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THE CHARM.
The strongest may not have most power;
Fate's favorite strikes not best his hour;
The wisest may not ses most clear;
Most beauty is not in the fair;
Sweet voice makes not most melody;
‘Who travels may not widest see;
Whom most see is not known the best;
Who hardest works may do tbs least:
Painter and poet cannot reach
The charm—it passes tint and speech.
There isa something in the air
Stronger than strength, than grace more
fair,
Wiser than wit, wider than spara,
More candid than a lover's face,
More musical than melody,
More real than the things we ses,
More cheering than earth’s rarest win:
Beek it, grasp, keen, and all is thine!
—Matthew R. Knight, in Independent.
A HOPELESS CASE.
DY CORNELIA ATWOOD PRATT.
HE sunshine was
dazzling that after-
noon, and in the
golden November
air sweeping fresh-
ly down between
the rows of tall
houses on either
hand you tasted at
its best that keen-
est of stimulants—iced oxygen. It was
a day of the gods, fit to put new life into
the most depressing sotil, and its invig-
orating effects was plainly visible in the
bearing of a: carefully dressed, slightly
rotund gentleman of middle size and
something less than middle age as he
came around the corner of the avenue
and walked briskly southward. This
plump, well-groomed gentleman was Mr.
Anthony Amory; his was not a despair-
ing soui, however, in spite of the fact
that he was on his way to plead—for the
last time as he had resolved—what he
felt to be a hopeless case.
He rang the bell at the last house in
the block, and was ushered into the
library. As he entered that remotest and
most individualized of the more public
apartments of the Winchester house, he
wondered, as he had often wondered be-
fore, how it was that Eleanor Winchester
had impressed her personality so strong-
ly upon it that the room seemed alive
around her. To his mind, at least, even
such stolid things as the chairs, the rugs
and the bookcases reflected something of
that alert, intense spirituality combined
with a dish of chic whica was her own
especial charm. Someone had said once
that Miss Winchester united a New Eng-
land soul and a New York style, and to
his apprehension the same piquant com-
bination was carried out in her surcound-
in
3
28.
There had been other days, plenty of
them, when he had also wondered how
it was that a girl of this vype had at-
tracted Anthony Amory; he had, in-
deed, supposad that he was safely past
the sentimental stage of life. Those
days, however, were long over. Now,
that he had recovered from the first
shock of surprise at finding that he was,
if anything, worse hit than he might
have been ten years earlier, it seemed as
natural as the sunrise than he should
love ber.
The present visit, although it was the
first time Mr. Amory had seen Miss Win-
chester since her return to town the
week belore, was evidently not of the
nature of an ordinary call, and after the
first interchange of greetings neither of
them pretended to treat it as such. She
was sitting near the window in an im.
mensely puffy and comfortable chair,
and when he had taken his seat opposite
her, where te had the best light on her
face, they surveyed each other in ex-
pectant silence for a minute; thca Mr.
Amory bent forward and picking up a
carved paper-cutter from the table
fcrutinized it attentively.
$I believe the time is up,” he ob-
eerved, “*in which you undertook to
formulate your objections to me. As
‘you were saying last June—"
++Of all the foolish things I said last
June that promise was the most fool-
ish!”
¢+Becance your
numerous?”
“No. Because the formulation of
them is so hard.”
‘I do not feel disposed to let you off
the contract,” said Mr. Amory smoothly,
still examining the paper-cutter.
Up to this point Miss Winchester had
been leaning back in the big chair; now
she held her lithe figure erect, crossed
her bands in her lap and lifted her eyes
fearlessly. An adorable gravity settled
down upon her face.
‘Please notice that I have not asked
you to,” she said. ¢‘I have decided to
tell you all about it. You know I never
have. The other times we have talked
about this we have not done it seriously
and calmly—"
¢¢J was serious enouzh,” murmured
Mr. Amory, but she ignored the inter-
ruption.
‘You have been excited, and I am
afraid I have not been just.”
¢Jt is not justicz { want at your
hands.” She waved this remark aside.
¢¢That first,” she said.
