Decatur Democrat, Volume 38, Number 2, Decatur, Adams County, 30 March 1894 — Page 8

RDrir the temple of wisdom. Give me thy dreams," ehe aald, and 1 ■■ With empty handa and very poor MM Watched my fair flowery vlafon die Upon the temple's marble floor. |HH w Give joy,” ahe eried. I fee joy go, ■MB; I saw with cold, unclouded eyes HUM The crimson of the sunset glow MM/ Across the disenchanted skies. MB*’ Give me thy youth,” she said. I gave, I And, sudden clouded, died the sun, IM And on the green mound of a grave ■M; Fell the slow raindrops, one by one. IB” Give love.” she cried. T gave that, too, Mi,. “ Give beauty.” Beauty sighed and fled. Mfß l For what on earth should beauty do When love,who was her life,was dead ? |hH She took the balm of innocent tears To hiss upon her altar coal, MS She took the hopes of all my years, And at the lust she took my soul. ■HI With heart mhde empty of delight Ms And hands that held no more fair things, |Bv I questioned her, “What shall requite The savor of my offerings! 1 ” |BS " The gods,” she said, “with generous hand MH Give guerdon for thy gifts of cost; |SK Wisdom is thine tq understand M The worth of all that, thou hath lost.” gHB ' —[London Athenteum. ■ TK Western Express. BY AMY RANDOLPH. |M! “I love her, mother,” said Guion Esterhall. B| He was not, in a general way, much |H of a talker. Consequently, when he M spoke, his words had the weight of Bh sense and rarity. But Mrs. Esterhall, ■I the fine old lady who sat erect before My the clear, sea-coal fire, was too much HI excited to consider all this. |H ‘‘The wife of my son, Guion,” said M| she, “should boa lady, born and bred B —not one of those girls who have had MJ to fight the world until all gentleness, grace and unselfishness is ground out 81l of them. No, I can never give my Ml-; consent! ' Hl' The young man smiled slightly. B| “ Mother," said he, “ the diamond Bil itself hardly possesses its true finanBh cial value until the facets are ground with much friction.” B “ Humph 1” said Mrs. Esterhall. “No one is talking of diamonds. ’' “ I may bring her to see you, ■ mother?” B Mrs. Esterhall shook her head. Jf/ “ I have no desire to receive her,” H| said she. “ But, Guy, here are the ■ tickets for Henry Irving to-night. M Carrie Chippendale has promised to ■ accompany me—of course, you will ■ be on hand at half-past seven to be M our escort!” B “ If you wish it, mother.” B The old lady smiled to herself B when Guion was gone. [I “A little management,” she Mi thought, “a little judicious firmness, II and Guy will get over this boyish Ki fancy of his. The idea of a shop-girl I for my daughter-in-law—for Mrs. Guion Esterhall I I think the lad musthave taken leave of his senses 1” And in her secret heart she rejoiced with an exceeding great rejoicing when Miss Chippendale arrived that evening, in a pale-blue moire gown, with a glittering necklace around her perfect white throat, and a bunch of hot-house roses in her corsage. “If we are to have a private box,” said Miss Chippendale, buttoning the seventeenth button of her glove, “one may as well go in full dress, don’t you know?” “My dear, you are looking lovely,” said Mrs. Esterhall, approvingly. Miss Chippendale was a sort of human camellia japonica—fait, graceful and serene —with big, expressionless blue eyes, cherry-red lips, flax-gold hair, drawn in fluffy crimps over her forehead, and an unchanging societysmile perpetually hbvering around her lips. She had been highly educated, and she was destined by her parents to make a brilliant match. I The Chippendales belonged to the | aristocracy—that is to say, they had never done any work and had always , spent a great deal of money. And Mrs. Esterhall had decided that Carrie Chippendale was the very wife for her son. ■ If only she could convert Guion to the same opinion. Guion Esterhall was exceedingly courteous to Miss Chippendale that evening, but not a whit more so than he was to his own mother. The old lady was somewhat disappointed. “But never mind,” she said to herself, “one must have patience.” She went shopping the next day, to match a shade of Berlin wool, to buy some lace flounces and to decide on new portieres for her drawingroom at Esterhall Manor. At one or two o’clock she experienced, not hunger, but a ladylike sensation that “tired nature” needed some sort of * “sweet restoration.” “I will go into Maricotta’s,” she thought. Maricotta’s was full, as it generally was at that time of day; but presently the old lady succeeded tn ob- / taining a seat in a curtained angle, fj where the waiter took her order for a - chicken-salad and a cup of tea. Just then she heard a clear, low voice on the other side of the drapery, as a party settled themselves at a ref served table—Miss Chippendale’s soft, well-modulated tones. “Oh, yes, Irving was very fine,” said Carrie. “Oysters, please—a box-stew for one and fritters for two and three cups of Vienna chocolate, nicely frothed, waiter—But all the same, I nearly died of ennui. The old lady is the most dreadful bore you ever knew, and Guy is a regular prig. Handsome, you know, and very talented, of course; but one don’t .vast to be on full-dress parade -r -**< brains! /"/ whole time. sy. .’reddle For- * ***' ’ ■'K isn’t a cent ' A 'p»l* looks ... I IfevV.' ■' 1 tßa

