The ledger. [volume] (Gaffney City, S.C.) 1896-1907, September 13, 1904, Image 3
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.
[Copyright, 1904, by Louis Klopsch.]
Mr. Morloy’s “Four Righteous Men.”
A good many guesses have been
made ns to who were Mr. Morley’s
four righteous men, always prepared
to speak the truth, the whole truth
and nothing but the truth. If I had
to name them I should be inclined to
name Stuart Mill, Henry Sedgwick,
Darwin and Leslie Stephen.—London
Truth.
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