Pike County Democrat, Volume 28, Number 32, Petersburg, Pike County, 17 December 1897 — Page 3

5Thf5PibfCountgSrmoaat Ik. MeC. STOOPS, editor and PioprlttM. FETERSBUBG. * • IKDIANA. AFTER THE LEAVES. There Is a beauty In the naked trees, A tenderness In faded leaf and flower. A store of thought in each dull, withered thing. That summer’s lavish richness does not hold. Though gilded by the sun's divinest rays; As though the reveler with empty cup 8tlll in hid hands had paused a moment ere He drank again, to taste awhile the draught That he had drained. We who have quaffed the wine Of flowery months, deep, warm, delicious draughts Of life and light, pause on the brink of dearth To dream again the joy of summer days. And are these leaves not like our silver haiFS, Or like the wrinkles on a careworn face. Symbols of age. of beauty that has been, Of days and years gone by, and us grown old?

And how are we more vital than the leaves Were It not for the soul that burns within? In springtime all the wood is merriment. Song-full with chirp and carol everywhere; But now is solemn stillness over all— This too is proper setting for our years. With somber coloring of gray and brown. And mosses wrinkled like an old man's' skin. And leaves that tremble as with paisied age. Kach spring I hasten forth to drink its wine. Attend the sounds of revelry and youth. And In that transport am a child again: But in the autumn forth with solemn steps I wander to the woods.and sit and brood. To note how time and I are getting on. To think how few the years that intervene Between me and that last mysterious change. When like the leaves that crumble in my hand Afy form will crumble In the hand of death And 1 shall know the meaning of these tears —Clarence Hawkes, In Springfield (Mass.) Republican. THE CABIN PASSENGER. BY W. W. JACOBS. (Copyright, 18S7.1 Till! captain of the “Fearless” came on to the wharf in a manner more suggestive of ileer stalking than that of ! a prosaic ship master returning to his craft, lie dodged round an empt v van. lurked behind an empty barrel. Hit ted from that to a posh and finally from the interior of a steam crane peeped melodramatically at the deck of his craft. To the ordinary observer there was no cause for alarm. The decks were a bit slippery, but not dangerous exempt to a novice; the hatches were on, and in the lighted gallery the cook might be discerned moving about in a manner indicative of great security and uo untroubled conscience, With a last glance behind him the skipper descended from the crane ami steppe*! light h aboard. “Hist!" said the cook, coming out quietly. *T*ve been watching for you." "!>ev ilish fine idea of watching you've got,” said the skipper, irritably. "What is it?” The cook jerked his thumb towards the cabin, “lie's down there." he said in a hoarse whisper. "The mate said when you come aboard you was just to go and stand near the companion and whistle *(Jod Save the Queen,'and he'd come up to you and see what's to be done.” o “Whistle!" said the skipper, trying to moisten his parched lips with his tongue. "I couldn't whistle just now to save aiv life." "The mate don't know what to do, and that was to be the signal," said the rook. “lie's down there with *»ra givin* ’ini drink and amoosia* 'im." “Well, you go and whistle it," said th* skipper.

i ne c ook w»peu nis mourn on ujc back of nis hand. “Ow does |t go?" he inquired, anxiously, “1 never could r« - member ttxmes." “Oh. go and tell l'ill to do it,” cried the skipper, impatiently. Summoned noiselessly by the cook. Hill came up from the forecastle, and on learning what was required of him pursed up his lips and started the noble anthem w ith a whistle of such richness and volume that the horrified skipper was almost deafened with it. It acted on the mate like a charm; he came from below and closed Bill’s mouth, none too gently, with a hand which shook w ith excitement. Then, .squietly as possible, he closed the companion and secured the fastenings. “He’s all right.” he said to the skipper. breathlessly. “He’s a prisoner, lie’s 'ad four glasses o’ whisky, an’ he seems inclined to sleep.” “Who let him down into the cabin?” demanded the skipper, angrily. “It’s a fine thing I can’t leave the ship for an hour or so but what I come back ami find people sitting all round my cabin.” “lie let hisself dow n.’* explained the cook, who saw a slight opening advantageous to himself in connection with a dish smashed the day before, “an’ I was that surprised I dropped the large dish and smashed it.” “What did he say?” vociferated the skipper. “The blue one, 1 mean," said the cook, who wanted that matter nettled for, good—"the one with the place at the end for gravy to run into.” “What did he say.” vociferated the akipper. “ *E ses ‘ullo,’ ’e see. ‘you’ve done it, ©Id man.’ ” replied the truthful cook. The skipper turned a furious face to ♦he mate. “When the cook come up and told me,” said the mate in answer. “I see at once what was up. so 1 went down and just talked to him clever like.” “I should like to know what you •aid," muttered the skipper. “Well, if you think you can do betliar than X did you’d better go down and