MMHBMMMMMMHHMMMMMMMMMMMMMi thunderclouds at me whenever he calls. But once I’m married, it—” A chorus of well-bred giggling interrupted Carrie’s words. Mrs. Esterhall rose hurriedly from her seat, grasped her gloves and eyeglasses and made all haste out of the restaurant. When the waiter came with the chicken-salad and the tea, he found his customer gone. The unconscious Miss Chippendale and her friends enjoyed their Vienna chocolate and oyster fritters very much indeed. Mrs. Esterhall decided to return to the manor at once. Carrie Chlppeni dale’s graceful treachery had affected her more than she had deemed possible; and, leaving a hastily written note to explain to Guion that she had altered her plans, she took the late express, which reached Clevedon . Junction at nine, there connecting with a branch train for Esterhall Station. She was traveling alone, as her maid remained to puck up the last things and follow her the next day. There had been a heavy snow-fall, the night had settled down dark and tempestuous, and the train was running behind time. At last it came to a full stop. Mrs. Esterhall started from a doze and looked anxiously around her. “Ten o’clock!” some one said, consulting a watch. ‘ ‘ Why, conductor, we are due at Clevedon at five minutes before nine!” “Yes, I know, sir,” spoke the official, “but the road is all blocked, and the Western express is overdue at this point. We’re waiting here for the signal to move on.” “And what’s to keep us from waiting all night?” petulantly inquired the old gentleman. “Nothing sir—unless the Western Express is heard from.” Mrs. Esterhall began to be a little frightened. “Conductor,” said she, “is there any danger of a collision?” “No, ma’am —not as long as we’re on this side of the switch.” “Isn’t there a dining car attached to this train ?” “No, ma’am —this isn’t the through express, but I hope we shall not be detained here much longer,” the conductor cheerfully added. Slowly the minutes dragged themselves by, gradually lengthening into hours. The passengers gathered in knots hnd whispered. One or two of the more adventurous spirits got out, peered into the darkness, flecked only by the driving snow, and then got in again, with the customary uncomplimentary comments on the railway management. Mrs. Esterhall was nervous and unaccustomed to travel alone. She began to cry softly behind her veil. x “Ah,” she thought, “if ever I live to get safe home again, I’ll stay there. I’ll never tempt Providence more, on these night roads.” Across the aisle two young girls were seated—the one pale-faced and rather plain, as Mrs. Esterhall had already noticed by the light of the cluster of lamps under which they were seated; the other a brilliant young brunette with soft hazel eyes, peachy cheeks and wavy dark-brown hair, brushed carelessly back from a low, broad forehead. Presently the latter rose, and coming to Mrs. Esterhall’s side, asked in a soft, sympathetic voice: “Are you ill, madam?” “N-no,” stammered the old lady, quite forgetful of her society dignity. “Only lam so faint and weary. I expected to dine at home long before this hour, and I took almost nothing to eat—before I started.” “I have some nice, home made chicken sandwiches in my bag,” suggested the pretty girl. ‘ ‘My aunt insisted on my taking them, although I dined heartily before leaving home, anti I have a little alcohol lamp with every convenience for making a cup of good, strong tea as well. If you will allow me to prepare it for you—” Mrs. Esterhall was a genuine teamaniac. A new brightness came into her eyes at this suggestion. “You are very kind,” said she. “But you will want it yourself?” “No,” smiled the girl. “I don’t care for tea. But my kind old aunt would put the things in. Now I am glad that she did so.” In five minutes, Mrs. Esterhall had eaten and drunk, and felt infinitely refreshed. How it happened, she did not pause to question herself, but she presently found herself reclining comfortably, with her head on a pillow improvised out of the folded blanket shawl that belonged to the young girl; and, mingled with her drowsy reflections, came the soft, low murmdrs of the sweet-faced brunette, who had changed her seat and that of her companion to the one directly back of Mrs. Esterhall, and was talking almost in a whisper. “No, lam not going back; and I do not intend to communicate my address to any one.” “Not even to him?” “No, not even to him.” “But he loves you, dear.” “ Yes; and that is the very reason I am determined to create no dissension between him and his friends. Perhaps he will forget me.” “ He will never do that.” ‘ ‘ But at least I shall feel that I have done my duty,” said the hazeleyed girl, firmly. “I shall love him to the end of his "days, but I shall not have ruined his future.” “And all this,” eried the companion, “ ojit of deference to the whims of an old woman whom you have never seen!” K “ Out of deference to his mother", Alice,” gently corrected the first speaker. ‘ ‘ What a quixotic notion I” dreamily mused Mrs. Esterhall. “ But she has an excellent idea of duty, this dark-eyed little girl I ” ■ , " V.-

