The Aiken recorder. [volume] (Aiken, S.C.) 1881-1910, September 13, 1899, Image 2
■ ' '• 1 ' ■ * -i. r -n
A Summer Scene.
The panting cattle seek the snau j,
The lazy swine tbe mire.
Along the hedge the sheep are laid
Like sacrifices for the blade
And hazy altar-fire.
The meadow-lark, with op?n bill
And weakened wing and tone.
Like one who's lost h s force of will.
Is languid, drcoping, sitting still.
Disheartened, aimless, lone.
The tender germs cf hidden seeds,
Unseen beneath the crust
Of the burnt earth and wilted weeds,
Wait for tae coming rain that feeds
The life within the dust.
Now from behind the eastern hills,
Like dusky sails unfurled.
Dark clouds arise, the thunder thrills:
dour.d like toe grinding of the mills
That feed the hungry world.
O glorious bow in splendor rolled
Through the vast realm above!
Glowing in colors manifold—
Blue, crimson, violet, and gold;
In heaven a sign of love.
In sunlight, as the mist moves by
Where the dim clouds were riven,
Upon the blue wall of the sky
A promise and a prophesy
In sacred scrip are given.
God wields with mercy and with might
The flashing bolt—His rod.
Behold the brilliant arch of light!
Th i colored bow that greets our sight
Is the autograph of God.
—George W. Bungay in Frank Leslie's.
A SUMMER OUTING.
You never saw me look so well in my
life? Really, I haven’t felt as well for
years, and it’s all owing to my sum
mer’s outing—I gained ten pounds in a
month.
Where did I go? Not to Saratoga,
Long Branch nor the White Mountains;
neither did I go visiting nor camping
out. If you must know, I didn’t go
three miles from home.
I have always worked hard, for you
know there is always enough to do in a
family of children, and we couldn’t
afford much hired help. Every year I
have felt that I was growing old fast,
but I was never so sensible of it as last
spring.
Somehow, I had lost all ambition as
well as strength. Everything was a
burden to me, every mole hill of woik
looked like a mountain. I had no ap
petite, and though I was tired all the
time, I couldn’t sleep at all well nights.
I was so nervous that everything wor
ried me. and in John’s shop across the
street, the ringing of the anvil that I
used to think so musical, seemed to
beat every stroke on my brain.
People used to tell me, ‘‘You ought
to go away and rest,’’ but it isn’t easy
for the mother of a family to leave six’
children between the ages of three and
thirteen, when every penny has- to be
counted twice before you use it.
Aunt Drusilla came to see us in the
last of July.
“Now, Almira Crispin,” she said be
fore she had been in the houso ten min
utes, “I didn’t come to make you any
work. I’ve heard _hpw poorly you
was, and 1 must say you do loo’.c spind
lin’ enough; but I’ve come to help you.
Fm agoin’ to keep house and send you
off somewheres.”
John seconded the idea, but where
should I go?
‘•Go out to Ohio and visit your sis
ter,” he suggested. “You ucver went,
and you’ve always wanted to go.”
f ‘I haven’t the money nor strength
to get ready, nor to go if I was ready,”
1 said. ‘•Moreover I don’t feel like
visiting anybody. ’’
“That’s what you don’t,” said Aunt
Drusilla. “I know just how it is.
You feel a good deal more like crawlin’
into a hole, and then drawin’ the hole
in after ye!”
I acknowledged I did. “Even if I
had all the money I wanted to use, I
shouldn’t feel like going to any place
where I had to make an effort of any
kind in the way of dress or con
versation.”
The talk drifted on to something
else, hut that very night an idea came
to me, and in the morning I asked John
if he would get a team and carry me up
to the widow Smith’s. She lives on a
hill in the north part of the town, and
I had h?ard that she was fixing up her
house to take summer boarders. It is
just such a place as city people like,
breezy and sightly, and there arc pleas
ant, romantic walks and drives in every
direction. Somehow it was borne in
upon me that it was just the place for
me. 1 knew she had no boarders this
year, hut was preparing to take some
next summer. How her eyes fairly
stood out w hen I asked her if she would
take me as a boarder for a month.
“Why, certainly, Mrs. Crispin,” she
said hesitatingly, and then I explained
the matter.
“I want to be quiet and rest, and be
waited on just the same as though I
came from a thousand miles awaj. I
don’t want even to take care of my own
room. ”
“It’s just the thing,” she said. “I
want Horace and Miry Ann to have
some sort of practice so they can wait on
city boaideis genteelly and I know you
wouldn’t mind if they were a little awk
ward at first.”
So we arranged it in a few minutes.
I was to have a large, sunny quiet
chamber, with the liberty of the whole
house and premises, and one or the
other of the young people to take the
team and carry me to ride whenever I
wished, all for three dollars a week.
And I was to come the very next day.
Rather short time to get ready for a
month’s outing, you might think, but it
was nil I needed. No new dresses to
make or anything,—it was restful just
to think of it! I packed a small trunk
with my best clothes, didn't even put
in an apron of any sort, lest it shonld
remind me of work, and that I wanted
to forget. In ths very bottom of the
trunk I put a few pieces of fancy-work
that I had begun at various times in
years past and never had time to finish,
though my fingers had often fairly
itched to get hold of them as a relisf
from a tiresome monotony of patching
and darning. Lately I had lost all am
bition even for them, but I hoped I
might feel differently after I was rested.
Next above them I put in books that
had been in the house for yeais and I
had never had time to read, also went
over to the village library and selected
a number more that I especially wanted.
I sent to Boston a month's tubscription
for a daily paper, resolved, if I did
nothing else to get read up on the events
of the day. It makes a woman feel wo-
lully rusty to have so many bright
young minds growing up around her
and asking questions which she cannot
answer, from sheer lack of time to in
form herself.
