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VOL. IX. PL YMOUTH, S. C., FKIDAY, JUNE 17, 1898. NO. 39.
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V
'' THE FLAG
Up with the banner of the freei
its stars and stripes unfurl,
Ad kt the battle beauty blaze
Above the startled world.
No more around its towering staff
The folds shall twine again
Till falls beneath its righteous wrath
The gonfalon of Spain.
1 That Sag with constellated stars'
; Bhlnes ever in the van! .
And, like the rainbow in the storm,
I Presages peace to man.
Por still amid the cannons' roar
; It sanctifies the fight,
And flames along the battle lines,
. The emblem of the Right.
It seeks no conquest knows no fear;
Cares not for pomp of state;
As pliant as the atmosphere,
As resolute as Fate.
Where'er it floats, on land or sea,
' No stain Its honor mars,
And Freedom smiles, her fate secure
Beneath its stead fust stars.
Henrv Lynden Flash, in New Orleans
rimes-Democrat.
j fl mm WON her. I
It's an awkward thing when master
and man are in love with the same
girl. One must give way, you see!
And if the master is that one it's apt
to be bad for the man. Knowing this,
John Adams and Emily Bolton re
solved to keep their engagement to
themselves for a bit, until they could
start in life on their own account.
Why the girl had fallen in love with
the man instead of his master it would
puzzle a conjurer to tell. I'm sure
she couldn't have, said herself. It
was he, John Adams, who suggested
secrecy, and Emily, after a little dis-
? pute,, agreed.
Emily accepted John about Christ
mastime, and he urged that it would
be ruin to be discharged in the slack
time.
, "We'll keep it to ourselves till the
spring, my girl, and then we can snap
' our fingers at him," said John.
But Emily had no desire to snap
her fingers at Beuben Saunders. She
was not built that way. She felt sorry
for him, and wished - him all manner
. of good things. Still she was in love
with John, and consequently did as
he told her.
But long before the spring came
in fact, it was the middle of February
it began to be rumored about that
John and Emily were engaged. Beuben
heard the report, and went straight
way to her father's cottage and asked
to see Emily.
Mrs. Bolton opened the door. She
stepped back and called up the stairs.
"Em'ly, Em'ly! Here's Air. Saun
ders wants to see yer."
And then she went about her work
and left him standing at the open door.
She for her part preferred Beuben to
John as a husband for her pretty
daughter. That she was the girl's
mother and knew the value of money
by its lack may account for her pre
ference. Moreover, Beuben was as
good a man as John, though not so
handsome.
"I've only come to ask yon a ques
tion, Emily," said Bueben humbly
when at last the girl appeared.
"Say on," said Emily, not quite at
her ease, for there had been a time
when she had given Beuben encour
agement. "I hear that you and John Adams
are going to be married. " And Bneben
lifted his honest eyes and looked the
girl straight in the face.
"I don't see what business that is
of yours! I suppose we've a right"
began the girl angrily.
But before she could finish her sen
tence Bneben said sadly, "I've got my
answer," and turned away.
The girl's heart smote her.
"Stay, Bueben, stay! ; It's not my
fault. I did not want to keep it from
you. But John said "
Emily stopped. The meanness of
it all ashamed her.
"I know, I know! Adams judged
me by himself, and thought I should
turn him off as soon as I heard of it,"
said Saunders, bitterly.
Of course, John's sweetheart fired
np A that.
' "If you've got anything to say
against John, you can say it to some
one else, Mr. Saunders," she cried
out.
"I haven't!" he shouted back, strid
ing off down the little path to the
front gate as Emily slammed the door.
"I'll give him a week's wages and
turn him off," Beuben told himself
passionately. Then Emily's sweet
face rose before hira. "I can't do it
I can't do it!" he muttered as he
strode on, his hands deep down in his
pockets, his head bent for
" "-h chest, a nobler man than
--. iself. .
yy heart that
ver the next
v nd there
'vot seen
ren of
id to
Id to
1
hen
Which, strange to aay, was not what
she always thought about him in his
absence. After their usual greeting
they turned and walked on together.
