Indianapolis Journal, Indianapolis, Marion County, 3 October 1897 — Page 9

—Part Two==

PRICE FIVE CENTS.

‘‘Competition Baffled by Our Radiant Display.” Paris, London, New York Are represented in our Elegant Display of the Latest Novelties in Ladies’ and Misses’ Ready-to-wear Suits, Skirts, Jackets and Capes. We beg leave to quote you prices on our garments in the several lines. ( READY-TO-WEAR) Garments (EXCLUSIVE STYLES) TAILOR-MADE SUITS SIO.OO to $65.00 Most Elegant Line In the State. OUR.JACKETS ?3.75 to $50.00 Each Children’s and Misses’ Garments Children’s Oretchens, $3.50 to $20.00. More than 50 styles. Children’s Jackets, 2, 4 and 6 years sizes, prices, $1.75 to slo.oo—nobby styles. Misses’ Jackets, Bto 12 years. The largest assortment in the State. Prices, $2.75 to $20.00. Styles that cannot be seen elsewhere. Come in and look, even if you do not intend to purchase. Collarettes#^ PRICES $5.00 to $75.00 Each PRICES Boyd, Besten & Langen Cos.

Mme. Ruppert’s Toilet Requisites. 19c—A Trial Bottle of Mme. Ruppert’s Face Bleach—l9c. Her price. Our price. Mme. Ruppert’s Hair Tonic gives new life and stops QC railing hair SI.OO M 5 lime. Ruppert’s Almond Cream Hand Lotion Softens and whitens the hands and QEE prevents chapping SI.OO Mme. Ruppert’s Egyptian Balm, a valuable skin food and used in connection with the Bleach, removes Wrin- QE kies SI.OO Mme. Ruppert’s Pearl Enamel. Causes the skin to assume a girlish loveliness. \ QBE Mainly for evening use SI.OO Mme. Ruppert's World Renowned Face Bleach, large bottle. Clears the skin of any discolorations and beautifies the complexion 4 ’Tffi aurally $2.00 e. Ruppert’s Wonderful Removes superfluous hair, without injury to skin, in three min- QE utes SI.OO •O* s Mme. Ruppert's White Rose Face Powder. An exquisite 40 powder 60 Mme. Ruppert's Red Rose Paste. A rouge for lips, nails and fingernails, true to nature 50 Mme. Ruppert's Liquid Rouge for cheeks; beyond 40 detection 50 Mme. Ruppert’s Gray Hair Restorative is not a dye, but returns gray hair to - O tfi its natural color $2.50 Mme Ruppert's Almond Oil Complexion Soap. A perfect soap, a combination of Almond Oil and wax. Not a boiled soap and con- Ofi tains no lye 25 Mail orders promptly filled. A copy of book, “How to be Beautiful,” will be given FREE. HenryJ.Huder Druggist, Washington and Penn. Sts., Indianapolis.

Open All Night. City Noise*. The Lancet. Efforts are being made in New York and In some other large cities in the United States to prevent as far as possible the unnecessary street noises. All over the world street noises in the large towns are a nuisance, as well as a serious menace to health. Some of the noises must bo endured as a necessary evil, but a great part of it might be easily abolished by judicious legislation and to the lasting benefit of the general public. The worst feature of the case is that it Is not only in the daytime that the pandemonium is rampant, but at night, too. when the nervous system absolutely requires rest, it is often almost tmfiossible in a large city to obtain nndisurbed repose. Tip* matter is a serious one, and "’ill sooner or later have to be gravely considered. The noises prevailing by day and by night in New York are almost beyond belief. Englishmen are rightly prone to think that London is a noisy place, but compared with New York, the American, we believe, looks upon London as a village. The noises in New York have a peculiarly jarring. Irritating effect on the nerves; the booming rumbling of the cable cars, the metallic rattle of the trains on the elevated railway; the jolting of the carts and heavy traffic over the rough, uneven roadways; the continual sounding of the gongs on the cars; the ringing of the bells attached to hucksters’ carts—all these combine to make up an aggregation of sounds which, happily, can m equaled in no part of London. In all large towns unnecessary street noises of any description should !<•• sUrnly repressed. It seems absurd ,‘n these da vs of high pressure that to -he unavoidable pounds should he added those widen might be stamped out without doing harm to fUiy one.

THE SUNDAY JOURNAL.

