Decatur Democrat, Volume 38, Number 29, Decatur, Adams County, 5 October 1894 — Page 6

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JLvWa r:.w 4>W | "O \ WIIy <■ \ f /Inl' ll* (if wi// 1 I kJ uU /Jr f if o 7 JTVJ n JU i II 1 Wi ■ *■ •••-■- CHAPTER xxvnr—Continued. Mrs. Sinclair's telegram informing him of her husband’s death, and entreating him to go to March brook, disturbed the placidity of her fathers te **PoOr Sinclair!” he muttered, with more, fretfulness than regret. “Pity he r c6u’dn’t have died at a more convenieht time. I hate crossing the channel in an equinoctial gale. And what good can! do at Marchbrook? However, I suppo e I must go. Women arc so helploss. She never cared much for him, poor child, and there’s L'avenant still unmarried and devoted to her. An excellent match, too, since he came into old Grvffin’s money. Providence orders all things for the best. I hope I shall ha>o a fine night for crossing. ” He was with Constance early on the following day, having lost no time in obeying hat but ho was unprepared for the accusation she brought against him. ? “Upon my life, Constance, I was omy a passive instrument in this whole affair, just like littlo Webb. It was put to me that this thing must bo done to save your life, and 1 consented. ” “You let a stranger take my destiny into his hands?” cried Constance, indignantly. , , “He was not a stranger. He loved you dearly—was as anxious for your welfare as even I, your father.” “The German physician, the whitehaired old man who told me to hope? Why he had never seen me before in his life.” “The man who told you to hope, who persuaded me to agree to the introduction ol a spurious child, was no German doctor. He was neither old nor whitehaired, and he loved you devotedly for years He heard you we e dying of. a broken heart, and came to you in disguise in order to see if love could devise some means of saving you. The German doctor was Cyprian Davenant ” This was another blow for Constance. The man whom she had believed in as the soul of honor was the originator of the scheme she had denounced as wicked and cruel, and yet could find no words of blame for him. She remembered the gentle voice that had penetrated her ear and mind through the thick mists of madness, remembered the tones that had touched her with a wondering sense cf something familiar and dear. He had come to her in her apathy and despair, and from the moment of his coming her life had brightened and grown happy. It was but a delusive happiness, a false peace; and now she must go back to the old agony of desolation and incurable regret. “You can at least tell me who and what that child js dilß%H a.”y^ y And the poor little thing looked so thoroughly cleaned and re spectable—of course at that age one can hardly tell—the features are so undeveloped—the nose more like a morsel of putty than anything human —but I really did think*that the child had a thoroughbred look: and I am sure when I saw her last Christmas she looked as complete a lady as ever came out of our March brook nursery.” “She js a lovely child,” said Constance. “and I have loved her passionately. ” “Then, my dearest girl, why not go on loving her.'” pleaded Lord Clanyarde. “Call her your adopted child, if you like, and keep her about you as your pet and companion till you are married again and,have children of your own. You can then relegate her to her natural position and by and by get her respectably married, or portion her off in some way.” “No,” said Constance, resolutely, “I will never see her again." And all the while she was longing to take the afternoon train to Hastings and rejoin her darling. After this there was nothing more for Constance Sinclair to do but to submit to fate and consider herself once more a childless mother. Sir Cyprian was away, no one knawwhere, aid even had he been in England Constance felt that there won ® be little use in knowing more than she knew already. The know eige of the strange child’s parentage could be but of the smallest importance to her, since she meant to banish the little one from her heart and home. 4 Lord Clanyarde and the lawyers did all that was necessary to secure Mrs. Sinclair’s position as inherit r of her husbands estates. The Newmarket stables and stud were sold, and realized a considerate sum, as the training stable was supposed to be the most perfect establishment of its kindbuilt on hygienic principles, with all modern improvements —and was warmly competed for by numerom foolish young noblemen and gentlemen who were just setting out on the broad road which Gilbert Sinclair had traveled at so swift a rate. Things in the North had been gradually improving; the men were g.ro wing w iser, and arbitration betwee’fi master and men was taking the place of trade union tyranny. Constance Sinclair found herself in a fairway to become a very rich woman, cai Ing about as much for the money her husband had left as for the withered leaves that fell from the Ma-ch-brock elms in the dull, hopeless autumn days. What was the use of wealth to a childless widow, who could

