The semi-weekly messenger. [volume] (Wilmington, N.C.) 1897-1908, 1899-02-03

chandeliers: the chandeliers fash down
on the decanters. The breath Of hang
ing gardens floats in On the night all:
the voice OF revelry floats u amid
wreaths, n tapestry, and folded ban
host is heard on the stairs. Laughter
catches in the throat. a thousand hearts
stop beating. The blow is struck. The
the wine on the table. The Kingdom has
departed. Belshazzar was no worse, per-
haps, than hundreds of people In Baby
content with just sucn a position as
Goo has placed you in. 1t may not be
said of us, He was a great general" or
was mighty in worldly attainments." but
this thing may be said of you and of me,
HE was a good citizen, a faithful Chris
tan, a friend of Jesus" And that IN the
last day will be the highest of all eulo-
gums.
I learn further from this subject that
death comes to the summer house. Egg
place. Amid all the flower leaves that
drifted like summer snow into the win
dow; in the tinkle and dash of the
fountains; in the sound Of a thousand
the cool breeze that came up to a
feverish trouble out OF the kings locks
there was nothing that spake Of death,
but there he died! In the winter, when
the snow is a shroud, and when the WING
is a dirge. it is easy to think of our NOR
tally; but when the weather is pleasant,
din III OuE SuIIOulIulu6S ~ dSIttdDlS,
how DIFFICULT it is for us to appreciate
the truth that we are mortal. And yet
my text teaches that death does some
times come to the summer house. He Is
blind, and cannot see the leaves. He is
deaf, and cannot hear the fountains. Oh,
If death would ask US for victims, we
who would rejoice to have him come.
Push back the door of that howell. Look
at that little Childhood, and sick, and
hungry. 1t has never heard the name
Of Cad hut in h1nunhnrny Dornnfc infnv-
icated, staggering around it's straw bed.
Oh, death, there is a mark for thee! Up
with it into the light! Before those little
feet stumble on life's pathway, give
them rest.
Here is an aged man.: He has done
his work. He has done it gloriously. The
companions of his youth all gone, his
children dead, he longs to be at rest, and
" YEARLY the days and the nights pass.
He says, Come, Lord Jesus, come
quickly" oh. death, there is a mark for
him the scepter. Up with him into the
light, where eyes never grow dim, and
the hair whitens not through the long
years of eternity. All, death will not do
that! Death turns back from the straw
bed, and from the aged man ready for
the skies, and comes to the summer
house. What dOst thou here, thou bony,
CHASTITY monster, mid this waving grass
and under this sunlight sitting through
the tree branches? Children are at play.
How quickly their feet go and their locks
toss in the wind. Father and mother
stand at the side of the room looking
on, enjoying their glee. 1t does not seem
possible that the wolf should ever break
into that fold and carry off a lamb.
Meanwhile an Old archer stands locking
through the thicket. He points his arrow
at the brightest of the group. He is a
row speeds. Hush now. The quick feet
have stopped, and the locks toss no more
in the wind. Laughter has gone out of
the hall. Death in the summer house!
Here is a father in midlife. His COM
ing home at night is the signal for mirtn.
The children rush TO the door, and there
are books on the evening stand, and the
hours pass away on glad feet. There is
nothing wanting in that home. Religion
i ins sn and a nieh aacr Yo1 look o9 the in CHAR ahat h m1Ea-
hold and say: Il cannot think f any
thing happier. I do not really believe the
world is SO SAD a place lace as some people
Father is sick. T~he~doors must be kept
shut; The death watch, chirps dolefully
on the hearth. The children whisper and
walk softly where once they romped.
Passing the house at night, you see the
quick glancing of lights from room to
room. 1t is all over. Death in the summer
! house!
; Here is an age1 mother-agel. but
not infrm. You think o will have
the joy of Gazing for her vans a good
while yet. IS she goes from nouse to
| coming is a dropping Of sunlight ID tha
dwelling. Your CHILDREN see her coming
through the laEe, and they cry, Grand
mothers comet Care for you has mark
ed up her face with many a deep wrinkle
and her back sleeps with carrying your
burdens. Some day she is very quiet. She
you you will not much longer have a
mother. She will SIT with you no more
at the table, nor at the hearth. Her soul
goes out so gently you do not exactly
know the moment of it's going. Fold the
hands that have done so many kin Illnesses
for you right over the heart that has
) 49, y., IN-,O &- -~1 49,, .-@@ g
you were born. Let the pilgrim rest. She
is weary. Death in the summer house!
Gather about us what We will of COM
fort and luxury. When the pale mes
senger comes, he does not st1p to look
at the architecture Of the house before
i he comes in, nor, entering, does he walt
cred on the wall, or, bending over your
pillow, he does not stop to see whether
there is color in the cheek, or gentle
ness in the oye, or intelligence in the
brow. But what Of tlrat? Must we stand
q; forever mourning among the graves OF
our dead? No! No! The people in Benga,
bring cages of birds to the raves OF
their dead, and then they open the cages
and the birds go singing ~heavenward. Sc
I would bring to the graves of your dead
all bright thoughts and congratulations
and bid them sing of victory and redemp.
ton. / stamp on the bottom of the grave
and it breaks through into the light an6
think that the straits entering the Rec
sea were very dangerous places, and they
supposed that every ship that wen
through those straits would be destroy
ed, and they were in the habit of put
ting on weeds Of mourning for those
who had gone on that voyage, as though
they We're actually dead. Do you know
what they called those straits? Thej
called them the Gate of Tears" Istant
at the gate of tears through which many
of your loved ones have gone and I wan
to tell you that all are not shipwrecke(
that nave gone through those straits
into the great ocean stretching out be
You'd. The sound that comes from tina
other shore on still nights when We ar
wrapped in prayer makes me think h
the departed are not dead. We are tn
dead-we who toll, We who weep, w
who sin-we are the dead. How my hear
loa6les for human sorrow! This sound o
breaking hearts hat 1 hear all abou
me! This last look of faces that neve
will brighten again! This last kiss of lip
that never will speak again! This widow
hood and or~phanage!-O Oh, when will tn
day of sorrow be gone!
After the harpe winter the sprins
dismounts from the shoulder Of a south
err gale and puts its warm hand upoi
the earth. and in its palm there come