St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 21, Number 20, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 7 December 1895 — Page 3

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CHAPTER NV (Continued.' She had not long .to wait before she •caught sight of Cherubine toiling along in the hot sunshine with a great basket on | her head. She was singing merrily as she came, and from time to time raised ••ind smelt a great bunch of flowers, smiling with satisfaction, and then she began ringing again. She was in perfect ignorance of the ^presence of any one else till she was abreast of. the clump of thick foliage ■where Genie was standing, and then she started so violently that she disarranged her flowers by clapping both hands to her basket. which nearly fell. “Yon, Genie?” she said.x ‘'You frightcned me.” "1 want to talk to you.” ■“Yes,” said Cherubine, beginning to look uneasy., and trying to hide her perturbation with a curious laugh. "You have stopped away from us," said | •Genie. sternly. “Why?" "Oh, been so busy with young missus.” . she said, hastily; “but coming again ; soon.” , . The mulatto girl fixed her with her i •eyes. and said in a low whisper: : "The serpent grows angry with his chil- | dren who do not come: and if they stay i away too much they grow sick and die." "Oh. I come soon,” cried Cherubine, | ■trembling visibly now, and her black shiny skin seemed to turn dull ami strange, as white rings appeared round the pupils of her dark" eyes. "You toil him I'm not going to stay away any more.” “Take care then.” said the mulatto girl, keeping her eyes fixed on the trembling woman. "You have not been since the two new white brothers came to us.” “No. no, not once,” said Cherubine, trembling, “but I come next time.” “Y’es. When did you see him last?” ■“Yesterday,” said Cherubine eagerly. —Where?" "He came to Nousie's." "I thought so,” said Genie, in a low I voice. Then added, "How many times ; has he been ?” Cherubine balanced her basket carefully on her head, and counted rapidly on her fingers. "Eight times." "What for?” Cherubine smiled, then looked horrified. "Don't look at me like that." she said, hastily, as she tried to take her eyes off | her questioner, but stared at: her again I as if fascinated. "I am not looking at you,” said Genie, i slowly; “it is the serpent looking out of my eyes. He is everywhere. He is asking with my lips why Etienne Saintone comes to Nousie's house.” "I—l don't know.” said Cherubine. ■shuddering, and the rings about her pupils grow more defined. “Mind what you arc saying,” said : Gonie, sternly. "I only think," said Cherubine. hur- ; riedly “I think he fall in love with little missus. An’ it's very dreadful,” she said, in a whimpering tone, as she stood shivering in the. hot sunshine, ami watching Genie. who as soon as sho had spoken turned suddenly, and went up the narrow path taken by her black companion. "Wish sometimes I never went to Voudoux. Frightens me." For the next few minutes as sho continued her journey back, the flowers seemed to have lost their sweetness, and she remained perfectly mute, but with the natural carelessness of her race, all was forgotten again in a short time, and she reached the house singing, to go straight to the window of Aube’s room, call her by name, and laughing merrily she thrust in the bunch of flowers, kissed the little white han'll which took them, and then wont into the front room behind the veranda, where, in the dim light, she saw her mistress hastily put away a hand- | kerchief, and on going closer with her basket, which she now held under her arm. she said, sharply: "What missus cry about?" the sight of ( Nousie's red eyes completely chasing ; away all thoughts of her late encounter. “Oh, I don’t know,” said Nousie, sadly. "I'm not happy. Cherub." "Nousie ought to be happy, then.” cried the woman. “Got lots of money, big house, and Beauty once again.” “But she is not happy,” cried Nousie, passionately. “Oh, Cherub, it is killing me to see her look so quiet and sad." “Ah. nonsense!” cried Cherubine sharply. "She laughed just now when I took her flowers." "Laughed?” cried Nousie. eager. Thon, with a sigh, “she only tries to smile when I 1 take her anything.” She looked wistfully at her faithful old i servant, for the revelation was coming I fast with its painful enlightenment, ami ! the making clear to her of complications ■ of which she had never dreamed. Cherubine looked at her wonderingly, for she could not comprehend her mistress’ trouble, and setting it down to one i of her old fits of sadness, such as had often come to her since the terrible day when she had seen her husband shot •down before her eyes, the woman took tier basket into the house as horses’ hoofs were heard, a shadow was cast a^’oss the veranda, and Saintone dismounted, throw his bridle across a hook, and entered the place. Nousie looked at him sharply, as at a fresh source of trouble at a time when her spirit was very low, but the young man came up to her with so smiling and friendly a look that she was disarmed. “What a morning,” he said, cheerily; ■“and how well you look, Madame Dulau.’ She winced, for his words and tones brought back compliments paid her by her husband’s friend. He noticed her manner and became serious directly, as he said in a half-re-proachful tone: “I thought thr.t when a man joined you, he found help and friendship, but you always look at me as if 1 were an • enemy.” “Ah, no," said Nousie, forcing a smile.

