00A.20 CHAPTER XVII.—In Memoriam

CHAPTER XVII IN MEMORIAM

It was suggested by some of my friends that a brief biography of me should be placed as an introductory chapter in this book. But this did not appeal to me. There is nothing about me worth telling. But for several years I have had in mind the intention to bring out a tract consisting of three chapters. The first to comprise the sermon on Where are the Dead, the second to discuss heaven and the third to consist of the obituaries of my Sister Eillie and my Brother Will, which were written at the time of their deaths. Since the sermons on the state of the dead and on heaven are both in this book, I have ventured to insert those obituaries in this special chapter called In Memoriam.

Also I am giving a family record which includes the names of all the members, both living and dead. This, with the facts about the family which are given in the obituaries will serve as a pretty complete biography, after all, but it has the merit of including all the family and is not, therefore, so entirely and intensely personal. The obituary of Sister Lillie entitled, “A Loved One Gone”, was published in the “Chattanooga Christian”, of which I had the misfortune to be founder, editor and publisher. The article entitled, “A Tribute to Our Brother, William Calvin Brewer”, was published in the Gospel Advocate. Also the article on “Reflections at the Bedside of a Dying Brother”, was published in the Gospel Advocate. The reflections and emotions which are delineated in these articles are, of course, very personal, perhaps too personal for some readers. But because there is some philosophy on death and the hereafter in them and because even these emotions, these sad expediences, find a responsive chord in the hearts of many people, I have felt that perhaps it would not be a blunder to put them in this book. Years after these articles were published I have found them preserved by readers of the papers in which they appeared. In one instance I found a man who had kept the article, “A Loved One Gone”, for twelve years and he was a total stranger to the writer and to the one about whom it was written. But the brightest reason I offer for this entire chapter is the belief that it will please the mothei of this broken family, who is still living, but who is now going down the shady side of life. She bore the family and then bore the burden of rearing us and then knew the poignant grief of burying three of her children after they were grown. Her husband—our father—was taken from her when she, and we, seemed to need him most. She bore all this philosophically—even more so than some of us—and bravely faced the problems of life. Now, in the hope that it may bring some joy to her declining days, I wish not only to give her the credit for any degree of success I may have attained, but also to share with all the other members of the family any honor that may be attached to being the author of this book. As those who have gone before can not share with us the joy that comes from any achievement, I place this chapter in memory of them in this book.

Four of those who have gone are buried at Florence, Alabama; one at Huntsville, Alabama, and one at Old Nebo, in Lawrence County, Tennessee. The father and five children are gone. The mother and five children abide in the flesh.

Looking back from this distance I now regard the grief, the emotions I knew at the time our loved ones went away, as more or less morbid. Death does not have the terror for me that once it had.

We sadly watched the close of all Life balanced on a breath, 

We saw upon their features fall The awful shade of death;

All dark and desolate we were, And Nature, murmuring, cried—

Ah, Lord! if Thou hadst but been here, But when its glance the memory cast On all that grace had done; And thought of life-long warfare past, And endless victories won, Then Faith, prevailing, wiped the tear, And looking upward, cried—

Ah, Lord! Thou surely hast been here Our loved ones have not died.

Hiram S. Brewer was born April 25, 1854. He died at Florence, Ala., July 15, 1901.

Virginia A. Maxey was born March 16, 1857. She now lives at Decatur, Ala.

Hiram S. Brewer and Virginia A. Maxey were married Nov. 27, 1879. To this union the following children were born: Mary Eliza, Aug. 30, 1880.

She was married to S. M. Burns Feb. 24, 1903. She now lives at Decatur, Ala. Mother of six children. Lillie Belle, Dec. 14, 1881.

She was married to Eulous L. Key, Nov. 15, 1905. Mother of two children. Died at Huntsville, Ala., July 26, 1913.

Ada Florence, April 16, 1883.

Died at Florence, Ala., Sept. 18, 1902.

Grover Cleveland, Dec. 25, 1884.