) “ That is you, all over, Effie I” said ’ the friend. “You are always effac- - ing yourself In favor of some one else. - Here you are giving all your tea and , sandwiches to a person you have i never heard of, abandoning your seat • to a poor little woman with a crying » baby, because it is a trifle nearer the , stove, and, to cap everything, giving ) up the man you love and who loves 1 you, because—” i “ Because it is my duty,” said Efr fie. “ Please, Alice, don’t let us discuss the matter any longer. Itisbe- > cause I love Guy that I am willing to - sacrifice everything for his sake.” I “Guy! Bless my soul! Guy!” • thought Mrs. Esterhall, sitting sudi denly up. “But, of course, there are I other Guys than mine in the world.” j Just then there was a tremble of i the frozen ground under them, a ; roar and rush of lighted cars past I them. j “The Western Express at last! 1 * > shouted the choleric old gentleman, ; bobbing up in his seat like an indiarubber ball. “All abo-o-ard!” bawled the con- [ ductor, with a twitch at the bell-rope; ■ and on moved the train at last, creak- > ing and groaning like some monster ■ serpent in pain. Mrs. Esterhall ■ leaned over the back of the seat, toward the hazel-eyed girl. “My dear,” said she, between the throbs of the engine, “is it Guion . Esterhall that you are speaking of?” The girl started and colored. She could not repress a cry of surprise. “Yes? I thought so. Come ovei here and sit by me. I am his mother and I want to talk to you.” It was two o’clock in the morning when they reached Esterhall Station, but the covered sleigh was waiting for them, with hot soap-stone footwarmers and about half a ton of fui robes and wrappings. And Effie Dallis stepped into the luxurious conveyance with Mrs. Esterhall, for the old lady had insisted on taking Effie home with her to the manor. “She is such a contrast in every way to that selfish, cold-hearted Chippendale girl,” said Mrs. Esterhall. “I’ll telegraph to Guion at once. Really, it does seem as if there was a special Providence in our train being kept so long waiting for the Western Express to pass.” As if there is not a ‘ ‘special Providence” in everything that happens in this world of ours!—[The Ledger. STRANGE THINGS DO HAPPEN. Was This a Coincidence, or was it Something Still Stranger. What is the explanation of it? The facts are attested by several reliable persons. One of the most prominent railroad men in the State and receiver for a great corporation was a guest at z the Grand Pacific Hotel. This was but a da/ or two ago. While he was at the hotel his son and daughter came to take dinner with him. That evening he went to Ms. Paul Gores, the clerk, and said, ‘ ‘ Charge me with two extra dinners.” Mr. Gores knew the daughter was at the hotel, but he had not seen the son, and for some reason supposed that a girl friend of the daughter had been the third person who took dinner at the hotel. There is a rule of the house that the name of every guest must be entered on the register. So Mr. Gores opened the book to put down two names. He just wrote the name of Miss , the daughter. Then he thought for a moment and wrote below it “ Miss Warburton, Cleveland.” Os course Warburton was not the name he wrote, and Cleveland was not the town, but they will do just as well, and in every other particular the story as told will be exactly true to the facts. He didn’t know why he wrote “ Miss Warburton, Cleveland.” He simply “ thought up ” a fictitious name and put it on the register, as he had often done before. Next day when the guest came to pay his bill the cashier looked up the account and said: “You have been here three days and th ere are two extra dinners charged—one for your daughter and one for Miss Warburton.” “ Miss Warburton?” “Yes, Miss Warburton of Cleveland. Is there something wrong?” “ Two extra dinners is all right, but there’s something wrong. How did that name get on the register?” “ I don’t know, I’m sure.” “ Well, I have a certain reason for asking, and I wish you would look it up.” So the clerks were questioned, and Mr. Gores said he wrote down the name. “ But how did you happen to get that name and that address?” “ I don’t know, I’m sure. I wrote the first thing that came into my head.” “ That’s the most extraordinary thing I ever heard in alb my life.” They did not venture to ask questions, but he told them any way. “ Miss Warburton of Cleveland was a dear friend of my daughter. She died about three years ago under very sad circumstances. When my sOn and daughter were with me at dinner the other evening we were talking of her, and I dare say my son and daughter, whom I left up in the parlor, were talking of her at the very moment that name was written. I’m sure I didn’t mention her name in the hearing of any clerk.” “No.” said Mr. Gores. “It just came to me.” Then they fell to wondering whether it was simply an unexplainable coincidence or a beautiful case of thought transference.