¢:Gro on, then, and be just.”
Apparently the task she had set her-
self was not an easy one.
¢¢I dare say I am going to make some
impossible remarks,” she began uncer-
tainly.
“Don’t get nervous,” said Amory
reassuringly, ‘‘nothing that you say is
going to make any difference, you
know.”
‘You told me once,” she said slowly,
objections are so
’
casting about for her words, ‘‘that I was |
consumed by the passion for perfection;
and everybody admits that all the world
wants love.”
sDo you know—don’t you think
there exists in every human heart an in-
sppeasable thirst for perfect love?”
++] am not here to generalize about hu-
manity. 1 only know what { mysels
|| have felt, and that I have told you al-
ready.”
Miss Winchester passed her hand
quickly across her forehead, as if to
brush away the little frown that had set-
tled there.
“Other people have sometimes told me
that they had found it,” she went on
steadily. ‘I may be unjust, but it has
seemed to me, that usually they were
very casily satisfied ; and yet there have
been some of them I have envied from
the bottom of my heart. Is it my fault
that I have not been abie to be satisfied,
too? You know I have been more or
ess admired, but so far it has always
happened that the admiration I have re-
ceived has seemed to me too light a
thing to be serious with. Can you im-
{ agine what it means to know—or think
you do—exactly what you want, and to
rea'ly wish for it, and never to have it
| come near you, but instead to nave the
cheapest, tawdriest imitations of it
thrust into your hands? Why, it seems
to me it is the life of Tantalus!””
Miss Winchester was breathing 1ather
hurriedly now, but she took courage
from the impassive, attentive face of her
listenar and weat on bravely:
‘After a few experiences I stopped ex-
pecting anything different. But I could
not change my ideals, you know, be-
cause life and love did not prove what [
had thought them.”
Amory’s eyebrows went up a line at
this statement, but hesaid nothing, and
the girl went on:
‘“Then, pretty soon, I met you. You
struck me at first as such a Philistine of
the Philistines, with your irreproachable
surroundings and your air of having sesn
and experienced everything, and found
it all pretty good—yet of thinking all
the while there was really nothing worth
putting yourself out for but a comfort-
able life and your little joke—that I
never dreamed you were going to care
anything about anyone so different as I
am, nor that you could care in the way
you have.”
‘dn the way I do,” Amory corrected
her caretully.
‘I thought you were too satisfied even
to be interesting. I admit that I was
mistaken and that you are several things
no one would ever dream you were—
good things, I mean—and I admit that
1like you very much, but—don’t you
see?—it is your very excellences that are
against you. You are worse than the
others, becausee you come so near, and
vet you do not attain. 1t is criminal in
aman to approach so near a woman's
ideal and then fail of it!”
The light that burned in Mr. Amory’s
eyes was not wholly amiable, but his voice
was quiet as he said:
*‘1 knew all this in a general way be-
fore; that is, I suspected it. We are not
getting on. Those objections of yours,
those deficiencies of mme—I beg you to
specify them.”
“If you were used to arguing with
women,’’ observed Miss Winchester
maliciously, ¢*you would not expect to
‘get on.””
¢‘You are not like other women,” he
said, simply, with a lover's coaviction.
“You will not evade or put me off.”
The girl flushed. ¢Have I not said
enough?” she demanded. ¢‘Did I not
teli you in June it would be a sacrifice
to marry you?”
‘What then?” he urged. ¢Did you
not also tell me onoe that love could be
demonstrated only by sacrifice?”
“Am I pretending to love you?” sine
retorted, hotly.
“I had forgotten that momentarily,”
murmured Amory, dejectedly. ¢‘Bat
the objections? Surely, I have a right
to those.”
‘Very well, if you insist. But if you
do not like what I say, remember I did
not say it willingly,” she waraed. ‘‘In
the £rst place, I admire men who have
force, who can be powers in the world.
[ do not mean that you are weak, but
that you are indifferent. You are only
a power in the world of diners-out.”
«¢[ admire the beautiful self possession
with which you say horribly cruel
things.”