“you are mistaken. What do you want me to do? You can help yourself now without going to anyone.” "Don’t play with me, Nousie,” he said, j leaning over the counter and catching her hand, which she tried to snatch away, but he retained. "You know why I came. You must see that my mother approves of it. and though 1 am not good enough for her, still 1 would indeed be to her the best of husbands, and it would bo for her good. /There, 1 am very poor at this sort of thing, but you know I love her. and I ask you humbly now for your help." She looked at him wildly, for his prayer to her seemed horrible, bringing back as it did the past, and she shook her head. “Oh. come,” he said, “you say no because you think of that Voudoux business. I tell yon frankly, I got you to take mo up that I might join them solely to help me in my election. You must not think about that. Ami yet," he said, with a peculiar look, “I might say to you, do j think about it, for I want your help.” “No,’ she cried hastily, "I am not one of them. I am their friend, and I help I them and they trust me, but 1 do not be ! long." “ I’hey think you do. ami treat you as ■ one ot tlmm." said Saintone. dryly, "but ■ I tint not going to put pressure on you in ‘ that way, Nousie Madame Dulau. if yon • like I believe my father and your husband were friends once.” “Oh!" she exclaimed, excitedly. “Ah. yes; I’ve heard they tweame enemies, but what of that. They would have made it up again, so what is that to us. Let nm speak plainly. 1 love Mademoi selle Dulau. My mother has tried again and again to make us till friends, but without avail. Now I have come myseli : first ot all as her messenger, to ask it she may send the carriage for Mademoiselle this afternoon.” "She would not come," said Nousie. quietly. "You have not asked her. I am not going to press my suit. I'll be as patient I as you like, but let her come. The packet | came in this morning and wo are to have the t'aptuiu and a few friends. It would be cheerful and pleasant for her. and she would inwt some of our best people, Yo<| will let her come?” Nousie's hand contracted, and she shook her head. "Ah, but you are hard,” he cried. “Y >u | are jealous of me. You think I am going | to take her from you, but listen. Nousie; I she is the dearest, sweetest lady 1 ever i saw. Are you going to keep her among 1 these blacks, and condemn her to sm h a life as this?" She gave him tin agonized look, for he had struck the chord which thrilled through her; and as she stood there suf ■ feeing slit' felt that his woads were right. ■ i ami. growing wenker ben-nth the prej sure put Upon her. she withdrew her hand 1 I to stand with brow knit, thinking: Ought she not to forget the past and I nc<ept her fate? She knew now tha: by her own act she had raised Aube far above her. ami with Iter heart bleeding in I its agony she acknowledged that she was dragging her child down. "You do not speak." said Saintone. “I was thinking." she replied, dreamily. “Y'ou say Madame Saintone sent y-a?" "Yes," he cried, eagerly. "1 will ask her." “No, no, let mo ask her: let me plead ' to her." cried Saintone. fearing to lose the slight hold he had gained. “No; I will ask her myself. You need ! not fear," she added, with a sad smile, j “She shall go if she likes. 1 will i, e fair.” | She left the buffet, and went thought fully into Aube's room, the place that was sacred to her. and pressing her lips together and trying hard to force down I the agony within her, she closed the door j behind her. Aube had started to her feet and was I looking pale and strange. “He has come again, my dearest," said i Nousie. softly. "He says he loves yon. I and Madame Saintone asks if she may : send a carriage for you this afternoon. What shall I -ay?” “That 1 will aot go,” said Aube, firmly. I “Stop," said Nousie now, fighting dou n her exultation as she struggled, as she told herself that her child might be happy. “He said to me what 1 have just begun to think, that I had made you a lady, and asked me if I was going to keep i you down to such a home as this, here among these wretched people. Aube, darling, I feel as if I could not lose you, but would it not be best for you to go among these people?” "No.” said Aube. firmly. "I will not i leave you 1 will not go." | Nousie’s fingers worked, and her lips i trembled, but sho mastered herself again. "You must think of what you are saying, my child. His mother wishes you to : go—sho would love you for her son’s sake. ! He asks for you to be his wife.” • “Mother!” “Listen, my child: he will make you i rich —a lady—the best people in the place who mock at me will welcome you, and as his wife —if you would love him—- " Mother!” said Aube, “are you going to be cruel to me now?” “I. my darling,” she cried, catching Aube to her breast, "who would die for you ?” "Then why do you talk like this? Y’ou do not wish it?” “I wish to make you happy dearest, and to try and mend my poor mistake.” "Mistake? What are you saying. I could not love that man. His mother frightens me. She seems false and strange to me, and her daughter hates me in her heart. Y’ou wish me to leave you and go among those people. No, no; send me back to the peaceful old convent once again.” Nousie started, but controlled herself still, and after an effort: “What am I to say, then, to this man?” “That it is impossible. That I cannot go—that he is to leave us in peace.” “Is this from your heart, Aube? Look at me before you send me with such a message as that.”