Author of this book now lives at Sherman, Texas. Robert Larimore, Sept. 18, 1886.

Now lives at Chattanooga, Tenn.

Rosie L^, Aug. 23, 188. Was married to Boyd Wells Nov. 18, 1913. Now lives at Birmingham, Ala. Mother of five children.

Charles Richard, Jan. 17, 1890.

Now lives at Abilene, Texas. Teacher in Abilene Christian College.

William Calvin, Oct. 24, 1891.

Died at Camp Pike, Little Rock, Ark., Oct 14, 1918.

Emma Pearl, Dec. 18, 1893.

Died at Wayland Springs, Tenrt., April 9, 1894.

Mamie Sula, Oct. 1, 1895.

Died at Florence, Ala., March 7, 1900. A LOVED ONE GONE

Lillie Belle Brewer was bom December 14, 1881, near Lawrence burg. Tenn. In her 13th year she gave her life to Christ and was baptized by Brother C. E. Holt at Iron City, Tenn. On November 15, 1905, she was married to Eulous L. Key by Brother James K. Hill at Florence, Ala. She leaves a husband, two children, a mother, two sisters and four brothers, one of whom is the editor of this paper, to mourn her death. She was a kind, obedient daughter, a sweet sympathetic sister, a loyal and devoted wife, a loving mother and a consecrated Christian. She bore her last suffering in patience and in true faith and fortitude. While it would seem to us that her death was very untimely, yet we doubt not that she is in a better country and in a much happier condition. It was sad to give her up, but she fell asleep in Jesus and the Lord told us that he would bring her with him when he comes again.

Lillie was the fifth member of our family that death has claimed as his victim. What a few short years ago was a large, united, singing, laughing, happy family, is now broken and scattered. The first that was taken was a babe that came to stay only a few brief months and only the mother’s heart felt so deeply the loss we then suffered. But the cruel monster entered the home again and robbed it of its dearest treasure, its youngest member, the child we all idolize. The tears had hardly stopped f,ailing before the dreaded demon, as if not satisfied with the grief he had caused us and as if determined to utterly ruin the home, stalked again into our midst and struck down the father, the head of the house, the only support and protection we had. Now the ruin seemed complete. A widow with eight almost helpless children, the oldest of whom was yet in her teens, stood looking through their tears out upon a hopeless future and wondering if it were not better for death to return in the form of a disaster and take all at one time. But no, we must remain and await his pleasure. The great sorrow had melted all our hearts into one, and our hot tears ran down together at mother’s feet and in one voice our prayers went up to him from whom our help must come. Together we began to struggle to wrest a meager living from the hands of a reluctant and merciless world. Then singing our gratitude to God we broke the crust of poverty with singleness of heart. But lest we should become satisfied with our mere existence and lest our hearts should cease to ache for a moment, that terrible and insatiable monster again entered our home and again selected as its victim the rarest jewel in the house, the sweetest singer of the family, the most consecrated Christian of us all, the inspir-ation of the remaining sorrowing circle. Again for a moment we halted and wondered and wept. But we each had learned to say:

