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Calm age Sermon By Rev. Frank De Witt Talmafi!e, D. D. Los Angeles, Cal., Sept. 11.—In this Sermon the preacher considers some of the besetting sins of modem society and warns Christians against yielding to their allurements. The text is Isa iah xxi, 11, ‘‘Watchman, what of the night?” Have you an active imagination? If so, j'ou do not need to go to Palestine, j the land In which the ancient prophet wrote, for an illustration of the words , of my text. There are watchmen everywhere—men who at night, while others sleep, are on guard protecting! property and by their vigilance foil-! Ing the plans of thieves and conspira-! tors who prowl around In the dark- i ness. I was deeply impressed with this duty of the watchman by a spectacle j I witnessed some years ago in the British capital. It was that of the an cient ceremony, still observed, of mounting guard at the old Tower of London. Tlds tower, as you may know r , is not really a tower, but a col lection of buildings covering an area of thirteen acres. They are surrounded by a strong and high w'nll In which j there are four gates, called respec-1 tlvely the Iron gate, the Water gate, the Traitors’ gate and the Lion’s gate, j Within those walls some of the ancient kings held their courts and passed the nights iu wild orgies and licentious | dissipations. It was the place also | where some of them defended them selves behind the barred gates against domestic enemies, as w'ell as foreign foes. Here also many of the Insurrec tionists were incarcerated and put to death. The execution axes which to day hang upon the museum walls were wetted with the blood of many victims. Upon the blood stained block, which is still kept as a grewsome reminder oi the awful past, many bodies were de capitated. The frightened eyes that looked up at the rising sun for the last time from that block did not all belong to the masculine sex. There poor Lady Jane Grey died as well as the hand some Earl of Leicester, and Lords Kll- ^nrnock and Balmerino and Lovat. But I am digressing from my sub ject. I would not have you loiter lon ger among these historic stones mere ly to see a few crown jewels and rega lia, which are guarded in the jewel house. I would not have you linger longer among the breastplates and hel mets and battleaxes and pikes and spears and casting nets of ehivalrie times which are now on exhibition side by side with the guns and bayonets and swords and cannon of the modern British soldiers. But I would hasten you *out Into the open square, where the shrill lifes are calling and the roll ing of the drums tells us the guards are forming to take their places by and in these watchtowers, Just as the watch-1 men did away back in the time of Wil liam the Conqueror and during tho reigns of the Pluutagenet kings. SoldlrrN on Guard. “Stand back, stand back!” cry the officials to the sightseers. “You must keep off the parade ground and give the soldiers room.” A held officer iu gold lace and clanking sword comes out of his quarters and takes his posi tion on the right of the ground. “Fall in, fall in!” cry the corporals to their men. The different squads are quickly formed into one line. The sergeants re port to the adjutant; the adjutant re ports to the commandant of the Tower. The evening orders are now read. The bandmaster lifts his signal. The musi cians pass down in front of the line j and wheel back to their places. Tattoo is sounded. The Hag is lowered. The sunset gun's guttural voice Is heard. Then the soldiers march to their re spective posts, and through the night, as on every night for well nigh SOU- years, on every tower and at all the j gates a soldier is stationed as a millta- J ry watchman to keep vigil until the day breaks. It is merely formal routine duty that the British sentinel on tho Tower now | has to perform, but iu former times there was need of all his vigilance. From his watchtower ho might see the approach of a foreign foe, or in some part of the great slumbering > city spread out on all sides below him j he might witness the outbreak of in surrection. We can imagine how anx ious in those unquiet times might be the tone of tlie officer of the guard, who, visiting him, would ask, “Watch- j man, what of the night?" That means: “How goes the night? What is the news? Tell me wdiat you have seen. What are the prospects ahead?” This is the symbol of the w’atchman. It is thus that the ancient prophet represents himself as observing the signs of the times. The people cry to him, “What have you seen?” And he answers them not only by describing the spectacles he has witnessed, but warning them of tho Judgment im pending over them. It is so that every minister of the present day is com missioned. It is his duty to observe the habits and customs of his time and warn the sinner of the evil of his way. If the question is asked him, “What of the night?” he must often give a sad and painful report. When men have left their dally tasks and gtv- en free rein to their inclinations, what do they do? How do they spend th« Imurs of darkness? How is It in out 4f, n city? As I see tho sun sink behind the Loi Angeles hills I see Ignited one by one the different lights of tho many places of pernicious ainuiMinient. These dif ferent lights, ns destroying flames, be gin to beckon the young men and the young women into their fascinating haunts. I see the stage curtains lifted before many an alluring group of actresses and chorus girls, such as w