“Look at you?” said Aubo, tenderly, at she softly threw her arms about her mother's nock. "Do you think I do not. consider all that you have done. Mother, dearest, your letter rests here upon my heart. 1 look at that sometimes, and kneel down and pray that I may learn to repay you for all your suffering in the past. What are these people to us that they should try to come between us when we are so happy as we are?” "But you are not happy, Aube." "I tty to be,” she said, with the tears ■ flooding her eyes, "but you make me sad sometimes when you look troubkni, and as if you wort' not content with m”JI Mother, I do love you with all my heart.' "Ati be—my darling!” She clasped her passionately to her heart, and Aube drew her face closer to her own. "Yes; love me always like that, mother,” she uhispered, "1 am happy now. Tell this man to go and trouble us ,no more. We ha ve been parted so long, and 1 ha ve come bark again. Mother, dearest, nobody must come between us now.” I’hey stood locked in each other's arms, heart beating against heart, till, as if waking from a dream, Nousie slowly drew herself away. There was a look of pride and peace in her eyes; her fac<>, too. seemed almost beautiful once more, illumined as it was by her mother love, and as she reached the door, she turned, ran bm k ami kissed her child again before hurrying out to where Saintone was impatiently waiting. He stared as she came toward him.G erect and proud-looking. and as if some sudden change had taken place in the brief time since they parted. “Ah,” he cri<‘d, joyously, “she will come?” “No," Monsieur Saintone." said Nousie, firmly. “My child refuses, and asks you and your mother to leavens in pence." A look of rage convulsed his face, and he turned upon her fiercely. “It is not true," he said. “You have been setting her against me. I'll speak to her myself." He made for the door, but Nousie interposed at bay now to spare her child. But her manner changed, and it seemed t<> Saintone no longer Nousie. the keeper of the cabaret, but Mad.inw Dulau. wife of his father's old friend, who said firmly, and with a digtiitj of mien which startleti him: "Stop, sir!" Then after a pause: "You shall have it from her own lips." She went through the door, leaving him pacing the room, ami in a minute she came back, lending \tibe, no longer the shrinking, timid girl, but calm and self-pos-sessed. and looking more beautiful in his eyes than ever. "Ah. Ma<lenudselle Anbe." he cried, as he stepped forward and tried to take her ha nd. "You wished to hear from me." said Anbe. gravely, "the words my mother said. Let me then say. monsieur, that I thank Madame Saint.me t-r her kindness, that 1 cannot accept her invitations, and tl.at all you wish is impossible." "No!" he cried, both, "it is not impossible.” "Inqtossible," repeated Aubo. and she turned tram him to whisper, ns she clung to her mother's arm. "No one must » ver come betw emi us tmw And the .loor was darkened ns a man apiumnsl dark against the sunshine which himb red him for a moment from iweing the group before him. “Is this Madame Dulau's?" he j sharply. Aub- uttered n wild < ry. while ■Saintone’s eyes half closed, and his lips tight- ■ emsl. as he looked from one to the other, I saving beneath his breath: : "Who is this?" < l o be I’ontinued.t A FATAL MISTAKE. It Wag Xl.nlo t>> a I’roiuse Ficndinum in His Lea v c-Ttik i ng. A citizen of France who has an Inveterate habit of confounding everything which is said to him, and has been endeavoring to acquire a knowl- : edge of our vernacular, was about leavI lag his l> sarding Itous- for a more cotnroriable quarter. Ail the little mys- ! teries of his wardrobe, including his i last nether garment at.d umbrella, had i been packed up. when he bethought to | himself the unpleasant duty now devolving upon him. that of bidding "ze folks" good-by. After shaking his fellow-boarders 1 cordially by the Imad, and wishing ; them, with incessant bowing, "ze verrve best success in ze virl," and "ze benediction du chi-L" he retired in search of his "dear landlady." to give her also his blessing. He met her at the staircase, and advancing, hat in hand, with a thousand scrapes, commenced his speech: "Ah! madame, I'm ' going to leave you. You have been verree amiable to me, madame; I will nevare forget you for zat. If in my countree 1 would ask zee Government to give you a pension, madame.” The good lady put down her head and blushed modestly, while our Frenchman proceeded: "Yell, I must go: you know in zeeso life, it is full of pain au' trouble. If Got adopted ze virl vich Lamartine made in his pocsie. zen z.ure should