The Pulaski citizen. [volume] (Pulaski, Tenn.) 1866-current, 1872-06-27
tags aud Sentiment.
TIE MINISTER Of MifTEl.!A.l.sl. ! LAR.

ENSANtS MS eyes, the whole world
seemed Wavering and uncertain in
n | those days. He laid his book down,
and began to think of the great
trouble which was shutting him in
? When the black specks first began
to dance between him and his paper,
months ago. he had not thought
t about the matter. 1t was annoying,
to be sure, but he must have taxed
his eyes too serVerely. He would
work little less by lamplight-spare
them aWhile-and be should be all
right. So he had spared them more
and more, and yet his speeks kept
on their ilfin dance; and now for
weeks the conviction had been grow
ing on him slowly, so slowly that
he was going to be blind. He had
not told his wife yet-how could he
bear to lay on her shoulders the
burden Of his great calamity? o,
it was too hard
/ And yet was it too hard? Dared he
say so? he, Gods minister-who had
told other sufferers so many times
that their chastenings were dealt
out to them by kind Fathers hand,
and that they should count all that
brought them nearer to Him as joy
Gus, not grievous?
Yet speaking after the manner. Of /
this world, his burden seemed great |
er than he could bear. What could |
he do--a blind, helpless Jnan? He
must give up his work IN life-let |
another take his ministry. Could
he be thus resigned?
/ Then suddenly a fash OF hope
kindIed his sky, there might be help |
for him. This gathering darkness |
might be something which science |
could remove. He would be sure of
that before he told Mary. And then |
he became fsveTishly impatient. He /
called his wife, and told her with a /
manner which he tried hard to make /
calm, that lie was going out Of town
the next morning on a little busi-
ness. She wondered that he was 50 /
| uncommunicative-- was not like /
!hiIn-but che would not trouble him
with any questions. She should
understand it all sCme time, she
knew, still she thought there was
ling strange in his way of
speaking.
The minister strove mad for the
mastery of his own spirit, as the cas-
whirled him along the next morning
toward the tribunal at which he was
to receive his sentence. He tried to
think of something else, but found
the effort in vain; so he said, over
and over, as simply as child, one
form Of words:
Father, which ever way it turns,
o give me strength to bear it."
Holding fast to his prayer as an
anchor, lie got out Of the cars and
went into the streets. What q cuIi-
ous mist seemed to surround all
thingsl The houses looked spectral 7
through it; the very people he met '
seemed like ghosts. He had not
realized his defective vision so much
at home, where it had come on him
gradually; and all objects were 50
familiar. Still, with IA effort, he
could see the signs on the street
corners, and find his way.
He reached, at last, the residence
of the distinguished occulist for
whose verdict he had come. He
found the parlor hall filed with peO-
pie, waiting like himself He was I
asked for his name, and sent in a
card on which was written, the 'Rev.
William Spencer, MOuntclair. - !
Then he waited his turn. He dared
not think how long the time was,
rwhat suspense he was in. He just
kept his simple child's prayer IN his
heart, and steadicd himself with 1t.
The time came for him at last,
and he followed the boy who sum
moned him into little room shaded
with green, with furniture, and on a
table a vase of flowers. The still
ness and the cool scented air re-
freshed him. He saw dimly, as he
saw everything that morning, tall,
slight man, with kind face and
quiet manners, who addressed him
by name, invited him to cit down, ]
and then inquired into his symp-
toms with such tact and sympathy
that he felt as if he were talking
with a friend. At last the doctor
asked him to take a seat by the
window and have his eyes examined. (
His heart beat chokiagly and he
whispered under his breath:
"Thy will, o God, be done; only ,
give strength"
DIR. Gordon was silent for q mo
ment or two-iJ seemed ages to Mr..
Spencer. Then he said with the
tenderest and saddest voice, as if he
felt to the utmost all the pain he was
inflicting:
Il cannot give you any hope. The
malad is incurable. You will not 4
lose your sight entirely just yet; but
it must come soon.
The minister tried to ask how long
it would be before he should be blind,
but his tongue seemed to cleaye to
the roof of his mouth, and he could
only gasp:
DR.. Gordon understood, and an
swered kindly, that it might be a
month, possibly two.
He stood up then to go, He knew
all hope was over. He paid his fee
and went out of the room out of the
house. 1t seemed to him things had !
grown darker since he went in. He
hardly knew nov hc toUuo MS ""J
TO the cars. It was two hours past
dinner time, and he was faint for
lack of food, but be did not know It,
He got to the station somehow and
waited for the train to start for
Nontclair. All the way home he
kept whispering to himself-''OneI
month. possibly twO-"as it were a
a. -, +bo cra%finCr hv heart of
which his life depended. He heard
the conductor call Montclair at last
and got out of the car mechanically. /
His vile stood there waiting for
him. She had been anxious about
him all day.
20. Williamr' she cried, and then
she saw his face and stopped. There
was a look on it of one over whom
some awful doom is pending, white
60 Ioot- that chilled her She