r as seen In the wealthy capital of Samaria on the night when a disreputable danc ing girl, Salome by name, danced among the licentious guests of her step father, Herod, and by sinuous move ments of limb and suggestive look of sin so captivated the drunken king that he promised her anything that she might ask of him, even to the half of his kingdom. Dance Coat Life of a Saint. John tho Baptist lost his life on ac count of that dance. But many a man, not, like John, in prison, but In orches tra chair, has lost his hoad, both moral ly and spiritually, as the result of an Immoral show on the theater boards. There may be good theaters. I know’ that some people whom I respect at tend the theater. But I know there are also vile theaters. I also know’ some of these vile theaters are attend ed regularly by some so called good people. And l also know that these vile shows are the haunts of spiritual and physical death. When I wrote this sermon there lay upon my study desk a powerful edi torial upon “Stage Abominations.” It lately appeared In one of the greatest secular newspapers of the present day. This editorial was not written by a minister, but by a layman who per haps never enters a church. It said: “It does not seem possible that the public will much longer tolerate the abominations that are constantly be ing inflicted upon it from behind the footlights of the theaters of the pres ent day. Surely the vulgarities and indecencies of actors and actresses of the present day who substitute filth and vile Insinuations for wit and hu mor are not so licensed that they can be allowed to go on forever without re buke. The nasty and offensive jokes, the Immoral action and tho language of the slums and the vile resort are all too frequently forced upon the ear and seen in the streets and public places of the town without being flaunted in our faces when we pay good money for a seat in the theater. If the stage has become so impoverished that it must resort to dirtiness and suggestive vice to maintain Itself it were better to abolish It entirely as an Institution.” Then this editorial goes more into de tail to denounce the trend of the mod ern theater which blasts the lives of Its audiences by what they see as w’ell as hear. Does any man iu the face of such a powerful philippic declare that thousands and tens of thousands of men and women every year are not morally contaminated by tho filthy streams of conversation which play wrights and actors and actresses roll over them in the theaters In the long winter nights? The streams of boiling lava and the showers of burning ashes which fell on Pompeii and Hercu laneum on that terrible night in 79 A. D., overwhelming tin* pleasure seek ing people, were not so much to be dreaded as this torrent of moral filth which is descending almost every night on the audiences in the theaters of our great cities and is bringing them to spiritual destruction. What the Watchman Sees. But as a watchman I must not al low my eyes to follow only one class of people. While the theater audi ences are moving through the streets to witness these distorted and often Impossible plays, through tho open doors of the saloons I can see the stages on which are being enacted scores and hundreds and thousands of tragedies in real life. Each one of these tragedies is as pathetic as that of a Hamlet, an Othello, a Merchant of Venice. Each one has more of pa thos within it than could ever be found In the misery anil woe of Dickens’ “Tale of Two Cities” or a Seton Thompson’s “Autobiography of a Griz zly Bear.” In these tragedies of real life enacted upon the stage of the saloon we do not always find the young men and women led ns lambs to the slaughter. But we sometimes find them as wild tigers fighting for their lives when their fore feet have been caught In the street traps, or as stags at bay, for a little while holding off the hounds, yet, like mad dogs at the sight of water, they become absolutely helpless at the sight and smell of rum. Oh, the tragedies of the saloons! As a watchman on God’s watchtower who can ever refrain from sympathizing with them and shedding tears of deep est sorrow for them? “Oh, no,” ex claims some cynical man, “I have no sympathy for the drunkard. If a man wants to stop drinking he can stop. The only reason why the drunkards do not stop is because they do not want to stop.” Ah, my cynical friend, you are wrong. I have no sympathy for that egotistic and self inflated young man who to be smart loafs about a sa loon and deliberately cultivates a taste for drink. But there are thousands of men who do not want to drink. They do not know how to stop drinking. They have never yet heard of the grace of God which will save them If they would only let him save them. Aye, I go further than that. I believe there are thousands of drunkards tonight who would be willing to take an ax and with it cut off. their right bands if they could only be freed from the curse of drink. They are fighting drink ev ery day of their lives, but In their own strength they cannot stop. And so to night as a watchman on God's tower I see thousands of the finest brained men and women going to destruction through the rapids which head toward the awful Niagara of delirium tremens. I hear them shouting and cursing and see them tumbling and fighting and re sisting and ye; yielding and going down and down and down. Through the lights coming from the open doors of the saloons I see these victims head ing toward eternal death. T , uMW “But, watchman,” some one asks, “are these all the sights and sounds of death that you set* and hear?” Alas, alas, no! For, while one crowd is pass ing through the hallways and ascend ing the stair of the Immoral theaters, and another crowd is staggering slowly on with flushed cheeks, hurrying to ward tho bar behind which liquor Is sold, which in the end will prove as fatal as the poisonous hemlock quaffed by a Greek philosopher, I see still an- o*'’or multitude of death seekers. These pass me not in rags or w’lth slow and leaden steps. They are dressed for the ballrooms and the low’ dance ( halls. They move in regular step, not with the tramp, trump, tramp of many soldiers, but with the sliding and graceful step of the waltz, the two- step, the polka and dances which we should not and will not mention. Are All Dnneeit Dud f “Are all dances had?” asks some young girl. “Is every one a dance of death? Are all our young people en emies of Christ and bad who ever visit dance halls?” This Is a question which is often honestly and anxiously put to me by my young people. Well, my young friend, you have asked me a blunt question, and I will answer you in Just the same way. First, I will say, and emphatically say, that I do not believe all young people who go to our dance halls are intentionally bad. I believe, yes, I know’, some of them go there without one impure thought. They go for the pleasure of meeting • other young people and of passing an evening in each other’s company. In the next place I will em phatically state that I believe one of the most pernicious, one of the most awful causes of spiritual death In our cities today is the dance ball. And in support of my second statement I will say that iu all the United States you cannot find one minister or layman noted for spiritual or evangelistic pow er who is not an enemy of the dance hall, through and through, out and out. They all, without an exception, believe that the dance hall is the depleter of spiritual life; consequently they are, and always will be, out and out, through and through, enemies of this destroyer, this insidious foe of spir itual life. As 1 spoke in reference to regular theater goers, I now speak in refer ence to the regular dance hall devotee. You never saw In all your life a per son who was conspicuous for her love for the dance hall who was at the same time conspicuous for her devo tion to the service of Jesus. The two loves do not exist in the same heart. They are altogether incongruous. In the spring of 1904 I attended one of the meetings of the "amusement com mittee” of the Methodist general con ference. In that committee were a few who were trying to uphold the dance. One man, a leading lay mem ber, rose and said, “A prominent pas tor in the east told me that the very best and truest and most consecrated members of his church were those w’ho were attendants of the theater and tho dance hall.” What was the reply to that speaker? An argument? A testimony? No. All the audience did, both in gallery and on main floor, was to raise a big guffaw of ridicule. The statement of that lay member was absurd on the face of it. Every one knew that what he said was con trary to the testimony of experience. You never in your life saw deep spir itual consecration for Christ and love for the dance hall exist together in the same human heart. The modern dance Is a foe to all spiritual development and a barrier to progress iu the Chris tian life. On the Downward Path. “Why is it that the Catholic church, which is so liberal upon many matters, Is so strict against dancing?” was the question put by a Protestant minister to a Catholic priest some time ago. “Because,” was the answer, “in the confessional we priests are able to trace the source of almost every sin. We have found out by the admission of ruined men and women that most of the Immoralities of a great city or a country town can be traced directly to the dance hall.” The dance hall is the beginning, not the end, of the down ward path. Some good people—aye, many good and respectable people- dance. But it is tlie place where many good people are Spiritually destroyed or spiritually depleted. It Is tho place where we have the spiritual “slaugh ter of the innocents.” Therefore to night as a Christian watchman it Is my duty to warn you of the danger of entering It. Some there are who es cape as by fire, but to all the ordeal Is fierce and perilous. It is the place In which the enemy of souls finds his most numerous victims and exercls(*s his most insidious power. Y’ou who pray, "Lead us not Into temptation, but deliver us from evil,” beware of entering tho dance hall. Beau Brum- tnel was the uncrowned king of the English dadee hall. He was the Ward McAllister of his day. But that is all the history most people know about Beau Brummel. I will tell you his end. Beau Brummel died in the insane asylum of I,e Bon Sauveur. Many young men and women who once wore a royal crown In a dance hall have at last, like Beau Brummel, had to take off that crown and pass not only the end of their earthly but all of their eternal days In a spiritual Le Bon Sauveur, in a spiritual madhouse. What of tho Nlshtf But standing in the watch tower to night 1 see more than the gleaming lights of the evil resorts luring the victims to their fascinating but fatal haunts. I see dark shadows in the streets where no lights are. I see these dark shadows following the burglar and the “hold up” man and the mur derer with Ms plsfol and knife. I see the dark