found among the evanescent honors with which the world delights to crown the successful sons of fortune and of fame.