Pike County Democrat, Volume 28, Number 49, Petersburg, Pike County, 15 April 1898 — Page 3

Site gifef ®0UtttH § Wf fat li MeC. STOOPS, Editor and Proprietor. PETERSBURG. • - INDIANA. THE ONE WET SPOT. Czfcrlnee of the Weary Drag Clerk with the Slge Giring Warning of Freeh Paint. It was printed in big, black, bold* faced letters on a wide piece of cardboard, and it hung out conspicuously <n front of the newly-pain ted drug •store: DON’T TOUCH. FRESH PAINT.

Just how long the warning- had been up doesn’t matter anyway. It is sufli•eient to say it was put there in due time. “I see you have just had your front -repainted.*’ It was a blende who spoke, and she asked the long-haired clerk for ten cents* worth of chemically pure peroxide of hydrogen. l “But I don’t see,” she continued, “why you keep that sign out there. The paint’s as dry as it can be." As fftie emerged from t he door a young man entered, carefully scrutinizing the ^tlp of the firet finger of his right hand. Be bought a bottle of cough medicine. “I say. old man,” he said to the clerk, “you might as well take that sign down outside. The paint’s dry.” The clerk attempted to hide the bored . expression on his face and say something in reply, but before he had the opportunity a young woman with a dimple in her left cheek had asked for some tooth powder. “I see,” sh*» ventured as he reached for the powder, “you’re putting on a new dress outside.” “Yes,” he replied, drawing a long breath, “we arc doing a little repainting.” “Doing a little?” she emphasized, “why. you speak as if you were still at it.” , , Then she glanced at her right hand. “It isn’t possible that that paint’s "fresh, for it’s drj\” And then the actor who occupies a furnished room just around the corner came in. “t>mte a jokp.” he said. c “What’s that?” asked the clerk, his eyes brightening in anticipation of -something new. “Why,” continued the professional, “that sign outside. That paint's as dry as some of the literary criticisms in the j^b'w journals." z'he newspaper man who usually Chopped by on his rounds wandered in next. | 1 “Little early for spring painting, ain’t It ?" he inquired. “I don’t know ns it is,” replied the •clerk. “It’sjust about the right time.** “Just about the right time?” repeated the newspaper man. “Well, I griess that’s right, too; but that painting has been done for some time. It’s dry.” Forty-six more people followed him In rapid succession, each one looking carefully at the ind^x finger of his right hand. When the 47th man had told the clerk that the paint was dry he ran to the front of the store, grabbed the sign of warning from its fastenings and flung it-into tjbe street. A few- moments later a small boy ran In. holding the sign in his right hand. “Say. mister,’’ ly* said, “some gay -copped yer sign an’ t’rew- it ip.de mud.” But the cleyk had gone to luncheon, ro the proprietor took the sign and laid It on n shelf. Half an hour later the clerk stood in front of the store leaning against the door talking to some friends. When he came In the proprietor looked at him nnd smiled. “Ray. Johp," said he, “you’ve got : paint all over your back.” “I know it," he replied; “I leaned up •gainst the otnly spot that people hadn’t Wiped dry wiith their fingers.” And when he returned to ihe front of the store he found that the proprietor had hung the sign out again.—Y, Sun.

(lunkrr'* Ifnt*. There has Wen told in various works the persecution to which, in commonwealth times. (icorge Fox, the founder of the Society of Friends, and his fellow Quakers were subjected because of . their refusal to remove their hats in the presence of the. civil magistrate; but the blame for this would seem to have lain u|»n the local justices rather than the centnil power. Cromwell perceived that it was easier for stupid or zealous magistrates to send Quakers to prison for this refusal than to ret them out again, for Fox anti his friends had almost to he implored to leave the jaila Into which they considered themselves to have Wen unjustly thrust. It waa this continual persecution of the Quakers, in the west of England particularly, that at length moved the council to emphatically interfere on their Whalf. In November. 1657. a remonstrance, signed by five Friends, was presented to the council, specially complaining of the persecutions at Exeter, and Henry Lawrence. the president of the council.- at once forwarded a letter to the justices •of the peace, not only in Devon, but other counties, dealing with {the matter.—Notes and Queries. A Segfo** Objection. Col. Hunt says that a private In the IPirst regiment, Ohio, refuses to go to war because he stutters. **You don't gc to talk but to fight,” said the colonel. ■“But they’ll p-p-put me on g-g-guard, and a man may go ha-ha-half a mile before I can say: *Wh-wh-who goes there?* ” “Oh, that’s no objection, for there will be another sentry placed along with you and he can challenge if you can fire." “Well," stammered the private, “b-b-but I may be t-taken and run through the g-g-gizzard before I can -e-e-cry qu-qn-quarter."—Cincinnati Ear ^niier.

