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Belle Plaine Union; Jan. 21, 1910
Charles Augustus Noble
C. A. Noble, editor of the Belle Plaine Union, passed away at his home early last Friday morning. The cause of death was typhoid fever coupled with other unknown complications. He was a brother-in-law of the writer, yes, more. He was a brother—in feeling in thought, in temperament, in hope and aspiration, in companionship, in religious conviction. Each knew the other’s innermost thoughts and these words personal may be permissible.
The deceased was thirty-four years old. Some ten years ago He left the farm to engage in newspaper work. He was handicapped by lack of experience and later by lung trouble, sad yet, in our humble opinion, considering his age, be was with few if any peers on the press of Iowa; as a writer, for breadth of thought, beauty of language, and depth of feeling. He was fair, fearless, honest, sincere, and he knew no guide except his conscience. He did his best writing at a frightful expenditure of energy, for the price was the burning of his very soul and substance. He leaves behind a beautiful character, a future full of hope and promise, a home, a wife and two little boys, and father and mother bent with years, two sisters, and two brothers.
Just why his life should thus go out in total eclipse cannot by us be answered. He wanted to live so bad. There was so much to do. The snow was falling and drifting all night long and the world was robed in white and beauty, perhaps that the soul in its flight might not be molested by any unseemly sight. The sun rose above the horizon and sparkled and I glistened from every tree and branch.
We stand by the bedside and watch with tear-stained eyes the passing; we drop our tears on the cold and leaden casket; we bring our tributes of flowers — the last that mortal man can do and yet how fruitless; we see the old time friends and neighbors pay their homage to the dead; we stand by the open and snow bound grave and through eyes that see not we gaze at the lowering bier. Ah, how fruitless is the gaze of life on death, how weak and helpless.
But the soul, ah, the soul, whence, whither? These questions have been asked since the beginning of human thought.
Whence? We turn backward the leaves of Time, petty Time, insignificant Time, back where history fades away into myth, back where the flickering flame of human thought goes out in utter darkness, back where all life disappears in the dim Laurentian seas, back where the world, an insignificant atom, swings, bleak, barren, by the universal laws on gravitation ten billion other worlds and suns, in illimitable and unfathomable space and eternity. Whence? We are lost. Conjecture alone is giving an answer and Conjecture has ten thousand guesses coming.
Whither, ah, whither? This is the vital question. Forward — beyond ths newly made mound in the burial ground, beyond the sphere of human action; forward with time until this old world become a cold and barren and unmeaning chaos and the human race is no more; forward until there is nothing save ten billion worlds and suns swinging eternally, by the universal laws of gravitation in illimitable and unfathomable apace and eternity. But the soul, ah, whither? To paraphrase another. “Is this life an oasis between the cold and barren wastes of two eternities of time and two infinities of apace?.
But the soul, whither, ah, whither? With its passage, does it go out forever; does it retain its identity throughout eternity; does it, like dust to dust, return to that from which souls are made; does it suffer future punishment; does it enjoy future happiness; shall we meet our dear ones beyond the vale of death? Who has ever stood at the open grave and pondered no such questions?.
Again, whither? Fear has built a place called hell but no man can stand beside the newly made grave of friend, of father, of mother, of wife, of child and find beyond, the lowering casket the flames and fiends of hell. Hope and Love have searched for hell in vain throughout the realms of space. They never yet have found it. They never will. There is no hell.
But, ah, whither? It will not down. Here is the answer. Faith, Hope, Love have bridged the chasm between Time and Eternity, between Space and Infinity, by which friend, father, mother, wife and child may meet again — forever. Don’t dynamite the bridge. Don’t question the work of Faith, Hope, and Love. There could be no better builders. The trains are crossing the chasm every minute, and, though no traveler has ever returned, let us believe in spite of every doubt, of every question, of every dogma, of every darkness. It is the only route through death to those we love. We would not escape it if we could and could not escape it if we would.
Beyond this life we expect to meet and enjoy again the bright and humble soul, the passage of which has prompted in tears these lines to his memory. He had but one God — Conscience. He had but one religion — Home, Wife, Child, Parent, Friend. And when at the parting scene he took his wife and mother by the hand. He said: “Raise the curtain higher, Teddy go home to grandpa and be happy. I am ready to meet my God.” There was no no fear, no doubt, no remorse, and a kind and beautiful farewell — a sufficient and everlasting testimonial of the efficacy of the God of the Conscience and the religion of Home, Wife, Child, Parent, Friend.
Ira Nichols
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