sec him,” retorted the mate, hotly. “After all it’s you what ’e come to see.” “No offense. Bob.” said the skipper, “1 didn’t mean nothing.” “I don’t know nothin’ o’ horse racin’,’* continued the mate with an insufferable air, “and I never ’ad no money | troubles in my life, bein’ always brought up proper at *ome and warned of what would ’appen, but I know a sheriff’s officer when I see ’im.” “What am I to do?” groaned the skipper, too depressed even to resent his subordinate's manner, “it’s a judgment summons. It’s ruin if he gets me.” “Well, so far as I can see the only thing for you to do is to miss the ship this trip,” said the mate without looking at him. “I can take her out all right.” “I won’t,” said the skipper, interrupting. “Very well, you’ll be nabbed then,” said the mate. “You’ve been wanting to handle this craft a long time,” said the skipper, fiercely. “You could ha’ got rid of him if you’d wanted to." “I tried everything I could think of,” asseverated the mate. “Well, he’s come down on my ship without being asked.” said the skipper savagely, “and damme, he can stay there. Cast off." “But,” said the mate, “s'pose—” “Cast off.” repeated the skipper. “He’s come on my ship and I’ll give him a trip free.” “And where are you and the mate goin’ to sleep,” inquired the cook, anxiously. “In your bunk.” replied the skipper, brutaliv. "Cast off there.” - The men obeyed, groaning, and the schooner was soon threading her way in the darkness down the river, the skipper listening somewhat nervously for the first intimation of his captive’s awakening. lie listened in vain that night, for the prisoner made no sign: but at six o’clock in the morning, when the “Fear- ( less," coming within sight of the har- i bor, began to dance like a cork upon i the waters, the mate reported hollow j groans from the cabin. “Let him groan,” responded the skip- ! per briefly, “as holler as he likes.’’ “Well, I'll just go down and see how .he is,” sakl the mate. “You stay where you are,” said the skipper, sharply. “Well, but you ain’t goin’ to starve the man?” ' I

done with it,” said the skipper. “I get thinking all sorts of awful things." “Why don’t you go down yourself?" said the mate. “Well, it may be just his artfulness," said the skipper, “aa’ I don’t want to humor him, if he’s all right. I’m askin’ it as a favor, Bob.” “I’ll go if the cook’ll come," said the mate, after a pause. The cook hesitated. “Go on, cook,” said the skipper, sharply. “Don’t keep the mate waiting; and, whatever you do, don’t let him come up on deck." The mate led the way to the companion, and opening it quietlj' led the way below, followed by the cook. There was a minute’s awful suspense; then a wild cry rang out, and the couple came dashing madly up on deck Again. “What is it?” inquired; the pallid skipper. The mate, leaning for s-upport against the wheel, opened his mouth, but no words came; the cook, his hands straight by his side and his eyes glassy, made a picture from which the crew drew back in silent awe. “What’s—the—matter?” said the skipper again. Then the mate, regaining his composure by an effort, spoke: “You needn’t trouble to fasten the companion again,” he said, slowly. The skipper’s face changed from white to gray. “Why not ?” he asked, in a trembling voice. “He’s dead,” was the solemn reply. “Nonsense,” said the other, with quivering lips. “He’s shamming, or else fainting. Did you try to bring him round?” “I did not.” said the mate. “I don’t deceive you. I didn’t stay down there to do no restoring, and I don’t think you would, either.” “Go down and see if you can wake him. cook.” commanded the skipper. “Not me,” said the cook, with a mighty shudder. Two of the hands went and peeped furtively down through the skylight. The empty cabin looked strangely quiet, and the door of the stateroom stood ajar. They came back looking as though they hadjseen a ghost. “What’s to be done?” said the skipper, helplessly. “Well, the best thing you can do wheu we get to Plymouth is to bolt,” suggested the mate, “We’ll hide it up as long as we can. to give you a start. It’s a hanging matter.”

“WHAT IS IT?" INQUIRED THE PALLID SKIPPER.

