Gallipolis journal. [volume] (Gallipolis, Ohio) 1837-1919, 1870-09-22
For the Gallipohs Journal.
RETROSPECTIVE.

member the hour, though months have
flown, that we stood by the death bed
of our now Angel sister, and witnessed
the struggle of the spirit to free itself
from its tenement of clay. At last the
strife is o'er, and the jewel flown
Kind hands robe the still cold form in
the habiliments of the grave-while we,
ah! we, move like automatons through
the now silent house of death. The
blow, though looked for for months,
yet it has fallen so heavy-aud we can
neither sigh nor weep. Morn dawns at
last, and sympathetic hand lays upon
the stilled heart an emblem of the now
redeemed spirit-a lily. Three days
have flown since the Angel of Death
entered our once peaceful home, and
the cortege prepared moves slowly
from the house of mourning to the
house of God. while the church bell
chimes through the chambers of our
heart in solemn monotones. We enter
the sacred vestibule of God and the
organ trllls and trembles as if it, too,
wept for her who would no more Join
her voice in concert with its notes.
The choir rises and chants that sweet
hymn we have SO often heard our sis
ter sing, "Weep no more, Weep no
more;" and now the long stayed tears
burst forth racking our frame with
fearful throes. But the blessed words
of the servant of God come stealing into
our heart flooding its recesses with a
light from that land whence our loved
ones gone. With tender cadence he
speaks the beautiful words: "In our
Fathers house are many mansions"
The last hymn is sung and the last
words spoken, and the cortege takes
up its march for the grave. "Earth
to Earth" and "Dust to Dust" are re
peated, and the form of our beloved
sister is lowered into the cold, cold
grave, from whence it shall arise no
more until the great resurrection
Now the grave is being rapidly filed
with earth, and the clods, falling in
upon the coffin, strikes our heart with
that heaviness which only they can feel
who have witnessed the burial of some
dear friend.
IT'S eve and to our desolate home
we have returned. The fire is lit in
the CRATE, and around it we gather, not
to hold sweet converse as we were
wont, but to commune with SELF
Only God knows what these self COM
munions are-they are so bitter. The
coal bursts and spurts with little jets
of gas, filling the room with strange
and weird light, and casting upon the
wall like phantasmagoria, the image
of the past. Now the city of B,
is seen, and the little playmates of our
childhood go trooping by
Lead by the gentle hand of our mother
we are again clambering up old Friedral
Hill to watch the ships and schooners
come sailing into harbor. With our
little hands clasped we are once more
the old familiar paths that
lead to Christ Church Sabbath School.
Dear old church! how many pleasant
are associated with thy name!
The scene changes, and we stand in
a darkened room, while people with
awe struck faces move silently about.
We hear the word-dead, but we are
too young to realize its dread import
Our mother comes and presses US to
her heart while she murmurs through
her sobs and tears. "Oh God, spare,
oh, spare these four" Then she takes
US by the hand and leads US to corner
Of the room where stands couch COW
cred with white cloth, ,and while laying
back the cloth she whispers, "Your
poor little sister Mary is dead" Dead!
And with our childish mind we wonder
what she means by saying dead! To
US our little sister only sleepeth. We
place our hand upon her forehead, and
it's cold and icy. We call her by
name, but she answers not! Then
child that we are, we realize something,
but what that something is we do not
know. Yet for very sympathy we
throw our arms around our mothers
neck and mingle our tears with hers
But like shifting panorama the scenes
are ever changing, and now we behold
Ourself a child Ger whose head seven
summers have flown - a child old
enough to realize the difference be |
tween home of plenty and home of
poverty.
The hands of the clock on the
mantlepiece point to the hour of
three and by the Pickering light of
a lamp we see our faithful mother
plying the needle, yes, though mid
nights past and morn has come,
and we, crildlike, creep from
our little bed and say emo
ther, dear mother, tbs almost morn
ing," please come to bedl' But
she replies, "poor child, you know
not what you ask, this work must
be done before the mornings light,
to buy food for your sisters and
brothers" Then she kisses us and
says "child go back to bed-mother
IAN t come yet" But our hearts too
full for sleep, and down at her feet
We sit, thinging how one day we
,halI labor for mother as she has
worked for us. We think of that
ar off manhood and plan with our
childish mind a palace, grand and
beautiful. We see our mother pre-
iding o'er its household, surround
ID with works of art and the wealth
md luxury that she has been so
,ruelly robbed of.
But this scene, too, changes,
md we see our mother heart broken
With her many trials, on the eve of
departure for the West. For the
asst time we visit Greenmount
cemetery, to strew upon the graves
# father, sister and brother, our
lowers. The last kiss is giveny
md the last farewell spoken, and the