Four Clever Beggars All Nad Good Storks, and Two Were Successful SOMEHOW the talk drifted around to the devious ways of the panLandlers, the loafers who prey upon the sympathies of those persons who believe that it is better to give money to many undeserving professional beggars than to let one poor fellow go in actual want. Each of the four men had had more experiences than one with street beggars, and among them they had met

some unusual games. “The other night, as I came down off the bridge at the New York end,” said the merchant, “I was approached by a very good-looking young fellow, apparently about 25 years old. His clothing was all apparently tailor-made, and he locked like a man in fairly comfortable circumstances. His hat was good and his gloves were not much worn. He wore a little mustache, and had been shaved within 36 hours. His overcoat was of this winter’s style, and altogether his appearance was that of a man entirely unused to financial distress of the acute type that forces a man to beg. He stopped me by going squarely at the point. ** Tin McDowell,’ he said, ‘John McDowell, of Milwaukee. My father is John McDowell, of 65 Wall street, Milwaukee. I get remittances at 195 Broadway, but it hasn’t come, and I haven’t a cent.’ He laughed an-embar-rassed but pleasant little laugh. ‘This is absurd,’ he said, and by that he won me. ‘I don’t know what ray father would say if he thought I had to ask any man for money.’ He pulled out a card case as I put. my hand, in mjr pocket. ‘If you’ll give me your card,’ he said, ‘I’ll be very glad to see ypu. There’s my card.’ 'He offered me a card, but I said I didn’t want it, it was all right and I was glad to help Turn out. Then I gave him a dollar. Til be glad to send it to you,’ he said, ‘if you’ll give me your card. Well, then,’ as I said again that it was all right, ‘I assure you I’ll give it to some poor devil who needs it worse than I do ordinarily.’ "Now, that’s a fairly complete report of our conversation, and I realize as I think it over now that the least questioning probably would have poked that young fellow’s story full of holes. There was no explanation at all satisfactory of his reason for begging. For the small sum he needed to tide him over until that ‘remittance from Milwaukee’ came along, he surely had something to pawn. There was no reason apparently for his being absolutely without money. It was his manner that got me. He seemed so frank and honest and so genuinely embarrassed that he convinced me. I suppose if I met him again I’d give up another dollar. It has ah^Sys been my theory that the man who begs for the first time Is very much embarrassed. I know I should be. and if a man began to ask me questions I should just go on. This fellow acted just that way.” “That isn’t a sure test,” said the clergyman, “as I know from experience. There eaine to my house not long ago a clean-shaven, smooth-looking, well-kept young Englishman who told me a perfectly straightforward story. But as soon as I began to question him he replied at once that he wouldn’t trouble me, but would try to get along In some other way. lie hail been but a few days in the country, he said at first, and he was eh route to a little town near Toronto. He had carried his money in a wallet, and he had lost the wallet. He had letters to persons in Toronto who might have been persons of importance, he said, for all 1 knew.Well, he won me, largely as your young man won you, by his manner, though that was not the actuating consideration. I was about to send him away with the advice that he try the British consul, when the thought of the possible situation of ray own boy came to rue. My son had been in the west for some timennd was coming home. I had telegraphed some money to him at Council Bluffs, where he was to stop over to see his uncle. Well, there was

