But The Old Worn-Out Labourer, Who Happily Has
Not Gone To End His Days In Captivity In The Bitter Home Of The Poor -
He, Sitting On A Tomb To Rest And Basking In The Sunshine, Has A Whole
Crowd Of The Vanished Villagers About Him.
It is useless their telling us that when we die we are instantly judged
and packed straight off to some region where we are destined to spend
an eternity.
We know better. Nature, our own hearts, have taught us
differently. Furthermore, we have heard of the resurrection - that the
dead will rise again at the last day; and with all our willingness to
believe what our masters tell us, we know that even a dead man can't be
in two places at the same time. Our dead are here where we laid them;
sleeping, no doubt, but not so soundly sleeping, we imagine, as not to
see and hear us when we visit and speak to them. And being villagers
still though dead, they like to see us often, whenever we have a few
spare minutes to call round and exchange a few words with them.
This extremely beautiful - and in its effect beneficial - feeling and
belief, or instinct, or superstition if the superior inhabitants of the
wood-ants' nest, who throw their dead away and think no more about
them, will have it so - is a sweet and pleasant thing in the village
life and a consolation to those who are lonely. Let me in conclusion
give an instance.
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