"The boss has been very civil to me
this morning," said John, "called me
into that little office of his and said he
thought as he'd heard of a place as'd
suit me. . Kind of foreman's place
down in the shires; a place called Bur
dock, I think he said."
"Oh, John, how good of him!" ex
claimed the girl. '
"H'm," said John, with a conceited
smile: "don't you see he wants to get
rid of me wants me out o' the way
so he can come after you."
"No no; he knows better,"
"He's a precious sight conceited to
know better. Lor' I did laugh in my
sleeve as I thanked him, and said as
I'd be glad if he'd speak a word for
me. If I get it we'll be married right
away. Now you see how wise it was
of me to insist on you saying nothing
about our being engaged."
"You're quite wrong!" cried Emily,
who had in vain tried to interrupt the
flow of her sweetheart's -words. "It's
because he knows. He came and
asked me yesterday and I told . him!"
"You told him we was going to be
married?"
"Yes, I told him," repeated Emily.
"Well, I'm blowed!". And John
looked as if after that nothing would
surprise him any more. Then after
a few minutes' consideration: "He
must be a fool!" he exclaimed.
To this Emily vouclsafed no reply,
so John, not exactly understanding
her silence, changed the subject by
saying:
"E'm, you've often Avanted, to go
over the old Manor House, and you
won't have many more . chances if I
get this place. Shall we go now?"
Emily agreed. She knew the care
taker, so there would be no difficulty
in getting in.
III.
They had wandered about the old
place for twenty miuntes, and had been
everywhere except up in the , towers,
which was the oldest part of the house.
It had been shut up from the public,
as dangerous, for the last two years.
John proposed that they should go up
to the top and see the view. Emily
was frightened, but he laughed her
out of her fears, or out of the expres
sion of them. So they went up, and
John, who was in a teasing mood, in
sisted on their getting out on the roof,
which was done by means of a short
ladder, leading through a trap door.
Though the day was warm for the
time of year, Emily soon felt bitterly
cold, and said she must go down.
John led the way, but had hardly got
his foot off the last rung of the ladder
when he felt the tower begin to rock.
With the impulse of a coward, scarce
staying to give a hasty, shout to Emily
to follow, he rushed down the stone
stairs and out of the place. A mo
ment later there was a series of creak
ing reports, and three sides of the
building fell with a crash to the ground,
leaving Emily crouching down in a
corner of the roof, which still hung to
the remaining side.
Adams ran into the road shouting
for a ladder. Soon a crowd was col
lected and the ladder was fetched.
Too hort! Another was found, and
while willing hands were lashing the
ladder tocether Beuben drove up in
his cart.
When he heard what had happened
he took John's place in binding the
ladders together, saying:
"You go and tell her what we're
doing. I'll see to this."
Beuben had the habit of authority,
so John went.
When the ladders were firmly bound
Beuben and two others carried them
through the irou gates into the little
park where the crowd stood. A mixed
crowd of men, and women and chil
dren stood breathlessly gazing up at
the corner where Emily crouched, her
face covered, not seeming to hear the
encouraging words her lover was
shouting up to her.
Beuben looked at the wall. "We
must be quick," said he to the man
next to him, "or it'll be down before
we can get her off." Then after a
moment he added: "It won't bear the
weight of the ladder'. Bun and fetch
the one off my cart."
This was done,and in a few minutes
the third ladder was pushed through the
rungs of the first about four feet from
the top, making an isosceles triangle.
Two men were placed at the foot of
each ladder to steady it.and the whole
reared sideways against the wall, the
apex almost touching Emily and the
upright reaching up above her head.
John hadn't been of much help he
was like one distraught, but when all
was ready Beuben turned to him and
said:
"Now tell her to get on the ladder.
Tell her too look up and catch hold of
the frame above her head. Tell her
she is quite safe."