AN AWFUL BATTLEFIELD ♦- SOME GHASTLY RECOLLECTIONS OF THE WILDERNESS FIELD. # The Dead Lay for Day* Cnburled, I'nion Men Ontnainbering; the Confederates Three to One. Cyrus G. Shepard, in New York Post. ”1 have no time to bury my dead, and can give you none,” was Grant’s famous reply to Lee, when, under a flag of truce, a cessation of hostilities was requested long enough to bury the dead. Thus one great and awful feature of the battle of the Wilderness w’as the unburied dead., that lay for days and weeks all over that blood-stained field, one of the most horrible and ghastly sights ever exposed to human vision. Probably no battlefield of the civil war afforded such an opportunity for inspection as this. Ordinarily, after a fight, burying parties were detailed, and the long, deep trench, a common grave, was dug, and the dead were at least covered; but not so here. Grant could not stop, and the long stretch of country, overrun with Mosby’s guerillas, that intervened between the Rappanannock river and the nearest Union lines, prevented aid from that direction in burying the thousands that were slain in the Wilderness and in the fight at Spottsylvania Courthouse. I sat on my horse looking over the portion of the field where the fierce and deadly fighting of May 4 and 5, 1864, occurred. It was four or five days after the fight, about the 9th or 10th of May, A small detachment of our regiment had been sent as an escort to a train of ambulances to gather in the wounded, who w’ere being temporarily eared for in barns and farmhouses near the battlefield, and I thus had an opportunity to view’ this historic scene. During the thirty-three years since it has been an open question whether to be glad or sorry that I visited this battlefield. It could not be more vividly impressed upon me had I seen it yesterday. It has been a nightmare and a horrid day dream all these years. Often have I prayed that visions of those upturned faces, blackened and distorted. of the Btaring, glazed eyeballs, of the stiffened, outstretched hands, seemingly still grasping for support, those rigid forms wrapped in blue and gray, that had fought their last battle and now lay side by side in that great charnel field, might be blotted forever from my recollection. Then, again, I have been glad that I knew so well how’ that battlefield appeared, and how barbarous, brutal and inhuman it made war seem: glad that 1 knew’ how ten thousand dead heroes looked, who had faced and met death amid the wild, frenzied scenes of one of the greatest battles in the history of the world. One of the most striking features to us that day, and the one most thoroughly fixed in our memories, was that all over that battlefield, or at least that part we visited, there lay three boys in blue to one in gray. It will be remembered that all through the Wilderness fight the rebels were protected by a system of earthworks and hastily constructed fortifications and abatises, while the Union troops were compelled to fight largely in the open, and assail the Confederates in their strongholds. From these it w r as utterly impossible to dislodge the enemy except by the masterly series of flank movements so successfully planned by Gen. Grant.

NEVER CAME BACK. We saw’ in one place where the men in line of battle had taken off their knapsacks and laid them in a long row, evidently to be prepared to make a charge upon one of these earthworks of the rebels, some little distance in front. There knapsacks remained almost undisturbed, w’hile the men lay, some in heaps, some here and there in front of the fortifications they had charged upon. At this point the Union dead lay thickest. T believe I could have dismounted and walked a distance as great as two ordinary city blocks and never once have stepped upon the ground—walking on dead bodies all the way. Indeed, had I undertaken the ghastly journey, 1 would have been compelled in some places to climb over heaps of the dea 1. There was a slight growth of underbrush at this point, with a few trees remaining. I made a careful examination and could not see a limb or a twig or bush but was marked by a bullet, and some of them in several places. The wonder seemed not that there were so many dead, but that any lived. Officers and privates all made a common cause here, and rank was forever obliterated, sot among the dead we noticed the shining shoulder straps of commissioned officers mingl'd with the ordinary blue uniform of the common soldier. The trees were torn and shattered, the fearful work of shot and shell being shown on every side. Muskets, canteens, haversacks, knapsacks—in fact, nearly all that makes up the accoutrements of the soldier—were scattered in all directions. Near the road, evidently smashed by a solid shot, was the broken caisson of an artillery wagon, w’hile the gun lay in the ditCh, with a dead soldi' r lying face downward across it. None of uh felt like performing any act of ghoulish vandalism, though, as I saw a letter extending from the pocket of a dead Confederate soldier, I dismounted, and.