“Nothing to do with me,” Raid the skipper, ferociously. "If a man likes to come dow n and stay in my cabin, that’s his business. I'm not supposed tp knowlie’s there, and if I like to look my cabin up and sleep in a fo’c’s’le what’s got more fleas in than ten other fo’c’s'les put together, and what smells worse than ten fo'c’s’les rolled into one, that's my bus: ness.” "Yes. but I don’t want to berth for‘nrd. too,” grumbled the other. "He can’t touch me. I can go ami sleep in my berth.” "You’ll do what I tell you, my lad,” retorted the skipper. The male walked off whistling; and the skipper, by no means as easy in his mind as he pretended to be. began to consider ways and means out of the difficulty which he foresaw must occur when they reached port. "What sort o’ looking chap is he?” he inquired of the cook. “Big. strong looking chap,” was the reply. "Look as though he’d make a fuss if I sent you and Bill down below to gag him when we get to the other end?*’ suggested' the skipper. The cook said that judging by appearances “fuss” would be no word for it, "I can’t understand him keeping so quiet.” said the skipper; "that’s what gets over me.” "He’s biding ’is time, I expect,” said the cook comfortingly. ** ’E’s a ‘ard looking customer, ’sides which he’s likely seasick.” The night passed and day broke, and still the mysterious passenger made no sign. The crew got in the habit of listening at the companion agd peeping through the skylight; but the door of the stateroom was closed, and the cabin was silent as the grave. The skipper went about with a troubled face; and that afternoon, unable to endure the suspense any longer, he civilly asked the mate to go below and investigate. “I’d rather not," said the mate, shrugging his shoulders. “I’d sooner lie served me and have

The hapless master of the “Fearless” wiped his clammy brow. “I can’t think he's dead,** he said, slowly. “Who'll come down with me to see?" “You’ll better leave it alone,”said the mate, kindly. “It ain’t pleasant 1 and besides, we can all swear up to the present that you haven’t touched him.” “Who’ll come down with me?” rej peated the skipper. “I believe it’s just I a trick, and that he’ll start up and serve i me; but I feel that I must go.” He caught Bill’s eye, and that worthy seaman, after a short tussle with his nerves, shuffled after him. The skipper, brushing aside the mate, who sought to detain him, descended first, and entering the cabin stood hesitating with Bill close behind him. “Just open the door. Bill,” he said, slowly. “After vou, sir,” said the well-bred Bill. The skipper stepped slowly towards it, and flung it suddenly open. Then, he drew back with a sharp cry, and looked nervously about him. The bed was empty! “Where’s he gone?” whispered Bill, tremblingly. The other made no reply, but in a dared fashion began to grope about the cabin. It was a small place and soon searched; the two men sat down and eyed each other in blank amazement. “Where is he?” said Bill, at length. The skipper shook his head helplessly, and was about to ascribe the mystery to supernatural agencies, when the truth in all its naked simplicity flashed upon him. “It’s the mate,” he muttered slowly— “the mate and the cook. I see it all now; there’s never been anybody here. It was a little job of the mate’s to get the ship. If you want to hear a couple o* rascals sized up. Bill, come on deck.” And Bill, grinning in anticipation, went. Siswir* Hawkins—College men seem to taka life easily. Blok&on—Yes; even when they graduate they do it by degrees.—Up-to-Dat*

SERVICE OF THE MASTER. Rev. Dr. T aim age Preaches on Christian Physical Power. Timely Lesson# Drawn From the Story of Samson—The Proper mad Improper Usee of Strength— Sanctified Muscle*. Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage, in the following sermon, points out how giants in body and miud or soul ought to consecrate their powers to good and great purposes. The text isf And Samson went down to Timnath.—Judges, xiv., L There are two sides to the character | of Samson. The one phase of his life, | if followed iuto the particulars, would | administer to the grotesque and rnirthI fnl; but there is a phase of his char- ! acter fraught with lessous of solemn \ aud eternal import. To these graver I lessons we devote our sermon. This giant no doubt in early life gave evij deuce of what he was to be. It is alI most always so. There were two Na- | poleous— the boy Napoleou and the mau Napoleon—but both alike; two Howards. the hoy Howj ard aud the mau Howa rd—but both | alike; two Samsons—the boy Samson and the man Samson—but both alike. This giant was no doubt the hero of | the playgrouud, aud nothing could stand before his exhibitions of youthful prowess. At IS years of age he was betrothed to the daughter of a Philistine. Going down toward Tiumath, a lion came upon him, and, although this young giant was weaponless, he seized the mouster by the long mane, i aud shook him as a hungry houud I shakes a Marcn hare, aud made his bones crack, and left him by the wayside bleediug under the smitiug of his tist and the grinding of his heel. There he stands, looming up above othervmen, a mountain of tlesh, his arms bunched with muscles that eau lift the gate of a city, taking an attitude detiant of everything. His hair

