goodness of the human heart, which naturally longs for good, and sighs
itself to sleep in the hope that, if parted, the parting is for the benefit
of those that are gone. But these inscriptions are also awful instances of
the deep intellectual darkness which presses still on the minds of men. The
least thought erases them. There is no consolation. There is no relief.
There is no hope certain; the whole system is a mere illusion. I, who hope
so much, and am so rapt up in the soul, know full well that there is no
certainty.

The tomb cries aloud to us--its dead silence presses on the drum
of the ear like thunder, saying, Look at this, and erase your
illusions; now know the extreme value of human life; reflect on
this and strew human life with flowers; save every hour for the
sunshine; let your labour be so ordered that in future times the loved ones
may dwell longer with those who love them; open your
minds; exalt your souls; widen the sympathies of your hearts;
face the things that are now as you will face the reality of death; make joy
real now to those you love, and help forward the joy of those yet to be
born. Let these facts force the mind and the soul to the increase of
thought, and the consequent remission of misery; so that those whose time it
is to die may have enjoyed all that is possible in life. Lift up your mind
and see now in this bitterness of parting, in this absence of certainty, the
fact that there is no directing intelligence; remember that this death is
not of old age, which no one living in the world has ever seen; remember
that old age is possible, and perhaps even more than old age; and beyond
these earthly things-what? None know. But let us, turning away from the
illusion of a directing intelligence, look earnestly for something better
than a god, seek for something higher than
prayer, and lift our souls to be with the more than immortal
now.