see the Messenger himself holding the Lotus flower in his hand. It is
more piteous still to see him, like a captured animal, seeking some
way of escape through the bars. He must get a horse--it is only exercise
he wants; he must have a longer vacation--it is only rest he wants;
he must have more society--it is only recreation he needs; he must
have less society--it is only quiet he requires. His blindness is
inexplicable. He will walk in a garden and point out to you a tree
that cannot last longer than such a time; he will point to a worn-out
beast of burden that must die at such a time; he knows the death date
of everything that springs from earth except himself. In his blind
hope he grasps at the worst of straws. No new universal panacea comes
out that he does not seize on it, and that he is not sure, for a little
while is doing him good. At last he weakens in the struggle and is
taken to the rear. The procession of Life moves on; he never joins it
again. If all this had happened to only one man, the World would be
in tears. As it happens to all men, the World hardly gives it a thought.
But to him, that One Man is all the world, and it is hard to get his
thoughts away from himself. As the Procession of Life passes on, and
the hum of its marching columns grows fainter on his ears, let us hope
that there may come to him that unworldly quiet that Death pityingly
sends in advance, and amid which Hope steals noiselessly away from the
bedside to make room for Faith. And in which he may take the pale
flower from the hand of the Messenger, and following him through the
dawn of a new birth, see another Hand, holding out to him the purple
amaranth of Eternal Life.




OBSERVATIONS OF RETIRED VETERAN VIII