The Bolivar bulletin. (Bolivar, Tenn.) 1888-1946, 1900-12-14
Death.
A fading light, an ending day,
A fearful sunset in the west;
A closing night. return to clay,
A funeral-eternal rest.
Death.

Death. What little, awful word, SO
full of meaning and indefnable. Ever
since the temptation of our first par.
ents in the garden this terrible scourge
has afflicted mankind. Death, on the
wings of the lightning and the winds,
hOvers over the world wherever living
thing is found, and while we dread the
appearance of this dark spectre, yet we
are so used to seeing his ravages on
every hand that we do not think much
of him until we feel that somewhere,
somehow he is stealthily creeping
upon us,
He haunts the marble palaces of the
rich and the grand, and the humble,
wretched novels of the poor and the
lOwly. He is dumb to the pleadings of
all, and smites with pitiless hand alike
both infant and hoary sage, atheist and
Christian, serf and king. He strikes
the animals of dumb creation and
leaves the lingering marks of his with
ering breath upon the flowers. He is
the spoiler of every dream, the end of
every hfe's ambition. He is in truth
the common leveler of all mankind.
After all the sin that man can commit;
after all the good that he can do; after
all the virtue and vice that can be
crowded into one little life it seems
that via Death is the only fitting way
that man can write the fms to the
chapter. He has no other choice, for
choice would cause confusion.
What is Death? All! there's the
question. The atheist says that it is
the closing forever of the doors of life.
The agnostic says that he does not
know. The savage mournfully shakes
his head and makes no reply. The
Christian says that il is the cradle of
another birth. The atheist stops at
the grave. Into the dark and unknown
realm of the future his cold, cynical
eye does not see, and he asks no ques-
ton, for he has settled the problem.
After years of patient searching with
the lamp of reason for a guide he solves
the riddle to his own satisfaction. The
agnOstic, who has not so strong a mind
as the atheist, also takes the lamp of
reason for a guide, and receives only a
mOcking echo to his scofing question.
His listening ear does not hear the eter-
nal surge of the silent sea, and his fin
gers never touch and lift the veil. The
savage rOams over his hunting grounds
and dreams of that spirit realm where
there is one boundless forest filed with
countless game that he may chase for
ever through long, long days and star
Lift pirhFg Anl 10 IL, = 81
only spiritland the savages have, for
all Indians are good-when they are
dead. The Christian welcomes Death
with a 10y. and when the night comes
Love is his silent messenger, which
mounts on the wings of Hope and bears
his prayers out to the great sea of
eternity. In fancy he often visits that
unknown shore and listens to the cease
less music of It's waves. He halls the
spectre banks dancing over the silvery
foam, and speaks to the spirit voyagers.
He fondly hugs to his bosom every pet
phantom of superstition until il is slain
by the bright sword of Science, and
goes to join that silent majority slum-
bcring in the tomb when the hungry
heart takes bold on another. This
hope of immortality, like the image of
some bright dream, has ever haunted
the chambers of the human heart, and
on the great ocean of life its noiseless
tide will continue to ebb and flow be-
meath the chill mists of doubt and un-
certainty as long as the warm waves of
love lash the silent shores of death.
The white angel of Hope flies on into
that unknown realm, through the dark
portals of Death, and the yearning
heart anxiOusly gazes at the vanishing
form and YEARLY waits for its return
With the message of assurance, but it
TO lead us on until we enter
behind the curtain, and then-but there
again comes the mystery. As soon as
hey pass behind this veil of mystery
The great abyss of eternity swallows up
heir voice, and they are lost to us for
ever. Straining our listening ear we
cannot even hear the faintest echo of a
whisper, and we return to our lonely |
and pathetic questioning, but !
he answer is as unsolvable as the rid |
lie of the great Egyptian sphinx. Thus |
nan stands day after day on the shores |
# Time, looking out over the boundless |
ga of eternity, endeavoring to peer |
through the dense fog to catch the
aintest glimpse of sail, and when he |
alls aloud even the echo of his voice
5 lost in the ceaseless murmur of the /
waves The breakers at his feet dash |
heir chill spray up into his paid face,
intil at last, weary of conjecture, he
wraps the winding-sheet of Faith about
lis frail form and lies down upon his
reamless couch of peace.
But Death! All! again there is the
uestiOn-that awful, unfathomable
question. What! Is life but dream,
forgetting, a mere bubble that ap-
ears for little while on the ocean of
lime, and then vanishes forever; a mo-
lentary prelude to something never
ttained, a preparatory school for the
ollege of forgetfulness? Is Hope but
n alluring phantom that hovers over
S to encourage us to dream our sweet
st dreams, and then vanishes in the
able shadows of death? Ali there
lust be something behind that black
urtain which hangs over the exit of
!fe, even though there may be but a
renatal void beyond the entrance
erhaps, if we had choice, many of
5 might shrink from making our APP
earance before the footlights on the
age of Life, as we are are loathe to
ave after we have listened to the wild
oplause of our fellowmen, and how
g would love to linger until the last ]
10 ~ Z