have been content to live in a lodging of thtee rooms, with one faithful servant? CHAPTER XXIX a rrca want nxra A common specific for a broken heart when the patient happens to be a person of handsome fortune—for your pauper, hard work is your only cute - is foreign travel Lora Clanyarde, who hated Marchbrook, now suggested this remedy to his daughter. He felt that it was his duty to afford her the benefit of his pr< teotion and society during the first period of her widowhood, ana it struck him that it would be more agreeable for both of them to lead a nomadic life than to sit opposite each other on the family hearth and brood upon the sorrows of this life or read the fami’y Bible. “It would be auite the right season for Rome, love, it we were to start at once, ” said Lord Clanyarde, soothingly. Constance yielded to her father's suggestion with a graceful submission that charmed him. She cared very little whither she went. The little girl was still at Hastings with honest Martha. She cried sometimes for mamma, but was happy,upon the whole, Martha wrote: wondering very much why she and her charge remained so long away. Martha knew nothing of the change that had taken place in her darling s position. “Very well, dear," said Lord Clanyarde. “You have only to get your boxespacked; and, by the way, you had better write to your banker for circular antes. Five hundred will do to start with.” Father and daughter went to Italy, and Constance tried to find comfort in those classic scenes that are peopled with august shadows; but her heart was tortured by separation from the child, and it was only a resolute pride that withheld her from owning the truth — that the little one she had believed her own was as dear to her as the baby she had lost Lord Clanyarde and his daughter were driving on the Corso one sunny afternoon in the Easter week, when the gentleman’s attention was attracted by a lady who drove a phaeton with a pair of cobs caparisoned in a fantastical fashion, with silver bells on their harness. The lady was past her first youth, but still was remarkably handsome, and was dressed with an a tistic sense of color and a daring disregard of fa hion of the day—dressed, in a word, to look like an old picture, and not like a modern fa : hion plate. “Who can she be?” exclaimed Lord Clanyarde. “Her face seems familiar to me, yet I haven’t the faintest idea where I’ve seen her. ” A fewjards further on he encountered an acquaintance of the London clubs, and pulled up his horses on purpose to interrogate him about the unknown in the Spanish hat. “Don’t you know her?" asked CaptainFlittsr, with a surprised air. “Yes, she's handsome, but passee; sur le retour." “Who is she?" repeated Lord Clanyarde. Captain Flitter looked curiously at Mrs. Sinclair before he answered. “Her name is Walsingham-widow of a Colonel Walsingham—colonel in the Spanish contingent—rather a bad egg: of course I mean the gentleman.” A light dawned on Lord Clanyarde's memory. Yes, this was the Mrs. Walsingham whom people haa talked about years ago, before Sinclair’s marriage, and it war Sinclair's money she was spending now, in all probability—p»stay long in Rome?” he asked the club lounger. “She never stays long anywhere, I believe: very erratic; likes artists and musical people, and that sort of thing; has reception every Saturday evening. I always go. One meets people one doesn’t see elsewhere: not the regular treadmill, you know. ” Lord Clanyarde asked no more. He would be sure to meet Flitter at one of the artists’rooms, and could a*k him as many questions about Mrs Walsingham as he liked. The two men met that very evening, and the result of their conversation was Lord Clanyarde's presentati n to Mrs. Walsingham at her Saturday recaption. ’ She was very gracious to him, and -made room for him on the ottoman , where she was seated, the center of a circle of enthusiastic Americans, who thought her the nicest Englishwoman they had ever met, “ Who was that lady in deep mourning you were driving with yesterday?” , Mrs. Walsingham asked Lord Clan- ( yards, presently. “My youngest daughter, Mrs. Sinclair. You knew her husband some years ago. I think. He is lately dead.” “Yes. I saw his death in the Times, in that dismal column where we shall all appear in due course of time, 1 suppose. ” “Yes, he died in South America. You heard the story, I suppose. A most unfortunate business—his confidential solicitor shot in Sinclair’s own garden by a little French girl he had been foolish enough to get entangled with. The jealous little viper contrived to give the police the slip, and Sinclair saw himself in danger of being brought unpleasantly into the business so he wisely left the country." You believe that it was Melanie Duport who shot Mr. Wyatt?” Mrs. Walsingham exclaimed,'eagerly. “What, you remember the girl's name? Yes, there can hardly be a doubt as to her guilt Who else had any motive for killing him? The creature’s .letter luring him to the spot was found in the park, and she disappeared on the m.ming of the murder. The?e two facts are cnvincing, I should think,” concluded Lord Clanyarde, somewhat warmly. “Yes, she was a wicked creature,” said Mrs. Wa’singham, thoughtfully; “she had a natural bent toward evil.” “You speak as if you had known her.” Mrs. Walsingham looked confused. “I read the account of that dreadful ' business In the newspapers, she said. "I hope Mrs. Sinclair has quite recov-