be no more ]>ain. Adieu, madame, adieux! perhaps forever.” Thereupon the Frenchman was making his exit, when lie was suddenly called back by his landlady, who interestedly inquired: "Why. Mr. C , you have forgotten your latch-key.” Mr. G —appeared amazed, apparently not understanding his interrogator. “Y’es,” continued Mrs. M — . “you know it is the rule for all boarders to give me their latch keys.” “Oh, madame!” interrupted the Frenchman with enthusiasm, "I vill give you not one—not one, but zouzands!” And applying the action to the word, he sprang toward Mrs. M —, and embracing her tightly in his arms, kissed her most heroically. The affrighted Mrs. M > recovering herself. at length cried out: “The key! Mr. C . the key!” Freuchy. looking confused, confounded, ejaculates with heavy sighs: “Oh, madame! I zotyou ax me for one kees, an’ I give it to you. Yat a fatale mistake!"—Scottish American. A hat is “pounced” or smoothed by means of a machine which polishes the whole surface finely and smoothly with emery paper. Formerly this process was done by hand, the workmen using pumice stone for that purpose.

Congress officers. DISTRIBUTION OF SENATE AND HOUSE PATRONAGE. Always a Lively Scramble for Places at the Begiimini; of Each New Session, When There Has Been a Change ■ of Administration. I M Rewardins Party Fealty. ilVaahington correKpcndence: 1 A/T ° KE thn, ‘ 2ooanx ’ W |\/ 1 ions bread winners /El -L v -L are interested in

the outcome of the contest over the reorganization of the House at the beginning of each new session of Congress when there is a change <>f adminis*t ration, for that gjnumber of salaried positions are vacated — by the outgoing incumbents to be filled s.by representatives of pt he party coming in- • to power. The minor patronage eonneeteil

wo

jith the offices of the sergennt-at-arms, doorkeepers, and poatmitster ren<Pr the contest for the elective positions imereHting, inasmuch as the representatives taking part in the campaign expect to benefit by the result in providing for their customers. The major.?y of tile liositions included in the list of patronage at the disposal of the newly elected officials commnnfC lucrative salaries, and each Representative has a following of eager constituents anxious to fill the office and drew the emolument therefor. The clerk of the House does not have the largest amount of patronage at his ifispoHal, but. the respective offices in his department command the most attractive salaries. He himself draw s $5,000 a year and is required to give a bond of S2O.tM»O. His is a position of some honor and more responsibility. The clerk has forty three employes under him. commanding aggregate salaries of $71,30S a year. His right hand man. the chief clerk, drnws per annum. The clerk appeints ♦he journal clerk ami au assistant, who keep the official record of the proceedjngs of the House: two reading clerks, who. Os late years, have Iwen selected by competitive examinations, indicating their ability to read to the satisfaction of the House; n tally clerk, who keeps track of ♦he yea and nay votes, foip-tlier with a number of minor officials. There is one salary of four of S’J.riOO each, seven at ^k’.mio each, four nt SLs<»> each, seven nt two at Sl.4<Ki, two at and ten at ^72<i. He also np|>oints n earpoutcr, who earns alsmt at piece work. The sergeant nt arms gets n salary of 14.500, and is now isimpelled to furnish a bond of SSo,(MM>. His most important duty is to take charge of the disbursement of the salaries of the members, their mileage nml other perquisites. He is suppused to be responsible for the good order in the House. Io preserve the peace among would be belligerents, to prevent fights on the floor and to arrest absentees nnd bring them before the bar of the I House when ordered to do so. The aorat arms dispenses one salary of $3.tMMI, two of ^2.t*H>. one of I.stui, one of $1,200, one of $720, ami one of SGGO. He also appoints one-third of the Cupitol police, consisting of eight privates at $1,200, one lieutenant at ?l,<UHt, and two watchmen nt ?l.t”O. The doorkeeper of the House is paid the smallest salary of all the elective offieera, except the postmaster and chaplain, but dispon-cs the largest amount of I patronage. He draws S3.7hJO a year, and is not required to give a bond. His duties are defined by his title. He guards the doors to the floor and the galleries, np]>oints elevator men, pages and folders. Under him tin re are five positions at $2,000 each, one nt sl,^*o, three at sl,- ' 500, one nt $1,400. one at ?1..”1 L sixteen at sl.2V<>. nine at ?L>hiO, fifteen at S9OO, five at SS4O. twenty