grasping idolater of riches, who clung to his coin, and clutched for
more, until he was dragged away by the one hand that was colder and
stronger than his own. Here was brought the little child, out of whose
narrow grave there blossomed the beginnings of a new life to the father
and mother, who in the better life to come will be found among the
blessed company of those whose only path to paradise lay through the
valley of tears. Here were brought the many wanderers, whose last
earthly wish was to go back home, on the other side of the mountains, to
die, but were denied by the stern messenger who never waits nor spares.
And here was brought the mortal part of the aged disciple of Jesus, in
whose dying-chamber the two worlds met, and whose death-throes were
demonstrably the birth of a child of God into the life of glory.

The first time I ever visited the place was to attend the funeral of a
suicide. The dead man I had known in Virginia, when I was a boy. He was
a graduate of the Virginia Military Institute, and when I first knew him
he was the captain of a famous volunteer company. He was as handsome as
a picture--the admiration of the girls, and the envy of the young men
of his native town. He was among the first who rushed to California on
the discovery of gold, and of all the heroic men who gave early
California its best bias none was knightlier than this handsome
Virginian; none won stronger friends, or had brighter hopes. He was the
first State Senator from San Francisco. He had the magnetism that won
and the nobility that retained the love of men. Some men push themselves
forward by force of intellect or of will--this man was pushed upward by
his friends because he had their hearts. He married a beautiful woman,
whom he loved literally unto death. I shall not recite the whole story.
God only knows it fully, and he will judge righteously. There was
trouble, rage, and tears, passionate partings and penitent reunions--the
old story of love dying a lingering yet violent death. On the fatal