and tightly closed houses from which no ray of light Is coming. These houses look deserted, but they •re not deserted. They are outnosts of perdition, silent, but haunted with out casts and gamblers and conspirators who are flagrantly breaking the laws of the land. I see the low dives of a great city reeking with human vermin. I see also where the counterfeiters are silently doing their work in the still ness of the night. Night is a symbol of social calamity, sin and death. So we find that most of the lowest out casts of society try to conceal their evil actions in the darkness of the night. It is the time when the dev otees of sin hold their high carnival. It is when the death dealers are able to deliver their hardest blows with the least chance of detection. But with God the night is not only the emblem of calamity; It is also the harbinger of the day, for as Isaiah traveled forth into the darkness as a divine prophet he “saw the gleam of the sunrise com ing over the eastern hills.” Yes, he saw the time when righteousness would claim its disciples as well as the time when the enemies of God should be hurried away to their eternal incar ceration. “What of the night, Isaiah? What of the night?” cries the oflicer of the guard. Then the prophetic watch man calls, “I see the morning coinetb and also the night” That means: “I see the righteous triumph through God. I see also the enemies of God scattered In complete defeat.” “What of the night? What of the night?” You call to me. I answer: “The morning cometh for the disciples of Jesus Christ. I see also the eternal night coming for those who will not yield themselves to Christ’s love.” The night, the symbol of calamity? Oh, yes. But the night is also here the symbol of gospel triumph, for iu the quiet of the night 1 see fathers and mothers and children gather around the family altars for evening prayer. I see great audiences gather in churches to learn of Christ and his love. I see Christian nurses and Sal vation Army girls going forth through the dark alleys and through the still streets on their missions of mercy. I see ministers and Christian laymen kneeling beside the beds of tho sick and the dying. I hear everywhere prayers and hymns arising for the salvation of all men and women and children. Everywhere arises the song of “Moses and the Lamb” ns well ns the songs of death and eternal de spair. Oh, my friends, in the silence of this night, to which great army do you give your allegiance? Are your lips speaking words of prayer, or are they uttering words of blasphemy? Speak you words pleading for eternal salvation or indifferent and careless words, sinful words, which are griev ing the Holy Spirit of God? Will you not, with Christ's help, take Isaiah’s night as the harbinger of an eternal day? Shall not the night of calamity and of earthly struggle and earthly sin for all of us be followed by the heavenly sunrise and the coming morning of perpetual joy and peace? The Storm Past. That these words of my text can tru ly be changed into the lightness of an eternal and peaceful day was never more impressed upon me than some years ago when I was going around tho world. As I found the opening de scription of this text not among Syrian hills, but among the “wilderness of rock” in the London metropolis, so I will hud my closing scene not In Jeru salem, but upon the troubled waters of an angry Pacific. For days and weeks wo had been treading the quiet paths of the “trackless deep.” Tho ocean had heretofore been very kind to us. it was truly pacific in every way that Its name signified. But then, like some of our old friends, it changed. Its heart of kindness became a heart of hate. It seemed to have not the pur pose to be loving, but only the desire to destroy. Day in and day out we battled with the tempest. “The worst storm I ever knew,” said the captain. “Many good ships have been found ered in less storms than this.” The surface of tho sea was a raging mob of demons. The wind, shrieking through our rigging, was like a chorus of lost souls yelling out In rage. After three days of storm I went to my berth and tried to sleep. Hour after hour we were wedged In our berths, unable to sloop. At last In tho darkness I arose to dress and go upon deck. No sooner did I step upon the floor than the heaving ship burled mo across the stateroom, out through the door and clear across the deck. I pick ed myself up, bruised and stunned; then I looked about me. What was my surprise to find the storm over and tho stars out. A sailor turned to mo and said: “Mate, it will soon be clear. Wo shall soon have a calm sea. Tho storm is past. See yonder star by tho edge of the horizon. That Is the morn ing star. The sun will soon be up.” Yes, as I stood there holding to tho ship's ropes I knew the sea was grow ing calm. Soon quietly and peacefully tho sun arose. The angry waves stop ped their batterings; the winds ceased to laugh and yell. That afternoon wo ■ailed into tho harbor. Tho morning had come for the end of tho tempest. So at last for all those who love Christ the night is not the emblem of calam ity, but of the morning. The morning with its heavenly day breaketh—the morning, with its emblem of eternal peace. Will you not tonight, with Christ’s help, take the night aa the emblem of the day? An ang«l robed In spotless white Bent down and kissed the sleeping night. Night woke to blush. The sprite was gone. Man saw tho blush and called It dawn. 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