INDIANAPOLIS, SUNDAY MORNING, OCTOBER 3, 1897--SIXTEEN PAGES

some of the boys gathering around, we looked it over. It was torn and partly illegible, hut we made out that it was from the town of Hamlet, in the State of North Carolina, It was in a lady’s handwriting, and the portion that we were able to read was as follows: ‘‘My Dear Jack—We hope that you can soon return and help us with the tobacco crop; but if not, we do hope and pray to God that our dear Jack will not be harmed by those terrible Yankees.” MANY HOMES DESOLATE. As we looked at the letter and then at the upturned face of poor Jack, turning black from exposure to the sun, and then thought of that poor wife, or mother, or sister w r ho was w’aiting and watching for the return of the dead and mangled soldier at our feet, and of the other ten thousand homes from which dear ones had gone out who were now’ among that host of dead around us, we began to comprehend something of the brutal, barbarous nature oi wutr. And, personally, I w’ould have had a keener comprehension still had I known then what I learned a few days later, that on that very battlefield, and not far from the spot where poor Jack lay, my own brother had been killed a few r days before. He was on the skirmishing line, early in the morning of May 4, at the very beginning of tlxe light. He was struck in the thigh with a mlnie bullet, carried to the rear, his leg hastily amputated, and he’ died a few days later in a hospital. We had ample time to inspect the field W’hile our ambulances were visiting the houses, barns and huts to which the wounded had been carried, or to which they had been able to walk or crawl. In some few places an apparent effort had been made to bury the slain. But this only added to the horror of the scene, for portions of the bodies were exposed. We could trace the movements of the union line by the appearance of the field. Jn a space where evidently the line of battle had been before the forward movements the dead lay as if someone had measured an accurate line, and then placed them in order upon it Then, apparently, came the forward dash, and here and there they lay as they had plunged head foremost in the rush for the rebel lines. So far all were clad in blue, but where the clash had come and the opposing lines had met, then gray and blue lay side by side or one athwart the other. Some faces had a smile upon them, others had a surprised and startled iook, while others expressed agony ana despair, and still others had a look of hate and defiance as if they could not and would not forgive the foe they had fought to the very death. Looking over the portion of the field where w r e w’ere, we saw’ broken limbs hanging from trees where shot and shell had struck, trees cut down with solid shot or split and shattered, the ground torn up and ploughed as the death messenger sped along, broken wheels of artillery wagons and ambulances scattered about, these, with the dead that lay amid them all, made a picture so infernal, so barbarous and inhuman, that the thirty years that have intervened have utterly failed to diminish its horrors. We loaded every ambulance we had with the wounded and dying, and started on the long march towards Alexandria, Va„ where the nearest help and hospital service could be secured. In fording the Rappahannock river at the United States ford, one ambulance was driven into deep water and two poor fellows were drowned. It was a sad ending to their brief dream of help and home, and one of the ten thousand cruel, bitter scenes of that cruel and bitter war.

REWRITING TIIE IiIJULE. An English Enthusiast Start* on a Stupendous Tusk. London Mail. Filled with the conviction that the Bible in its present form is not half so beautiful or so instructive a work as it might be, Mr. Howard Swan, of Howard House, Arundel street, W. C., has determined to rewrite it He has already completed a portion of the heavy task. To a Daily Mail representative Mr. Swan said in a deadly earnest way: “I need hardly tell you that I have been moved to undertake the work by very serious considerations. considerations which involve deep and important theological problems. But into the philosophical basis of my argument in favor of a Bible in anew and, as I venture to think, improved form we need not go. “And yet there is no reason w’hy anything should be withheld, for these very questions of religion at which I am now hinting will, as sure as you are sitting there, be in the mouth of everybody before another year has gone. The effect upon international questions will be of immense importance. “Now, as to my work on the Bible, it is simply this. The Bible at present is written in three languages—English words, Greek idiom and Hebrew proper names. What I propose to do is to rewrite it in pure English idiom, which shall be as vigorous in expression as the original, and shall at the sam time have a deeper and more lasting effect upon the minds of those who read it. Then there are the Hebrew names. How many people do you suppose understand the meaning of these names? Do you know what Barrabas means? You don’t. Perhaps you can tell me what Ezekiel signifies? You can't. There are lots of others in the same lix. “What I propose is to produce quite a different effect by the employment of pure English. an<l I am convinced that a reunion of the higher thought of the various religions will be attained by the reduction of all foreign idioms to English. In my version. the book of Job will be headed ‘Afflicted.’ and Isaiah will be known as ‘The Spirit is Safe.’ ” “I expect that the rewritten version will give enormous stimulus to spiritual energy throughout the land.” “Oh, yes; it may take a little time to become popular, but 1 believe there are thousands and thousands who only require to be shown the proper road. My version of the Bible will, I hope, point the way.” The interview terminated with the recital by Mr. Swan of one of his own poems, in which a truth-seeking soul breaks its fetters and calls the conventional religionists awful names.

