KNOWLEDGE consists in the perception of facts, their relations--conditions, modes and results of action. Experience is the foundation of knowledge--without experience it is impossible to know. It may be that experience can be transmitted--inherited. Suppose that an infinite being existed in infinite space. He being the only existence, what knowledge could he gain by experience? He could see nothing, hear nothing, feel nothing. He would have no use for what we call the senses. Could he use what we call the faculties of the mind? He could not compare, remember, hope or fear. He could not reason. How could he know that he existed? How could he use force? There was in the universe nothing that would resist--nothing. ***** Most men are economical when dealing with abundance, hoarding gold and wasting time--throwing away the sunshine of life--the few remaining hours, and hugging to their shriveled hearts that which they do not and cannot even expect to use. Old age should enjoy the luxury of giving. How divine to live in the atmosphere, the climate of gratitude! The men who clutch and fiercely hold and look at wife and children with eyes dimmed by age and darkened by suspicion, giving naught until the end, then give to death the gratitude that should have been their own. ***** DEATH OF THE AGED. * From a letter of condolence written to a friend on the death of his mother. After all, there is something tenderly appropriate in the serene death of the old. Nothing is more touching than the death of the young, the strong. But when the duties of life have all been nobly done; when the sun touches the horizon; when the purple twilight falls upon the past, the present, and the future; when memory, with dim eyes, can scarcely spell the blurred and faded records of the vanished days--then, surrounded by kindred and by friends, death comes like a strain of music. The day has been long, the road weary, and the traveler gladly stops at the welcome inn. Nearly forty-eight years ago, under the snow, in the little town of Cazenovia, my poor mother was buried. I was but two years old. I remember her as she looked in death. That sweet, cold face has kept my heart warm through all the changing years. ***** There is no cunning art to trace In any feature, form or face, Or wrinkled palm, with criss-cross lines The good or bad in peoples' minds. Nor can we guess men's thoughts or aims By seeing how they write their names. We could as well foretell their acts By getting outlines of their tracks. Ourselves we do not know--how then Can we find out our fellow-men? And yet--although the reason laughs-- We like to look at autographs-- And almost think that we can guess What lines and dots of ink express. * From the autograph collection of Miss Eva Ingersoll Farrell. August 11, 1892. R. G. Ingersoll. *****