Rensselaer Republican, Volume 27, Number 2, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 6 September 1894 — THE GREAT BEYOND. [ARTICLE]

THE GREAT BEYOND.

“Where th. 9 Wicked Cease From Troubling and the WearAre at Rest.” An Eloqnwit Dlicourie un the Vanities of Earth—Dr. Talmage's Serin <> for the Press 'ifie Rev. Dr. who is now in Australia on his globe girdling tour, selected as the subject of his sermon for last Sunday, through the press, .the words, “Everlasting Life,” the text being from Mieah it 10, “Arise ye and depart, for this is not your rest.” This was the drumbeat of a prophet who wanted to arouse his people from their oppressed and sinful condition, but it may just as properly be uttered now as then. Bells, by long exposure and much ringing, lose-their clearness of this rousing bell of the gospel strikes in as clear a tone as when‘if first rang on the air. As far as I can see, your great want and mine is rest. From the time we enter life a great manv annoyances and vexations take "after us. We may have our holidays and our seasons of recreation and quiet, but where is the man come to midlife who has found entire rest? The fact is God did not make this world to rest in. A ship might as well go down off Cane Hatteras to find smooth water as a man in this world to find quiet, —--‘-a.-'F ...U,

You and I have seen men who tried to rest here. They builded themselves great stores. They gathered around them the patronage of merchant princes. The voice of their bid shook the money markets. They had stock in the most successful railroads, and iti “safety deposits” great rolls of government securities. They had emblazoned carriages, high mettled steeds, footmen, pfate that confounded lords and Senators who sat at their table, tapestrv on which floated the richest designs of foreign looms, splendor of canvas on the walls, exquisiteness of music rising among pedestals of bronze and and dropping, soft as light, on snow of sculpture. Here let them rest. Put back the embroidered curtain, and shake up the pillow of down. Turn out the lights. It is 11 o’clock at night. Let slumber drop upon the eyelids, and the air float through the half-opened lattice drowsv with midsummer perfume. Stand" back, all care, anxiety and trouble! But no, they will not stand back. They rattle the lattice. They look under the canopy. With rough touch they startle his pulses. Then cry out at 12 o’clock at night: “Awake, man! How can you sleep when things are so uncertain? What about those stocks? Hark to the tap of that fire bell, it is your district. How if you Should die soon? Awake, man! Think of it! Who will get your property when you are gone? What will they do with it? Wake Up! Riches sometimes take wings. How if you should get poor? Wake up!” Rising on one elbow, the man of fortune looks out into the darkness of the room and wipes the dampness from his forehead and saysT~“Alas! —Forall this scene of wealth and magnificence—no rest!”

You and I have seen men try in another direction. A man says, - “If I could only rise to such and such a place of renown; if I could only get the stand and have my sentiments met with one good round of handclapping applause; if I could only write a book that would live, or make a speech that would thrill, or do an action that would resound!” The tide turns in his favor. His name is on ten thousand lips. He is bowed to and sought after and advanced. Men drink his health at great dinners. At his firey words the multitudes huzza. From galleries of beauty they throw garlands. From housetops, as he passes in long procession, they shake out the na tional standards. Here let him rest. It is 11 o clock at night. On pillow stuffed with a nation s praise let him lie down. Hush, all disturbant voices! In his dream let there be hoisted a throne, and across it march a coronation. Hush, hush! “Wake up!” says a rough voice. “Political sentiment is changing. How if you should lose this place of honor? Wake up! The morning papers are to be full of denunciation. Hearken to the execrations of those who once caressed you. By tomorrow night there will be a multitude sneering at the words which last night vou'ex-pec-tad---would—be-u«iversttH-y-ad-

mired. How can you sleep when everything depends upon the next turn of the great tragedy? Up, man! Off cf this pillow!” The very world that now applauds will soon hiss. That world said of the great Webster, “What a statesman! What wonderful exposition of the constitution! A mqn fit for any position!” That same world said, after awhile, “Down with him! He is an office-seeker! He is a sot! He i% a libertine! Away with him!’’ Aifid there is no peace for the man until he lays down his broken heart in the grave at Marshfield. Jeffrey thought that if fcould only be judge that would be \he making of him; got to be judge Hnd cursed the day in which he was born. Alexander wanted to submerge the world with his greatness; submerged it, and then drank himself to death because he could not stand the trouble. Napoleon wanted to make all Europe tremble at his Dower; made it tremble; then djed, his entire military achievements dwindling down to a pair of military boots which he insisted on having on hir feet when dying. At Versailles I saw a pict jre of Napoleon in his triumphs. I went into Mother room and saw q