i :i epidemic of some sort at Council Bluff*, end while I was, talking to this Englishman, I suddenly thought: ‘What if my Ix>y should pet catight. out there and be unable to pet his money? Suppose he -should go to a clergy man of his father’s church, as this boy says he has dose, and should be turned away.’ Well, I didn’t pursue that any further. I just pave the Englishman the money he needed and sent him away. Of cour-e, he made the most faithful assurances that at onee after his arrival at Toronto, where he bad friends and j relatives, he would return the money. 1 and. of course, he hasn’t sent a cent and never will.” “That was a good game,” said the newspaper man. “He didn’t have to work it very often, because every time he succeeded he got a pood sum. The cheap ‘few-cents-for-a-lodgiiig’ beggars undoubtedly pet a pood many coppers, and other coins, but they have to work too hard for it and endure too mueh hardship. Lt’s the odd story, the new game.-that tells and produces substantial results. There was the fellow who had got a* job for that day but hated to go unshaven, and got 15 cents to po to a barber shop before he appeared before his new employer. That fellow pot a lot of money until he was exposed thoroughly. “I met a man in Broadway late one night who had a very pood pa me. There was hardly a flaw in it, in faet there was but one, and that one most persons would not notice. But to roe it was fatal. I saw him first when I went uptown after a late night at the office. I stopped at a restaurant for supper, and when I started on In the gray early dawn I saw my beggar leaning against a lamp post and looking so dejected that I wondered If I should read about his suicide in the evening papers. Aa I

passed him he straightened «p a little and said: “ ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but I—well, the fact is—well, can you let me hare 40 cents?’ “Then he stopped as if that were at there was to it. “ ‘Forty cents,* I said, *what for?* ** ‘Thirty-five would do,’ he answered. *1 could walk to the ferry.’ “ ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked again. “He hesitated a bit, and then he said, with a nervous little cackle that was half a laugh. ‘Well, the fact is, I haven’t got a cent, and I’ve got to get Out to Orange in the morning or lose my job.* The story went more smoothly as he got along with it. *You see,’ he went on. ‘I’m a railroad man. I was paid oft

yesterday and came in to town last night with my money. Well, the fact is, I grot, to bucking1 the tiger and I lost it all. If I get to Orange this morning in time to go to work again I’m all right, but if I don’t I’ll lose my place.* “That was an explanation of his penniless condition that would have caught a great many men and they would have given up to him. But it made me suspicious. Somewhere I had read or heard that gamblers never permit a man to go out of their places in that condition if they know it. And if he actually had lost his money in a gambling house it was certain that the gambler would have staked him to enough to get home. So I hesitated about giving hinianything, and for lack of something, better to say said again: *IIow’s that? I don’t understand.* “lie went over the whole story again very gently and smoothly this time, and put in a few little extra flourishes that convinced me that he was a fakir. As he talked he stepped a little in front of me and noticed the badge of my college fraternity which I wore on my waistcoat. ‘Ah!’ said he, *yotf belong to that fraternity, eh? I was a Psi U from Columbia.* He went on with a lot about college fraternities that made tne think he had eaten a fraternity book. He knew more about them than I had eveT heard, and I had had a foremost place in the rush line in my senior year, ne seemed to be familiar with them all, and he talked about them in very interesting fashion for nearly half an hour before he got back to the subject of the fare to Orange. Then I said: “ ‘Xo, I shall not give you any money, because I. believe you are a professional beggar. But you’ve got a good game, and you probably make a good thing out of it. However, I should advise you to modify it a little. Gamblers, you know, will always grubstake a man who has gone broke in their places, so that's a weak point in your story. Patch it up a little, and don’t be so glib, and you’re all right for some time.’ “ ‘I assure you,’ he protested, ’that I never asked a man for money in my life before I saw you. I realize that I am not in a position to resent your insult, but I want you to understand that it is an insult and that you have mistaken me. I am actually in need of that money to save my place, and if I don’t get it I don't know what I shall do; I can send it back to you, and will do so gladly as soon as I get back to my friends.’ “ ‘No,’ I said, and turned away; ‘I don’t believe you.* “Well, that fellow met me three times on the street after that, and ea£h-£ime began his story. At last I told him that he was a fool as well as a beggar, because he couldn’t remember the faces of the men he addressed, whereas any man would remember forever such a story as be told. Then he shifted his ground, and I never saw him again.” The doctor laughed. “Your expert enee was something like one I had just the other day, but it didn’t result in the same way. About six weeks ago a tall, gray-haired, distinguished-looking man came into my office and presented a card, whieh read: : ’ JOHN JENKINS. M. D.. : : 117 West 117th Street. ; : New York. : • .i