JOURNEYING IN ITALY NOTES OF FOREIGN TRAVEL JOTTED DOWN BY AN INDIANA WOMAN. Ocean Trip to Naples* an Agreeable Surprise—Nature’* Many Cliarms in Italy—The Eternal City. 1 From New York to Naples is not generally thought to be an overland journey, but it was after all not so very much unlike a lake voyage. We did not at any time have that desolate feeling of being worlds away from land. It was Saturday w’hen we sailed. Sunday you could still play that you were not far from New York bay, Monday and Tuesday we w’ere out at sea, to be sure, but on Wednesday we began to look for the Azores. Early Thursday morning the steward knocked at my door to tell me that land was in sight, and I looked from my stateroom window up to high cliffs overhung with trees and dripping with vines. All day we threaded our way among these lovely islands, sometimes in narrow channels bordered by steep and rocky shores, sometimes in great bays from which wo could look over leagues of land and ocean. There were green shores and soft slopes of hill and vineyard. There were neat little towns, each with its church, and there were convents that nestled like gentle birds high in protecting shadows. The whole scene was so peaceful and quiet that it was delightful to look at it. It was rot the tired-out peace of a city at night, but a comfortable sunny quietness. It was lovely all day, and at night when the sun went down the scene was still the same, so that one might, if one chose, in dreams still sail between “the glittering shores of fairy isles.” In the morning the coast of Spain was a blue line on the horizon and everybody had something to remember about Spain. If you don't know history you recall a hundred songs and poems—“Ye mariners of Spain bend well unto your oars and bring my love to me, for he pines among the Moors,” and Mr. Kipling's splendid lines, “Loud sang the souls of the gentlemen adventurers,” or the words of the apostle, “I come to you by Spain.” Next there was Gibraltar, fearless, arrogant, ready, bright with the color of red coats and English complexions. Mingled in the scene were smooth-moving Italians and intense Spaniards and swarthy Arabs, but their claim on one’s notice was crushed out of sight by the pervading Englishness. From Gibraltar on there was almost always land in sight, perhaps showing only as a blue mist In the distance or perhaps so near that we could see the white teeth of fishermen who smiled at us from boats anchored in quiet bays.

The passengers on an ocean steamship are like a box of candy—a carefully assorted lot Os different kinds. There are the nice ones whom you Jjcognize Instantly, the very nice ones, whom you don’t perceive so quickly, the ones who are not nice at all, the queer ones—and the others. All of those sorts, even those w ho are not nice at all, are interesting except “the others.” They are like the last tasteless bits of candy that are left in the box when everybody is tired of it. You might enjoy them if you were shipwrecked on a dese’t island, but not otherwise. As far as the voyage goes the queer people are the most illuminating. There was a fat and aged Infant, a Hungarian count. He w’ore a queer cap almost like an old woman’s, he had a high shrill giggle, he was very good natured, very untidy, and all knowledge was his. In the smoking room they would speak of a lake in central Africa or a bay near the north pole or a break in the bank of a South American river and the count could always promptly draw a chart of the place which would be verified by the ship’s maps. There was the lady (I hope she is uncommon enough to be queer) who told everybody that she had brought twenty-two diamond rings with her, and that you’d notice wherever you found a person of her name he was sure to be rich. How’ elegantly her sister did live, to be sure! Why, her sister’s cook thought nothing of giving them chocolate eclairs or cream puffs for breakfast! And there was a beautiful bull fighter going home from Mexico. He had been betrothed in Mexico, the wedding day w T as set. “I said to Seraphlta: ‘I wish to see my mother. She is in Spain. I can never come back hero to marry you—all that w’ay. So say good-bye like a sensible girl.’ ” All through the Mediterranean the skies and the w’ater were calm and blue. Even the sea-sick people were sorry when the last night came. There was a gorgeous dinner and everybody made a toilet in honor of it, and the stewards scurried across the dining room bearing champagne and Mr. So-and-So’s compliments and will you have a glass of wine with him? After dinner everybody sat late on deck in the moonlight and took last W’alks together and got each other’s addresses. As for the young man from Baltimore, he had to have a few last words with r.ine different girls, and it was half-past 1 when he got to his stateroom, where he w r as heard exhaustedly ordering a brandy and soda. It is considered quite knowing to despise Naples, but it is still more knowing to be aware that Naples has some charms and beauties of its own. The people who have been abroad eight or nine times w’ill tell you that Naples is a place to get away from as soon as possible—a place of goats and beggars and dirt—but the people who have spent twenty or thirty winters in Italy will, if they think you worthy, express a different view. They know of all sorts of fine things, of lovely palm-shaded marble palaces and old castles full of treasures of art. But there is nothing esoteric about the knowledge that Naples contains some of the finest bronzes in the w’orld. As to the town itself there are no fine churches and almost no great buildings, but the city seen as a whole from the bay is as beautiful as the bay seen from the city, and you could hardly say more than that in praise of any scene. As for the dirt it is not the town, but the natives who are dirty; and their griminess softens the bright hues of their garments and persons in a most artistic manner. I admit that they look better when seen from a distance,‘as one view’s the impressionist pictures. Os course, there are rather queer things to be seen; but being queer is not necessarily being objectionable. For instance, I see no reason why a drove of cows should not, if they prefer, walk through the principal streets and deliver their milk in person rather than send it around in bottles. We were in Naples about three weeks. If one of us was ill there, as I have heard, the memory of the few days when she could go about lias quite obliterated everjthing else from her recollection. Indeed, it would not be too much to say that if you’re going to be ill you’ll have a much better time journeying about than staying at home, particularly if you choose very agreeable people for traveling companions. There is always something new to think about. The others go out and bring back word of what is to be seen and it’s as good as seeing it yourself and muon less fatiguing. The others went first to Pompeii and found just what l wanted to see, and they went on further south to Paestum. i should have liked to see that place—which, though in Italy, is as Grecian as Greece itself. There