—[Chicago Record. _ Shsboygan, Wis., Is the Evergreen City; most of its trees are cedars. , I

■■■■■■■■■-I TALMAGE’S SERMON. AN ELOQUENT DISCOURSE ON “ EABTER IN GREENWOOD." Where the Wound of Death la Bandaged by FoUare—Ohrlat'a Resurrection fa Our Resurrection If We Are Bls—The "Good Morning ” of Our Saviour. At the Tabernacle. . •a* , '**“*-K Io the Brooklyn Tabernacle, Sunday forenoon, Rev. Dr. Talmage delivered an eloquent sermon on “Easter in Greenwood," the text being taken from Genesis xxiii, 17, 18, “And the field in Hebron, which was in Machpelah, which was before Mamre, the field, and the cave which was therein, and all the trees that were in the field, that were in all the borders round about, were made sure unto Abraham." Here is the first cemetery ever laid out. Machpelah was its name. It was an arborescent beauty, where the wound of death was bandaged with foliage. Abraham, a rich man, not being able to bribe the king of terrors, proposes here, as far as possible, to cover up the ravages. He had no doubt previously noticed this region, and now that Sarah, his wife, had died—that remarkable person who at 90 years of age had born to her the son Isaac and who now, after she had reached 127 years, had expired—Abraham is negotiating for a family plot for her last slumber. Ephron owned this real estate, and after, in mock sympathy for Abraham, refusing to take anything for.it, now sticks on a big price—4oo shekels of silver. The cemeteryjlot is paid for, and the transfer made in the presence of witnesses ip a public place, for there, were no deeds and no halls of record in those early times. Then in a cavern of limestone rock Abraham put Sarah, and a few years after himself followed, and then'lsaac and Rebekah, and then Jacob and Leah. Embowered, picturesque, and memorable Machphelah! That “God’s acre” dedicated by Abraham has been the mother of innumerable mortuary observances. The necropolis of every civilized land has vied with its metropolis. Famous Tombs. The most beautiful hills of Europe outside the great cities are covered with obelisk and funeral vase, and arched gateways and columns and parterres in honor of the inhumated. The Appian way of Rome was bordered by sepulchral commemorations. For this purpose Pisa has its arcaues of marble sculptured into excellent bas-reliefs and the features of dear faces that have vanished. Genoa has its terraces cut into toombs, and Constantinople covers with cypress the silent habitations, and Paris has its Pere la Chaise, on whose heights rest Balzac and David and Marshal Ney and Culvier and Da Place and Moliere and a mighty group of warriors and poets and painters and musicians. In all foreign nations utmost genius on all sides is expended in the work of interment,mummification, and incineration. Our own country consents to be second to none in respect to the lifeless body. Every city and town and neighborhood of any intelligence or virtue has, not manv miles away, its sacred inclosure, where affection has engaged sculptor’s chisel and florist’s spade and artificer in metals. Our own city has shown its religion as well as its art in the manner which it holds the memory of those who have passed forever away by its Cypress Hills, and its Evergreens, and its Calvary, and Holly Cross, and Friends’ cemeteries. All the world knows of our Greenwood, with now about 270,000 inhabitants sleeping among the hills that overlook the sea, and by lakes embosomed in an Eden of flowers, our American Westminster Abbey, an Acropolis of mortuary architecture, a Pantheon of mighty ones ascended, elegies in stone. Iliads in marble, whole generations in peace waiting for other generations to join them. No dormitory of breathless sleepers in all the world Has so many mighty dead. The Illustrious Dead. Among the preachers of the gospel, Bethune and Thomas DeWitt, and Bishop Janes and Tyng, and Abeel, the missionary, and Beecher and Buddington, and McClintock and Inskip, and Bangs and Chapin, and Noah Schenck and Samuel Hanson Cox. Among musicians, the renowned Gottschalk and the holy Thomas Hastings. Among philanthropists, Peter Cooper and Isaac T. Hopper, and Lucretia Mott and