had never been cut, and it rolled down in seven great plaits over his shoulders, adding to his bulk, fierceness and terror. The Philistines want to conquer him. aud therefore they must find out where the secret of his strength lies. There is a dissolute woman living in the Valley of Sorek by the name of Delilah. They appoint her the ageut in the case. The Philistines are secreted in the same building, and then Delilah goes to work and coaxes Samson to tell what is the secret of his streugth. “Well,” he says, “if you should take seven green withes, such as'they fasteu wild beasts with, aud put them around me, 1 should be perfectly potterless.” So she binds him with the seven green withes. Then she claps her liauds aud says: “They come—the Philistines!” and he walks as though they w#e no impediment. She coaxes him again, and says: “Now tell me the secret of this great strength?” and he replies: “if you should take some ropes that have never been used and tie me with them I should be just like other men.” She ties him with the ropes, claps her hands, and shouts: “They come—the Philstiues.” He walks out as easily as he did before—not a single obstruction. She coaxes him again, and he says: “Now, if you should take these seven long plaits of hair, and by this house-loom weave them into a web, I could not get away.” So the house-loom is rolled up, and the shuttle flies backward and forward, and the long plaits of hair are woven into the web. Then she claps her hands aud says: “They come—the Philistines!” He walks out as easily as j he did before, dragging a part of the j loom with him. But after awhile she persuaded him * to tell the truth. He says: “if you j should tase a razor or shears aud cut j off this long hair. I should be powerless and in the hands of my enemies.” Samsou sleeps, and that she may not wake him up during the process of shearing, help is called in. You know that the barbers of the east have such a skillful way of manipulating the head to this very day that, instead of waking up a sleeping man. they will put a man wide awake sound asleep. I hear the blades of the shears grinding agaiust each other, and 1 see the long locks falling off. The shears or razor accomplishes what green withes and new ropes and house-loom could not do. Suddenly she clapa her hauds and says: “The Philistines oe upon thee, Samson!" lie rouses up with a struggle, but his strength is all gone. lie is in the hands of his enemies. 1 hear the groans of the giant as they take his eyes out, and then 1 see him staggering on in his blindness, feeling his way as he goes on toward Gaza. The prison door is open, and the giant is thrust in. He sits down and puts his haud on the mill crank, which, with exhausting horizoutal motion, goes day after day, week after week, month after month—work, work, work! The consternation of the world in captivity, his locks shorn, his eyes punctured, grinding corn in Gaaa!

First of all behold in this giant of the text that physical power is not always an index of moral power. He was a huge man—the lion found it out; and the 3,000 men whom he slew found it out; yet he was the subject of petty revenges and out-gianted by low passion. 1 am far from throwing discredit upon physical stamina. There are those who seem to have great admiration for delicacy and sickliness of constitution. 1 never could see any glory in weak nerves or sick headache. Whatever effort in our day is made to make weak men and women more robust should have the favor of every good citizen as well as of every good Christian. Gymnastics may be positively religious. Good people sometimes ascribe to a wicked heart what they ought to ascribe to a slow liver. The body and the soul are such near neighbors that the*'often catch each other’s disease. Those who never saw a sick day, and who, Uke Hercules, show the giant in

the cradle, have more to answer for than those who are the subjects of life-long' infirmities. He who can lift twice as much as you can, and walk twice as far, and walk twidfe as long, will have a double accouut to meet in the judgment. How often is it that you do not find physical energy indicative of spiritual power! If a clear head is worth more than one dizzy with perpetual vertigo —if muscles with the play of health in them are worth more than those drawn up iu chronic “rheumatics'’—if an eye quick to catch passing objects is better than one with vision dim and uncertain—then God will require of us efficiency just in proportion to what he has given us. Physical energy ought to be a type of moral power. We ought to have as good digestion of truth as we have capacity to assimilate food. Our spiritual hearing ought to be as good as our physical hearing. Our spiritual taste ought to be as clear as our tongue. Samsons iu body, we ought to be giants iu moral power. Behold, also, in the story of my text, illustration of the damage that strength can do if it be misguided. It seems to me that this man spent a great deal of his time in doing evil—this Samson of my text. To pay a bet which he had lost by guessiug of his riddle he robs and kills thirty people. • He was not only gigantic in streugth, but gigautic in mischief, and a type of those men in all ages of the world who, powerful in body or mind, or any faculty of social position or wealth, have used their strength for iniquitous purposes. It is not the small, weak men of the j day who do the damage. These small men who go swearing and loafing about your stores aud shops aud banking houses, assailing Christ aud the Bible and the church—they do not do the damage. They have no influence. They are vermin that you erush with your foot. But it is the giants of the day, the misguided giants, giants in physical power, or giants in mental acumen, or giants iu social position, or giants in wealth, who do the damage. The men with sharp pens that stab re