are splendid ruins there, left over from the limes when the Greeks went where they chose. It stirred my fancy to think of a brave and beauty-loving people building a splendid city and then one day having to turn away from it ail. There, in a desolate plain, empty of worshipers, the fires on the altars dead, their great and beautiful temples have stood for two thousand years looking seaward for the Greek galleys that have never come again. But if I did not see Paestum I did see Amalfi and Sorrento, and drove for miles along that one of the three finest roads in the world that skirts the Mediterranean from Salerno to Oastellamare. I did not mind missing the ascent of Vesuvius. Victor made it alone, and his interest in what was to be seen and his pride in his achievement reached their height when he found that his shoes were really a little scorched. —♦ — I love color. I want it unstinted, in masses, abounding. I want not only enough, I want too much. I love green; I love red triumphant and the reminiscent violet. I love all the fall colors, the blended colors, the gray greens, the old roses, dull ambers. Eut most of all I love blue, and I never had enough of it until I came to Italy. Here I look up at a sky that is bluer than the turquoise on my hand and as vast as all space—a blue so dense, so brilliant that a scrap of it at the end of a narrow street hangs like a curtain of azure velvet, and so vast that sight fails before its limits. I have seen the Bay of Naples roll up on its yellow sands billows of sapphire water melting into distances of strange metallic sheen like the throat of a wild duck or like some strange gem. When I turn my eyes Inland I see the green and gold of orange groves, and up on the hills the sky has spilt patches of blue forget-me-nots. The roads where kings have passed are flowered with purple anemones, and streams of blood-red poppies spread themselves over the fields where great armies have striven. 4— In Italy nature is never sullen. She holds herself simply and joyously. If in some places she cannot clothe herself in stately forests she does not mope in weeds, but smiles through modest blossoms. The ugly cicatrices left by excavations and embankments are not taken by ragweed and dogfennel. Nature shortly covers them w’ith green curves of acanthus leaves or w’ith long trails of thick-clustered ivy. She is always charming, always ready to be looked at. I must confess that at first I could not get rid of the notion that nature W’as just a trifle posed. Now I see that that w r as not her fault, but mine. I would not see her as she is, but kept on looking at her as she has been painted and written about—and it is not fair to judge even a human being that way. ■ — 4— They have their faults in southern Italy, no doubt. The common people are dirty, lazy and cringing, when they are not insolent. Even their physical elasticity and softness offend Anglo-Saxon sturdiness. I perceive that the American tourist can’t get over the notion that a boy who, for a penny, tosses himself into three kinds of somersault at once must be a thief or he couldn’t be so limber. But whatever they are, or are not, they have, as a race, been faithful to one kind of good taste. They respect the landscape. What they erect may not be pretentious, but it never, never is ugly. The old castles are dreams of fairy stories. All buildings, great and small, are dignified and harmonious, and never once since I have been in Italy have I seen the face of nature disfigured by an advertisement. The rocks and walks and trees are as guiltless of the merits of soap and sarsaparilla as they w ere in the days of Caesar.