ered from the shook such an awful event must have caused her.” “Well, yes: I think she ha? recov* ered from that. Her husband’s dath following so quickly was, of course, a blow, and since then she haa had another trouble to bear. " “Indeed! I am sorry," said Mrs. Walsingham, with a thoughtful look. “Yes, we did all for the best. She was dangerously ill, you know, about a year and a half ago, and we —well, it was foolish, perhaps, though the plan succeeded for the moment —wo made her believe that her littlwglrl had been saved from drowning at Schoenesthal, in the Black Forest. You may have heard of the circumstance.” “Yes, yes." “It was quite wonderful. She received the strange child we introduced to her with delight—never doubted its identity with her own baby—and all went on well till poor Sinclair's death; but on his death-bad he wrote a letter telling her ” “That the child was not her own!” exclaimed Mrs. Walsingham. “That must have hit her bard. ’’ “It dll, poor girl. She has not yet recovered the blow, wnd 1 fear rever will. What I most dread is her sinking back into the state in which she was the winter before last.” “Where is Sir Cyprian Davenant?” asked Mrs. Walsingham, somewhat irrelevantly. “At the other end of the world, I suppose. I believe he started for Africa last autumn.” “Was there not some kind of early attachment between him and Mrs Sinclair? Pardon me for asking such a question. ” “Yes, I believe Davenant would have proposed for Constance if his circumstances had permitted him to hope for my consent “Poor fellow! And he carried his broken heart to Africa, and came buck to find a fortune waiting for him, and your daughter married. Do you not think, if he were to return now, Mrs. Sinclair might be consoled for the loss of her child by reunion with the lover of her girlhood?” “I doubt if anything would rec ncile her to the loss of the little girl Her affection for that child was an infatuation. ” A pair of picturesque Italians began a duet by Verdi, and the conversation between Mrs. Walsingham and Lord Clanyarde went no further. He dil not make any offer of bringing Constance to the lady’s receptions: for the memory of that old alliance between Mr.-. Walsingham and Gilbert Sinclair hung like a cloud over her reputation. No one had any specific charge to bring against her, but it was remembered that Sinclair had been her devoted slave for a long time, and .had ended his slavery by marrying somebody else. As the weeks went round Constance showed no improvement in hdalth or spirits. Pride wa? making a torry struggle in that broken heart She would not go back to England and the spurious Christabdl, though ler heart yearned for that guiltless impostor. She would not suffer another woman’s child to hold the place of her lost darling ; r no, not even though that strange chile had made it elf dearer to her than life. Mrs. Sinclair’s doctor informed Lord Clanyarde that Rome was getting too warm for his patient, whereupon that anxious parent was fain to tear himself away from the pleamresof the teven-hilled city and those delightful evenings at Mrs. Walsingham s. “Our medical man threatens me with typhoid fever and all manner of horrors if I keep my daughter here any longer,” he said, “so we start for Engadine almost immediately. You will not stay much longer in Rome, I supp»e ” “1 don’t know,” answered Mrs. Walsingham, carelessly; “the place suits me better than any other. lam tiradto death of Landnn ■wJrWrw OSneTin, -xi we must be buried at all; but that’s rather a gloomy consideration. I should strongly advise you to spend the summer in a healthier climate, and leave the burial question to chance.” . “Ob, I dare say I shall soon get tired of Rome. I always get tired of places before 1 have been very long in them; and if the artists go away, I shall go too.” |to bb conTijnntD.t A Changing Sea. The Caspian Sea lies eighty-five feet below the level of the Black Sea, and is the greatest body of water in the world lying below the sea level. It is remarkable not only for this fact but for Ihe changes that have occurred in its level. About the first century of our era, there is no doubt that the level of the sea stood eighty-five feet above its present horizon, and, of course spread over a vastly more extensive area than at present The Russian Geological Society has printed a treatise, written by N. M. Philipof, on these remarkable changes of level. Since the early part of the Christian era, a general and gradual decline of the level of