John shouted np these instructions,
but without more result than making
EmilyTialf stretch out her hand and
shudderingly cover up her face again.
The demon Funk possessed the girl.
Then Beuben:
"It's ail righ Miss Bolton. You
just get on the ladder quick, and
tou'11 be safe enough. There's half a
' dozen of us holding it at the bottom,"
N.e shouted, encouragingly.
No answer. No movement.
IV.
Beuben turned to John once more.
"Look here, man," he said, "you
must go up and fetch her."
"Go up that ladder? It wouldn't
bear the weight of both of us."
"Some one must fetch her down. If
vou won't, I must."
"I'll hold the ladder."
"Pshaw!" And Reuben turned
away. Then suddenly turning back:
"Mind you, if I get her down safe J
try my luck again." And, shouting to
the men to hold the ladder firm, he
cautiously went up.
"Emily, "said he.as he touched her,
"We must change places, my girl."
She looked at him, her eyes wild with
fright. "That's right! You keep
looking at me and doing as I tell you,
and you'll be as safe as a trivet," said
he, cheerfully, though his heart was
working like a steam engine. How he
managed to change places with Emily
he never knew. He always said it
was her trust in him that did it. When
she was safe on the ladder and he
clinging to the fragment of wall he
said, impressively:
"Go down the ladder as quickly as
you can I'll follow. In two minutes
the whole place'll be down."
Emily gave him one swift look that
sent the blood tingling through his
veins, and in less than a minute she
was on the ground. John, who had
not been allowed to hold the ladders,
tried to put his arm round her, but
she pushed him from her as she
breathlessly watched Beuben's de
scent. " Then, turning on him:
, "Go!" she cried. . "Go! When I
marry, I'll marry I'll marry a man!"
After that she fainted.
She did marry a man. His name
was Beuben Saunders. John Adams
got the foreman's place in the shires.
Brooklyn Standard-Union.
Bicycle Heart.
Several well-known cyclists have
lately, it is said, been rejected as un
fit for military service by reason of
hypertrophy and other diseases of the
heart. Medical men will be rather
surprised that the numbers are so
small. There must be few of us who
have not seen the ill-effects of over
exertion on a bicycle; The common
est is palpitation and temporary dila
tation ; but even this is sometimes
very difficult to cure. In a case which
occurred recently a lady, ordered for
a fortnight's change of air after influ
enza, chose to spend it in bicycling
about fifty miles a day. As a result,
she has had, ever since that time
now nine months ago a pulse which
on the least exertion rises to 120,
though she has not ridden again. That
temporary dilatation occurs is enough
to show the great strain put upon the
heart, and it is an added danger that
the sense of fatigue in the limbs is so
slight. The rider is thus robbed of
the warning to which he is accustomed
to attend, and repeats or continues
the strain upon t!ie heart. As in other
similar cases, the effect is to render
that dilatation permanent, which was
at first but temporary, and to cause an
increase in the muscle of the heart by
repeated exertion. The heart pro
duced is of large dimensions and of
thick walls a condition which may,'
perhaps, give little uneasiness to its
owner, but which a medical man will
view with considerable distrust and
apprehension. Weakly and elderly
people cannot be too often told that no
exercise is more easily abused, though
if taken in sensible measure few are
more healthful or enjoyable. British
Medical Journal.
Harness IJells.
While they are still by no means
common, there has been in the past
three months a considerable increase
in the use of harness bells in this city.
They are attached chiefly to the' har
ness of horses driven to carriages.
While this increase may be due in
some measure to the following of cus
tom, the purpose of the bells is to give
warning of the vehicle's approach,
such warning having become more
and more necessary owing to the
greatly increased use of rubber-tired
wheels, and rubber-padded shoes for
horses, following the widespread" in
crease of asphalt pavement, . When
all these causes combine the approach
of horses and vehicles is made com
paratively noiseless. The bells are as
yet chiefly used on private carriages,
but they are occasionally seen on pub
lic carriages, mostly hansoms.