¢“] knew yon would take 1t badly!
But I did not mean to be cruel; I am
only trying to be true.”
++I wish,” he said, fervently, ‘how I
w'sh you would be untrue to that cold
soul of yours for five minutes. I wonder
if ycu have any idea how dear you can
be when you are not trying to be con-
scientious!”
«As I was saying, you care too much
for social success,” resumed Miss Win-
chester, striving to speak with the calm-
ness of a disinterested critic, and failing
sigoally.”
“Ah, yes. What else?”
“You care too much for the things of
the world—the luxuries and pleasures of
it. You care about being cowfortable,”
she said, disdainfully.
“What else?’
She hesitated. ‘What right have I to
say that yours is not aspiritual life? And
yet—is 1t not!”
‘In short—why don’t you sum me up
by saying that it wculd not occur to me
| that I needed the consoiations of religion
| so long as the cooking was excellent at
{i my club?”
‘How furious you are! how I must
i have irritated you, to make yousay that!”
“Irritat ed is not precisely the word I
| should use,” he returned. ¢‘When it
comes to making a race with a womaa, I
probably am out of 1t, but that does not
make it any the pleasauter to be told so.
| You have been very cxplicit. Youleave
| little to my imagination. I tink I un-
| derstand you now. Of course when I
hoped to meet your requirements I was
i under the impression that they were
reasonable ones. You always seemed to
[
|
|
|
me supremely reasonable, 1n spite of your
enthusiasms.”
She lifted an appealing hand, but he
hurried on:
+] suppose I failed to appreciate the
| fact that your ideals do not look like me.
| A girl's ideal is not likely to be a trifle
| stout and perceptibly past thirty, and I
| suppose he never has the beginning of a
| bald spot on his head.”
She disdained to answer.
¢“And at dinner he jrobably cares
about whom he takes out taan
more
what is set before him. TI admit that it
is no longer the case with me---unless
I am taking you out,” he continued.
¢Of course these things are serious
offenses against the higher life, especially
the stoutness; and they amply demon-
strate that I am of the earth, earthy. I
am glad it is proved to your satisfaction,
for otherwise there have been moments
when I have been so fatuous as to think
that you might after all find it hard to
throw me over completely.”
¢It is hardly fair to talk like that,”
she said with suppressed agitation. ¢‘I
try hard to recognize the facts of life. 1
am a reasonable being. I have not been
dreaming about the hero in a melo-
drama. But surely, somewhere, though
I have never known him yet, there is a
man who is both strong and fine; a man
who can use the adornments of life with-
with them and respect himself no less; a
man who is not ashamed to have ideals
and to strize toward them. Is humanity
go poor, then, that I may not hope to
find him? And do you suppose I like
to tell you that you are not he? You
who come so rear in most things?”
Outside the swift November twilight
had begun to fall. The light was grow-
ing faint in the library. Amory turned
the carved paper-cutter over and over in
his strong, soft hands, bending it this
way and that.
“If I were to tell her that I am that
man, what would she say, I wonder?” he
thought. *‘On my soul I think that I
am not far from being it. 1f my life is
not, blameless 1n my own eyes, yet it
would hardly be blameworthy even in
hers. Isit nothing to have kept one's
hands clean and one’s soul unstained?
Does she think a man does that without
ideals? Does she really think I am under
any serious misappreheansions as to uses
of life? Does she—O, Lord. How hope-
less it would be to try to make her un-
derstand.”
He interrupted his own thoughts ab-
ruptly. The paper-koife snapped in his
hands, and he dropped the fragments
with a soft gesture of his opened hands,
and drew one long breath. Then he
rose, saying with a new gravity that she
had never heard in his tones before:
‘So be it. You must forgive me il
I seemed a trifle bitter. A man doe:
not lose cheerfully all I am losing—fot
I did not ask you to marry me to make
me ‘comfortable,’ since you insist on my
fondness for comfort, but because it was
my one chance for happiness. Such hap-
piness and such stimulus as you are still
young enough to get from many things,
[find only in your presence. I have
only one thing more to say. Please re-
member it. I am, unfortunately for my
comfort. too oid to change. I shall not
love again. Absurd as it may seem—
and I know you think me quite absurd—
I shall not cease to love you as I love
you now.
world better than you know it. Youare
twenty-two. That is rather young. 1
am not young, but I can afford to give
you ten years out of my lile to look for
that ideal of yours. And 1shall think
the time well wasted if at the end of it
you can tell me that no one has ever
come nearer it than I. You know you
have never told me that you could not
love me, never once, but only that I did
not come up to that mark. And so Ido
not give up.”