the sea na? taken place. In the eighteenth century, however, there appear to have been a few periods when the level rose. From the beginning of the present century there has been a fall, but since 1865, judging from recent observations, the level has been h’gher. Lieutenant Sojkoloff, a naval officer, while working in the Caspian region from 1843 to 1848, collected much information. He found that in the present century it had risen causing greflt apprehension among the inhabitants of an inundation, and giving rise to the belief in periodical variation every thirtesn years. Lerch, while in Baku, in 1734 and 1747, found submerged buildings which had sto.d on dry land thirty years before, and he mentioned a saying of the Persians that the sea rose and fell alternately every thirty years. M. Philipof has made a special study of the whole question. Inquiring into the causes of these changes of level, he finds a variety of influences at work, such as the wind driving the water towards certain coasts, temperature of the air causing in summer evaporation and consequent fall in leveL Rivers, rain and earthquakes! are also among the active agencies causing fluctuations from month to month and from day to day. Our Savior Walked. An elevator up Mount Calvary is in construction for the benefit of pilgrims. _____________ Very Comfortable Income. The King of Bavaria hae a lalttry of •1,412,c00 a year, l j

TALMAGE’S SERMON. DISCOURSE ON THE DANGERS OE SOCIAL DISSIPATION. Herod and the Daughter of Herodlae— JLuet and Murder the Voncomltanta of Bueh a Dance—Suicide lu Dancing—BrUi of the FMhlonahle Dance. Evils of the Dance. Rev. Dr. Talmage, whois still absent on hls round the world tour selected as the subject of last Sunday’s sermon through the press “The Quick Feet,” the text chosen being Matthew xiv, 6: When Herod’s birthday was kept, the daughter of Herodias danced before then and pleased Herod. ” It is the anniversary of Herod's birthday. The palace is lighted. The highways leading thereto are all ablaze with the pomp of invited guests. Lords, captains, merchant princes, the mighty men of the land, are coming to mingle in the festivities. The table is spread with all the luxuries that royal purveyors can gather. The guests, white robed ana anointed and perfumed, come in and sit at the table. Music! The jests provoke roars of laughter. Riddies are propounded. Repartee is indulged. Toasts are drunk. The Drain is befogged. The wit rolls on into a roar of blasphemy. They are not satisfied yet. Turn on more light. Pour out more wine. Musicl Sound all the trumpets. Clear the floor for a dance. Bring in Salome, the beautiful and accomplished princess. The door opens, and in bounds the dancer. The lords are enchanted. Stand back and make room for the brilliant gyrations! These men never saw such “poetry of motion.” Their soul whirls in-the reel and bounds with the bounding feet. Herod forgets crown and throne and everything but the fascinations of Salome. All the magnificence of his realm is as nothing compared with the splendor that whirls on tiptoe before him. His body sways from side to side, corresponding with the motions of the enchantress. His soul is thrilled with the pulsations of the feet and bewitched with the taking posture and attitudes more and more amazing. After awhile he sits in enchanted silence looking at the flashy, leaping, bounding beauty, and as the dance closes, and the tinkling cymbals cease to clap, and the thunder of applause that shook the palace begin to abate, the enchanted monarch swears to the princely performer: “Whatsoever thou shalt ask of me I will give it thee, to the half of my kingdom.” Now,there was in prison at that time a minister ot the gospel of the name of John the Baptist, and he had been making a great deal of trouble by preaching some very plain and honest sermons. He had denouncea the sins of the King and brought down upon him the wrath of the females of the royal household. At the instigation of hepAmpther, Salome takes advantage oMhe Ttxtravagant promise of the King and says: ‘‘Bring fine the head of John the Baptist on a dinner plate.” Dissipation and Murder. Hark to the sound of feet outside the door and clatter of swords! The executioners are returning from their awful errand. Open the door. They enter, and they oresent the platter to Salome. What is ou this platter? A new glass of wine to continue the uproarious merriment? No. Something redder and costlier—the ghastly, , bleeding head of John the Baptist, the death glare still in the eye, the locks dabbled with the gore, the features still distressed with the last agony. This woman, who whirled so gracefully in the dance, bends over the awful burden without a shudder. She gloats over—tho. ..bte^rfre-insse vered TreafToTJohn the Baptist, while all the banqueters shout with laughter and think it a good joke that in so easy and quick away they have got rid of an earnest and. outspoken minister of the gospel. You will all admit, whatever you think