The bells most commonly used are
like those made for sleighs and gilt
finished or silver-plated to match the
furniture- of the harness. In pair
horse harness the bell is buckled to
the coupling links that attach the
hames together ; in single horse har
ness it is attached to the hame chain
or martingale ring.
The use of harness bells is far more
common in Paris and London, in both
of which cities it is required by law.
New York Sun.
The4Milltary Spirit.
"I have ju&t come from the oil re
gions," remarked the Casual Caller
to the Snaka Editor, "and I find that
the war feeling has got into the pe
troleum producing business."
"How is that?"
"Dtilliiyg is going on actively,"
Fittsburr Chromcle-Telegrapb.
DR. TALHAGE'S SERMON.
SUNDAY'S DISCOURSE BY THE NOTED
DIVINE.
Subject: "Making the Vest of Things"
Advice About Looking; on the Bright
Side Blessings In Misfortune's Guise
Bereavements Fortify Our Spirit.
Text: "And now men see not the bright
light which is in the clouds." Job xxxvii.,
31.
Wind east. Barometer falling. Storm
signals out. Ship reefing maintopsail!
Awnings takea in. Prophecies of foul
weather everywhere. The clouds congre
gate around the sun, proposing to abolish
him. But after awhile he assails the flanks
of the clouds with flying artillery of light,
and here and there is a sign of clearing
weather. Many do not observe it. Many
do not realize it. "And now men see not
the bright light which is in the clouds." In
other words, there are a hundred men look
ing for storm, where there is one man look
ing for sunshine. My object is to get you
and myself into the delightful habit of
making the best of everything.
You may have wondered at the statistics
that in India, in the year 1875, there were
over nineteen thousand people slain by
wild beasts, and that in the year 1876 there
were in India over twenty thousand peo
ple destroyed by wild animals. But there
is a monster in our own land which is year
by year destroying more thfin that. It is
the old bear of melancholy, and with Gos
pel weapons I propose to chase it back to
its midnight caverns. I mean to do two
sums a sum in subtraction and a sum in
addition a subtraction from your days
of depression and an addition to your days
of joy. If God will help me I will compel
you to see the bright light that there is in
the clouds, and compel you to make the
best of everything
In the first place, you ought to make the
very best of all your financial misfortunes.
During the panic years ago, or the long
years of financial depression, you all lost
money. Some of you lost it in most unac
countable ways. For the question, "Hovf
many thousands of dollars shall I put aside
this year?" you substituted the question,
"How shall I pay my butcher, and baker,
and clothier, and landlord?" You had the
sensation of rowing hard with two oars,
and yet all the time going down stream.
You did not say much about it because
It was not politic to speak much of finan
cial embarrassment; but your wife knew.
Less variety of wardrobe, more economy
at the table, self-denial in art and tap--estry.
Compression; retrenchment. Who
did not feel the necessity of it? My friend,
did you make the best of this? Are you
aware ot how narrow an escape you made?
Suppose you had reached the fortune to
ward which you were rapidly going? What
then? You would have been as proud as
Lucifer.
How few men have succeeded largely in
a financial sense and yet maintained their
simplicity and religious consecration! Not
one man out of a hundred. There are glori
ous exceptions, but the general rule is that
in proportion as a man gets well off for this
world he gets poorly off for the next. He
loses his sense of dependence on God. He
gets a distaste for prayer meetings. With
plenty of bank stocks and plenty of Gov
ernment securities, what does that man
know of the prayer, "Give me this day my
daily bread?" How few men largely suc
cessful in this world are bringing souls to
Christ, or showing self-denial for others, or
are eminent for piety? You can count
them all upon your eight fingers and two
thumbs.
One of the old covetous souls, when he
was sick, and sick unto death, used to
have a basin brought in a basin filled
with gold, and his only amusement and
the only relief he got for his inflamed
hands was running them down through
the gold and turning it up in the basin.