Isabella Graham, and Henry Bergh, the apostle of mercy to the brute creation. Among the litterati, the Carys, Alice and Phoebe; James K. Spaulding and John G. Saxe. Among journalists, Bennet and Raymond and Greeley. Among scientists, Ormsby Mitchell, warrior as well as astronomer*, and lovingly called by his soldiers “Old Stars;” Professor Proctor and the Drapers, splendid men, as I well know, one of them my teac her, the other my classmate. Among inventors, Elias Howe, who, through the sewing machines, did more to alleviate the toils of womanhood than any man that ever lived, and Professor Morse, who gave us magnetic telegraphy, the former doing his work with a needle, the latter witn the thunderbolt. Among physicians and Burgeons, Joseph C. Hntchinson and Marion Sims and Dr. Valentino Mott, with the following epitaph which he ordered cut in honor of Christian religion: “My implicit faith and hope is in a merciful Redeemer, who is the resurrectibn and the life. Amen and amen." This is our American Machpelah, as sacred to us as the Machpelah >in Canaan, of which Jacob uttered that pastoral poem in one verse, “There they buried Abranam and Sarah, his wife; there they buried Isaac and Rebekah, his wife, and there I buried Le The Resurrection Day. At this Easter service I ask and answer what may seem a novel question, but it will be found, before I get through, a practical and useful and train endous question. What will resurrection day do for the cemeteries? First, I remark, it will be their supernal beautification. At certain seasons it is customary in all lands to strew flowers over the mounds of the departed. It may have been suggested by the fact that Christ’s tomb was in a garden. And when I say garden Ido not mean a garden of these latitudes. The late frosts of spring and the early frosts of autumn are so near each other that there are oaly a few months of flowers ia the field. AU the flowers we - >„■ -z-.. .■ • r.-.. jit

see to-day had to be petted and coaxed and put under shelter, or they would not have bloomed at all. They are the children of the conservatories. But at this season and through the most of the year the Holy Land is all ablush with floral opulence. You find all the royal family of flowers there, some that you supposed indigenous to the far north and others indigenous to the far south—the daisy and hyacinth, crocus dnd anemone, tulip and water lily, geranium and ranunculus, mignonette and sweet marjoram. In the college at Beirut you may see Dr. Post’s collection of about 1,800 kinds of Holy Land flowers, while among trees are the oaks of frozen climes, and the tamarisk of the tropics, walnut and willow, ivy and hawthorn, ash and elder, pine and sycamore. If such floral and botanical beauties are the wild growths of the field, think of what a garden must be in Palestine! And in such a garden Jesus Christ slept after, on the soldier’s spear. His last drop of blood had coagulated. And then see how appropriate that ail our cemeteries should be iloralized and tree shaded. In June Greenwood is Brooklyn’s garden. “Well, then,” you say, “how can you make out that the resurrection day will beautify the cemeteries? Will it not leave them a plowed up ground? On that day there will be an earthquake, and will not this split the polished Aberdeen t granite as well as the plain slab that can afford but two words—‘Our Mary’ or ‘Our Charley?’ ” Well, I will tell you how resurrection day will beautify all the cemeteries. It will be by bringing up the faces that were to us once and in our memories are to us now more beautiful than any calla lily and the forms that are to us more graceful than any willow by the waters. Can you think of anything more beautiful than the reappearance of those from whom we have been ,parted? I do not care which way the tree falls in the blast of the judgment hurricane, or if the plowshare that day shall turn under the last rose leaf and the last china aster, if out of the broken sod shall come the bodies of our loved ones not damaged, but irradiated. **- The Voice of the Dead. The idea of the resurrection gets easier to understand as I hear the phonograph unroll some voice that talked into it a year ago. just before our friend’s decease. You touch the lever, and then come forth the very tones, the very song of the person that breathed into it once, but is now departed. If a man can do that, cannot Almighty God, without half trying, return the voice of your departed? And if He can return the voice, why not the lips, and the tongue, and the throat, why not the brain that suggested the words? And if the brain, why not the nerves, of which the brain is the headquarters? And if |He can return the nerves, why inot the muscles, which are less ingenious? And if the muscles, why not the bones, that are less wonderful? And if the voice, and the brain, and the musples, and the bones, why