of that style of amusement and exercise, thaU from many circles it has crowded out all intelligent conversation. You will also admit that it was made the condition of those who do not dance, either because they do not knew how, or because they have not the health to endure it, or because, through conscientious scruples, they must decline the exercise, very uncomfortable. You will also admit, ail of you, that it has passed in many cases from an amusement to a dissipation, and you are easily able to understand the bewilderment of the educated Chinaman who, standing in the brilliant circle where there was dancing going on four or five hours and the guests seemed exhausted, turned to the proprietor of the house and said, “Why don’t you allow your servants to do this for you?” The Enervating Dance. You are also wilting to admit, whatever be your idea in regard to the amusement I am speaking of, and whatever be your iciea of the oldfashioned square dance and of many of the processional romps in which l ean see no evil, the round dance is administrative of evil and ought to be driven out of all respectable circles. I am by natural temperament and religious theory opposed to the position taken by all those who are horrified at playfulness on the part ct the young, and wno think that all questions are de-cided-questions of decency and morals—by the position of the feet, while, on the other hand, I can see nothing but ruin, temporal and eternal, for those who go into the dissipations of social life, dissipations which have already despoiled thousands of young women of all that is noble in character and useful in life. Dancing is the graceful motion ot the body adjusted by art to the sound and measures ot musical instruments or of the human voice. All nations have danced. The ancients thought that Castdr and Pollux taught the art to the Lacedaemonians. But, whoever started it, all climes have adopted it. In ancient times they had the festal dance, the military dance, the mediatorial dance, the bacchanalian dance, and queens and lords swayed to and fro in the gardens, and the rough backwoodsman with this exercise awakened the echoof the forest There is something in the sound of lively music to evoke the movement of the hand and foot, whether cultured or uncultured. Passing down the street we uncon* icioiwly keep step to the sound of the

brass band, while the Christian in church with hls foot beats time while hls soul rises upon some great harmony. While this is so in civilizea lands the red men of the forest have their scalp dances, their green corn , dances, tneir war dances. In ancient times the exercise was so utterly and completely depraved that the church anathematized it. The old Christian fathers expressed themselves most vehemently against it. St. Chrysos- I tom says, “The feet were not given for ' dancing, but Jo walk modestly; not to leap impudently, like camels.” One of the dogmas of the ancient ehurch reads: “A dance is the devil’s possession, and he that entereth into a dance entereth into his possesion, As many paces as a man makes in dancing, so many paces does he make to hell.” “The woman that singeth in the dance is the princess ot the devil, and those that answer are her clerks, and the beholders are his friends, and the music is his bellows, and the fiddlers are the ministers of the devil. For as, when hogs are strayed, if the hogsherd call one all assemble together, so when the devil callethone woman to sing in the dance, or to play on some musical instruments, presently all the dangers gather together.” This indiscriminate and universal denunciation of the exercise came,from the fact tlrat it was utterly and completely depraved. An Enlightened Conscience. But we are not to discuss the customs of the olden times, but customs now. We sre not to take the evidence of the ancient fathers, but our own conscience, enlightened by the word of God, is to be the standard. Oh, bring no harsh criticism upon the young. I would not drive out from their soul the hilarities ot life. Ido not believe that the inhabitants of ancient Wales, when they stepped to the sound of the rustic harp, went down to ruin. I believe God intended the young people to laugh and romp and plav. Ido not believe God would have put exuberance in the soul and embrace in the body if he had not intended they should in some wise exercise it and demonstrate it. If a mother join hands with her children and cross the floor to the sound of music, I see no harm. If a group of friends cross and recross the room to the sound of piano well played, I see np harm. If a company, all of whom are known to host and hostess as reputable, cross and recross the room to the sound of musical instrument, I see no harm. I tried for a long while to see harm in it. I could not see any harm in it. I never shall see any harm in that. Oui* men need to be kept young—young for many years longer than they are kept young. Never since my boyhood days have I had more sympathy with the innocent