The travelers that I met in Rome were all bewailing the modernness of things; that the Eternal City should bo lighted everywhere by electricity caused many a sigh, and the trolley cars whizzing and sputtering along parallel with the old city wall was a matter for tears. But, for my part, I was overwhelmed, crushed by the antiquity of it all. The impression only grew. To my fancy a cruel Roman soldiery clattered in the stony street. In stately halls and palaces the air w r as full of intrigue, revenge, despair and every evil passion. The foul luxury and hopeless misery of the old days sifted their bitter ashes into every breath I drew. And to make it the more horrible it was all so beautiful, so enthralling. I verily believed that I should die if I had to stay in Rome, and yet such is the enchantment of the place that I would walk many miles—would give up almost anything for one-half hour in any one of a hundred spots in Rome. When I stood among the antique statues in the Vatican it seemed to me that I had come for the first time into the highest possibilities of artistic enjoyment. —♦ — St. Peter’s in Rome is the very center of the visible manifestation of the earthly glory of the great church—the place toward which for centuries the hearts of great and devout men have turned. What action, what conflicts have circled around it! What thoughts have turned this way! How many pilgrimages have ended here! From the middle ages down almost every great man, every poet, prince and tvarrior has passed throtigh these doors. Columbus walked along this very pavement and looked up at these arches. In the far wilds of both Americas holy men planted the cross, their thoughts directed hither amid scenes of incredible hardship and danger. I have seen people of all races, conditions and beliefs moving at once in the dim and vaulted distance® of this church. Before me have passed now a band of scarlet-robed eclesias. tics, now some beggars, or brown eontadini come to say their prayers on the way to market, an English nobleman, some art students, some pilgrims stopping at each shrine, a mother who leaves her little ones whispering together w'hile she turns aside to confession—Russians and priests of the Greek Church, a Jewish rabbi, soldiers, sailors and gentle, fatherly, country priests. So vast is the place that one sees it in a sort of isolation. There is no nearness, no intrusion in the scene. Afar there is the music of a solemn mass, so faint, yet so distinct that one feels rather than hears it. We look up through the incense-laden air to heights so remote that shadow's and lights merge into each other beyond recognition. The statues may not be very good—l Think they are not. Are not the decorations sometimes rococo? Probably. I do not know. But I do know that this edifice is an instance of human triumph over material things—of devotion to an abstraction for once dominent and complete. To feel it gives hope for the race. If humanity has been capable of this, what may not be hoped for in yet greater days? MARY JAMESON JUDAH. Teaching < Poking and Washing. Robert P. Porter’s Letter. Cooking and washing. Simple enough; but, after all, the poorer classes in England. as in our own country, have much to learn. Those who are doing so much to improve the life of the poor, and even the small wage earner, in New York and Philadelphia, will be interested to know' the headway made in London through schools for this purpose. After studying this subject one is led to believe that cookery may yet rise to be that influence on good morals which its friends have predicted for it. The newly published "Special Reports on Educational Subjects'' of the Education Department show us that in ISSS-Nt> there were but 12,000 girls studying cookery in English elementary schools. In the

numbers had increased to 134.0 X ore than eleven times the first number, .nspectors tell how Rirls “enjoy the work.” “Interest does not diminish,” “the teaching is thoroughly effective.” A special effort is made to have the lessons appropriate to a workingman’s home. Laundry work does not enjoy such a run as cookery in the elementary schools. For one thing it is almost anew subject, not having been introduced until 1889-90. In lkDl-92 there were 632 girls taking lessons in laundry work; in 1895-96. 11,720. Though the figures are smaller than those for cookery, the rate of increase is very much larger. There is ample scope for missionary work in this direction. To those who have ever visited a London working class quarter there are few sights more melancholy than the dull, dingy clothing hung out to dry after pseudo washing. It is a singular fact that English workingwomen are naturally very bad washers, whereas the Scotch and Irish, even where their general standard of comfort is lower, are excellent washers. JONES’S HOODOOS. Tho later years of Jones's life have been dominated by an ambition on his part to become a good story teller. To this end he has cultivated every opportunity that can be of advantage to him, even to the copying of dramatic poses and sensational pauses. All along there have been just three persons who have persistently dogged his footsteps and retarded his efforts. At first he tried to persuade himself that these three, unwittingly, crossed his path, but so determined has their obstructionary tactics continued that it finally dawned upon him that he was the victim of a base conspiracy, the object of which was to prevent his attainment to an ideal perfection. There seems to be no remedy for this, except the removal of these intriguers, and, as Providence has so far refused to interfere, Jones can only hope that the future has In store a relief. Otherwise his cherished expectation will have to be abandoned. The first one of these conspirators is named Horace P. Jiison. He is a small, dark man, with an immense brown mustache, and a laugh that is out of all proportion to his attenuated frame. Whenever Jones attempts to tell a story, on the street, in the office, at the club—it makes no difference where—Jiison or one of his trusted lieutenants is sure to be on hand. Sometimes, when a furtive glance reveals their absence, hope springs up strong in his heart, but before many words have been passed he is aware of the approach of one of the trio, and realizes, with dull despair gnawing at his heart, that the thing is doomed. Jiison has a laugh that is hung on an oiled spring; it is entirely out of his control, and is liable to break away at the slightest touch. He listens to a tale with attentive earnestness and a face keenly alive to the situation. In fact, die seems to be holding his features in abeyance, and so strong is the desire to laugh that his face grows tense with suppressed emotion. Jones is afraid to look at him; he knows that his face is struggling in restrained merriment and his eyes twinkling with appreciation, and he realises that his only alternative is to hurry breathlessly through the story, that he may reach the climax before Horace P. Jiison laughs. No time to embellish the tale or adorn it with side-fringes of eloquence—the least hesitation is fatal. Should he pause to pick out an exact word it gives Jiison time to ruin things. The only way to outwit Jiison is to have your sketch committed to memory, rattle It off like a schoolboy’s oration, and with machine-like rapidity. Should you stop for any purpose he will very naturally think it is time to laugh; there is no better indication to him of the proper time for hilarity than a sudden cessation of cmversation. Jones has confided to me tnut the only safe plan when Jiison is around is to have your hand on his throat and keep it there until you arrive at the legitimate conclusion of your narrative.