Oh, what infatuation and what destroying
power money has for many a man! Now,
vou weresailing at thirty knots the hour
toward these vortices of worldliness what
a mercy it was, that honest defalcation!
The same divine hand that crushed your
store-house, your bank, your office, your
insurance company, lifted you out of de
struction. The day you honestly sus
pended in business made your fortune for
eternity.
"Oh," you say, "I could get along very
well myself, but I am so disappointed that
I cannot leave a competence for my chil
dren." My brother, the same financial mis
fortune that Is going to save your soul will
save your children. With the anticipation
of large fortune, how much Industry would
your children have? without which habit
of industry there is no safety. The young
man would say, "Well, there's no need of
my working; my father will soon step out,
and then I'll have just what I want." You
cannot hide from him how much you are
worth. You think you are hiding it; he
knows all about it. He can tell you almost
to a dollar. Perhaps he has been to the
county office and searched the records of
deeds and mortgages, and he has added it
all up, and he has made an estimate of how
long you will probably stay in this world,
and is not as much worried about your
rheumatism and shortness of breath as you
are. The only fortune worth anything
that you can give your child is the fortune
you put in his head and heart, Of all the
young men who started life with seventy
thousand dollars' capital, how many turned
out well? I do not know half a dozen.
The best inheritance a young man can
have is the feeling that he has to fight his
own battle, and that life is a struggle into
which he must throw body, mind and soul,
or be disgracefully worsted. Where are
the buriafplaees of the men who started
life with a fortune? Some of them in the
potter's field; some in the suicide's grave.
But few of these men reached thirty-five
years of age. They drank, they smoked,
they gambled. In them the beast de
stroyed the man. Some of them lived long
enough to get their fortunes, and went
through them. The vast majority of them
did not live to get their inheritance. From
the gin-shop or house of infamy they were
brought home to their father's house, and
in delirium began to pick off loathsome
reptiles from the embroidered pillow, to
fight back imaginary devils. And then
they were laid out in highly upholstered
parlor, the casket covered with flowers by
indulgent parents flowers suggestive of a
resurrection with no hope.
As you sat this morning at your break
fast table, and looked into the faces of your
children, perhaps you said within yourself,
"Poor things! How I wish I could start
them in life with a competence! How I
have been disappointed in all my expecta
tions of what I would do for theml" Upon
that scene of pathos I break with a prean
of congratulation, that by your financial
losses your own prospects for heaven and
the prospect for heaven of your children are
mightily improved. You may have lost a
toy, but you have won a palace. Let me
here say, in passing, do not put much stress
on the treasures of this world. You cannot
take them along with you. At any rate,
you cannot take tneta moro than two or
three miles; you will have to leave them at
the cemetery. Attila had three coffins. So
fond was he of this life that he decreed that
first he should be buried in a coffin of gold,
and that then that should be inclosed ia a
coffin of silver, and that should be inclosed
in a coffin of Iron, and then a large amount
of treasure should be thrown in over his
body. And so he was buried, and the men
who buried him were Blain, so that no one
might know where he was buried, and no one
might there interfere with his treasures.
Oh, men ot the world, who want to take
your money with you, better have three
coffins.