hilarities of life than I have now. What though we have felt heavy burdens! W hat though we have had to endure hard knocks! Is that any reason why we should stand in the way of those who, unstung of life’s misfortunes, are full of exhilaration and glee? God bless the young! They will have to wait many a long year before they hear me say anything that would depress their ardor or clip their wings or make them believe that life is hard and cold and repulsive. It is not. I tell them, judging from my oWn experience, that they will be treated a great deal better than they deserve. We have no right to grudge the innocent hilarities to the young. The Wearing Round. What®re the dissipations of social life to-day., aM wjiat are the dissipations of Ihp ballroom? In some cities and in sotne places reaching all the year around, in other places only in the summer time and at the watering places. There are dissipations of social life that are cutting a very wide swath with the sickle of death, and hundreds .t]y2Plß”(frawTng down toitte of thebrightest craft that ever sailed the sea—thousands and tens of thousands of the bodies and souls annually consumed in the conflagration of ribbons. Social dissipation is the abetter of pride, it is the instigator of jealousy, it is the sacrificial altar of health, it is the defiler of the soul, it is the avenue of lust, and it is the curse of every town on both sides of the sea. Social dissipation. It may be hard to draw the line and say that this is right on the one side, and that is wrong on the other side. It is not necessary that we do that, for God has put a throne in eveiy man’s soul, and I appeal to that throne to-day. When a man floes wrong, he knows he does wrong, and when he does right he knows he does right, and to that throne which Almighty God lifted in the heart of every man and woman I appeal. As to tne physical ruin wrought by the dissipations of social life there can be no doubt. What may we expect of people who work all day and dance all eight? After awhile they will be thrown on society nervous, exhausted imbeciles. These people who indulge in the suppers and the midnight revels and then go home in the cold, unwrapped of limbs, will after awhile be found to have been written down in God’s eternal records as suicides, as much suicides as if they had taken their life with a pistol or a knife or strychnine. A Foolish Career. How many people have stepped from the ballroom into the graveyard! Consumptions and swift neuralgias are close on their track. Amid many of the glittering scones of social life diseases s ? tand right and left and balance and chain. The breath of the sepulcher floats up through the perfume, and the froth ot death's lips bubbles up in the champagne. lam told that in some of the cities there are parents who have actually given up housekeeping and gone to boarding that they may give their time inimitably to social dissipations. I have known such cases. I have known family after family blasted in that way in one of the other cities where I preached, father and mother turning their back upon all quiet culture and all the amenities of home, leading forth their entire family in the dxftction. Annihilated. wogMKah Annihilated—for there arqgrt|ggiM[i D gs worse than an-nihilatloig-tWrivp you the history of more than dMK*. m ny when 1 say they went on in the 'of social life until the father droppcl into a lower style of dissipation, and after awhile the son Was tossed out into society a Honenity, and after awhile the daughter eloped with a French dancing master and after awhile the. mother, getting on further and further in years, tries to hide the wrinkles, but fails In the attempt, trying ail the arts

of the belle, an old flirt, a poor miserable butterfly without any wings. If there is anything ou earth beautiful to mo, it is an aged woman, her 1 white locks flowing back over the 1 wrinkled brow —locks not white with ! frost, os the poets say, tut white with | the bloteoms of the tree of life, In her voice the tenderness of gracious memories, her face a benediction. As grandmother ptoses through the room the grandchildren pull at her dress, L and she almost falls in her weakness, but she has nothing but candy or cake ■ or a kind word for the little darlings. When she gets out of the wagon in front of the house, the whole family rush out and cry, “Grandma's -come, and when she goes away from us,never to return, there is a shadow on the table, and a shadow on the hearth, and a shadow on the heart. There is no more touching scene on earth than when grandmother sleeps the last slumber and the little child is lifted up to the casket to give the last kiss, and she says, “Goodby, grandma”’ Oh, there is beauty in old age! God •says so, “The hoary head ii a crown of glory." Why should people decline to get old? The best things, the greatest things I know of. are agea-old mountains, old seas, old stars and old eternity. \ But if there is anything distressful it is to see an old woman ashamed