hgiou and throw their poisou all through our literature; the men who use the power of wealth to sanction iniquity, and bribe justice, and make truth and honor bow to their golden scepter. Misguided giants—look out for them! in the middle aud latter part of the last century no doubt there were thousands of men in Paris and Edinburgh and London who hated God aud blasphemed the name of the Almighty; but they did but little mischief—they were small men, insignificant men. Yet they were giants in those days. Who can calculate the soul havoc of a Rousseau going on with a very enthusiasm of iniquity, with fiery imagination seizing upon all the impulsive natures of t he day? or David Hume, who employed his life as a spider employs its summer, iu spinning out silken webs to trap the unwary? or Voltaire, the most learned man of his day, marshaliug a great host of skeptics and leadiug them out in the dark land of infidelity? or Gibbon, who showed an uncontrollable grudge against religion iu his history of one of the most fascinating periods of the world’s existence—the “Decline and Fall of the Romau Empire”—a book in" which, with all the splendors of his genius, he magnified the errors of Christian disciples, while, with a sparseuess of notice that never can be forgiven, he treated of the Christian heroes of whom the world was not worthy? Oh, men of stout physical health, men of great mental stature, men of high social position, men of great power of any sort, 1 want you to understand your power, and 1 want you to know that that power devoted to God will be a crown on earth, to you typical of a crown in Heaven; but misguided, bedraggled in sin. administrative of evil, God will thunder against you with His condemnation in the day when millionaire and pauper, master and slave, king and subject, shall stand side by side iu the judgment; and money-bags, aud judicial ermine, and royal robe shall be riveu with the lightniug. Rehold also how a giant may be slain! Delilah started the train of circumstances that pulled down the temple of Dagon about Samson’s ears. And tens of thousands of giants have gone down to death and hell through the same impure fascinations. It seems to me that it is high time that pulpit and platform aud p riuting-press speak out against the impurities of modern society. Fastidiousness and prudery say: Better not speak—you will rouse up adverse criticism; you will make worse what you waut to make better; better d«al in glittering generalities; the subject is too delicate for polite ears. But there comes a voice from Heaven overpowering the mincing sentimentalities of the day, saying: “Cry aloud, snare not, lift up thy voice like a trumpet, and show my people their transgressions and . the house of Jacob their sins.” The trouble is that when people write or speak upon this theme they are apt to cover it np with the graces of belles-lettres, so that the crime is

made attractive instead oi repulsive. Lord Bryon in “Don Juan'’ adorns this crime an til it smiles like a May qneen. Michelet, the great French writer, covers it up with bewitching rhetoric until it glows like the rising sun, when it ought to be made loathsome as a smallpox hospital. There are to-day influences abroad which, if unresisted by the pnipit and the printing-press, will turn our modern cities into Sodom and Gomorrah, fit only for the storm of fire and brimestoue that whelmed the cities of the plain. You who are seated in your Christian homes, compassed by moral and religious restraints, do not realize the gulf of iniquity that bounds you on the north and the south and the east and west While I speak there are tens of thousands of men and women going over the awful plunge of an impure life; and while 1 ery to God for mercy upon their souls, 1 eali upon you to marshal in the defense of yonr homes, your church and jour nation. There