It was quite a scene when I came to
start the next morning. I had never
left my family for a week, before that,
and the idea of my being gone a month,
even if I wasn’t going out of town,
seemed as startling to them as if I were
going to Europe. Truth to tell, it
seemci almost ths same to me, and I
said to Aunt Drinilla:
“You must send for me if any of the
children are sick, you know.”
Aunt Drusilla is a born nurse and
knows more than half the doctors. Bhe
only laughed and said:
“Not much! Y'ou’re goin’ away to
rest, not to have the care and worriment
of your family on your mind. But one
thing remember—if I do send for
you, git home as quick as you can, for
you may be sure I consider ’em pretty
awful sick.”
The Smith family received me with as
much deference as if I had been a lady
from Boston, whom they had never
seen before, and I drifted quite natural
ly into my new life. For the first week
I slept about half the time. It was so
quiet in the mornings up there, my
room being too far away to hear the
family noise, and if I woke it was so
restful to think that I need not get
up till I pleased, that I would just lie
and doze and dream till I was thorough-
ly rested.
When I went down to breakfast, my
daily paper always lay by my plate
(Horace -went to the postoffice early and
got it for me), so I read that as I sipped
my coffee and ate ray breakfast, with
Mary Ana waiting on me, handy and
quiet. I ate my dinner and supper with
the family, but everything was served
with such nicety that it was appetizing;
and only a woman who has had the care
of all her meals for fifteen years knows
what a relish if imparts to food not to
know in the least what you are' to have
till you sit down at the table.
I gathered fir-balsam for pillows,
made thistle balls and bouquets of
white everlasting. I skeletonized leaves,
pressed flowers and ferns, gathered cones
lichens, evergreens, and gray moss, and
did a great many happy, idle things.
In the evenings I read till I wa
sleepy, them I went to bed early, and
after the first few nights, slept soundly
until morning. So day after day passed,
and I found myself really feeling better,
and all without a particle of medicine.
After breakfast I used to lie in tbe
hammock and read awhile, and when
the dew was off, I would sometimes
stroll away in the fields or woods gath
ering flowers, and sauntering as slowly
and idly as I pleased. The open air
proved a very good tonic for me, and I
would have a fine appetite for dinner.
After dinner I took a long nap on my
bed. It used to seem at first as if I
could never sleep enough, but towards
the last of my stay, I felt so rested and
well that I gave up my day-time naps.
After the heat of the day had passed,
Horace or Mary Ann would take the
team and carry me to ride off through
the spicy woods, or on to some breezy
hill-top where the view was grand and
inspiring. I never rode near the village,
and never went in sight of home, nor
did any of the family come to sec me.
But the know.edge that I could go
home at any time in half an hour kept
me easy and contented.
The last week of my stay I began to
think of the fancy-work.in the bottom
of my trunk. 1 unearthed it, and found
it really looked good to me, so I passed
many pleasant hours that week sitting
on the porch, putting fancy stitches
into the crazy-quilt, and crocheting
doylies. At my request Mrs. Smith sat
with me when she was at liberty, and
we had many pleasant visits together.
I found time and strength that week
to write many letters to long absent
friends whom I had perforce neglect
ed, and to play croquet with the
young people; and I made up my mind
I would play with the children when
I got heme. I would never so busy
myself in work again.
Home never looked so good to me as
it did when I came back to it, rested
and refreshed. I felt equal to doing
anything.
“I never saw the beat of it,” said
Aunt Drusilla. “You look like a new
woman. Jest to think what a little
way twelve dollars would go towards
riggin’ up an invalid for a journey, or
carryin’ ’em along, or how few doctor’s
bills it would pay, and then aee what
it has done for you by spendia’ it sensi
bly. I a’pose some folks would call you
‘mortal queer for doin’ it, but what of
that? Dear-bought and far-fetched isn’t
always the best in the long run.”
And I endorse Aunt Drusilla.—The
Housewife.
The Eventful Career of an Infant.
A very small baby, who has had a
very large experience crowded into his
brief career, sailed for England recently
from New York. He is the youngest
child of Griffith Williams, who, with
his wife and four little ones, is return
ing to their former home in Wales, after
having lost everything but their lives in
the Johnstown disaster. The baby was
bom surrounded by the horrors of that
awful night, when the flood swept
down the Conemaugh Valley. The lit
tle fellow, who has been appropriately
named Moses, was born at 3 o’ clock
Saturday morning. His parents had
hours before fled from their own house,
driven by the rising water to seek
another p’ace of safety. They went to
the house, of a relative on Lincoln street.
The flood overtook them. They were
driven to the attic. Soon afterward the
house was swept from its foundations
and began an awful voyage down the
surging torrent. When the railroad
bridge was reached—that bridge where
rose the funeral pyre of a multitude—
the house was wrenched in halves, and
the Williams family were divided from
their friends, that part of the wreck
upon which they were being forced by
the pressure of backwater up the creek,
which flowed into the Conemaugh at
this point, and there the baby w^is born.
He was wrapped up in a piece of old
shawl his mother wore. It was
drenched with rain, but there wasn’t a
dry thread in the attic. They had no
food. The children shivered and cried.
The mother was almost dead. Between
6 and 7 o’clock the second evening help
came. Mo the- and babe were lifted to
a shutter and carried over the roofs of
houses to a shelter on the hillside. The
father is a sturdy man of perhaps thirty
years of age. He was an employe at the
Cambria Iron Works at Johnstown,
where he settled when he came from
Wales three years ago. The mother is
a quiet little woman of modest de
meanor, whose young face shows unmis
takable traces of the fearful ordea! of
that night upon the flooded Conemaugh.