“It gave office hours and was to all appearances the card of a respectable physician. He carried a case that looked like a surgeon's instrument case. ‘Doctor,’ he said to me, with a forced little effort at a laugh. ‘I am in a most embarrassing predicament. I came over here to see a patient, and either I have lost my purse or I have been robbed, and I find that I have no change in my change pocket. I am obliged to ask you to let me have car fare home.’ There wasn't a question in my mind about him, and of course I produced a dime, that happening to be the first coin I felt in my pocket and being enough to take him home. ‘I’m very glad to be of assistance to you, doctor,* l said. ‘Thank you very much,’ he replied, and went out. I heard nothing more from him until tb<e other day, when my office maid told, me a gentleman wanted to see me in the waitingroom. I went in, and it was Dr. Jenkins, white beard, instrument case and all. I thought he’d come to give back my ten cents, but before I could say a word he began by pushing out his card and start ing on the story again. I heard him through and realized that he was a professional beggar. Then I got between him and the door and caid: ** ’You confounded old scoundrel, this is the second time you’ve been here with this story. The first time It worked, but this time it won’t. Now, you don’t get out of this house until you give up my ten cents.’ “He saw at once, of course, that he had been caught in a mistake, and so he begged my pardon and handed over ten cents, and there’s the dime,** and th* doctor exhibited it. “That fellow had a mighty good game.” continued the doctor, “but he should hare kept an address book. He could have got money from every doe* tor and clergyman in town if he had been shrewd.”—N. T. Sun.

SHEDDING OF BLOOD. Christ’s Great Sacrifice Typified in Everyday Life. Instance* of Voluntary Suffering and Dentil for the Sake of Others Constantly Coming Into Notice, but Fan Unheeded. In the following discourse Rev. T. DeWitt Talmage sets forth the radical theory of Christianity, vicarious sacrifice, and remarkable cases are set forth. The text is: Without shedding of blood is no remission.— Hebrews ix.. 2i

John G. Whittier, the last of the great school of American poets that made the last quarter of this century brilliant, asked me in the White mountains, one morning after prayers, in which 1 had given out Cowper’s lamous hymn about “The Fountain Filled with Blood:'’ “Do you really believe there is a literal application of the blood of Christ to the soul?” My negative reply then is my negative now. The Bible statement agrees with all physicians, and all physiologists, and all scientists, in saying that the blood is the life, and in the Christian religion it means simply that Christ's life wa§ given for our life. Hence all this talk of men who say the Bible story of blood is disgusting, and that they don't want what they call a “slaughter-house religion,'’ only shows their incapacity or unwillingness to look through the figure of speech toward the 'thing signified. The blood that, on the darkest Friday the world ever saw, oozed, or trickled, or poured from the brow, and the side, and the hands, an^ the feet of the Illustrious I Sufferer, back of Jerusalem, in ^ few hours coagulated and dried up,, and, forever disappeared; and if man had depended on the application of the lit- ! era! blood of Christ, there would not have been a soul saved for the last IS centuries. In order to understand this red word of my text, we only have to exercise as much common sense in religion as we do in everything else. Pang for pang, hunger for hanger, fatigue for fatigue, tear for tear, blood for blood, life for life, we see every day illustrated. The act of substitution is no novelty, although I hear men talk as though the idea of Christ's suffering substituted for our suffering were something abnormal, something distressingly odd, something wildly eccentric, a solitary episode in the world's history, when I could take you out into this city and before sundown point you to 500 cases of substitution and voluntary suffering of one in behalf of another. At two o'clock to-morrow afternoon go among the places of business or toil. It will be no difficult thing for you to find men who, by their looks, show you that they are overworked. They are prematurely old. They are hastening rapidly toward their decease. They have gone through crisises in business that shattered theirj nervous system and pulled on the brain. They have shortness of breath and a pain in the back of the head, and at night an insomnia that alarms them. Why are they drudging at business early and late? For fun? No; it would be difficult to extract any amusement out of that exhaustion. Because they are avaricious? It many cases no. Because; their own personal expenses are lavish? No; a few hundred, dollars would meet all their wants. ?The simple fact is, the man is enduring all that fatigue and exasperation, and wear and tear, to keep his home prosperous. There is an invisible line reaching from the store, from that bank, from that shop, from that scaffolding, to a quiet scene a few blocks, a few miles away, and there is the secret of that business endurance. He is simply the champion of a homestead, for which he wins bread, and wardrobe, and education, and prosperity, and in such battle ten thousand men fall. 0£ ten business men whom 1 bury, nine die of overwork for others. Some sudden disease fiuds them with no power of resistance