I do not seek my cross To understand my way to see—

Better in the darkness Just to feel thy hand and follow thee. So with our trust in him we began again to battle for bread. Then I do not know what happened. I know there were sorrows, disappointments and rebuffs. I know there were days of toiling and nights of weeping. I know there were poverty and penury and privations. I can not remember how it was. It has been too long ago. But, no, it has not been long. The record says I am not 30 years old by nearly two years. Surely it was in another world that I had those experiences! Surely it is a story of somebody’s life that I have read! I must be dreaming! No, it is all real. These are facts. The swlift years have sped by and they have been so crowded with events that I am over-whelmed and as I pause for a moment upon this sad occasion to take a backward look I can not believe the facts. I hardly know myself. Our home is broken up. We are scattered. My older sisters have married. Yes, they have homes of their own—good homes. They say this is my home and this is my wife and baby. They say I worked my way into school—into college. They say I finished a course. They say I am a preacher, an editor and that I am honored with many friends and with a place in a good church. They say my brothers are grow’n and that they are preachers, too. But I do not believe it all. I only know that 1 am still toiling, still busy; that I am still surrounded in mystery still trusting and waiting and Wondering. But behold! who comes here? What brings this panting messenger ? What hasty news is this ? Oh, the mon ster has returned. He has sought and found and claimed another of our family. Yes, lay down your pen, the message says, put up your book and come away. Another pause in life’s swift race. Another night of weeping. Yes, here we are all together again weeping before the open tomb. What tall young men are these who mourn as if their hearts knew well this sorrow? My brothers! Can it be? Who is this in black that stands so near me whose eyes stream out in tears? Eliza—can I call that name withous the other?—ah, she is the oldest, she has known full well this sting before. And this is my younger sister, prostrate there? How those sisters loved each other! What white locks are these upon my shoulders? Who sobs upon my bosom here? Mother! Why are we not weeping with our heads together upon her knees as we did but yesterday ? Who is he so bowed in grief and who the little ones that cling to him ? Her husband—children! Yes, they have entered our circle and they, too, must taste the gall—must weep with us. What cold, pale, face is that before us? Lillie! Ah, yes, our own dear sister, who shared this sorrow with us so often; who used to weep with us. But there are no tears in her eyes now. Her chin does not quiver, her bosom does not heave. No, she does not feel our sorrow—she has gone from among us. She has left us to weep alone. She has stopped beside the road to rest. She has laid her burden down and gone to sleep. The bird has flown away to its native country. The spirit has gone from this tabernacle to the mansion built above.

We do not know which one of our number death will claim next, nor do we know when he will come again. He had not disturbed us for eleven years, but whether he will wait that long again we can not tell. He took one every year for three years in the sad long ago and he may do the same again. That he will finally take us all we certainly know. We have no continuing city here and we, above all others, should seek for one to come. May the Lord our God help us to be ready to meet him in peace. A TRIBUTE TO OUR BROTHER, WILLIAM

CALVIN BREWER BY G. C. AND CHARLES R. BREWER

William Calvin Brewer was bom in Lawrence County, Tenn., on October 24, 1891, and died at Camp Pike, Ark., on October 14, 1918. He lacked exactly ten days of reaching the twenty-seventh anniversary of his birth. Those twenty-seven years were years of hardships, of struggles and sorrows, yet he spent the greater portion of them in laughter and song. He was the eighth child in a family of ten children; but the two younger children died in infancy, and William was, therefore, always considered the “baby” of the family, but he was never in any sense a “baby” after he reached the years of responsibility. With very little help he had made his own way in the world, and he was always able to hold his place among men. When he entered the army, he was soon made a noncommissioned officer, and later, while in the Officers’ Training School, he was said by his captain to be the best soldier in his company. He was attentive to his duties, obedient to the rules, alert, quick, and always courteous. All this was told us by his officers and comrades in the army.

William was reared without a father and practically without a home. Our father died in William’s early childhood, and when he was yet in the early teens, our sisters having married, mother broke up housekeeping in order to not be an expense to her boys and to allow them to work their way through school if possible. For a while mother was with her daughters and the older boys were in school, but the “baby boy” was out in the world doing the best he could. One year mother was matron of the boys’ dormitory at the Nashville Bible School, and for one term of that year all four of the boys were students in the school. At the end of the term, as there was no work for William in the school and as he had no money and no one to defray his expenses, he was forced to drop out of school and go to work.