Again, I remark, you ought to make the
very best of your bereavements. The whole
tendency is to brood over these separations
and to give much time to the handling of
mementoes of the departed, and to make
long visitations to the cemetery, and to say,
"Oh, I can never look up again; my hope is
gone; my courage is gone; my religion ia
gone; my faith in God is gone! Ob, the
wear and tear and exhaustion of this lone
liness!" The most frequent bereavement is
the loss of children. If your departed child
had lived as long as you have lived, do you
not suppose that he would have had about
the same amount of trouble and trial that
you have had? If you could make a choice
for your child between forty years ot an
noyance, loss, vexation, exasperation, and
bereavements, and rorty years m neaven,
would you take the responsibility of choos
ing the former? Would you snatch away
the cup of eternal bliss and put into that
child's hands the cup of many be
reavements? Instead of the com
plete safety into which that child has been
lifted, would you like to hold it down to
the risks of this moral state? Would you
like to keep it out on a sea in which there
have been more shipwrecks than safe voy
ages? Is it not a comfort to you to know
that that child, Instead of being besoiled
and flung into the mire of sin, is swung
clear into the skies? Are not those chil
dren to be congratulated that the point of
celestial bliss which you expect to reach
by a pilgrimage of fifty or sixty or seventy
years they reached at a flash? If the last
10,000 children who had entered heaven
had gone through the average of human
life on earth, are you sure all those 10,000
children would have finally reached the
blissful terminus? Besides that, my friends,
you are to look at this matter as a self-denial
on your part for their benefit. If your
children want to go off in a May-day party;
If your children want to go on a flowery
and musical excursion, you consent. You
might prefer to have them with you, but
their jubilant absence satisfies you. Well,
your departed children have oniy gone out
in a May-day party, amid flowery and
musical entertainment, amid joys and
hilarities forever. That ought to quell
some of your grief , the thought of their glee.
So it ousrht to be that you could make
the best of all bereavements. The fact that
you have so many friends in heaven will
make your own departure very cheerful.
When you are going on a voyage, every
thing depends upon where your friends are
if they are on the wharf that you leave,
or on the wharf toward which you are go
ing to sail. In other words, the more
friends you have in heaven the easier it
will be to get away from this world. The
more friends here, the more bitter good
byes; the more friends there the more
glorious welcomes. Some of you have so
many brothers, sisters, children, friends in
heaven, that I do not know hardly how
you are going to crowd through. When
the vessel came from foreign lands, and
brought a Prince to New York harbor, the
ships were covered with bunting, and you
remember how the men-of-war thundered
broadsides; but there was no joy there
compared with the joy which shall be
demonstrated when you sail up the broad
bay of heavenly salutation. The more
friends you have there, the easier your own
transit. What is death to a mother whose
children are in heaven? Why, there is no
more grief in it than there is in her going
into a nursery amid the romp and laughter
of her household. Though all around may
be dark, see you not the bright light in the
clouds that light the irritated faces of
your glorified kindred?
So also, my friends, I would have you
make the best of your sicknesses. When
you see one move off with elastic step and
in full physical vigor, sometimes you be
come impatient with your lame foot. When
a man describes an object a mile off, and
you cannot see it at all, you become im
patient of your dim eye. When you hear
of a well man making a grent achievement
you become impatient with your depressed
nervous system or your dilapidated health.
I will tell you how you can make the worst
of it. Brood over it; brood over all these
illnesses, and your nerves will become more
twitchy, and your dyspepsia more aggra
vated, and your weakness more appalling.
But that is the devil's work.to tell you how
to make the worst of it; it is my work to
show you a bright light in the clouds.
Which of the Bible men most attract your
attention? You say, Moses, Job, David,
Jeremiah, Paul. Why, what a strange thing
it Is that you have chosen those who were
physically disordered! Moses I know he
was nervous from the blow he gave the
Egyptian. Job his blood was vitiated and
diseased, and his skin distressfully erup
tive. David he had a running sore, which
ho speaks of when he says: "My sore ran
in the night and ceased not." Jeremiah
had enlargement of the spleen. Who can
doubt it who read Lamentations? Paul
he had lifetime sickness which the com
mentators have been guessing about for
years, not knowing exactly what the
apostle meant by "a thorn in the flesh." I
do not know either; but It was something
sharp, something that stuck him. I gather
from all this that physical disorder may be
the means of grace to the soul. You say
you have so many temptations from bodily
ailments, and if you were only well you
think you could be a good Christian.
While your temptations may be different,
they are no more those of the man who
has an appetite three ttm23 a day, and
sleeps eitfat hours every night.
