The Bolivar bulletin. (Bolivar, Tenn.) 1888-1946, 1893-06-16

soul goes out so gently you do not e1.
actly know the moment of its going.
Fold the hands that have done SO many
lxindnesses for you right over the heart
that has beat with love toward you
ever since you were born. Let the pill
grim rest She is weary. Death in the
summer housed
Gather about us what we will of
comfort and luxury, when the pale
messenger comes he does not stop to
look at the architecture of the house
before he comes in; nor, entering, does
he wait to examine the pictures we
have gathered ON the wall: or, bending
over your pillow, he does not stop to
see whether there is a color in the
cheek, or gentleness in the eye, or in
tefngence in the brow. But what of that?
Must we stand forever mourning among
the graves of our dead? No! No! The
people in Bengal bring cages of birds
TO the graves of their dead, and then
they open the cages, and the birds go
singing heavenward. So / would bring
TO the graves of your dead all bright
thoughts and congratulations, and bid
them think of victory and redemption.
/ stamp on the bottom of the grave,
and it breaks through into the light
and the glory of Heaven.
The ancients used to think that the
straits entering the Red sea were very
dangerous places, and they supposed
that every ship that went through
those straits would be destroyed, and
they were in the habit of putting on
weeds of mourning for those who had
<1nry
were actually dead. Do you know
what they called those straits? They
called them the "Gate of Tears" Oh,
l stand to-day at the gate of tears
through which many of your loved
ones have gone, and l want to tell you
that all are not shipwrecked that have
gone through those straits into the
great ocean stretching out beyond. The
sound that comes from that other shore
on still nights when we are wrapped in
prayer makes me think that the depart
ed are not dead. We are the dead-we
who toll; we who weep; we who sin
we are the dead. How my heart aches
for human sorrow! this sound of break
ing hearts that / hear all about me!
this last look of faces that will never
brighten again! this last kiss of lips
that never will speak again! this widow
hood and orphanage! Oh, when will the
day of sorrow be gone?
After the sharpest winter the spring
dismounts from the shoulder of a south
ern gale and puts its warm hand upon
the earth, and in its palm there comes
the grass, and there comes the flowers,
and God reads over the poetry of bird,
4 IL
it very good. What, my friends, if
every winter had not its spring, and
every night its day, and every gloom it's
glow, and every bitter now its sweet
hereafter! If you have been on sea,
you know, as the ship passes in the
night, there is a phosphorescent track
left behind it, as the waters roll up
| they toss with unimaginable splendor.
Well, across this great ocean of human
trouble Jesus walks. Oh, that in the
phosphorescent track of His feet we
might all follow and be illumined!
There was a gentleman in the rail
car who saw in that same car three
passengers of very different circum-
stances. The first was a maniac. He
was carefully guarded by his attend
ants; his mind, like ship dismasted,
was bearing against a dark desc
late coast, from which no help
could come. The train stopped, and
the man was taken out into the asy
lum, to waste away perhaps, through
years of gloom. The second passenger
was culprit. The outraged law had
seized on him. As the car jolted, the
chains ratified. On his face were crime,
depravity and dispair. The train halt
ed, and he was taken out to the peni-
tertiary, to which he had been con-
demned. There was the third passen-
ger, under far different circumstances.
She was bride. Every hour was gay
as a marriage-bell. Life glittered and
beckoned. Her companion was taking
her to his fathers house. The train
halted. The old man was there to well
come her to her new home, and his
white locks showed down upon her as
he sealed his word with fathers kiss.
Quickly we fly toward eternity. We
will soon be there. Some leave this
life condemned culprits. They refused
pardon; they carry their chains. Oh,
it may be with us, that, leaving this
fleeting life for the next, we may find
our Father ready to greet us to our new
home with Him forever. That will be
a marriage banquet! Fathers well
come! Fathers bosom Fathers kiss!
Heaven Heaven!
A Blacker Hole than That of Calcutta.
Rev. DIR. Field, writing from Tan
gier, Morocco, to his paper, the Evan
gelist, describes visit which he made
to the prison there-a blacker hole than
the historic ''black hole of Calcutta.
The description is too long to quote;
but it reveals sort of prison discipline
which, though very effective, can not
be recommended for adoption anywhere
outside of Africa. IT'S not by chains,
nor fiogging, nor the dark cell,
nor solitary confinement, that pris-
oners are subdued in Tangier.
They employ something more effectual
THAI any or all of these; something
that soon brings the most hardened
wretch who ever lifted his hand against
God or man to his characterization
The prison allows no food whatever.
Prisoners who get it must rely on
friends beyond the walls, or else must
earn it. They can not earn half enough
to feed them, hence if their friends fail
them they literally starve to death-as
they do, anyhow, if they are refractory,
in which case all allowances are cut off,
just as In Washington's Day.
The old Pohick Episcopal church in