Another of these individuals, and hardly less hateful to Jones, is William 1L Waggoner. Waggoner is large and has a heavy florid face that reveals his taste for the wine that is red. He, too, is possessed with a desire to tell stories, but he never thinks of one until something that Jones has said recalls an incident of his own. Jones can see him start and make a mental note of something, can read the feverish light that flashes in his eyes, and the impatience in every fibre of his being, and know’s that Waggoner longs to fairly seize the reluctant words from his throat and drag them out, that he may hasten the finale and give himself a chance to talk. This, of course, leads Jones to prolong an otherwise quick-ending tale and to begin anew should Waggoner attempt his prelude. Jones rejoices in the dreadful agony of his rival's face and the cold perspiration on his brow, and thus is diverted from his original intention of pleasing his auditors to a test of endurance with Waggoner. All this is well enough unless Horace P. Jilson should chance along; in that event Jones is between two fires. It requires rare presence of mind to so engineer his narrative that neither Jilson will be offered an opportunity to laugh nor Waggoner given the initiative for his story. The last of the trinity is Theron Davis. Theron is utterly devoid of sentiment or appreciation. It is impossible to provoke his mirth, or to even awake a passing interest. The best he has to offer is a calm, supercilious smile and a fishy stare. Jones can no more avoid him when he is on the hunt for an audience than he can evade Jones. There is a charm in his basilisk countenance that rivets Jones's attention. Once begun, and Theron having ascertained that there is no avenue of escape open, Jones loses sight of the rest of his hearers and devotes himself wholly to Davis—siezes his wandering attention and holds it with the grip of despair, bends forth every energy to provoke merriment, and, just as the end is reached, collapses and weakly wipes his forehead, searching the faces of his companions for some token of sympathy for the vanquished, and finding nothing but pity for a presumptuous intruder. Theron Davis immediately moves off or changes bis occupation suddenly. If he has been smoking he throws away the stub with a gesture of disgust; if he is not smoking he lights a cigar with an air of great languor. Perhaps if he is at the club he wearily proposes a game of cards, or seeks to ctrowa his trouble at the buffet. Anything to get away, even though maimed for life. Jones knows that his stories hurt Davis, and Davis kftows that he knows-it; yet the temptation to vanquish him and awaken an interest will keep Jones forever after him. Jones often, thinks if he could just hear him laugh once—like, say Jilson, for instance—that he would know that one of the obstacles in his path had been forever removed, and in that case could renew with Increased effort the pursuit of Jilson and Waggoner. A. C. GARRIQUS. Awful Mean. Minneapolis Journal. They are digging up Jerry Simpson’s speeches in the last campaign to the confusion of "The Prophet of the Veiled Feet.” J<rry told the farmers that "under the gold standard, if McKinley were elected money would increase in value and farm products would decrease; that a condition approaching slavery would prevail among the people of Kansas; that a vote for McKinley would be a vote for twenty-five-eent wheat and ten-cent corn.” This is an awful mean way of proving that a man is a liar. IliiNincMN for 1 li“ Mollier*. Kansas City Journal. The mothers' convention at Chicago might take up, under the head of new business, the question of what should be don© with boy orators who have grown staJu

==Pages9tol6~

PRICE FIVE CENTS.

