Morning journal and courier., 1891-12-30

But they say he died at high noon on
Wednesday, December %, 1891.
Who died, Colonel George M. Whitea
No, he did not.
Thou wilt not leave us in the dust;
Thou madeSt man, he knows not why;
He thinks he was not made to die;
| And thou hast made him; thou art just
Deadl Colonel George NJ. White deada
Is liberty deada Is freedom deada Is the
| memory of the hottest achievement that
ever crowned the ages dead9 Not quite;
not quite. No more is any loyal Union
soldier dead; and our, brother was loyal,
| was he nota True to the nations highest
good, as is the needle to the pole, as is the
dial to the sun, was he nota If you mean
by dead that we shall see his face no
more and hear his voice no more on
this side "The River" I grant it. But
cover there" "over there's" how the vet
Grams gather; how they take one another
by the hand; how they throng about their
old leader; how they revive the memories
of the past; how they talk it all over in
that wonder world. And you don't believe
thing in the nature of mind that says I
must nots Is there anything in the reve-
lation of God that says I must nots All,
but you say: 'His religion, his religion
what was itg" don't know. It may not
have been after my type or your type, but
God has types of his own.
When weak and worn and heavy he
could fold his hands and say
Now lay me down to sleep,
pray the lord my soul to keep;
Ipray the lord my soul to take.
know this last is child's religion. I
also know that many a child's religion is
better than that of full grown mans.
And while here and now recognize in the
1o4a H&11 x,,I
could have led an army to battle and to
victory; one who held ready pen; one
whose public talks were gems of beauty,
still, no memory more sweet will rest
itself in my heart than this
fact, that when the silver cord
was being loosed and the golden bonds
breaking, he had thought and purpose
in his life to say:
:'Now lay me down to sleep.
Ipray the Lord my soul to keep"
Nor was that all. When his end seemed
near he was heard trying to sing:
"Jesus, lover of my soul,
Let me to thy bosom fly,
While the pillows near me roll,
While the tempest still is high.
And once he said to his beloved wife:
'I never hear the name of Jesus without a
thrill"
Soldiersl comrades! bless God to-day
Keep his memory green. Hold his name
and reputation in perpetual honor.
And sure I am that there was that in our
| brothers. life which, to wife and children,
will be more precious than silver or gold
He loved his home, and the dear ones
| there were to him his highest earthly good
But we leave him here. Where! Not on
| earth, for he has gone away; not among
| the low and vicious, if such there be in
another sphere, for he would not enjoy
their company; not in any place where
pain and agony will be forced upon him;
but to companioDship of his own choos-
| iug-in that land immortal. Never again
| will he plead any mans favor as a depend
| emit boy. Never again will he fix thought
| and mind on "some Latin grammar" and
then look, with longing eyes, on college or
university.
| Never again will he witness the battle of
the warrior with confused noise and gar
ments rolled in blood, but his life richer,
higher, holier, shall 60 on. Many that he
knew here, perhaps all, will meet him and
greet him there. They knew his work be-
low. They will know his worth above.
| For God must have service higher up.
One by one the old friends will follow and
find the colonel at his post. Do you won
der what that post will be? So I do won
der, but cannot tell. God reigns, and to
him I say:
| "Here in this body pent
Absent from thee roam
Yet nightly pitch my moving tent
day g march nearer homeh
And soon, very soon, that home will be
reached. "Tin them:
though 1 tossed by STORM anaa and d a S
To one fixed stake my spirit clings
| know that God is good.'
Till then:
81 know not where his islands lift
Their fronded palms in air;
only know l cannot drift
Beyond his love and care.
Till then:
| 81 know not what the future hath of marvel O,
only know that life and death Gods mercy
| underlies.'
| And when this shore is won at last,
Who will count the pillows past:
And to-day, while the light of Christmas
week falls 80 softly and SO sweetly over oul
path may we be glad that unto US child
is born, unto us a son is given, and He will
be our comforter and guide" I have read
how a soldier was wounded in one of the
battles of the late war. His mother re-
siding in the north, was notified, and took
the first train that would carry her where
her son lay at deaths door. She reached
the hospital made herself known and asked
l
he was sleeping and it would not be best
to disturb him. She was allowed, however
IT, go to his couch and take the place
of the nurse who sat by his side
with her hand upon his feyerish brow
but hardly had the mothers hand touch.
ed his forehead when he started up. 1t was
dark and he could not see his attendant
"Whose hand was that" he called. "That
felt like my mothers hand: Bring light
and let me see my mothers face" They
brought light. He looked into his moth.
ing his right hand toward heaven exclaim.
ed: BLESSED be God I'm cured Mother
knows what need and won't I follow her
directions? That will" He did, and
rapidly recovered.
There is another hand, not that of moth
or, but that of Christ. It touches every
brow and also gives to us light. How is
it in the new Testament. And now say,
pray you, what the poor wounded soldier
said, '1'm cured" but be sure and add,
Christ knows what I need, and won't /
follow his directions. That will" Happy
the man who makes such choice, and he
alone is safe.
Over the river of the dead, old Charon
rows his boat day and night, night and
day. In the space of four short years six
hundred thousand Union soldiers had
paid their passage and landed on the
thither shore. And since that time what
o multitude have followed. Widowed
wives and fatherless children have reached
out their hands and beckoned the boats
return. But, no. The dead go over and
| go to stay.
| Tender memories remain but, oh, the
river that rolls between; we here, they
| there. Can they look back into our hearts
| and into our honest Who knews? Who
can knowa But the memory; that will
abide, will it nota And our friend; my
friend, your friend. Think you, has he
forgotten this life of his youth-the chill
dren that were so dear and so precious
And the old battle fields, where he put
| heart into his men, have these ceased to
be facts, to be recalled and talked over be-
| cause of changed mode of ivings I do
net think so, nor have heard voice in
heaven or earth that told me that I should.
| cannot believe that any human life passes
into Inconsistencies.
Iwould sooner say with Longfellow:
There Is no death, what seems SO is transition
This life of mortal breath
| Is but suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call DEATH
Or as Bailey has it:
death is another life;
We bow our heads at going out and enter
Another golden chamber of the kings
Larger than this we leave and lovlier."