Dux mg this period of his life he was, by the weakness of youth and by the many temptations that surrounded him, led away from his Christian duties and into indifference to the church; and those were days of anxiety on our part. He still desired to go to school, however, and was ambitious to make something of himself. When Brethren Klingman and Slayden took charge of the Potter Bible College, William decided to try to enter that school. A way was found for him and he was enrolled as a student there, much to his delight and to our satisfaction. We feel, however, that we could not fulfill our brother’s wishes without saying just here that he had, prior to his entrance at Potter College, been led to confess his wrongs and to renew his allegiance to God under the preaching of Brother R. H. Boll. He never ceased to credit Brother Boll with a great deal of influence for good over him. But he was well pleased with his work at Potter College and fell in love with Brother Slayden. He admired Brother Klingman also; but Brother Slayden seemed to be his type of a man, and he never ceased to love him and to imitate him in some things, either consciously or unconsciously. From Potter College he went with Brother Slayden to Texas and was a student under him at Sabinal Christian College. He advanced rapidly in his studies, but his advancement in music and sight singing was the most marked, He soon began to be in demand as a song leader, and one year he was given his tuition in Cordell Christian College in return for his teaching sight singing. The last few years of William’s life were spent in preaching and singing. One winter he lived in the Cortner home at Normandy, Tenn., and preached for the church there. He spent one summer with Brother S. R. Cogue in missionary work in East Tennessee. He sang in meetings with T. B. Larimore, S. P. Pittman, E. A. Elam, G. Dallas Smith, R. H. Boll, W. S. Long, George A. Klingman, and several other prominent preachers. Brother T, B. Larimore paid him a very high tribute in the Gospel Advacote as a song leader, and many persons have spoken of his earnestness in singing the “sweet old story”. In the autumn of 1917 brother William went to Louisville, Ky., where he hoped to take some studies in the university while working at some employment for a livelihood. He was progressing very nicely in his work at Louisville when, in March, 1918, he was drafted for service in the army. He had not claimed exemption as a preacher or as a “divinity student”, because he was engaged in other work not classed as “professional preacher’s work”. He had, however, asked for noncombatant duties on the ground that he could not conscientiously fight with carnal weapons. But this claim was not respected and his appeal was ignored by both the local and district exemption boards at Huntsville, Ala. They refused to reopen his case, to consider his appeal, or to treat either him or us with courtesy, notwithstanding the fact that both his claim and his appeal were legal and that he could have legally, truthfully and rightfully claimed exemption as a preacher of the gospel, The boards did pot know this, however, for they refused to hear anything on his case. It was not patriotism, hut religious prejudice, that caused this. When William was examined at Camp Pike, his vision was found defective and he was classed for limited military service and given a clerical position. His eyes were treated and brought up to normal condition and he was transferred to other duties. Whether he sought a transfer, as published in a daily paper, or whether he was transferred without his consent, we do not know; and whether he changed his conviction about participating in carnal warfare or just decided it was useless to try to avoid it, we do not knew. We do know that some time after he had been given full military duties he entered the Officers’ Training School, had made good, and was just ready to be commissioned lieutenant when he died. He never came home after he went to camp, and he never wrote us as fully about his work as we often wished he would. He never referred to his attitude toward fighting. About two weeks before he died he wrote that he thought he would soon be sent to France and he said: “Now that I am in it, let me get into the worst of it, and I don’t care how soon my part of it is over.” His part of it is now forever over, and, thank God, he never had to kill. Our estimate of our brother’s character is as follows: He was of a sunny disposition; he had a fine sense of humor; he was affable and courteous; he was courageous, yet tender-hearted and affectionate; and beneath his fun- loving, somewhat dashing youthful nature there was a substratum of piety and religious devotion.

He was baptized into Christ by Brother James K. Hill in 1902, before he was eleven years old, and, with the little exception noted above, he was faithful till the Lord took him home. He stated on his deathbed that the temptations in the army were very great and that he feared he was not as strong as he should be, but that he had never turned loose of the Lord, had never ceased to pray to him and to beg for his mercy. He said “amen” to the prayers prayed by his dying bed and fell asleep murmuring: “There is rest for the weary.”

