The grave, hallowed by religion and the queen of arts, poetry, has become to us the emblem of eternal rest—something that is beautiful; something in which we may sleep long and well. The weeping-willow droops its slender branches over it, sweet, fragrant flowers thrive upon its soil, and the little birds perch there to sing their song.

The rays of the sun often play upon the small earth elevation, and lend additional beauty to the green foliage of the trees, the bright color of the many flowers.

But verily, we are like the sunshine—superficial. It is the great fault of mankind to be satisfied with a film-like knowledge of things. To go deeper, to dive below the superstratum, would mean to meet, perhaps, with matters not at all pleasant; to become cognizant of facts never before dreamt of. Consequently, the majority of men is content to remain on the surface; content to know a little, but not all.

Thank God, there are happily individuals left who descend to the bottom of every question, scientific or social, and who daily enrich all departments of learning.

As regards the grave, let us first of all listen to him who has held generations of folk spellbound; let us bow reverently before the opinion of one of the masters among English novelists—Charles Dickens.

67

THE CREMATORIUM AT CREMONA.

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