The older children, John, 6 years old,
Davy, five years, and Howell, two years,
are bright little fellows, but the baby,
Moses, is the star of the group. He is
hearty and rosy.
How to Keep a Razor Sharp.
We often have amateur shavers bring
us their razors to be fixed up. Almost
any man with a steady hand can shave
himself, but not one in fifty can keep
his razor in decent condition. The first
reason is that amateurs wear &U the tem
per out of their razors by excessive
strapping and the better the steel the
easier it w affected in this way^ The
'ealyTmnedy Ts to IeT it alone. Put
away the tazer that scrapes and cuts the
skin and give it a good rest. Then use
it again, and in all probability it will
be in good shape.
Some of the modern shaving sets
have as many razors as there are days in
the week, and on the handle of each is
engraved the name of a day. If the ro
tation is kept up very little sharpening
is needed. I have known men talk of
jict razors which they have used every
day for ever so many years; if they
would let these lie by for a while, they
would find a welcome improvement.
The second cause of the trouble is bear
ing ou the razor while sharpening it.
Never attempt to put on an edge before
shaving. When you are through rub
the blade a few times lightly on a plain
leather strap, whicli need not cost above
a q tarter, and then put away. The old
boiling water craze is exploded now,
and professionals do jus: as good work
with cold water as hot.—St. Louis Globe-
Democrat.
Russian Rouble Dinners.
The Russian eats on an average once
every two hours. The climate and cus
tom require such frequent meals, the
digestion of which is aided by frequent
draughts of vodki and tea. Vodki is
the Russian whisky, made from pota
toes and rye. It is fiery and colorless
and is generally flavored with some ex
tract like vanilla or orange. It is drunk
from small cups that ho d perhaps half
a gill. Vodki and tea are the insepara
ble accompaniments of friendly as well
as of business intercourse in the country
of the Czar. Drunken, men are rare.
Russia and Sweden are the only coun
tries in which the double dinner is the
rule. When you go to the house of a
Russian, be he a friend or a stranger,
you are at once invited to a side-table,
where salted meats, pickled eel, salted
cucumbers and many other spicy and
appetizing viands are urged upon you
with an impressiveness that knows no
refusal. This repast is washed down
with frequent cups of vodki. That
over, and when the visitor feels as if
he has eaten enough for twenty-four
hours, the host says: “And now for
dinner.” At the dinner-table the meal
is served in courses, with wines grown
in the Crimea and Bessarabia.—Argo
naut.
Bananas in the Tropics.
Bananas in the tropics are eaten raw
or with sugar and cream.or wine orange
juice. Cooked when green or ripe they
are fried alone or in. butter, baked with
the skins on or made into puddings oi
pies. They are made into a paste which
is the staple food of many Mexican
tribes.
REV. « TALMAGE.
THE BR<
Subject: “W«
(PreacI
Text: “1
ances, and
v., 27.
Babylon was t
and driven oat
buildings of me
dence of her
selected for the
employed in the i
building of her J
miles infcircumfe
all around Hie''
for the bu _
There were tv
the city; bet
defense i
gate on i
IN D1VTNE*S
iERMON.
SUN-
in the Balances.”
Omaha, Neb.)
rt weighed in the bal-
ind wanting.”—Daniel
would stream dc
end of the br
theje wag a
and a half arou
and a half miles 1
The wife of ]
and brought
mountainous \
this flat district T,*!
his wife, NebucUaa
of architecture,
thence the grandest
times are only theevi-
The site having been
two million men were
ig of her walls and the
It was a city sixty
. There was a trench
m which the material
ie city had been digged,
-five gates on each side
every two gates a tower of
into the skies; from each
i,* street running straight
through to the corresponding gate on the
other side, so $L ore were fifty streets fifteen
mUes long. Tn.ouojh the city ran a branch
of the river Fu ihrates. This river some
times overflov * * its banks, and to keep it
from the ruin r» foe city a lake was con
structed, into wMcii the surplus water of this
river would run daring the time of freshets,
and the water Was kept in this artificial lake
until time of drought, and then this water
over the city. At either
ng the Euphrates
the one palace a mile
other palace seven
ound.
hadnezzar had been born
the country and in a
and she could not bear
abylon; and so, to please
nezzar built in the midst
of the city a it our tain 400 feet high. This
mountain was out into terraces sup
ported on arches. On the top of these arches
a layer of flat stones; on the top of that a
layer of reeds and bituamn; on the top of
that two layers of bricks, closely cemented;
on the top of that a heavy sheet of lead, and
on the top of that the soil placed—the soil so
■ deep that a Lebanon cedar had room to an
chor its roots. There were pumps worked by
mighty machinery, fetching up the water
from the Euphrates to this hanging garden,
as it was called, so that there were fountains
spouting into the sky.
Standing below and looking up it must
have seemed as if the clouds were in blossom,
or as though the sky leaned on the shoulder
of a cedar. All this Nebuchadnezzar did to
please his wife. Well, she ought to have
been pleased. I suppose she was pleased. If
that would not please her nothing would.
There was in that city also the temple of
Belus, with towers—one tower the eignth of
a mile high, in which there was an observa
tory where astronomers talked to the stars.
There was in that temple an image, just one
image, which cost what would be our fifty-
two million dollars.
O what a city! The earth never saw any
thing like it, niSver will see anything like it.
And yet I baVe to tell you that it is goiug to
be destroyed. The King and his Princes are
at a feast. They are all intoxicated. Pour
out the rich wine into the chalices. Drink to
the health of the King. Drink to the glory
of Babylon. Drink to a great future.