not the entire body? If man can do the phonograph, God can do the resurrection. Will it be the same body that in the last day shall be reanimated? Yes, but infinitely improved. Our bodies change every seven years, and yet in one sense it is the Jeanie body. On my wrist ahd the second finger of my right hand there is a scar. I made that at 12 years of age, when,[disgusted at the presence of two warts, I took a redhot iron and burned them off and burned them out. Since then my body has changed at least a half dozen times, but those scars prove it is the same body. We never lose our identity. If God can and does sometimes rebuild a man five, six, ten times in this world, is it mysterious that He can rebuild him once more and that in the resurrection? If He can do it ten times, I think He can do it 11 times. For seventeen years gone, at the end of seventeen years they appear, and by rubbing the hind leg against the wing make that rattle at which all the husbandmen and vine dressers tremble as the insectile host takes up the march of devastation. Resurrection every seventeen years, a wonderful fact. The Goipel Algebra. Another consideration makes the idea of resurrection easier. God made Adam. He was not fashioned after any model. There Pad never been a human organisnj, and so there was nothing to copy. ' At the first attempt God made a perfect man. He made him out of the dust of the earth. If out of ordinary dust of the earth and without a model God could make a perfect man, surely out of the extraordinary dust of mortal body and with millions of models God can make each one of us a perfect being in the resurrection. Surely the last undertaking would not be greater than the first. See the gospel algebra—ordinary dust minus a model equals a perfect man: extraordinary dust and plus a model equals a resurrection body. Mysteries about it? Oh, yes. That is one reason why I believe it. It would not be much of a God who could do things only as far as I can understand. Mysteries? Oh, yes; but no more about the resurrection of your body than about its present existence. I will explain to you the last mystery of the resurrection and make it as plain to you as that two and two make four if .you will tell me how your mind, which is entirely independent of vour body, can act upon vour body so that at your will your eyes open, or your toot walks, or your hand is extended. So I find nothing in the Bible statement concerning the resurrection that staggers me for a moment. All doubts clear from my mind. I say that the cemeteries,however beautiful now.will be more beautiful when the bodies of our loved ones come up in the morning of the resurrection. They will come in improved condition. They will come up rested. The most of th epi lay down at the last very tired. How often you have heard them say, “I am so tired!" The fact is, it is a tired world. If I should go through this audience and go round the world, I could not find a person in any style of life ignorant of the sensation of fatigue. Ido not believe there are fifty persons in this audience who are not tired. Your head is tired, or your back is tired, or your foot is tired, or your brain is tired, or your nerves are tired. Long journeying, or business application, or bereavement, or sickness has put on you heavy weights. So the vast majority es those who went out of this world went out fatigued. About the poorest place to rest in this world. Its atmosphere, its surroundings, and even its hilarities are exhausting. So God ‘ . zs *

■tops our earthly life, and mercifully closes the eyes, and more especially gives quiesce nee to the lung ada heart, that have not had ten minutes’ rest from the first respiration and the first beat The Factory of the Grave. Factories are apt to be rough places, and those who toil in them have their garments grimy and their hands smutched. But who cares for that when they turn out for us beautiful musical instruments or exquisite upholstery? vVhat though the grave is a rough place, it is a resurrection body manufactory, and from, it shall come the radiant and resplendent forms of our friends on the brightest morning the world ever saw. You put into a factory cotton, and it comes out apparel. You put into a ractory lumber and lead, and they come out pianosand organs. And so into the factory of the grave you put in pneumonias and consumptions, and they come out health. You put in groans, and they come out hallelujahs. For us on the final day the most attractive places will not be the parks, or the gardens, or the palaces, but the cemeteries. We are not told in what season that day will come. If it should be winter, those who come up will be more lustrous than the snow that covered them. If in the autumn, those who come up will be more gorgeous than the woods after the frosts had penciled them. If in the spring, the bloom on which they tread will be