It is hard for us to give him up, for we shall miss his companionship, and we had bright hopes for his future here; but we confidently believe he has passed into that rest that remaineth for the people of God. Still we sorrow—we can not help it; and we are thankful that the apostle does not tell us not to woriy, but to "sorrow not as those who have no hope.” Our dear little brother William—in babyhood “Willie”, the pet of the family, in manhood “Will”; and in affectionate speech "Billy"’—has gone to that far-away, unseen shore; but he was no stranger there. His father and four sisters had preceded him to that fair land. Of a once large, laughing, singing, happy family, the father and five children are now on eternity’s strand, while the mother and five children still sail on the stormy sea of time. May we all anchor there some day.

REFLECTIONS AT THE BEDSIDE OF A DYING

BROTHER BY G. C. BREWER

How large a part death plays in all life’s considerations! If we should take the subject of death out of our hymn books, the sweetest melodies that ever blessed the earth would be destroyed. It was the tragic death of his loved ones that inspired H. G. Spafford to give the world that soul-exultant song, “It Is Well With My Soul”—that song of hopeful joy, the cry of a chastened soul thrown helpless on the Savior, which found his grace sufficient. It was the sweet hope that when “The night is gone..." And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since and lost a while, that led John Henry Newman to bless poor groping humanity with that classic in hymnology, the sentiment of which should be in the heart of every man constantly, known as “Lead, Kindly Light.” And no hymn writer has ever voiced the prayer of a sad and lonely soul more aptly than did Mrs. Smith when she wrote “Tarry With Me, O My Savior”; and she was influenced, no doubt, by the thought that Many friends were gathered round me In the bright days of the last; But the grave has closed above them, And I linger here the last.

If we should take away the influence of death from the literature of the world, our finest classics would be ruined. Two of the best orations this country has ever produced are the address of John J. Ingalls in the United States Senate on the death of Senator Hill and the speech of Robert G. Ingersoll at the funeral of his brother. Both are masterpieces of eloquence. And what of poetry? What gave us Tennyson’s “In Memoriam”, or Gray’s “Elegy”, or Milton’s “Lycidas”, or Bryant’s “Thanatop- sis”, or Poe’s “Annabel Lee”? And what is the crowning merit of “The Raven”? What is it that has made “Hamlet” immortal? Did not Shakespeare excel in his philosophies on death? And yet what is there in either literature, philosophies, or science that will satisfy the heart of one standing at the brink of the grave? Who has solved the problem of death? Who has surveyed his land? Biology gives us a scientific treatment of death. History knows it as a universal fact. Poetry draws near and hovers over it a moment, only to withdraw in terror. Philosophy finds it a mystery of being, the one great mystery of not being. All contributions to the theme are marked by an essential vagueness; every avenue of approach seems darkened by an impenetrable shadow. We can go just so far, and then there yawns before us an abyss, forbidding, dark, dank and dismal. We can go with our loved ones into the shadows, and then something separates us. That trembling soul that loved our company, that clung to us, that shared our anxiety, suddenly springs from us and refuses to be touched by our tears or to respond to our cries. Then we see the grave close above all that we ever saw or could see and love of oUr dear one. The form we loved, the features once radiant with life, the eyes that sparkled with joy or were suffused with tears of sympathy, the tongue that spoke to us, the vocal organs that once gave the sounds of a voice resonant and musical —they are all there, but the features are cold and blank, the eyes are expressionless, the tongue is still, and the voice is hushed. All these must now mingle with the dust of the earth and become a brother of the insensible and insensate clod. What a wreck! And yet this is the common fate of all. “Into the night go all,” wrote Henely. And Ingersoll said: “Whether in mid-sea or among the breakers of the farther shore, a wreck at last must mark the end of each and all. And every life, no matter if its every hour is rich with love, and every moment jeweled with a joy, will, at its close, become a tragedy as sad and deep and dark as can be woven out of the warp and woof of the mystery of death. Life is a narrow vale between the cold and barren peaks of two eternities. We strive in vain to look beyond the heights. We cry aloud, and the only answer is the echo of our wailing cry.” In this beautiful language the eloquent unbeliever uttered the despairing cry of all humanity when it, unaided, tries to read the riddle of life and death. In vain Reason beats its wings against the bars of its cage and falls back in breathless exhaustion. Yet the soul revolts at the thought that endless silence and pathetic dust is the ultimate end of all human hopes and achievements. It refuses to accept the sentence and says with Emerson: This is not the whole sad story of creation Told by toiling millions o’er and o’er;