From whatl nave heard i judge tnat
Invalids have a more rapturous view of the
next world than well people, and will have
a higher renown in heaven. The best view :
of the delectable mountains is through the j
lattice of the sick room. There are trains
running every hour between pillow and
throne, between hospital and mansion,
between bandages and roues, between
crutch and palm branch. Oh, I wish some
of you people who are compelled to cry,
"My head, my head! My foot, my foot!
My back, my back!" would try some of
the Lord's medicine! You are going to be
well anyhow before long. Heaven is an
old city, but has never yet reported one
case of sickness or one bill of mortality.
N o ophthalmia for the eye. No pneumonia
ft. the lungs. No pleurisy for ttie side.
Nd neuralgia for the nerves. No rhenma
tisfn for the muscles. The inhabitants
sblll never say, "I am sick." "There shall
be po more pain."
it-gain, you ought to make the best of
life's finality. Now, you think I have a
veky tough subject. You do not see how I
arej to strike a spark of light out ot the
flint of the tombstone. There are many
ptfcple who have an idea that death is the
submergence of everything pleasant by
e-rything doleful. If my subject could
c!rse in the upsetting ot all such precon
ceived notions, it would close well. Who
cap judge best of the features of a man
thfcse who are close by him, or those who
ar afar off? "Ob," you eay, "those can
jude best of the features of a man who
are yose by himl"
KoW, my friends, who shall judge of the
featiW'S o' death whether they are lovely
or whether they are repulsive? You? Yon
are too far off. If I want to get a judg
ment as to what really the features of
death are, I will not ask you; I will ask
those who have been within a month of
death, or a week of death, or an hour of
death, or a minute of death. They stand
so near the features, -tbey can tell.
They give unanimous testimony, If they
are Christian people, that death, instead
of being demoniac, is cherubic. Of all the
thousands of Christians who have been
carried through the gates of the cemetery,
gather np their dying experiences, and you
will find they nearly all bordered on a
jubilate. How often you have seen a dy
ing man join in the psalm being sung
around hl3 bedside, the middle of the verse
opening to let his ransomed spirit free!
long after the lips could not speak, h
looking and pointing upward.
Some of you talk as though God had ex
hausted Himself in building this world,
and that all the rich curtains He ever mada
He hung around this planet, and all the
flowers He ever grew He has woven inta
the carpet of our daisied meadows. No.
This world Is not the best thing God can
do; this world is not the best thing that
God has done.
One week of ou year is called blossoi
week called so all through the land be
cause there are more blossoms in that
week than In any other week of the year.
Blossom week! And that is what the future
world is to which the Christian is invited
blossom week forever. It is as far ahead
of this world as Paradise is ahead of Dry
Tortugas, and yet here we stand trembling
and fearing to go out, and we want to stay
on the dry sand, and amid the stormy
petrels, when we are invited to arbors of
jessamine, and birds of paradise.
One season X had two springtimes. I
went to New Orleans in April, and I marked
the differences between going toward New
Orleans and then coming back. As I went
on down toward New Orleans, the verdure.
the foliage, became thicker and mora
beautiful. When l came Dactc, the further
I came toward home the less the foliage,
and less it became until there was hardly
any. Now, it all depends upon the direc
tion in which you travel. If a spirit from,
heaven should come toward our world, he
is traveling from June toward December,
from radiance toward darkness, from hang
ing gardens toward icebergs. Ami one
would not be very much surprised if a
spirit ot God sent forth from heaven to
ward our world should be slow to come.
But how strange it is that we dread going
out toward that world when going is from
December toward June from the snow of
earthly storm to the snow of Edenic blos
som from the arctics of trouble to ward the
tropics of eternal joy.
Oh, what an ado about dying! We get so
attached to the malarial marsh in wbicn
we live that we are afraid to go up and
live on the hilltop. We are alarmed be
cause vacation is coming. Best programme)
of celestial minstrels and hallelujah, no in
ducement. Let us stay here and keep ig
norant and sinful and weak. Do not in
troduce us to Elijah, and John Milton and
Bourdalone. Keep our feet on the sharp,
cobblestones of earth instead of planting'
them on the bank of amaranth in heaven.'
