ners wave! How the gray lines sweep onward and the blue lines break and flee in dismay! And how a shout goes up from the well won field that reverberates from hill to hill and pierces the sky above! It is the shout of victory-a wild, weird, ringing shout that defies a world in arms.

Alas! we are dreaming! All these are but specters of the past.

Pass on ye shades of grand leaders-ye thunderbolts of war and beacon lights of peace! Pass on across the shadowy boundaries of time into the land of eternal peace and rest! The gray lines that followed you are melting away. They, too, are trooping fast across the shadowy border. The men who followed you through four years of war and honored and loved you through thirty years of peace, must also yield to the silent siege of time. Ere long, we shall all pitch our tents with yours on "the eternal camping ground" beyond the sunset and the night, where we trust we shall meet yon and know you and love you again.

UNUTTERABLE THOUGHTS.

It has been said that those who listened to Lord Chatham always felt that there was something finer in the man than anything which he said. When all the facts about Mirabeau have been told, they do

not justify the estimate that has been put upon his genius.

History contains the names of many men of great figure and few deeds. There is nothing in the record of facts that will account for the fame of Sam Johnson, for the personal weight of the name of Washington, for the greatness of Calhoun.

In our common experience, we are continually meeting with men who impress us favorably or unfavorably, and we cannot tell why. This casual acquaintance draws us as by strong invisible chords and fastens us to him as by invisible hooks of steel. That other one is an unmagnetized personality, and we come into his presence and pass out of it, wholly unimpressed by any sensible phenomenon; or possibly he is charged with the wrong kind of magnetism and we are quickly repelled and driven in an opposite direction.

There are men all around us who stand high in the confidence and esteem of their fellow men, while others of greater talents and equal probity are either coldly ignored or openly repudiated. In business, hardly any man succeeds by conforming strictly to theoretical principles. One man seems to violate every theory, and yet steadily accumulates; while another seems to shape his course by the soundest principles and the safest rules, and yet runs into bankruptcy and financial ruin.

In politics, it may be truly said that the race is

not always won by the swift, nor the battle by the strong. Who has not observed men without prestige, without intellectual or moral power, without a single visible qualification that would recommend them for a position of grave responsibilities, yet triumphing in popular elections over competitors possessed in abundance of all these supposed requisites?

What can such phenomena mean, but that there are powers in every man that cannot be analyzed and cannot be revealed by palpable manifestations —that there are deep currents in every man's life, whose source, like that of subterranean rivers, has never been explored and whose course has never been followed? And may not these currents all be connected like the waters under the earth, and mingle through unseen channels with the great ocean of human thought and feelings? May not every ripple on these unseen currents ruffle the surface of all and at last impart an impulse to the vast ocean already throbbing with deep and mysterious life?

Such a view would explain telepathy and many other mysterious intellectual and emotional phenomena. It would account for the thoughts that often seem to come from afar, and pass by in the night, as it were, persistently eluding the grasp of our minds. It would afford a plausible hypothesis for many of those strong emotions that often agitate the depths of our nature, while their existence

is known only by the scarcely palpable wavelets that play on the surface. The mind has never sent down divers to explore those depths; no sounding line has ever reached them; no intelligible message has ever come from them; they send only mysterious cablegrams in untranslatable cipher to inform us of their actual existence and presence.

in me.

With the weight of eighty years resting upon him, Victor Hugo exclaimed: "For half a century I have been writing my thoughts in prose and verse, history, philosophy, drama, romance, tradition, satire, ode and song-I have tried all. But I feel that I have not said a thousandth part of what is When I go down to the grave I can say, like so many others, I have finished my day's work, but I cannot say 'I have finished my life.' My day's work will begin again next morning. *** My work is only beginning. My monument is hardly above its foundation. I would be glad to see it mounting and mounting forever." The experience, however in less degree, is that of us all. No man has ever told the thousandth part of what is in him. When genius but touches the surface of the deep sea of unutterable things with the tips of its wings, we are startled and held entranced as by a message from another world. But genius has never reached the depths of our love, our hate, our fears or any other of the strong passions that stir the waters over which our life boats are gliding. Who has not

Who has

been moved by unutterable thoughts? not been conscious of standing in the presence of unutterable things? Who has not felt time and again, that beneath this surface life-this flippant wayward, changeful life, the sport of destiny, the prey of fortuitous calamity-who has not felt that beneath such a life, there is a deeper, truer life, throbbing with stronger pulsations, thrilled with more glowing hopes, and reaching into infinity, on the one hand in its unsatisfied longings, and on the other, in its vague and boundless fears?

You have felt the pulsations of this life at twilight when the hurry and bustle of the day were over and you sat musing among the gathering shadows. Faces of strange beauty peered at you out of the shadows, and voices long ago hushed to the common ear, seemed borne to you on the gentle breezes from the west, and your soul felt the thrill of words unspeakable when you held a sweet and holy communion with the loved of other days, and felt the movings within you of the deeper and more powerful life. How poor and mean and weak would be the effort to clothe the manifestations of that hour in words! What mockery, what desecration it would be of "thoughts too deep for tears!" How strangely incongruous would be the articulate sounds of babbling tongues in the echoing chambers of your heart.

All along through this strange life we are con