Her eyes had been fixed on the floor.
Now she lifted up her head, but it had
grown suddenly so dark that he could
only see the motion, not the look she
sent toward him. wi
¢‘Is that what you truly think, you
truly feel?’ she asked at last with a note
in her voice which he never remembered
to have heard there before. It stirred
his pulses and he wondered dully what it
meant.
He assented silently. The exhilira-
tion with which he had entered the
house, the courage with which he had
begun the discussion, had all evapora-
ted. He felt tired; he was conscious of
the night, of the burden of his gears and
of the deadly soberness of life.
*¢Then—then—I almost think -you
need not wait!”
s+Eleanor, do you know what you are
saying?”
Ske turned her head away and faced
the gathering darixness.
¢‘How can he be so stupid as to ask
me that?” she demanded of the friendly
November twilight. ¢‘Is it going to
take ten years ior him to understand”
— Kate Field's Washington.
The Civilizing Influence of Water.
¢:On the last day of my service in the
employ of the Government," said ex-In-
dian Commissioner Morgan, ‘‘came to
me a communication from the hat desert
sands of southern California, on the
banks of the Colorado River, which
brought up the wonderful work accom-
plished by the Government schools at
Fort Yuma, Fort Mojave and Phoenix,
Arizona.
¢‘The Yuma Indians are the lowest,
mentally, of all the savages. They are
dull of intellect, filthy in habit, prefer to
go without raiment than clothe them-
selves, burrow in the hot sand and live
altogether like barbarians. A few years
azo they fairly overran the streets of
Powaix, a miserable, raggel, tilty lot.
1t was decided to reform them by the
educational processs. The people of
Pheeaix laughed at us. An appropria-
tion was secured from Coagress, 160
acres purchased close to Pheeaix, build-
ings erected, schools started, and to-day
they are too cramped, while the ‘filthy
beast,’ as they termed him, has disap-
peared from the streets of Paceaix.
“At Fort Mojave there is in operation
a steam pump which torces the water up
from the river to the dry packed but
wonderful rich soil, which, when
irrigated, produces enormous crops,
| especially of watermelons, of which the
Indians there are as fond asa Georgia
| colored man. A bill has just passed Con-
| gress appropriating money for building
| an irrigation ditch in the desert, which
will make it bloom like a flower garden
| woen completed and give the Indians a
| chance to farm and raise crops, at pres-
| ent impossible.”’— Washington Star,
But as for you, I know your
CROSSING OVER THE RIVER
reefer
REV, DR. TALMAGE’S SERMON.
reframe
: Perils of the Christian Vanish if He But
Puts His Trust in the Lord, and His
- Passage Safe to the Other Side
is Assured.
TEXT: “And the priests that bare the ark
of the covenant of the Lord stood firm on
dry ground in the midst of the Jordan,
and all the Israelites passed over on dry
ground, until all’ the people were passed
clean over Jordan.”—Joshua iii., 17.
Washington crossed the Delaware when
crossing was pronounced im possible, but he
did it by boat. Xerxes crossed the Hel-
lespont with 2.0)0,000 men, but he dit it by
bridge. The Israelites crossed the Rad Sea,
but the same orchestra that celebrated the
i deliverance cf the one army sounded the
: > e | strangulation of the other.
out falling their slave, or can dispense
This Jordanic
passage differs from all. There was no sac-
rifice of human life—not so much as the loss
of a linchpin. The vanguard of the host,
made up of priests, advancal uatil they put
their foot at the brim of the river, when im-
mediately the streets of Jerusalem were
no more dry land than the bed of that river.