and they are gone. Life for life. Blood for Mood. Substitution! At one o'clock to-morrow morning, the hour when slumber is most uninterruptedand profound; walk amid the dwelling-houses of the city'. Here and there you will find a dim light, because it is the household custom to keep a subdued light burning; jbut most of the houses from base to top are as dark as though uninhabited. A merciful God has sept forth the archangel of sleep, and he' puts his wings over the city. But yonder is a clear 1 ght burning, and outside on a window casement a glasi or pitcher containing food for a sick jhild; the foot! is set in the fresh air. This is the sixt 1 night that mother has sat up with hat sufferer. She has to the last poin t obeyed the physician s perseription, not giving a drop too much or too Little, or a moment too soon or too late. She is very anxious, for she has buried three children with the same disease, and she prays aud weeps, | each prayer and sob ending with a kiss of the pale cheek. By dint; of kindness she gets the little one through the ordeal. After it is ail over the mother is taken down. Brain or nervous fever sets in. and one day she leaves the convalescent child with & mother's blessing and goes up to join the three departed «mes in the kingdom of Heaven. Life for life. Substitution! The fact is that there are an uncounted number of mothers who, after they have navigated a large family of children through the diseases of infancy, and got them fairly started up the flowering slope of boyhood and girlhood, have only strength enough left to die. They . ule away. Some call it consumption; some call it nervous prostration; some call it intermittent or malarial indisposition; but I call it martyrdom of the domestic circle. Life for life. Blood for blood. Substitution! Or perhaps a mother lingers long enough to see a aon get on the wrong

road, and his former kindness becomes rough reply when she expresses anxiety about him. But she goes right on looking carefully after his apparel, remembering his every birthday with some memeato, and, when he is brought home worn out with dissipation, nurses him till he gets well, and starts him again, - and hoges, and expects, until her prays, and counsels, and suffers, until her strength gives out and she fails. She is going, and attendants, bending over her pillow, ask her if she has any message to leave, and she makes a great effort to say something, but out of three or four minutes of indistinct utterances they can catch but three words: “My poor boy!” The simple fact is she died for him. Life for life. Substitution!