five at $720. ten at SGOO. and thirty tbr-c pages at SSO per month during the session. The postmaster attends to receiving and delivering the mail of the members and to forwarding the public documents sent out from the Capitol. His salary is $2.500 and he is not required to give bond. There are no sinecures in his office, for every man has to work hard. The postmaster appoints one clerk at $2,000, ten at $1,200, one at $720 and eight men during the session at sl<H) a month each. The chaplain of the House draws S9OO per year, in session and out. and has an easy berth. He is supposed to open the House with prayer, ami is not blamed if he makes it short. Sometimes the chaplain pays pastoral calls among the members of his flock during business hours, lingering after the House has assembled to chat with members. 11c never aims at his congregation in his prayer, although in times of turbulence and great public excitement in the House he may try to invoke the spirit of pence and a blessing of wisdom upon the public councils. It is usual to elect a minister of the District of Columbia with a regular salary, for th“ emolument of the place is not large. (The Speaker of the House has a bit of tiirtronage at ‘his own disposal. He is twed one clerk at $2,350, one at $2,- , one at SI,GOO and a messenger at sl,'<PO. The Speaker himself receives $3,')00 in addition to his regular salary of $5,000 as a member for the added duties of the speakership. The Senate Officers. The patronage of the Senate is much less than that of the House, but the positions are usually more secure. Some of the employes have been in their present positions for many years. “Old Man” Bassett, as ho is called has been in the service of the Senate a little over sixty years, and there is but one Senator, Mr. Morrill, who iias been continuously in the Senate during the term of employment of Mr. Nixon, the financial clerk, though he is still a young man. The Senate does not like repeated changes. There are but three elective officers—the secretary, the sergeant-at-arms, and the chaplain. The patronage, except committee clerkships, conies under the secretary and the sergeant-at-arms. The chaplain gets email pay and has uo employes under him. The sergeant-at-arms has the appointment of the acting assistant doorkeeper of the Senate, the postmaster and his subordinates, the superintendent of the document room and his subordinates, the superintendent of the folding room and his subordinates and the laborers, mestengers and pages. This patronage is, accordance with the custom of the Jate, apportioned according to a regular

system among the Senatora, the minority getting a certain proportion. This apportionment being fixed at the beginning of tlie Congress, is not changed in any respect. If a vacancy occurs the Senator who had the original appointment is called upon to name some one to fill it, and if his choice is not satisfactory he Is called upon to make another. Efficiency is always exacted of the employe, and every Senator has enough friends to provide for to enable him ultimately to present the right sort of man. Th® clerks to the committees are appointed by the chairmen of the various committees and do not form a part of the' patronage under the elective officers. CHICAGO'S CANAL. It Is Hard to Grasp the Vastness of ♦he Undertaking. The drainage canal which Chicago is building between it and Lockport is nearly twenty-nine miles long and is a wonderful undertaking. Work on it is divided into twenty-nine sections. Given under contract to twenty different and responsible firms, the work on all these subdivisions is in full progress, and on two or three of them —and that in the most difficult rocky part—is already finished. The width of the great trench at the bottom is nowhere less than 110 feet on the first nine sections from Chicago, while on other sections it will be 202 feet, to be reduced again to 100 feet. A large part of the Excavation has to be made through a solid ledge limerock, underlying the track of the Desplaines River. The width of the upper edges of the huge ditch will vary from 162 to 305 feet, the former width prevailing only on the ten solid rock sections of the excavations. where the walls are vertical and not sloping down as on the remaining nineteen sub divisions, which are excavated by digging, shoveling and dredging. The clear water depth will be twentytwo feet. This will be uniform throughout, even at the lowest ]tossible condition of Lake Michigan, which will feed the canal at the rate of 300,000 cubic feet n minute and later, when the bottom width of the first nine sections shall