A thousand Lords reel intoxicated. The
King, seated upon a chair, with vacant look,
as intoxicated men will—with vacant look
stared at the wall. But soon that vacant
look takes on intensity.and it is an affrightsd
look; and all the Princes begin to look and
wonder what is the matter, and they look at
the same point on the wall. And then there
drops a darkness into the room and puts out
the blaze of the golden plate, and out of the
sleeve of the darkness there comes a finger—
a finger of fiery terror circling around and
circling around as though it would write;
and then it comes up and with sharp tip of
flame it inscribes on the plastering of the
wall the doom of the King: “Weighed in the
balances and found wanting.” The bang
of heavy fists against the gates of the pal
ace are followed by tbe breaking in of the
doors. A thousand gleaming knives strike
into a thousand quivering hearts. Now
Death is King, and he is seated on a throne
of corpses. In that hall there is a balance
lifted. God_swung it. On one side of tbe
balance tJ r -~put Belshazzar’s opportunities,
on the other side of the balance are put Bel
shazzar’s sins. The stns come down. His
opportunities go up. Weighed in the bal
ances—found wanting.
There bas been a> great deal of cheating
in OUT rmnotrw with / * '
tnW
change _
missioners whose business it was to stamp
weights and measures and balances, and a
S -eat deal of the wrong has been corrected.
ut still, after all, there is no such thing as a
perfect balance on earth. The chain may
break or some of the metal may be clipped,
or in some way the equipoise may be a little
disturbed.
You cannot always depend upon earthly
balances. A pound is not always a pound,
and you pay for one thing and you get an
other; but in the balance which is suspended
to tbe throne of God, a pound is a pound,and
right is right, and wrong is wrong, and a
soul is a soul, and eternity is eternity. God
has a perfect bushel and a perfect peck and a
perfect gallon. When merchants weigh
their goods in tbe wrong way, then the Lord
weighs the goods again. If from the imper
fect measure the merchant pours out what
pretends to be a gallon of oil and there is less
God k
than a gallon,
knows it, and He calls
upon His recording angel to mark it: “So
much wanting in tnat measure of oil.” The
farmer comes in from the country. He has
apples to sell. He has an imperfect measure.
He pours out the apples from this imperfect
measure. God recognizes it. He says to the
recording angel: “Markdown so many ap
ples too few—an imperfect measure.” We
may cheat ourselves and we may cheat the
world, but we cannot cheat God, and in
the great day of judgment it will be found
out that what we learned in boyhood at
school is correct—thativ^enty-hundred weight
make a ton, and one hundred and twenty
solid feet make a cord of wood. No more,
no less. And a religion which does not take
hold of this life as well as the life to come is
no religion at all. But, my friends, that is
not the kind of balances I am to speak of
to-day; that is not the kind of weights and
measures I am to spe£k of that kind of bal
ances which can weigh principles, weigh
churches, weigh men, weigh nations, and
weigh worlds. “Whatt” you say, “is it pos
sible that our world is to Be weighed?”. Yes.
Why, you would think if God put on one
side the balances suspended from the throne
the Alps, and the Pyrenees, and the Hima
layas, and Mount Washington, and all the
cities of the earth, they would crush it. No,
no. The time will come when God will sit
down on the white throne to see the world
weighed, and on one side will be the world’s
opportunities, ^nd on the other side the
world’s sins. Do wn will go the sins and away
will go the opportunities, and God will say to
the messengers with the torch: “Burn that
world! Weighed and found wan ting P’
God will weigh churches. He takes a great
church. That great church, according to the
worldly estimate, mo^the weighed. He puts
it on one side the balances, and the minister
and the choir and the building that cost its
hundreds of thousands of dollars. He puts
them on one side the baku^eju On the other
side of that scale He puts that church
ought to be, what its consecration ought to
be, what its sympathy for the poor ought to
be, what its devotion to a| good ought to be.
That is on one side. Thatside comes down,
nnH the church, not being able to stand the
test, rises in the balances. “It does not make
any difference about you* magnificent ma
chinery. A church is built for one thing—to
save souls. If it saves a f«aj souls when it
might save a multitude qf^^uls, God will
spew it out of His mouth. '
wanting! So God estimai
many times He ha . put the S
into the scales, and found is insufficient and
condemned it! The Frenfch Empire was
placed on one side the scales ind God weighed
the French Empire, and .Napoleon said:
“Have I not enlarged the bo^lejards? Did I
not kindle the glories of the
Have I not adorned the Tuileri
not built the gilded Opera Hoi
weighed that natiom and he
of the scales the Emperor
vards, and the Tuileries, a5d t\eA Champs
Elysees, and the gilded Opefo Hotsel and on
the other side he put that man’s abonVination,
that man’s libertinism, that man’s selfishness,
that man’s godless ambition. This last came
down, all the brilliancy of the scene van
ished. What is that voice cominr up from
Sedan? Weighed and found waning.
Bnt I must become more individual and
more personal in my address. Sontf people
say they do not think clergymen “
personal in their religious
ought to deal with subjects in the i
do not think that way. What tomi you
think of a hunter who should go to tV Adi-
_fhod and found
nations. How
f s Elvsees?
Have I
sThen God
one side
boule-
rondacks to shoot deer in the abstract* Ah!
no. He loads the gun, be puts the butt of it
against the breast, he runs his eye along tba
barrel, he takes sure aim, and then crash go
the antlers on the rocks. And so, if we want
to be hunters for the Lord, we must take
sure aim and fire. Not in the abstract are
we to treat things in religious discussions. If
a physician comes into a sick room does he
treat disease in the abstract? No; he feels
the pulse, takes the diagnosis, then he makes
the prescription. And if we want to heal
souls for this life and the life to come, we do
not want to treat them in the abstract. The
fact is, you and I have a malady which, if
uncured by grace, will kill us forever. Now,
I want no abstraction. Where is the balm?