bust ©LNapoieqa-as-he appeared at St. Helera; but, oh, what grief and anguish in the face of the latter. | The first was Napoleon in triumph; the last was Napoleon with his heart broken. Now, for what have I said all this? Just to prepare you for the text, “Arise ye and depart, for this is not your rest,” lam going to make you a grand offer. Some of you remember that when gold was discovered in California large companies were made up and started off to get their fortunes. Today I want to make up a p irty f r the la- d of hold aqny hand a deed from the proprietor of the estates, in which be offers to all who will join the company 10,OQO shares of infinite value in a city whose streets are gold, whose harps are gold, whose crowns are gold. You have read of the crusadershow that many thousands of them went off to conquer the holy sepulcher. I ask you to join a grander crusade, not for the purpose'of conquering -4he-rsepulcher of a dead Christ, but for the purpose of reaching the throne of a living Jesus. Many of you have lately joitffed this company, and my desire is that you all may join it. Why not? You know hi your own heart’s experience that what I have said about this worldds true,that it is no place to rest in. Ther&ar&jmndredsherewearv —oh, how weary, oh, how weary!— weary with sin; weary with trouble; weary with bereavement! Some of you have been pierced through and through. You carry the scars of a thousand conflicts in which you have bled at every pore, and you sigh, "Oh, that I had the wings of a dove, that I might fiv away and be at rest!” Tln»nk God, I can tell you something better. If there is no rest on earth, there is rest in heaven. Oh, ye who are worn out with work, your ljjinds calloused, your backs bent, your eves half put out, your fingers worn with the needle that in thi3 world you may never lay: down; ye discouraged ones, who have been, waging a hand to hand fight for’ bread; ye to whom the night brings little rest, and the morning more drudgery—oh, ye of the weary hand, and of the weary side, and thewpary foot, hear me talk about rest.

Look at that company of enthroned ones. Look at their hands. Look at their feet. Look at their eyes. It cannot be that those bright ones ever toiled? Yes, yes! These packed the Chinese tea boxes, and through missionary instruction escaped into glory. These sweltered on southern plantations, and one night after the cotton picking went up as white as if they had never been black. Those died of overtoil in the Lowell carpet factories, and these in Manchester mills; those ' helped to build the pyramids, and these broke away from the work on the day Christ was hounded out of Jerusalem. No more towers to build. Heaven is done. No more garments to weave. The robes are finished. No more harvests to raise. The gardens are full. Oh, sons and daughters of toil, arise ye and depart, for that is your rest! Oh, ye whose locks are wet with the dews of the night of griefy ye—whose hearts are heavy, because those well known footsteps sound no more at the doorway, yonder is your rest! There is David triumphant, but once he bemoaned Absalom. There is Abraham enthroned, but once he wept for Sarah. There is Paul exultant, but once he sat with his feet in the stocks. There is Payson radiant with immortal health, but on earth he was always sick. No toil, no tears, no partings, no strife, no agonizing cough tonight. No storm to ruffle the crystal sea. No alarm to strike from the cathedral towers. No dirge throbbing from seraphic harps. No tremor in the everlasting song, but rest, perfect rest, unending rest. Into that rest how masy of our loved ones have gone! The little ones have been gathered up into the bosom of Christ. One of them went out of the arms of a widowed moth- • er, following its father, who died but a few weeks before. In its last moment it seemed to see its departed father, for it said, looking upward with brightened countenance, “Oh, papa, take me up!” Others put down the work of midlife, feeling they could hardly be ' spared from the office or store, or ' shop for a day, but are to be spared from it forever. Your mother went. Having lived a life of Christian consistency here, ever busy wilh kindness for her children, her heart full

of that meek and quiet spirit thatls in the sight of God of great price, suddenly her countenance was transfigured, and the gate was opened, ( and she took her place amid that ' great cloud of witnesses that hover about the throne. Glorious consolation. They are not dead. You'can not make me believe they are dead. They have only moved on. With more love than that which they greeted us on earth they watch us from their* high pLace, ana their voices “cheer us in our struggle for the sky. Hail, spirits ' blessed, now that ye have passed the flood of light and won the crown! With weary feet we pass up the shining way, until in everlasting reunion we shall meet again. Oh, won’t it be grand when, our conflicts done and our parting over, we shall clasp hands and cry out, “This is heaven?” ~ Wild clematis is now in its earliest** bloom, and its yards of star-spfin-kled vine top scores of suburban hedgerows. Plucked in long streamers who i the sun is not on it the blooming vine makes an exquisitely delicate decoration for the dining table. T_ie manv-peta I*d blossoms tit well with flue linen und cut glass.