dead compared with the rubicund of their cheeks. Oh, the perfect resurrection body! Almost everybody has some defective spot in his physical constitution—a dull ear, or a dim eye, or a rheumatic foot, or a neuralgic brow, or a twisted muscle, or a weak side, or an inflamed tonsil, or some point at which the east wind or a season ot overwork assaults him. But tb,e resurrection body shall be without one weak spot, and all that the doctors and nurses and apothecaries of earth will thereafter have to do will be to rest without interruption after the broken nights of their earthly existence. Not only will that day be the beautification of well kept cemeteries, but some of the graveyards that have been neglected and been the pasture ground for cattle and rooting places for swine will for the first time have attractiveness given them. It was a shame that in that place ungrateful generations planted no trees, and twisted no garlands, and sculptured no marble fortheir Christian ancestry, but oa the day of which I speak the resurrected shall make the place of their feet glorious. From under the shadow of the church, where they slumbered among nettles and mullein stalks and thistles and slabs aslant, they shall rise with a glory that shall flush the windows of the village church, and by the bell tower that used to call them to worship, and above the old spire beside which their prayers formerly ascended. What triumphal procession never did for a street, what an oratorio never did for an academy, what an orator never did for a brilliant auditory, what obelisk never did for a king, resurrection morn will do for all the cemeteries. If We Are His. This Easter tells us that in Christ’s resurrection our resurrection, if we are his, and the resurrection of all the pious dead, is assured, for he was "the first fruits of them that slept.” Renan says he did not rise, but 580 witnesses, sixty of them Christ’s enemies, say he did rise, for they saw him alter he had risen. If he did not rise, how did sixty armed soldiers let him get away? Surely sixty living soldiers ought to be able to keep one dead man! Blessed be God! He did get away. After his resurrection Mary Magdalene saw him. Cleopas saw him. Ten disciples in an upper room at Jeruselam saw him. On a mountain the eleven saw him. Five hundred at once saw him. Professor Ernest Renan, who did not see him, will excuse us for taking the testimony of the 580 who did see him. Yes, yes, he got away.. And that makes me feel sure that our departed loved ones, and we ourselves shall get away. Freed himself from the shackles of clod, he is not going to leave us and ours in the lurch. There will be no doorknob on the inside of our tamily sepulcher, for we cannot come out of ourselves, but there is a doorknob on the outside, and that Jesus shall lay hold of, and opening will say: “Good morning! You have slept long enouffh! Arise, arise!” And then what flutter of wings, and what flashing of rekindled eyes, and what gladsome rushing across the family lot with cries of “Father, is that you?” “Mother, is that you?" “My darling, is that you?” “How you all have changed!. The cough gone, the croup gone, the consumption gone, the paralysis gone, the weariness gone. Come let us ascend together! The older ones first, the younger ones next! Quisle now. get into line! The skvward procession has already started! Steer now by that embankment of cloud for the nearest gate!” And as we ascend on one side the earth gets smaller until it is no longer than a mountain, and smaller until it is no larger than a palace, and smaller until it is no larger than a ship, and smaller until it is no larger than a wheel, and smaller until it is no larger than a speck. Farewell to Earth. Farewell, dissolving earth! But on the ether side as we rise Heaven at first appears no larger than your hand. And nearer it looks like a chariot, and nearer it looks like a throne,and nearer looks like a star, and nearer it looks like a universe. Hail, scepters that shrll always wave! Hail, anthems that shall always roll. Hail, companionships never again to part! That is what resurrection day will do for all the cemeteries and graveyards from the Machpelah that was opened by Father Abraham in Hebron to the Machpelah yesterday consecrated. Brass. Brass is perhaps the best known and most useful alloy. It is formed by fusing together copper and zinc. Different proportions of these metals produce brasses possessing very marked distinctive properties. The portions of the different ingredients are seldom precisely alike; these depend upon the requirements of various uses for which the alloys are in-/ tended. Peculiar qualities of constituent petals also exercise influence on the results. Sunshine falling through a water bottle is -the reported origin of a fire recently In the Industrial Home fcr Girls, it Hampstead, England. f ■ " . .. ... . .