Where is the physician?
People say there is a day of judgment com
ing. My friends, every day is a day of judg
ment, and you and I to-day are being can
vassed, inspected, weighed. Here are the
balances of the sanctuary. They are lifted,
and we must all be weighed. Who will come
and be weighed first? Here is a moralist who
volunteers. He is one of the most upright
men in the country. He comes. Well, my
brother, get in, get into the balances now
and be weighed. But as he gets into the
balances, I say: “What is that bundle you
have along with you?” “Oh,” he says, “that
is my reputation for goodness, and kindness,
and charity, and generosity, and kindliness
generally.” “O my brother! we cannot
weigh that; we are going to weigh you—
you. Now, stand in the scales—you, the
moralist. Paid your debts?” “Yes,” you
.say, “paid all my debts.” “Have you acted in
an upright way in the community?” “Yes,
yes.” “Have you been kind to the poor?
Are von faithful in a thousand relations in
life?” “Yes.” “So far so good. But now,
before you get out of this scale I want to ask
you two or three questions. “Have your
thoughts always been right?” “No,” you say
“no.” Put down one mark. “Have you loved
the Lord with all your heart, and soul, and
mind, and strength?” “No,” you say. Make
another mark. “Come, now, be frank and
confess that in ten thousand things you
have come short—have you not?”
“ Yes.” Make ten thousand marks.
Corae now, get me a book large enough to
make the record of that moralist’s deficits.
My brother, stand in the scales, do not fly
away from them. I put on your side the
scales all the good deeds you ever did, all the
kind words you ever uttered; but on the
other side the scales I put this weight, which
God says I must put there—on the other side
the scales and opposite to yours I put this
weight: “By the deeds of the law shall no
flesh living be justified.” Weighed and found
wanting.
Still, the balances of the sanctuary are sus
pended and we are ready to weigh any wno
come. Who shall be the next? Well, here is
a formalist. He comes and he gets into the
balances, and as he gets in I see that all his
religion is in genuflexions and in outward
observances. As he gets into the scales I
say: “What is that you have in this pocket?’’
“Oh,” he says, “that is Westminster Assembly
Catechism.” I say: “Very good. What
have you in that other pocket?” “Oh,” he
says, “that is the Heidelberg Catechism.”
“Very good. What is that you have under
your arm, standing in this balance of the
sanctuary?” “Oh,” he says, “that is a church
record.” “Very good. What are all these
books on your side the balances?” “Oh,” he
says, “those are ‘Calvin’s Institutes.’” “My
brother, we are not weighing books; wa are
weighing you. It cannot be said that you are
depending for your salvation upon your or
thodoxy. Do you not know that the creeds
and the forms of religion are merely the scaf
folding for the building? You certainly are
not going to mistake the scaffolding for the
temple. Do you not know that men have gone
to perdition with a catechism in their pocket?”
“But,” says the man, “I cross myself often.”
“Ah! that will not save you.” “But,” says
the man, “I am sympathetic for the poor.”
“That will not save you.” Says the man.
“I sat at the communion table.”
“That will not save you.” “But,”
says the man, “I have had my name
on the church records.” “That will
not save you.” But I have been a professor
of religion forty years.” “That will not save
you. Stand there on your side the balances
and I will give you the advantage—I will let
you have all the creeds, all the church rec
ords, all the Christian conventions that were
ever held, all the communion tables that wore
ever built, on your side the balances. On the
other side the balances I must put what God
says I must put there. I put this million
pound weight on the otner side the balances:
“Having the form of godliness, but denying
the power thereof. From such turn away.”
Weighed and found wanting.
Still the balances are suspended. Are
there any. others who - would like to be
wbo will be weighed? Yes, here
comes a worldling. He gets into the scales.
I can very easily see what his whole life is
made up of. Stocks, dividends, percentages,
“buyer ten days,” “buyer thirty days.” Get
in, my friend; get into these balances and be
weighed—weighed for this life and weighed
for the life to come. He gets in. I find that
the two great questions in his life are, “How
cheaply can I buy these goods?” and “How
dearly can I sell them?” I find he admires
Heaven because it is a land of gold and money
must be “easy.”
I find from talking with him that religion
and the Sabbath are an interruption, a vul
gar interruption, and he hopes on the way to
church to drum up a new customer. All the
week he has been weighing fruits, weighing
meats, weighing ice, weighing coal, weighing
confections, weighing worldly and perishable
commodities, not realizing the fact that he
himself has been weighed. On your side the
balances, O worlding! I will give you full
advantage. I put on your side all the bank
ing houses, all the storehouses, all the car
goes, all tne insurance companies, all the fac
tories, all the silver, all the gold, all the
money vaults, all the safety deposits—all on
your side. But it does not add one ounce,
for at the very moment we are congratu
lating you on your fine house and upon your
princely income God an J the angels are writ
ing in regard to your soul, “Weighed and
found wanting.”
But I must go faster and speak of the final
scrutiny. The fact is, my friends, we are
moving on amid astounding realities. These
pulses which now are drumming the march
of life may, after a while, call a halt. We
walk on a hair hung bridge over chasms. All
around us are dangers making ready to
spring on us from ambush. We lie down at
night, not knowing whether we shall arise in
the morning. We start out for our occupa
tions, not knowing whether we shall come
back. Crowns being burnished for thy brow
or bolts forged for thy prison. Angels of light
ready to shout at thy deliverence, .or fiends
of darkness stretching up skeleton hands
to pull thee down into ruin consummate.
