That sense of the unreality of the market-place followed the financier after the artistic music had ended the service. Later in the day he wandered along the country roads in the spring sunshine, thinking of the sermon. How dramatic it all had been and how perfect a performance! It seemed a part of the fresh spring day as the inviting green fields melted into his reverie and he followed the path with careless strides.
The wind gently stirred the branches and a delicate shower of fragrant petals fell at his feet, while a strangely familiar odor filled the air with its long-forgotten charm. Apple blossoms! How sweet they were! With delicious subtlety the perfumed breath from the boughs filled him with its own ethereal magic. Nature was playing a glorious game of sound and color and form and fragrance. Deep in his slumbering heart something stirred and fluttered and sprang up at the first touch of this enchantment. The power in the fragile petals swept the sordid earth from under his feet. The dear old apple orchard of his boyhood was before him. Again he stood upon the threshold of joyous, strong, young life. The taste of sweet belief in an untried world was on his lips, the wine of high impulse tingling in every nerve. The harmony of life's song thrilled him into vibrant sympathy with its purity and beauty and his heart glowed with the faith which only youth knows.
Oh that he might crystallize the wondrous meaning of this perfumed vision of unfolding life into sound or color or form that would make the dreary world of men feel that this, this was the reality! His pulses throbbed with a longing for toil and struggle and sacrifice—no effort was too great, no price too much to pay, if only he might help to voice this living poetry. He would valiantly espouse this cause of beauty until mankind's glad belief should liberate the truth imprisoned in a selfish world. No lesser ambition should lure him from the task: this was the only thing worth while. Other champions might prove more able, and he might sadly fail; but oh, how he longed to lose himself in the glory of the attempt.
With uncovered head the financier stood disciple-wise among the trees. Long and deeply he drank of the redolent air, feasting his eyes upon the marvel of perfectly tinted petals and countless buds of promise still brighter in their tender curves. It was all too subtle for analysis, yet his heart recognized the meaning of the message so strangely sweet and strong. What revelation lay at the heart of this unfoldment, with its touch of the eternal spring which sleeps beneath all forms! Oh the power and inspiration and the rare, old-time enchantment of returning apple-blossoms!
SOKRATES: by F. S. Darrow, A. M., Ph. D. (Harv.)
SOKRATES was born in 469 b. c. and was put to death in 399 b. c. at the age of seventy. He grew to manhood among the splendors of the Periklean Age; took an active and honorable part in the Peloponnesian War; saw the Long Walls, extending from Athens to its harbor, Peiraeeus, destroyed at the blast of Lysander's trumpet, and displayed the fearlessness and nobility of his nature during the Reign of Terror when the Thirty Tyrants ruled at Athens. Finally he was accused of heresy and was condemned by his fellow-citizens to drink the hemlock—the immemorial fate of great believers, to be condemned for unbelief by unbelievers.
Three dialogs of Plato depict the last month of his master's life, the Apology, the Crito, and the Phaedo. The Apology is a reproduction of the extemporaneous defense made by Sokrates at his trial. The Crito is a discussion between Sokrates and his old friend Kriton on the subject: Would it be right and just for Sokrates to accept Kriton's proffered assistance and escape? The Phaedo is a most beautiful and inspiring account of the last day of Sokrates' life, when in prison surrounded by a few devoted disciples, in discussing the nature and destiny of the soul he avowed his belief in its immortality, its pre-existence, and its rebirth.