is a banqueting hail that yon have never described. Yon know all about the1 feast of Ahasuerus. where a thousand lords sat. Yon know all about Belshazzar’s carousal, where the blood oi the murdered king spurted into the faces of the banqueters. You may kuow of the scene oi riot and wassail, when there was set before Esopus one dish of food that cost $400,000. But I speak now of a different banqueting hall. Its roof is fretted with fire. Its door is tasselated with fire. Its chalices are chased with fire. Its song is a song of fire. Its walls are buttresses of fire. Solomon refers to it when he says: “Her guests are in the depths of hell.” Behold also in this giant of the text and in the giant of our own century that great physical power must crumble and expire. The Sampson of the text long ago went away. .He fought the Philistines. He could fight anything, but death was too much for him. He may have required a longer grave and a broader grave; but the tomb nevertheless was his terminus. - If, then, we are to be compelled to go out of this world, where are we to go? This body and soul must soon part. What shall be the destiny of the former I know—dust to dust. But what shall be the destiny of the latter? Shall it rise into the companionship of the white-robed, whose sins Christ has slain? or will it go down among the unbelieving, who tried to gain the world and save their souls, but were swindled out of both? Blessed be God, we have a Champion! He is so styled in the Bible; a Champion who has conquered death and hell, and He is ready to fight aU our battles from the first to the last. “Who is this that cometh from Edom with dyed garments from Bozrah, mighty to save?” If we follow in the wake of that Champion death has no power and the grave no victory. The worst man trusting iu Him shall have his dying pangs alleviated and his future illumiued.

in the light of this subject I want to call your attention to a fact which may not have been rightly considered by live men in all the world, and that is the fact that we must be brought iuto judgment for the employment of our physical organism. Shoulder, brain, hand, foot—we must answer in judgment for the use we have made of them. Have they leen used for the elevation of society or for its depression? In proportion as our arm is strong and our step elastic will our accouut at last be intensihed. Thousands of sermons are y cached to invalids. I preach this morning to stout men and healthful women. We must give to God on account for the right use of this physical organism. These invalids have comparatively little to account for, perhaps. They could ndt lift 23 pounds. They could not walk half a mile without sitting idown to rest. In preparation of thia subject I have said tq myself, hour shall I account to God in judgment for the use of a body which never knew one moment of real sickness? Rising up in judgment, standing beside men aud women who had only little physical euergy, aud yet consumed that energy in a conflagration of religious enthusiasm, how will we feel abashed? Oh, men of the strong arm, and the stout heart, what use are you making of your physical forces? Will you be able to stand the test of that day when we must answer for the use of every talent, whether it were a physical energy, ora mental acumen, or a spiritual power? The day approaches, and I see one who in this world was an invalid, and as she stands before the throne of God to answer she sa3*s: “I was sick all my days. I had but very little strength, but I did as well ns I could in being kind to those who were more sick aud more suffering.” Aud Christ will say: “Well done, faithful servant.** And then a little child will stand before the throne, aud she will say: ‘*On earth 1 had a curvature of the spine, aud 1 was very- weak, and I was very sick: but 1 used to gather ilowers out of the wildwood aud bring them to my sick mother, aud she was comforted when she saw the sweet Ilowers out of the wildwood. 1 didn't do much, bat 1 did something.” And Christ shall say,as he takes her up in llis arms and kisses her: “Well done, well done, thy faithful servant; enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.’” What, then, will be said to us—we to whom the Lord gave physical strength and continuous health? 1 said to an old Scotch minister, who was one of the best friends 1 ever bad: “Doctor, did you ever know Robert Pollock, the Scotch poet, who wrote “The Course of Time?” “Oh, yes,” he replied, “1 knew him well; I was his classmate.” And then the doctor went on to tell me how that the writing of “The Course of Time” exhausted the health of Robert Pollock, and he expired. It seems as if no man could have such s glimpse of the day for which other days were made as Robert Pollock bad, and long survive that glimpse. In the description of that day he says, among other things:

Begin the woe. ye woods, and tell it to the dote fnl winds. And doleful winds wail to the howling hills, An*» howling hills mourn to the dismal Tales, And dismal vales sigh to the sorrowing "rooks. And sorrowing brooks weep to the weeping stream. And weeping stream awake the groaning deep. Ye heavens, great archway of the universe, put sackcloth on; And ocean, robe thyself in garb of widowhood* And gather ail thy wares into a groan, hnd utter it. Loag. loud, deep, piercing, dolorous, immense. The occasion asks it. Nature dies, and angels come to lay her In her grave. What Robert Pollock sa.vin prophetic dream you and I will see in positive reality—the judgment! the judgment! Drink. What shall we do when we feel downhearted? Drink, says some one. Drinking will make us laugh, perhaps, for awhile, but not the next morning* The laughter it causes is like the sparkle or the foam of the liqnor itse if —it soon grows stale-—Rev. Charles Wood. Presbvterian. Philadelphia, Pa,