Eagle River review. [volume] (Eagle River, Wis.) 1890-1927, 1909-09-10
III I'D YH3AR
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SONGS IN THE NIGHT.
By Henry F. Cope.

SONUS LIN 1t1E N1Od1.
By Henry T. Cope.
God, my maker who giyeth songs
in the night" Job So: 10.
1t is remarkable that those people
who have strengthened the world 5
| store of optimism have been those who
were educated in the school of suffer
ing, while those who have left only
memory of pessimistic complaining
have usually had least Of which to
complain; their lives have seemed sad
because of habttual self-absorption.
Job in his losses, David in his exile,
Jesus as the man of SORROWS, Bunyan
in his prison. Milton in his blindness,
Robert Louis Stevenson in his thrab-
dom of disease, all have taught us to
look up, to hope, to have faith in the
eternal goodness, to catch the blessing
in the guise of pain and loss, and to
earn for ourselves the crown Of joy
that blooms through sorrow
The problem Of pain is always great
er to those who must stand by and see
others suffer, perhaps unable to help
them by any means, than 1t Is for
| those who themselves must bear the
pain. 1t Is true there IL no wholly sat
isfactory solution Of the mystery Of
suffering, none that satisfies us In it's
real presence, but In It's effects, in it's
fruitage on those who face 1t In high
courage, we may see some suggestions
Of its meaning in our universe.
This is the worlds great school, the
place where the affections and the
higher attributes are educated Here
we learn patience, fortitude, faith,
sympathy, strength to serve and to
lead. None of the lessons are such
that we would seek them of ourselves;
none are such that we would lose them
afterward If we could.
1t is the pain that enters the home
that binds the family together. Never
are the ties stronger than when all
gather by the couch of suffering or
when they stand together straining
their eyes across the great void. Only
those who know realize how homes are
hallowed by the fact of belonging to
two worlds.
Out OF suffering rise our great songs
The poetry that reaches our heart has
been written by eyes blinded by tears.
1t opens its riches to us when we read
it in the same way. Just as liberty
has been born in prison walls, so has
Joy and the confidence of final victory
nd nj ~ q
hours of anguish and broken spirit.
Perhaps If we could probe the mys-
terry of suffering we might be tempted
to administer its curriculum ourselves.
We can only for ourselves determine
that 1t shall not conquer US, that we
shall not be like dull schoolboys who
weep over their lessons instead of
learning them, that this world shall
lose all unnecessary suffering and gain
all the good out of all that remains.
So when the night comes it Is for
us to determine whether 1t shall In
spire us to song or lead us with COM
plainings to make 1t yet darker. Here
is the time to sing when 1t is hardest
encouragement When it Is our night
there are always others who would be
aided by our song. Blessed are those
who sing in the shadows.
Somehow, to believe that love is
over all, that the infinite goodness is
greater than all the evil, to know with
the old man Job t4at, though affection
may rob me of all that men call my
possessions, the abiding and unchang-
ing values remain, that suffering after
all only pricks the surface-that is to
find a song in the darkest hour.
And these experiences make tender
our hearts to one another; my need
reminds me of my neighbor. We would
soon be calloused, utterly Indifferent,
but for these blows that break up the
surface of the life. The poor and
those who know need are tenderest in
heart one to another. Just to acquire
the grace of sympathy were worth the
course In sorrow.
We may not solve the mystery Of
suffering, but we can face 1t and sing
through 1t; we can take all the good
there is in it to ourselves and make
our own lives sweet and refreshing
through It, We can sing songs in the
night; we can learn patience with one
another. We can keep our own hearts
open in sympathy; we can turn the
dreary hours to song in some other
life, for to think of the sorrows of
others is to find the joy that lies hid
den in every sorrow for us.
FAINT HEART NEVER WINS.
By DR.. George Clarke Peck.