About thirty-eight years ago there went forth from our northern and southern homes hundreds of thousands of men to do battle. All the poetry of war soon vanished and left them nothing but the terrible prose. They Waded knee-keep in mud. They slept in snowbanks. They marched till their cut feet tracked the earth. They were swindled out of their honest rations, and lived on meat not tit for a dog. They had jaws fractured, and eyes extinguished, and limbs shot away. Thousands of them cried for water as they lay on the field the night after the battle and got it pot. They were homesick, and received no message from their loved ones. They died in barns, in bushes, in ditches, the buzzards of the summer heat the only attendants on their obs equies. No ong ibut the infinite God who knows everything knows the ten thousandth part of the length, and breadth, and depth, and height of anguish of the northern and southern battlefields. Why did these fathers leave their children and go to the front, and why did these young men, postponing the marriage day, start out into the probabilities of never coming back? For a principle they died. Life for life. Blood for blood. Substitution! But we need not go so far. What is that monument iu the cemetery? It is to the doctors who fell in the southern epidemics. Why go? Were there not enough sick to be attended iu these northern latitudes? Oh, yes; but the doctor puts a few m dical books in his valise, and some vims of medicine, and leaves his patients here in the hands of other- phj-sicians, and takes the railtrain. Before he gets to the infected region he passes crowded rail-trains, regular and extra, taking the flying and affrighted populations. He arrives in a city over which a great horror is brooding. He goes from couch to couch, feeling the pulse and studying systems, and prescribing day after day, night after night, until a fellowphysician says: “Doctor, you had better go home and rest; you look miserable.” But he can not rest while so many are suffering. On and on, until some turning finds him in a delirium, in which he talks of home, and then rises and says he mast go and look after those patients. He is told to lie down; but he fights his attendants until he falls back, and is weaker and weaker, and dies for people with whom he had no kinship, and far away from his own family, and is hastily put away in a stranger's tomb, and only the fifth part of a newspaper line tells us of his sacrifice—his name just mentioned among five. Yet he has touched the furthestdieight of sublimity in that three vreeks of humanitarian service. He goes straight as an arrow to the bosom of Him who said: “I was sick and ye visited me.” Life for life. Blood for blood. Substitution! In the legal profession I see the same principle of self-sacrifice. In 1S*6, William Freeman, pauperized and idiotic negro, was at Auburn. N. Y., on trial for murder. He had slain the,entire Van Nest family. The foaming wrath of the community eould.be kept off him only by armed constables. Who would volunteer to be his counsel? No attorney wanted to sacrifice his popularity by such an ungrateful task. All were silent save one, a young lawyer with feeble voice, that could hardly be heard outside the bar. pale and thin and awkward. It was William H. Seward, who saw that the prisoner was idiotic and irresponsible, and ought to be put in an asylum, rather than put to death, the heroic counsel utterinsr these beautiful words:

I speak now in the hearing of" a people who have prejudged prisoner and condemned me for pleading in his behalf. He is a conviet, a pauper, a negro, without intellect, sense or emotion. My ehild with an affectionate smile disarms my careworn face of its frown whenever I cross my threshold. The beggar in the street obliges me to give because he says: , “God bless you!’’ "as I pass. My dog caresses me with fondness if I will but smile on him. My horse recognizes me when I fill his manger. What reward, what gratitude, what sympathy and affection can I expect * here? There the prisoner sits. Look *at him. Look at the assemblage around you. Listen to their ill-suppressed censures and excited fears, and tell me where among my neighbors or my fellowmen, where,,even 4n his heart, I can expect to find % sentiment, a thought, not to say of reward or of acknowledgment or even of recognition. Gentlemen, you may think of this evidence what you please, bring in what verdict you can,-but I asseverate before Heaven and you, that, to the best of my knowledge and belief, the prisoner at the bar does not at this moment know why it is that my shadow falls on you instead of his own. The .gallows got its victim, but the post mortem examination of the poor creature showed to all the surgeons and to all the world that the public were wrong, and William H. Seward was right, and that hard, stoney step of obloquy in the Auburn court room was the first step of the stairs of fame up which he went to the top, or to within one step of the top, that last denied him through the treachery of | American politics. Nothing sublimer was ever seen in an American court root? than William EL Seward, without

reward, standing between the furlorn# populace and the loathsome imbecile. Substitution! In the realm of the fine arts there was as remarkable an instance. A brilliant but hypercritic ised painter, Joseph William Turner, was met by n volley of abuse from all the art galleries of Europe. His paintings, which have siuco won the applause of all civilized nations, “The Fifth Plague of Egypt,” “Fishermen on a Lee Shore in Squally Weather,"* “Calais Pier,” “The Sun Rising Through Mist” and “Dido Building Carthage,” where then targets for critics to shoot at. In defense of this outrageously abused man, a young ■author of 24 years, just one year out of college, came forth with his pen and wrote the ablest and most famous es*