have been enlarged to 200 feet, at the rate of 600,000 cubic feet of water a minute. From the estimates recently made there will have been removed by 1597, when it is expected the canal will be completed, 10,070,439 cubic yards of earth, or in other words, nearly two-thirds of the excavation of the new ly epeued Baltic canal, five-sixths of the Manchester canal, two fifths-of the Sues canal and three-tenths of the alsirtive Panama ditch. Os the 40.000.000 cubic yards of excavated soil, clay, gravel, broken stone and crushed primeval rock fully 12.000.000 cubic yards alone w ill belong to the latter class, making the Chicago enterprise a really unique one. A stroll along the works Is highly novel. One sees big dredges, flanked by flying bridges mid gigantic scoops, ladling up w hole loads of dirt at one sweep, (•tie sees leviathans of machinery expressly invented ami built to dispose of the loose stone rubble ami blasted pieces of rock along the second half of the “Big Ditch." I nder the name of “cantilevers," they tower like oblique gallows of antediluvian monstrosity over the landscape, loosening, lifting and removing tons of blasted rock with no more exertion than that with which children handle their toys. Along with these and kindred cyclopic devices, there is a whole army train o» steam, gas, water ami electric motors, together with from 6,000 to .S.OOO men, 600 teams, numberless graders, carts and trucks, and finally an array of blasting •machinery, needing five tons of dynamite ns their daily bill of fare. During one mouth recently 1.1G0.616 cubic yards of earth and rock were excavated and the cost of this one month's work amounted to $695,055. In the beginning the cost of the work wns estimated at between $40,000,(t00 and $45,(X*0,000, but it is now estimated that at least s3o.<X*o,ooo will suffice to complete the work. MEISSONIER'S STATUE. Great Fainter Is Represented ns Seen in His Puris Studio. A statue was unveiled in the garden of the Louvre at Paris last week in memory of Jean Louis Ernest Meissomi r. one of the most celebrated painters of France, and the statue was the work of one of France’s most celebrated sculptors, Marius Jean Antoine Mercie. The monument is in white marine. Meissonier is represented as he was seen in his studio, clad in a voluminous dressing gown, as in the portrait of himself which he painted \ /Il $ t w mercie’s statue of meissonier. in ISB9 for A. T. Stewart to accompany his most ambitious picture “1807." Marius Jean Antoine Mercie, who wrought the statue, is one of the most famous of modern French sculptors, now 50 years old; he does not excel in statues of repose like this, but in statues or groups of action, such as his “Gloria Y’ictis,” a highly theatrical composition designed lo console his country for the German defeat, whicdi now stands in the ! Montholon Square in Faris. He is an officer of the Legion of Honor and has been medaled at the Salon and at international exhibitions repeatedly. The large five-story building on Middle street, Lowell, Mass., known as the Parker Block, was almost destroyed by fire* The fire was aided by repeated explosions of whisky in barrels, which blew out the windows and created havoc in adjoining i buildings. The total loss exceeds $350,- I 000. I

THE SUNDAY SCHOOL THOUGHTS WORTHY OF CALN? REFLECTION. A Pleasant, Interesting, and Instruct* ivc Lesson, and Where It May Ba Found—A Learned and Concise Re* view of the Same. Lesson for Dec. 8. Golden Text —“The battle is th^ Lord’s.” —1 Sam. 17: 47. David and Goliath is the subject of this lesson. 1 Sam. 17: 38-51.. David girded for battle. Cheese and bread exchanged for sword and sling. He came down, with a basket of provisions in his hand. YVhen next we see him he carries a weapon of warfare and then Goliath’s head. Thus, in swift dramatic moves, does Providence thrust the man of destiny to the front. But it is after all just this David of the sheep-folds that draws niglt to the Philistine champion at the last. He puts off Saul's armor; he has not proven it. At last it is but the stripling' David that confronts the giant. David and God! For there is somewhat, that the shepherd youth has proven. He ha* proven God; and with God lie goes forth. Goliath disdained David when he saw him. It is not strange. Before v. 10 lift had cried boustingly, “Give me a man!” And now here they have sent an unamed youth. Are they making sport of him? He curses David by the gods. Goliath’s eyesight is poor. He sees only David; he does not see God. It is the way with Philistia’s giants always. A beam in the eye and after a while a stone in the forehead. “In