Suddenly the judgment will be here. The
angel, with one foot on the sea and the other
foot on theTand,will swear by Him that liveth
forever and ever that time shall be no longer:
“Behold, He cometh with clouds, and every
eye shall see Him.” Hark to the jarring of the
mountains. Why, this is the setting down of
the scales, the balances. And then there is a
flash as from a cloud, but it is the glitter of
the shining balances, and they are hoisted,
and all nations are to be weighed. The un
forgiven get in on this side the balances.
They may have weighed themselves and pro
nounced a flattering decision. The world
may have weighed them and pronounced
them moral. Now they are being weighed
in God’s balances—the balances that can make
no mistake. All the property gone, all the
titles of distinction gone, all the worldly suc
cesses gone; there is a soul, absolutely noth
ing but a soul, an immortal soul, a never
dying soul, a soul stripped of all worldly ad
vantage, a soul—on one side of the scales.
On the other side the balances are wasted
Sabbaths, disregarded sermons, ten thousand
opportunities of mercy and pardon that were
cast aside. They are on the other side the
scales, and there God stands, and in the pres
ence of men and devils, cherubim and arch
angel, He announces, while groaning earth
quake. and crackling conflagration, and judg
ment trumpet, and everlasting storm repeat
it: “Weighed in the balance and found
wanting.”
But, say some who are Christians: “Cer
tainly you don t mean to say that we will
have to get into the balances. Our sins are
all pardoned, our title to heaven is secure.
Certainly you are not going to put us in the
balances?” Yes, my brother. We must all
appear before the judgment seat of Christ,
and on tliat day you are certainly going to
be weighed.
O follower of Christ, you get into the bal
ances. The bell of the judgment is ringing.
You must get into the balances. You get in
on this side. On the other side the balances
we will place all the opportunities of good
which you did not improve, all the attain
ments in piety which you must have had,
but which you refused to take. We place
them all on the other side .They go down,
and your soul rises in the scale. Von cannot
weiirh against all those imperfections.
Well, then, we must give you the advan
tage, and on your side of the scales we will
place all the good deeds that you have ever
done, and all the kind words you have ever
uttered. Too light yet! Well, we most put
on your side all the consecration of your life.
t^waightoand meae- I WigHedofr whowill be weighed?
*and the government, to _ . . .
state of ikLifcS, appointed corn-
all tiie holiness of your fife, ail the prayers of
vour life, all the faith of your Christian life,
Too light yet! Come, mighty men of the past,
and get in on that side the scales. Come,
Paysoa, and Doddridge, and Baxter, get in
on that side the scales and make them come
down that this righteous one may be saved.
They come and they get in the scales. Too
light yet! Come, the martyrs, the Latimers,
the Wickliffes. the men who suffered at the
stake for Christ. Get in on this side the
Christian’s balances, and see if yon cannot
help him weigh it aright. They come and
get in. Too light yet! Come, angels of God
on high. Let not the righteous perish with
the wicked. They get in on this side the bal
ances. Too light yet!
I put on this side the balances all tbe scep
ters of light, all the thrones of power, all the
crowns of glory. Too light yet. But just at
that point, Jesus, the Son of God, comes up
to the balances, and He puts one of His scarred
feet on your side, and the balances begin to
quiver and tremble from top to bottom.
Then He puts both of His scarred feet on the
balances and the Christian’s side comes down
with a stroke that sets all tbe bells of heaven
ringing. That Rock of Ages heavier than any
other weight.
But, says the Christian. “Am I to be
allowed to get off so easily?*’ Yes. If some
one should come and put on the other side tbe
scales all our imperfections, all your envies,
all your jealousies, all your inconsistencies
of life, they would not budge the scales with
Christ on your side the scales. Go free!
There is no 'vudemnation to them that are
in Christ Jesus. Chains broken, prison
houses opened, sins pardoned. Go free!
Weighed in the balances, and nothing, noth
ing wanting.
Oh! what a glorious hope. Will you ac
cept it this day? Christ making up for what
you lack. Christ the atonement for all your
sins. Who will accept Him? Will not this
whole audience say: “I am insufficient, lam
a sinner, I am lost by reason of my trans
gressions, but Christ has paid it all. Mv Lord,
and my God, my life, my pardon, ray Heaven.
Lord Jesus, I hail thee.” Oh! if you could
only understand the worth of that sacrifics
which I have represented to you under a
figure—if you could undertand the worth of
that sacrifice, this whole audience would this
moment accept Christ and be saved.
We go away off, or back into history, to
get some illustration by which we may set
forth what Christ has done for us. We need
not go so far. I saw a vehicle behind a run
away horse dashing through the street, a
mother and her two children in the carriage.
The horse dashed along as though to hurl
them to death, and a mounted policeman
with a shout clearing the way, and the horse
at full run, attempted to seize those runaway
horses and to save a calamity, when his own
horse fell and rolled over him. He was picked
up half dead. Why were our sympathies so
stirred? Because he was badly hurt, and
hurt for others. But I tell you to-day of
how Christ, the Son of God, on the blood red
horse of sacrifice, came for our rescue, and
rode down the sky and rode unto death for
our rescue. Are not your hearts touched?
That was a sacrifice for you and for me. O
Thou who didst ride on the red horse of sacri
fice! come this hour and ride through this
assemblage on the white horse of victory.
TEMPERANCE.
RELIGIOUS READING.
WHAT JKSUS IS.
O Lord, Thou art ?o much to met
I marvel and adore;
My heart's enamored of Thy love^
And pants to love Thee more.
