The age-herald. [volume] (Birmingham, Ala.) 1897-1902, 1898-11-27
THE MURMUR
OF THE WORLD

ians of all the virtues, the chief of all these
virtues being charity; but their vulgar ex-
ample did not detract from the real virtues
of good men and women, my beloved
Thanksgiving Day Is passed. but the causes
for giving thanks remain with US AWAY
The day set apart by official decree Tor
making public acknowledgement OF our OBJ
legation to the Giver of every good and per-
feet gift is of the vast store of the yester-
days and today; but the obligation remains
the same and is not possible of being dis
charged. Nor should wish to be quit
of the debt. We are either pagan or Chris
tian. If we be pagan there is no debt upon
US; If Christian, the debt may remain, but
1t Expresses us not. 1t is glad burden
We may toll with the muek-rake, bend
under the load of our own sins; but we
have but to look upward, and there we see
the sun shining in all its glorious effu.genee.
The burden in real effect falls from our
shoulders and the world is ours. We be not
each an Edmund Dantes; We have no wish
to count "One"-"Two'-"T hree'-but just
the same, we may spiritually proclaim the
world to be our own. Not in the carnal
sense; not in the sense that we have power
to punish or to wrong-but in the broader
sense of the humanities-the eternal veri-
ties
Rare amongst you, my beloved, is one
whom vengeance doth move to deeds of
violence, springing from that damnablest
of all evil things, the purposes of ill-will.
Rarer still is the spirit of unforgivableness.
We are affronted, wounded. struck by the
shaft of pain when we hoped for the olive
branch or the violets, the roses or the daft
fodils that are plucked from the valleys
where pleasant waters sing their way to
the sea through glad days and sad, forever
telling the story of natures gladsomeness,
whatever man may think or man may act.
This day is done, the shades fall softly;
but no shadow shall rest there. The stars
come out in the black-blue sky. The faded
autumnal leaves rustic to their fall, waited
downward by the viewless winds of the I'M
seen, the unknown and unknowable. Inc
leaves fall, the flowers fade But there is
no death. Next year the leaves will green
again, the flowers bloom. The vista oil the
yesterdays which make up the solendlo
avenue of the yesteryears, Is illumined al
way by the radiant light of life and nope
and human purpose. CHANGING back over
the left shoulder of luck, we see the lights
and the shadows; perceive the dark places
and the bright ones. Beyond the darkhng
length of the shadows there breaks light
all the brighter for the gloom that falls
athwart. We note the mileposts of unrest,
unhappiness, insincerity, untruth, upright
eousness; but betwixt there fall aslant the
bars of light.
Full many hearth on this dark globe is
dulled because of a vanished light; out
still there be causes for thanksgiving on
the part of most of us who journey the
common way to the unseeable. There be
hearts, strong and honest hearts, from
which hope has departed, not soon to re-
turn; but they be few. With some few Of
us there is assurance, with many there Is
doubt; with yet others there is no SEM
bance of promise in the widespreading
field of the years. But did you ever listen
to that voiceful murmur of the dawn? Did
you ever hear the rustle~of the moment
when night died and day was born, when
there was truly rustic? Din you ever
bend your senses to the unseen spirits of
the air in the instant that followed the
darkest hour when the hush of time be-
came the anthem of earthly life? Did you
ever hear that sigh of a universal song just
before all your visible space burst into the
hymn of morning that was Gods and
mans? Did you ever feel the heart-beats OF
all good things when light was chasing
darkness from the earth? Did you ever
turn from the foul dreams of damned night
to the fresh, free, full, sweet breath of to-
day as 1t was born in the real hush of time
coming romping up from the east, burying
yesterday and last night in the tomb Of
things that were?
It all comes to this, my beloved. 1t Is
hopefulness against the hopeless. The mat
ter is not new; it is as old as human wrong
doing and human reflection, born of the
after hours of introspecton- To the think
ing few the world is not what i, is to the
unthinking multitude. Things never are
quite what they seem. They are either bet
ter or worse. Most Of us fear the worst;
few of us look for the best. In view of
possible evils, we say that we hope for the
best. That is false. Hope implies faith.
Suspicion is born of fear. You never yet
expected an evil that came to you as for
bidding in form as it had been conjured up
by your Imagination. Doubt is beclouded all
around. Hope with most of US does not
penetrate the darkness half so far as fear.
This latter thing fills all space with forms
that terrify. 1t is not matter of con-
science; it is matter to which we may give
no name. We are conscious of no wrong
doing, yet we are burdened with vague
unrest.
The real murmur of the world is the whis-
per of hope, of gladness, of light and life
and beauty 1t brightens life and lifts the
burdens from the shoulders OF those who
weary in all things save that OF well-doing.
1t speaks to you through the silver trumpet
of the angels, that though you may have
fallen to lying yesterday, today you may
scale the heights of God S, eminence and feel
the touch of the angels wings. Did ever
you feel the touch of those wings, thou
who doth dwell with me and most of US
all by the waters of the turgid stream of
sin? Did you ever feel the touch of the
angels wing in supreme hour of joy, when
you were ready to fling your carp at the sun
and swear the day of jubilee was at hand,
or when you had flung yourself upon the
earth and cried for mercy? Did you ever
feel that blessed touch when you believed
all the world to be yours or all the world