of the fact that she is old. What with all the artificial appliances, she is too much for my gravity. Haugh even in church when I see her coming. The worst looking bird on earth is a Fjacock when it has lost its feathers. would not give one lock of my old mother’s gray hair for 50,000 such caricatures of humanity. And if the life of a wordling, if the life of a disciple given to the world, is sad, the close of such a life is simply a tragedy. Belittled SouU. Let me tell you that the dissipations of social life are despoiling the usefulness of a vast multitude of people. What do those people care about the fact that there are whole nations in sorrow and suffering and agonv when they have for consideration the more important question about the size of a glove or the tie of a cravat? Which one of them ever bound up the wounds of the hospital? Which one of them ever went out to care for the poor? Which of them do you find in the haunts of sin, distributing tracts? They live on themselves, ana it is very poor pasture. Sybaris was a great city, and it ones sent out 300 horsemen in battle. They had a minstrel who had taught the horses of the army a grand trick, and * when the old minstrel played a certain tune the horses would rear and with their front feet seem to beat time to the music. Well, the old minstrel was offended with his country, and he went over to the enemy, and he said to tne enemy, “You give me the mastership of the army, and 1 will destroy their troops when those horsemen come from Sybaris.” So they gave the old minstrel the management, and he taught all the other minstrels a certain tune. Thenwhenthecavalrytioopcame up the old minstrel and all the other minstrels played a certain tune, and at the most critical moment in the battle, when the horsemen wanted to rush tc the conflict, the horses reared and beat time to the music with their fore feet, and in disgrace and rout the enemy fled. Ah, my friends, I have seen it again and again-the minstrels ■of pleasure, the minstrels of dissipation, the minstrels of godless association have defeated people in the hardest fight of life. Frivolity has lost the battle for 10,000 folk. Oh, what a belittling process to the human m.nd, this everlasting question about dress, this discussion of fashionable infinites!* mals, this group looking askance at the glass, wondering ‘Wftfiftton of a tight shoe, this bind--1 Ing up of an immortal foul in a ruffie, ‘ this pitching off of an immortal nature E over the rocks when God intended it ' for great and everlasting uplifting! 1 Last Scene of Woe. , With many life is a masquerade ball, and at such entertainments gentlemen and ladies put on the garb of kings 1 and queens or mountebanks or clowns and at the close put off the disguise, so a great many pass their whole life in a ; mask, taking off the mask at death. While the masquerade ball of life goes 1 on they trip merrily over the floor, 1 gemmed hand is stretched to gemmed 1 hand, and gleaming brow bends to gleaming brow. On with the dance! ' Flush, and rustle, and laughter of Im--1 measurable merrymaking. But after awhile the languor of death comes on 1 the limbs and blurs the eyesight. Lights lower. Floor hollow with sepulchral echo. Music saddened into a wail. Lights lower. Now the maskers are only seen in the dim light. Now the fragrance of the flowers is like the sickening odor that comes from garlands that have lain long in the vaults of cemeteries. Lights lower. Mists gather in the room. Glasses shako as though quaked by sullen thunder. Sigh caught m the curtain. Scarf drops from the shoulder of beauty, a shroud. Lights lower. Over the slippery boards in dance of death glide, jealousies, envies, revenges, lust, despair, and death. Stench the lampwicks al-, most extinguished. Torn garlands will not half cover the ulcerated feet. Choking damps. Chilliness. Feet still. Hands closed. Voices hushed. Eyes shut. Lights out. Oh. how many of you have floated far away from God through social dissipations! And it is time you turned. For I remember that there were two vessels on the sea and in a story. It was very, very dark, and the two vessels were go ng straight for each other, and the captains knew it not. But after awhile the man on the lookout saw the approaching ship, and he shouted, “Hard a-larboard!” and from the other vessel the cry went up, “Hard a-larboad!” and they turned just enough to glance by and passed in safety to their harbors. Some of you are in the storm of temptation, and you are driving on and coming toward fearful collisions unless you change your course. Hard a-larboad! Turn ye, turn ye, for “why will ye die, O house of Israel. The most expensive fertilizer to the farmer Is nitrogen, and this cost he san reduce on his farm by growing ' clover, cow peas and green crops sor 1 turning under, for the purpose of ren* ovating his soil. I«• necessary to cultivate the pota* toes after the plants have blossomed In order to keep the weeds down, run the cultivator very shallow, - v