One day, then black annihilation, A sunlit passage to a sunless shore.  When Knowledge admits its limitations and Reason acknowledges its helplessness, then “Faith sees a star”. Faith alone can dispel this mortal darkness; nothing but faith can give us the victory over this ghastly foe. But even faith can not make death sweet or lovely. Death is an enemy, and it is but natural that the flesh should dread it. Even the psalmist who sang so sweetly of “fearing no evil” in the “valley and the shadow”, when sickness overtook him and death threatened him, prayed earnestly: “O spare me, that I may recover strength before I go hence and be no more.” And the Wise Man who taught us to fear God and keep his commandments, and who taught that at death the body goes to dust and the spirit returns to God who gave it, when contemplating the fate of the body, grew gloomy and pessimistic. The flesh does not anticipate its ultimate end with pleasure, however much the spirit may rejoice in the hope of dwelling in a “house not made with hands”. And as there is often suffering in the flesh, there is also often a struggle in death that faith and hope may lessen, but can not prevent. Have you ever seen a loved one join battle with death and fight a losing fight? Have you ever seen a heroic soul torn from its earthly tabernacle when the flesh was reluctant to give it up? On the night of October 13, 1918, it was my bitter experience to sit alone by the bedside of a beloved brother who was breathing his last hours away in intense suffering; far from home and loved ones—with the one exception-—with no friend or acquaintance near; dying in an army hospital where disease was rampant and where death was holding high carnival, where sympathy was crowded out and where he was known only by the number of his bed. During the day of Sunday, the thirteenth, his bed had been moved out on the veranda of the base hospital, where there were many other sufferers, but where their beds were not crowded so close together as they were in the ward. Now there was room for a chair between the beds, and I was permitted to sit near my brother. This was the ostensible purpose in moving to the outside, but the real purpose was very different. A death in the hospital was kept as quiet as possible and a body was always removed without any commotion. I noticed that there was unusual space between my brother’s bed and the beds on either side of it. I observed, too, that his bed was placed near the door (the veranda was screened). This confirmed my fears. But there was evidently no purpose to hide the truth from me, for when I approached the captain—the doctor in charge of the ward—he told me plainly that death was certain and that it was not more than twenty-four hours away, and was likely to occur any hour. It was then my duty to overcome the shock as best I could and control myself and sit near the dying man till his suffering should end. There was nothing to do; just wait for death, and be as cheerful as I could while I waited. The night came on, and the patients on the neighboring beds had all yielded to the sedatives and were sleeping. The heavy groans of my brother had brought the order from the head nurse: “Give number forty-two another hypodermic—double the dose.” When this order had been obeyed, he, realizing that he would soon pass into unconsciousness, probably never to wake again in this life, said: “Lean over, brother, and let me put my arms around your neck just as I would mother’s if she were here.” Then, with his arm still about my neck, he fell into a semiconscious slumber, breathing with short, jerky respiration and emitting groans with every breath.

Thus surrounded. I sat alone through the night, waiting, expecting, yet dreading what was to come. It was a chill October night; the night breeze kept up a constant rustling in the yellow autumn leaves of the oaks that stood thick around the hospital. That, with my brother’s incessant groaning and the heavy, monotonous breathing of the sleepers around me, was all that could be heard. A heavy and painful stillness had settled over the camp. My mind, agitated and quickened by such conditions, was left free to rove through heavens and earth and to puzzle over the mysteries of life and death. It sped away to a far-away city and saw an anxious mother engaged in prayer for her “baby boy”; it knew, too, that there was a petition for her first-born son who was with him. It took notice also that Christian friends had gathered in that home and that there was a prayer meeting. It even knew the names of those in the meeting. Then, with this seemingly certain knowledge, with this almost real presence of those far away, the mystery of telepathy presented itself and occupied the thoughts for a while.