say on art that the world ever saw or ever will see—John Raskin’s “Modern Painters.” For 1? years this author fought the battle s of the maltreated artist, and after, in poverty and bro-ken-heartedness, the painter had died and the public tried to undo their cruelties toward him by giving him a big funeral and burial in St. Paul’s cathedral, his old-time friend took out of a tin box 19,000 pieces of paper containing drawings by the old painter, and through many weary, uncompensated months assorted and arranged them for public observation. People say John Ruskin in his old days is cross, misanthropic and * morbid. Whatever he may do that he ought not to do, and whatever he may say that he ought not to say between now and liis death, he will leave this world insolvent as far as it has any capacity to pay this author's pen for his chivalric and Christian defense of a poor painter’s pencil. John Kuskitf for William Turner. Blood for blood. Substitution! It was a most exciting day I spent on the battlefield of Waterloo. Starting out with, the morning train from Brussels, Belgium, we arrived in about an hour on the famous spot. A son of one who was in the battle, who had heard from his father a thousand times the whole scene recited, accompanied us oyer the field. There stood the old ilougomont chateau, the walla dented, and scratched, and broken, and shattered by grape-shot and cannon-ball. There is the well in which 300 dying and dead were pitch ed. There «is the chapel with the head of the infant Christ shot off. There are* the gates at which, for many hours. English and French armies wrestled. Yonder were the 160 guns of the English, and the 250 guns of the French, Yonder the Hanoverian hussars fled for the woods, Yonder was the ravine of Ohain, where the French cavalry, not knowing there was a hollow in the ground, rolled over and down, troop after troop, tumbling into one awful mass of suffering, hoof of kicking horses against brow and breast of captains and colonels and private soldiers, the human and the beastly grown kept up until, the day after, all was shoveled under because of the malodor arising in that hot month of June. “There,” said our guide, “the Highland regiments lay down on their faces waiting for the moment to spring upon the foe. In that orchard^ 2,500 men were cut to pieces. Here stood Wellington with white lips, and up that knob rode Marshal Ney on his sixth horse, five having been shot under him. Here the ranks of the French broke, and Marshal Ney, with his boot slashed of a sword/and his hat off, and his face covered with powder and blood, tried ! to rally his troops as he cried: -“Come and see how a marshal of Franee dies on the battlefield.' From yohder direction Grouchy was expected for the French re-enforcement, but he caihe not. Around- those woods Blueher was looked for to re-enforee the English, 9 and-just in time he came up. , Yonder is the field where Napoleon stood, his arms through the reins of the horse's bridle, da^sed and insane, trying to go back.” Scene of a. battle that "went on from 25 minutes , to 12 o'clock on June 18 until " four o'clock, when the English seemed defeated, and their commander cried: "Bays, you can't think of giving way? Remember old England!,'' and the tides turned, and,at eight o'clock in the.evening the man of * destiny, who was called by his troops Old Two Hundred Thousand, turned away with broken heart, and the fate

of centuries was decided. No wonder a great mound has been reared there—hundreds of feet high—a mound at the expense of millions of dollars in rising, and on the top is the great Belgian lion of bronze, and a grand old lion it is? But our great Waterloo was in Palestine. There came a day when all hell rode up, led by Apoilyon, and the Captain of our salvation confronted them alone. The rider on the white horse of the Apocalypse going out against the black horse cavalry of death, and the battalions of the demoniac, and the myrmidons of darkness. From 12 o'clock at noon to 3 o'clock in the afternoon the greatest battle of the univers went on. Eternal destinies were being de- , eided. All the arrows of hell pierced our Chieftain, and the battle-axes struck Him, until brow and cheek and shoulder and hand and foot were incarnadined with oozing life; but He fought on until He gave a linal stroke with sword from Jehovah’s buckler, and the commander-in-chief of hell and all his forces fell back in eveiflfc lasting ruin, and the victory isours. And on the mound that celebrates the triumph we plant this day two figures, not in bronze, or iron, or sculptured marble, but two figures of living light, the lion of Judah's .tribe and the Lamb that was slain. « : True Church UmL Churches earning to a consciousness must realize they are missionary churches. All must not depend on the minister.' A true church ideal is noth- ! ing but lay mm acting as disseminators of the GospeL, Tfie genius of the Christian church is a sanctified individualism.— Rev. Dr. Lamsom, Congregationalism Boston, Mass.