more lowly affections, which 'smell
sweet' though they 'blossom in the dust,' and they are the only
resurrection these dead ones can ever have. I have been reading, in
Maury's Geography of the Sea, how the sea's dead are preserved; how they
stand like enchanted warders of the treasures of the deep, unchanged,
except that the expression of life is exchanged for the ghastliness of
death. So, down beneath the surface currents do some deep souls preserve
their dead hopes, joys, loves. Oh, this is unwise; this is _not_ as God
intended; for, unlike the sea's dead, there will be for these no
resurrection.

Thus far I wrote, when the current of my thoughts was changed by a
lively tune struck up by a hand-organ across the street. I am not 'good'
at distinguishing tunes, but this one I had so often heard in childhood,
and had so wondered at its strange title, that I could but remember it.
It was 'The Devil's Dream.' Were I a poet, I would write the words to
it;--but then, too, I would need be a musician to compose a suitable new
tune to the words! The rattling, reckless notes should be varied by
those sad enough to make an unlost angel weep--an unlost angel, for, to
the hot eyes of the lost, no tears can come. 'The _Devil's_
Dream'--perhaps it is of Heaven. Doubtless, frescoed in heavenly colors
on the walls of his memory, are scenes from which fancy has but to brush
the smoke and grime of perdition to restore them to almost their
original beauty. I could even pity the 'Father of lies,' the 'Essence of
evil,' the 'Enemy of mankind,' when I think of the terrible awaking. But
does _he_ ever sleep? Has there since the fall been a pause in _his_
labors? Perhaps the reason this tune-time is so fast is because he is
dreaming in a hurry,--must soon be up and doing. But it is my opinion
that he has so wound up the world to wickedness, that he might sleep a
hundred years, and it would have scarcely begun to run down on his
awaking; when, from the familiar appearance of all things, he would
swear 'it was but an after-dinner nap.' Indeed he might die, might
to-day go out in utter nothingness like a falling star, and it would be
away in the year two thousand before he would be missed,--we have
learned to do our own devil-work so rarely. Meanwhile the well-wound
world--as a music-box plays over the same tunes--would go on sinning
over the same old sins. Satan is a great economist, but a paltry
deviser,--he has not invented a new sin since the