The truest, purest human love
Is faint compared with Thine;
That love, unchanged through changing
yearn,
Is fathomless, Divine.
What Thou hast been in day* gone by.
What Thou art now to me,
What Thou wilt be while time shall lasts
And through eternity.
It baffles all my powers to think,
Dazzles my mental sight;
The finite cannot comprehend
Nor grasp the Infinite.
All types and emblems joined in ona
Fail tx
to 1e!l half Thy worth;
Thy glory cannot be conveyed
By imagery of earth.
But Thou art everything to me;
Be all things else forgot—
In Thee I have sufficiency,
There’s nothing Thou art not.
LOV* MIGHTIER THAN LOGIC.
You may hammer ice on the anvil or bray
it in a mortar. What then? It is pounded
ice still, except for the little portion melted
by heat of percussion, and it will soon con
geal again. Melt it in the sun and it flow*
down in sweet water, which mirrors the
light which loosed its bands of cold. So
hammer away at unbelief with your logical
sledge-hammers, and you will change its
shape perhaps, but it is none the less unbe
lief because you have ground it to powder.
It is a mightier agent that must melt it—the
fire of God’s love, brought close by a will
ablaze with the sacred glow.
* # SOMEBODY’S CHILD.
When piteous plight of a man you observe,
In vassalage vile to the demon of drink,
’Twill Letter the purpose of charity serve
Than uttering epithets calmly to think.
TTis artlessness once a charmed mother be
guiled;
Besotted, degraded, he’s somebody’s child.
To a bacchanal bound with a martial vow.
Yonder woman with children in poverty’s
clothes.
With want on her face and with care on her
brow,
The shoes of the little ones gut at the toes,
In the arms of a father seductively smiled.
And gleefully prattling, was somebody’s
child.
When on youth’s native countenance tokens
I see
Of tracing of Bacchus’s bewildering art,
I reflect, though himself from contrition be
free,
’Twere happy he break not some other
one’s heart,
And I grieve for his father with woe on him
piled,
I weep for the mother of somebody’s child.
For a pittance of coin a man earnestly plead ^
That he might relief for his burning thirst J ^
claim; - ■ — ■ ■
On his person was Alcohol’s livery spread.
Unmistakable badge of inebriate’s shame;
With my hand on his shoulder I said:
ough defiled.
Not evil but good I’d do somebody’s child.”
Then spread o’ver his features a spasm of
Anilburst forth the fountains by memory
fed.
Hot tears of remorse from his eyes fell like
rain
While he gazed at a bar as of something in
dread;
TTfs tone was despairing, his countenance
wild
As he said: “Sir, don’t tell me I’m some
body’s child.”
Oh! terrible thought, that my boy should
become
Such a curse to himself, to his race such a
shame;
His face foully bloated, breath reeking with
rum,
Dishonor and odium marring his name!
Homeless and wretched, despied and reviled.
With few to consider he’s somebody’s child.
—C. A. Ingraham, in the Pioneer.
TO THE INDUSTRIOUS EVERYWHERE.
Do you want increased sales of products,
increased prices, increased wages? I can tell
you how to get them. Nearly $1,000,000,000
are wasted annually in strong drink!
Abolish the saloons and this vast sum will
be spent for more food, more clothing, more
comforts, more luxuries, so that there will be
a greater demand for the special line of
goods you are interested in; and as capacity
to purchase increases, a more excellent
quality will be demanded, and you will, if a
manufacturer or merchant, not only sell
more goods, but get a higher average price
for them. If a laborer or clerk you will not
only be more steadily employed, but at an
increase of wages.
A STREET-CAR PLACARD
A placard in a Chicago street-car reads a*
follows:
CHICAGO’S BEER BILL, :
PERSONAL OBLIGATION.
I recently heard a very intelligent lady
say that she would not unite with the
church because she would not dare to take
solemn vows upon herself for fear she might
break them. She failed to realize appar
ently that her own per.-onal obligation to
serve her Lord remained the same even
though she were “out of the church.” Ob
ligation was born long before the church
was. The Lord was “King,” and all people
His subjects, before church organization
was thought of. Right is right and wrong
is wi ong. to all people under the sun. It is
a deplorable mistake to think that “belong
ing to a church” makes our obligations to
God, hut it is a happy fact, nevertheless,
that it is a most delightful and satisfying
help in performing them.
It is Henry Ward Beecher, I think, who
said, “Sink the Bible to the bottom of the
oc;?an, and man’s obligation to God would be
unchanged. He would have the same path
to tread, only his lamp and his guide would
be cone; he would have the same voyage to
make, only his compass and charts would bft
overboard.”
In 1 Cor. 4:1. it reads, “Let a man so ac
count of us, as the ministers of Christ and
stewards of the mysteries of God. More
over, it is required in stewards thatman
be found faithfuL” In Matt 23:3. «re have
this verse, “Be not ye called Rabbi, for
one is your Master, even Christ; and all ye
are brethren.” In 1 Peter 4:10, we find thie
rule, “As every man hath received the gift,
even so minister the same one to another, as
good stewards of the manifold grace of
Dr. Gumming in speaking of personal
obligation, says: “It is by each soldier
feeling his obligation in doing his part that
the army conquers; it is by each bee doing
its work that the hive is stored with honey;
it is by each insect putting forth all its
might, that the coral reef becomes an island,
and cities rise upon the bosom of the main.”
Personal obligation has its source back of
consciousness. Whether Christians or not,
we are the Lord’s for we have been bought
with a price. Therefore our personal obli
gation demands that we serve oar Saviour,
that we surrender cnraelves to Him soul and
body.