THE VOICE OF THE PULPIT FAITHFULNESS THE MORAL QUALITY THAT MAKES MEN TRIE. A Short Sermon by Rev. R. Ileber JSew ton, 1). I)., Reetor of All Sonia’ Episcopal Church, New York City. ♦ Be thou faithful unto death, and T will give thee a crown of life.—Revelation U, lOt The supreme quettion concerning a man Is that which one of Robert Browning's characters puts—“ Are you faithful now, a* erst?” All through this thought of faithfulness there runs a double sense, which you will find In your dictionaries. It Is the moral quality, which keeps a man true to every bond of life, and it is the more distinctively religious quality. And, as we shall see, these two thoughts slip one Into tho other and partake each of the characteristics of the other. In its moral quality we see it as tha power in a man by which he keeps faith with his fellows, by which he is true to every word, full of fidelity' to every obligation, serving all men according to vow and contract, fulfilling every relationship according to the due or the duty thereof. When Milton would picture for us the angel above all others noble in his essential character, through the stress and strain of battle that raged in heaven, he pictured him as “faithful among the faithless found.” So, also, to-day, no higher eulogy can be given of nobleness of character in man than that ho was “faithful.” We shall consider this moral quality again presently; but let us first look brlelly at the other aspect of faithfulness. In Its spiritual quality faith Is the power of realizing the unseen, the infinite, the eternal—of apprehending God. It Is an intuition which cannot always be followed by the halting steps of logic, but which to him that has it is clear, quick and sure. It is won through a life of fidelity to duty. It Is the clear vision that comes to a soul loyal to its best and highest and truest—a vision of tho heart, of the conscience, not of the mere understanding. So far as my knowledge and experience go, through these years In which I have watched men, a living faith is won not so much by the reasoning of the mind as by the loyalty of the soul to its visions of duty. Thus the highest sight that man gains is faith, “the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” And so this faith reacts upon character. Os every appeal that can come to a man reinforcing him in the face of temptation, in the presence of duty, what is equal to that quick, sura sense, that Intuition of the life to come? What so powerful as the realization o? the infinite, the eternal; unseen presence in which “we live, and move, and have our being?”

Thus you see how faithfulness, In its spiritual quality, leads right into faithfulness in its moral quality, and becomes the secret of its power. Again, moral faithfulness reinforces the other potency; it is not merely moral, as we ordinarily think of it; it is truly and thoroughly religious. When is a man faithful to a bond or an obligation that he is not faithful to something more than the legal bond, the covenanted obligation? That may not be in existence at all, but he is as faithful to his duty as though it were, and were the true bond of his duty. He is faithful, In the highest sense of the word, when he subordinates his own Interest to the interest of another; when he sacrifices his pleasure to his duty; when he puts himself aside that he may serve his fellows; when he hears a voice within say- v ing unto him “I ought,” and when he fulfills that “ought” at any cost of pain, of service, of sacrifice—when he faces death and hesitates not to meet it, If need be, that the duty may be fulfilled. Thus it was with the noble captain who stood on the bridge of the royal vessel in the Mediterranean but a few years ago; stood there while the great ship sank in the waters, while the sea engulfed him; capable of dying, but not of betraying his trust. Thus the humble engineer, seeing the child upon the rail fcefore him, counts not his life dear to him, but, knowing his duty, springs to the front guard and saves the child, though he himself loses his own life. Thus the hero on the Western lake stands by the wheel while the flames enwrap him, for there are scores of men and women to be saved; and, though tho flesh shrivel and the body burn, he holds the wheel firmly until the prow grates upon the shore and the passengers are saved, us he dies. Thus the soldier goes to the battlefield with his country’s obligation upon him, and counts not his life dear unto him, but lays it down upon the altar of the nation, “faithful unto death.” From the highest to the lowest, never is there a man morally faithful without being, whether he knows it or not, spiritually faithful and religious, worshiping God. For what is this due or duty which commands the sacrifice of self, commands the putting aside of pleasure, bids him hold not back from death? To answer this question we must needs reach to a something finer than codes or laws, a something Infinite, eternal, essentially spiritual, which we cannot name otherwise than by that most sacred, tender name of the ages, “God.” When a man lays down a pleasure or an Interest or his life that he may be faithful unto death, he sacrifices to the most high—the life infinite, eternal, divine, which hinds us all one to another, and each to a due or duty higher than the love of self. What matters it whether the man knows the religious nature of his moral faithfulness or not? It is none the less religious, none the less spiritual. It Is what our Catholic friends call “Implicit faith.” There walks many a man on our earth to-day who know's not that he is religious, and dreams not that he can take to himself that utmost glory of “the spiritual man,” who, none the less, being faithful In ail things, is as one of the children of Abraham, the “father of the faithful”—as one of the "saints and faithful brethren In Christ Jesus.” But I take it, this moral quality of faithfulness, thus essentially spiritual and religious, always tends to cldbr the human consciousness for the recognition of its true nature, and to become thus the open vision of God. I believe that every man who Is faithful to the bonds and obligations and relationships of life, whatever his difficulties or doubts, will sooner or later emerge into the clear and open light, and know that in serving his fellows faithfully he has rendered the one acccptablo and only serviceable worship. There is a beautiful saying in the ancient book of Enoch, one of the gems in that collective of commonplaces, which runs thus: “Unto the faithful shall He gtvo faith, in the habitations of righteousness.” When we come to enter those eternal habitations, not of unrighteousness, but of righteousness, where all confusions grow clear, to those who have been “faithful unto death” will the Lord and giver of life give faith us the flower and fruitage of the moral qualities in which they lived on earth. Then, when we pass through the valley of tho shadow of death, we may expect to Hud ourselves iu that heaven which, what-