Give us this small Island of a leprous world;
instead of the immensities of splendor and.
delight. Keep our hands full of nettles.'
and our shoulder under the burden, and
our neck in the yoke, and hopples on our
ankles, and handcuffs on our wrists.,
"Dear Lord," we seen to say, "keep us
down here where we have to suffer, instead)
of letting us up where we might live and
reign and rejoice." i
we are like persons standing on the cold
steps of the national picture gallery in:
London, under umbrella in the rain, afraid1
to go in amid the Turners and the Titians, 1
and the Raphaels. I come to them and
say, "Why don't you -go inside the gal-;
lery?" "Oh," they say, "we don't know
whether we can get in." I say: "Don't-
you see the door is open?" "Yes," they,
say; "'but we have beon so long on these
cold steps, we are so attached to them we.
don't like to leave." "But," l say, "it Is
much brighter and more beautiful in the
gallery, you had better go in." "No,V
they eay, "we know exactly how It is out
here, but we don t Know exactly how 4t ia
inside."
So we stick to this world as though wa
preferred cold drizzle to warm habitation,'
discord to cantata, sackcloth to royal pur-:
pie as though we preferred a piano with,;
four or five of the keys out of tune to an in
strument tally attuned as though earth'
and heaven had exchanged apparal, and
earth had taken on bridal array and1
heaven had gone into deep mourning, all,
its waters stagnant, all its harps broken,!
all chalices cracked at the dry wells, all
the lawns sloping to the river plowed with,
graves with dead angels under the furrow.
I am amazed at myself and at yourself
for this infatuation under which we all1
rest. Men you would suppose would get'
frightened at having to stay in this world
instead of getting frightened at having to ,
go toward heaven. This world i3 as bright
to me as to any living man, but I eongrat-
ulate anybody w"ho has a right to die. By.
that I mean through sickness you cannote
avert, or through accident you cannols
avoid your work consummated. "Wher
did they bury Lily?" said one little chiidi
to another. "Oh," she replied, "they;
burled her in the ground." "What! intha
cold ground?" "Oh, no, no; not in the cold1
ground, but in the warm ground, wher
ugly seeds become beautiful flower3."
"Bat," says some one, "It pains me
much to think that I must lose the body
with which my soul has so long compan
ioned." You do not lose it. You no mora (
lose your body by death than you lose your.
watcn when you send it to nave it repaired,
or your jewel when you send it to have it
reset, or the faded picture when you send'
it to have it touched up, ortho photograph!
of a friend when you have it put in a new,
locket. You do not lose your body. Paul
will go to Home to get his. rayson wai go
to Portland to get his, President Edwardsj
Wiilgo to Princeton to get his. Georga
Cook man will go to the bottom of the At
lantic to get his, and we will go to the viw
lage churchyards and the city cemeteries!
to fifet ours: and when we have our perfect,
spirit rejoined to our perfect body .then we'
will be the kind ot men ana women inas;
the resurrection morning will make pos
sible. . i',
So you see you have not mada out any,
doleful story yet. What have you proved'
aoouE uoaiur hum isiue case juu um
made out? You have made out just this
body, free of all aches, united forever wit!
a perfect soul free from all sin. Correct
vniir thtmlncTi- What 1-tf3 It n.11 mnan?
Why, it means that moving-day is coming',''
and that you are going to quit cramped
apartments and bo mansioned forever-.
The horse that stands at the gate will not
be the one lathered and bespattered, car
rying bad news, but it will be the horse
that St.'John saw in Apocalyptic vision
the white horse on which the King cornea
to the banquet. The ground around tha
palace will quake wittt tne tires ana doom
of celestial equipage, and those Christians
who In this wrold lost their friends, and!
lost their property, and lost their health,
and lost their life, will find out that Godi
was always kind, and "that all thing
worked together for their good, and that;
those were me wisest poiie on b,uiu wu
made the best of everything. See yod m
now the bright light in the clouds?