Then Memory with her magic wand called up many scenes of past life. She took me back to childhood—to a happy home when the family circle was unbroken; the dying than before me was again a bright-eyed baby toddling from one to another of that happy circle, and all were laughing in affectionate joy.

Then there came a more somber scene. I was again sitting by the bedside of my baby brother. Mother was with me, and her face was full of anxiety. My boy heart was beating rapidly, and I was afraid to leave the bed and yet afraid to stay. As the scene became vivid, the unshaven face of the soldier before me became the round, sweet face of a child of four, and golden curls fringed the baby brow. O, how we prayed that this baby be not taken away from us! And he had been spared these few years, only now to be cut down in the bloom of young manhood, while in love with life and raptured with the world. Would it not have been better had he gone on that sad day long ago? Then, is not life worth living? Have these years been worth nothing to him? Shall I agree with the faithless Bryon when he said:

Count o’er the joys thine hours have seen, Count o’er the days from anguish free, And know, whatever thou hast been, ’Tis something better not to be.

No, I do not believe it. Life is sweet; it is the priceless gift of a merciful Creator, and it is good to live even if all our days are not “from anguish free”. And who knows what effect our growth and attainments here will have on our life in the great beyond? But just here my thoughts are disturbed by the movements of the sufferer. The effect of the opiate is dying out, or—death is hovering nearer! Ah, yes! How terrible his presence! Is there no limit to suffering? Why will not cruel Death cease his tortures and release the spirit? Would I not now freely let him go?

Thus the mind starts off on another strain and Memory again begins her work. How often have I heard this noble boy sing sweet songs about death being a dream, about crossing the rolling river, about light at the river, about passing into the Savior’s presence, etc.! How often, when we were in meetings together, had he requested me to .preach on the twenty-third Psalm! And he always wept when the death scene was presented. How sweet to him had been the promise that the rod and the staff should comfort us when we pass into the valley and are lost in the shadows! Yea, how often had I heard him conclude a prayer with some such petition as, “Be with us in the hour of death!” Now that hour has come to him; he is in the valley and the shadows are growing deeper. But how he suffers! There is no poetry in this! There seems no light here! Where now, O Lord, is thy promise? Then, with a shock, memory seized the very words of our dying Lord: “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?” Even he felt forsaken. It must be so. Death has a sting. It brings suffering which must be endured. It is a dark valley. The psalmist did not say it was not; he rather emphasized that fact, but rejoiced that the Lord would be with him. But is that promise being fulfilled now? Perhaps I do not know. It may be that I can not see. The dying man has uttered no complaint. He is tracing it without a tremor. He is suffering, but endures it with a courage heroic, and even yet, I think, hopes to defeat death. And there are considerations, too. Was it not the good providence of God that brought me here? Was he not merciful in sparing him till I got here? Are not men dying here every day with no relative or friend near them? Are there not now many bodies lying in the morgue, tagged like so many blocks of stone, awaiting a message from that home that they will never see as to the disposal of their bodies? Then, is there nothing for which we may be thankful?

Such were some of the sad reflections and ruminations or a distressed mind on that never-to-be-forgotten night.

I may state that my brother lived through the night and till two o’clock the next day, and during the forenoon of the day the chaplain came, and we had scripture reading, prayer, and worship, in which my brother was able to join. Possibly this, too, was a fulfillment of the Lord’s promise. The chaplain did not visit all the dying men. He could not; and, then, they often died without his knowing it. How came he to come this time? Peculiarly enough. A new nurse had just come into Ward 29, who was a religious girl, and, seeing that number forty-two was dying, she telephoned the chaplain. Of course I do not know that’ the Lord had a hand in that, nor do I know that the chaplain was a true servant of God. He was a Lutheran, but he was tender and sympathetic, and I shall always remember him gratefully. My brother died believing the promise. Then why should I doubt it? “How excellent is thy name, O Lord, in all the earth!”