the name of the Lord of hosts/’ so spoke David. “Thou comest to me with, a sword, and with a spear, and with a. shield, but I come to thee in the name of the Lord of hosts." That name was enough, a match for sword and spear and shield. Try it. "In Judah is God known; his name is great in Israel. In Salem also is his tabernacle, and his dwelling place in Zion. There brake he the arrows of the bow. the shield, and the sword and the battle.” (Ps. 76: 1-3.1 David , also had his panoply; he was tabernacled with God. “One bearing a shield" went also before him—the angel of the covenant. Holy boldness characterized David here, a confidence bora of God. ‘’Thera is a God in Israel,” he said, and that all the people might know it he went forth. "For the battle is the Lord's, and he will give you into our hands.” Evidently this was not a spirit of reckless bravado. It was prophecy. David was as much possessed here by the Spirit of God as at the moments of his highest illumination when he penned his inspired psalms. And now he is running toward the giant; see he is whirling his shepherd sling round and round: there he has let fly. And look, see the giant. He has thrown up his hands, he is tottering, his knees are bending beneath liim, and with a thundering crash of spear and armor he has lain his length upon the earth. And there is David, the stripling David, his foot upon the prostrate giant. Just a glance across the valley; Philistia in confusion preparing to flee. Among Israel a moment's awe-struck silence and then a mighty shout. Ah. yes, Israel is ready now, after the event, but where was hi® hope and courage before? That fireman who climbed the dizzy ladder amid breathless silence and rescued the imperiled life in the upper window to be greeted with huzzas as he laid the burden on the ground, spoke with something of just rebuke when he said, “Why didn't you shout while I was up there!” Church of God. looking on while some David, singled-handed. takes the field in. faith, lift a shout; lift it now! Illustrations. Eentcr David upon the scene! God's man to the fore, and a new day for Israel. Often upon our days of impotence there come by heaven's grace, these men of might, God's might. So came Wesley. Whitfield, Jabez Swan, Jacob Knapp, Dwight L. Moody, The revivals of 1770, 1526, 1859, 1875 were like advents from the skies. God sent his David forth to break the dull, dead apathy of the church. A brave stand for God is what is wanted to-day. The courage of our convictions, the intrepidity of faith. We havo heard of bold, God-fearing John Elias, of Wales, who stood up one day when dearth and death seemed to have settled down upon his loved land, and Satan seemed to be having it all his own way and cried before the assembled people, “Let God. arise, his enemies be scattered.” (Ps. 68: 1.) It was David meeting Goliath of Gath, and the Philistines went flying down the valleys like leaves before the tempest. A revival followed upon that heart-cry of faith that swept through the communities and numbered its trophies of souls by the thousands. Oh, for an oldfashioned revival of religion! Do you want it? Do you really and truly, above everything else, want it? Then step out iu faith. Go out into the arena where the world seems to be carrying everything before it, and name one word, the word of the Lord. Dismiss everything but reliance on God. Not mon nor methods, but God. Let the battle be clean and clear. God against the world. The might of faith withstanding the boasted might of man. O to see such a battle joined again! It is what heaven is waiting for, just one church or just one man, to halt and face the world, the flesh and the devil, in the name of the Lord of hosts. Next Lesson—“ David and Jonathan.'* 1 Sam. 20: 32-42. A Touching Epitaph. A Topeka reporter was nosing around a second-hand store the other day when he came across a tombstone which had. in some manner drifted into the dealer’s hands, and which was for sale at less than half first cost. Upon it was engraved the following touching inscription: “Jimmy, thou art gone; but 'tis sweet to know that thou wilt, meet us on Jordan’s banks with thy sweet hello.” A new 'house for Italian opera is to be built in London on the site of Her Majesty’s theater in Haymarket, which, was torn down some years ago. Marcus Mayer is to be manager and J. 11. Mapleson operatic director. Mayer says the new Imperial Opera Company, limited, 'will have a capital of $1,700,000, and will produce Italian opera and send their company each year on an American tour from October to April, i while the I.ondon season will be from I May to August.