Spencer relates a story of a beggar wbo
asked something of a lady. She gave him a
sixpence, saying: “ThN is more than ever
God gave me.”' “O madam I’ says tbe beg-
“madam! you have abundance, and
bath given all that you bare; say not
gnofi mmtAtn. l ’ a‘WHI 1 ' tl -WiTd Bbs;
speak the truth, for God hath not given but
1 may be-
lent unto me what I have, that
stow it upon such as thou art.”
There are few sights as lovely in this
world as a person who deeply feels his or her
obligation to tbe Lord (and the world yrhlch
of course is necessarily included), and reso
lutely and earnestly and unswervingly per
forms it, no matter what discouragements
are in his way.—Christian at Work.
MORE THAN
*26,800,000.
POPULATION, 1,100,000.
Average, $24.46
FOR EACH MAN, WOMAN AND
CHILD IN CHICAGO.
THE LEAK IN THE TROUGH.
A great many persons cannot understand
now it is, when there appears to be plenty of
money in the country, that there is neverthe
less so much suffering and so much complaint
of hard times. It puts me in mind of a
story I once read about a farmer and his
hogs. He had a lot of hogs, of a good breed
too, which he could not get fat. He gave
them milk every day, and plenty of it, and
yet, in spite of all they got poorer contin
uously. He concluded those hogs had some
new and strange disease. He wrote to an
agricultural journal about them. A veterin
ary surgeon thought it a strange case, and
determined to investigate. He went to look
at the hogs; they were a sorry looking set in
deed. He climbed into the nogpea to inves
tigate, and, lo, the mystery was solved—there
was a large leak in the trough. If society
wishes to exist and prosper, this leakage, the
'iquor traffic, must be stopped.—Samuel
Schwarm. i
TOTAL ABSTINENCE INSURANCE.
The addition of total abstinence depart
ments to several American and European
companies has materially cheapened in
surance. The Total Abstinence Life Associa
tion of America, formerly a department in a
Chicago co-operative company, has recently
withdrawn by a unanimous vote of its mem
bers, and organized under the above name as
a separate co-operative institution. It be
gins business with a membership of 3700, and
is the first insurance company ever organ
ized, devoted entirely to the interests of
total abstainers. It would be of interest to
hear what can be said on the other side of
this particular phase of insurance. Thus far
we are unable to find a writer who will
attempt the absurdity of trying to prove
that insurance in a sober company, or even a
total abstinence company, is not the cheap
est.—The Statesman.
THE RESOURCES OF THE CHURCH.
God has given to the church X our day
a material equipment for this work of evan
gelism which is as far in advance of apos
tolic days as the speed of steam and light
ning is ahead of camels and horses. Every
resource is divinely at our dispo-a’. We can
go round the earth in 90 days, an 1 girdle it
with electricity in 90 seconds. 8t« am cars
wait to carry us wherever engineering can
construct a track, and steamboats are ready
to float us wherever rivers run. The print
ing press will multiply the heal in r leaves of
the tree of life as fast as we can scatter
them, and the common school, now fast bo-
coming universal, offers to fit ev >ry man to
read the Scripture in his own tonem. God
has flung open all the doors, and every land
is now a Macedonia whose voice is, “Come
over and help us.” Bock of the miss ons of
a century stand results so amn zing t' at oven
unbelievers confess the finger of God. In
front of the mission band lie unoccupied ter
ritories, inviting the plowman and the
sower, and white harvest field* demanding
the reaper with his sickle.
As to money, if one-tenth of the treasure
now in the coffers of Christians in England
and America was put on the altar of sacri
fice, it would suffice to multiply all tbit is
now spent on the entire mission field two
hundredfold. Do we realize what that
means? It means 1,200,000 missionaries in
the flelrl, or one to every 800 of the une
vangelized; it means churches, schools and
colleges; in every heathen, pagan, papal and
Moslem community; it in ans the blessing
long since promised, when all the tithes are
brought into the store-house,—a blessing
poured out, until there be none left to pour
out. (Mai. ill, 10, according to the Hebrew.)
Here is a magnificent material equii ment,
but it is a machine without an adequate
motive power. All the combined energy of
the flesh will never ret this huge mechanism
in motion. Tnere is but one Power equal to
the emergency; it is the vital spark that
flash-s from above, and only prevailing
prayer can bring that spark down. The
whole church of Go 1 should be on her knees,
pleading and waiting for the celestial fire.
Let that descend, and every wheel will m we
and everv lever play; money will be out
poured like water; life will offer its vitality
and vigor, and better than treasure or life,
love will count no cost dear, no toil bard, no
burden heavy wh n Jesus leads and souls are
dying.—Dr. Pierson.
In the course of the voyage you may, and
will, encounter cros< winds and cross cur
rents; baffling dispensation-'. But God is
faithfuL Thus the story of the shipwreck
will in a spiritual and eternal sense, be ful
filled—“And so it came to pass, that they
escaped all safe to land.”—J. R. Macduff,
D. D.
If it were only the exercise of the body,
the moving of tbe lips, the bending of the
knee, men would as commonly step to
heaven as they go to visit a friend; but to
separate our thoughts and affections from
the world, to draw forth all our graces, and
engage each in its proper object, and to hold
them to it till the work prospers in our
hands, this, this is the difficulty.—Baxter.
A Youngstown (Ohio) man recently
started for Europe. He reached Buf
falo, N. Y., when he remembered that
he had forgotten to lock his safe. He
hurried home and there found a letter
offering him a large contract in Cin
cinnati, which he at once accepted and!
abandoned his trip.
Ed Reed, son of the notorious Belle
Starr, who was killed some time since
in Indian Territory, has arrived at the
Ohio Penitentiary to serve a sevens