Words of Cheer for the Tempted, the Toiling, and the Sorrowing | Page 9

unkind words, on which death has put his
inevitable seal, what an anguish is that! But our living friends may, ere
we know, pass from us; we may be to-day talking with those whose
names to-morrow are to be written among the dead; the familiar
household object of to-day may become sacred relics to-morrow. Let us
walk softly; let us forbear and love; none ever repented of too much
love to a departed friend; none ever regretted too much tenderness and
indulgence, but many a tear has been shed for too much harshness and
severity. Let our friends in heaven then teach us how to treat our
friends on earth. Thus by no vain fruitless sorrow, but by a deeper
self-knowledge, a tenderer and more sacred estimate of life, may our
heavenly friends prove to us ministering spirits.
The triumphant apostle says to the Christian, "All things are
yours--Life and Death." Let us not lose either; let us make Death our
own; in a richer, deeper, and more solemn earnestness of life. So those

souls which have gone from our ark, and seemed lost over the gloomy
ocean of the unknown, shall return to us, bearing the olive-leaves of
Paradise.

DO YOU SUFFER MORE THAN YOUR NEIGHBOUR?

"WHOSE sorrow is like unto my sorrow?"
Such is the language of the stricken soul, such the outbreak of feeling,
when affliction darkens the horizon of man's sunny hopes, and dashes
the full cup of blessings suddenly from the expectant lips.
"Console me not; you have not felt this pang," cries the spirit in agony,
to the kind friend who is striving to pour the balm of consolation in the
wounded heart.
"But I have known worse," is the reply.
"Worse! never, never; no one could suffer more keenly than I now do,
and live."
In vain the friend reasons; sorrow is always more or less selfish; it
absorbs all other passions; it consecrates itself to tears and lamentations,
and the bereaved one feels alone; utterly alone in the world, and of all
mankind the most forsaken. Every heart knoweth its own bitterness,
and there is a canker spot on every human plant in God's garden. Some
are blighted and withered, ready to fall from the stalk; others are
blooming while a blight is at the root.
What right have you to say, because you droop and languish, that your
neighbour, with a fair exterior and upright mien, is all that his
appearance indicates? What evidence have you that because you suffer
from want, and your neighbour rides in his carriage, that he is, therefore,
more abundantly blessed, more contentedly happy than you?
As you walk through the streets of costly and beautiful mansions, you
feel vaguely, that, associated with so much of beauty, of magnificence
and ease, there must be absolute content, enviable freedom, unmixed
pleasure, and constant happiness. How deplorably mistaken. Here,
where gold and crimson drape the windows, is mortal sickness; there,
where the heavy shutters fold over the rich plate glass, lies shrouded
death. Here, is blasted reputation, there, is an untold and hideous grief.
Here, is blighted love, striving to look and be brave, but with a bosom
corroded and full of bitterness; there the sad conduct of a wayward

child. Here is the terrible neglect of an unkind and perhaps idolized
husband; there the wilful and repeated faults of an unfaithful wife. Here
is dread of bankruptcy, there dread of dishonour or exposure. Here is
bitter hatred, lacking only the nerve to prove another Cain. There silent
and hidden disease, working its skilful fangs about the heart, while it
paints the cheek with the very hue of health. Here is undying remorse
in the breast of one who has wronged the widow and the fatherless;
there the suffering being the victim of foul slander; here is imbecility,
there smothered revenge. The bride and the belle, both so seemingly
blessed, have each their sacred but poignant sorrow.
Have you a worse grief than your neighbour? You think you have; you
have buried your only child--he has laid seven in the tomb. Seven times
has his heart been rent open; and the wounds are yet fresh; he has no
hope to sustain him; he is a miserable man, and you are a Christian.
Have you more trouble than your neighbour? You have lost your
all--no, no, say not so; your neighbour has lost houses and lands, but
his health has gone also; and while you are robust, he lies on the uneasy
pillow of sickness, and watches some faithful menial prepare his scanty
meal, and then waits till a trusty hand bears the food to his parched lips.
Do you suffer more than your neighbour? True; Saturday night tests
your poverty; you have but money enough for the bare