It was as if all the water had been Crawn ff,
and then the dampness had been soaked up
with a sponge, and then by a towel the road
bad been wiped dry.
Yonder goes a great army of Israelites—
the hosts in uniform. Following them the
wives, the children, the flocks, the herds.
The people look uo at the crystalline wall
of the Jordan as they pass and think what
an awful disaster would come to them if be-
fore they got to the opposite bank of that
Ajalon wall that wall should fall on them.
And the thought makes the mothers hug
their children close to their hearts as they
swiften their pace. Quick, now! Ges them
all up on the banks—the armed warriors,
the wives and children, flocks and herds,
and let this wonderrul Jordanic passage be
completed forever.
Sitting on the shelved limestone, I look off
upon that Jordan where Joshua crossed un-
der the triumphal arch of the rainbow
woven out of the spray; the river which af-
terwards became the baptistry where Christ
was sprinkled or plunged; the river where
the ax—the borrowed ax—miraculously
swam at the prophhet’s order; the river il-
lustrious in the history of the world for he-
| roic faith and omnipotent deliverancs and
typical of scenes yet to transpire in your
Jife and mine—scenes enough to make us,
from the sole of the toot to the crown of the
bead, tingle with infinite gladness.
Standiog on the scene of that affrighted,
fugitive river Jordan, I learn for myself and
for you, first, that obstacles, when they are
touched, vanish. The text says that when
these priests came down and touched the
water—the edge of the water with their feet
—the water parted. They did not wade in
chin deep or wa'st deep or knee deep or ankle
deep, but as scon as their feet touched the
water it vanished. And it makes me think
that almost all the obstacles of life need only
be approached in order to be conquered.
Difficulties but touched vanish. It is the
trouble, the difficulty, the obstacle far in the
distance, that seems so huge and tremend-
ous.
The apostles Paul and John seemed to dis-
like cross dogs, for the apostle Paul tells us
in Philippians, *‘Beware of dogs,” and John
seems to shut the gate of heaven against all
the canine species when he says, ‘Without
are dogs.” But I have been told that when
those animals are furious, if they come at
you, if you will keep your eye on them and
advance upon them they will retreat.
Whether tbat be s or not I cannot tell, but
I do know that the vast majority of the mis-
fortunes and trials and disasters of your life
that hounds your steps, if you can only get
your eye on them, and keep your eye on
them, and advancs upon them, and ery,
*‘Begone,” they will slink and cower.
There is a beautitul tradition among the
American Indians that Manitou, was travel-
ing in the invisible world, and one day he
came toa barrier of brambles and sharp
thorns which forbade his going on, and
there was a wild beast glaring at him from
the thicket, but as he determined to go on
his way he did pursus it, and those bram-
bles wére found to be only phantoms, and
that beast was found to be a powerless
ghost, and the impassible river that forbade
him rushing to embrace the Yaratilda
proved to be only a phantom river.
Well, my 1riends, tae fact is there are a
great many things that look terrible.across
our pathway, whicli, when. weadvancaupon
them, are only the phantoms, only the ap-
par tions, only the delusions o! life. Diffi-
culties touched are conquered. Put your
feet into the brim of the water, and Jordan
retreats. You sometimes see a great duty
to perform. It is a very disagreeable duty.
You say, “I can’t go through it; I haven't
the courage, I haven't the int:lligence; to
go through it.” Advance upon it, Jordan
will vanish. -
I always sigh before I begin to preach at
the greatness of the undertaking, but as
soon as I start it becomes to me an exhilara-
tion. And any duty undertaken with a con-
fident spirit Lecomes a pleasure, and the
bigher the duty the higher the pleasure.
Difficulties touched are couquerej. There
are a great many people who are afraid of
death in the future. (Good John Livingston
once, on a sloop coming from Elizabethport
to New York, was dreadfully frightened be-
cause be thought he was going to be drowned
as a sudden gust came up. People were sur-
prised at him. 1f any man in all the world
was ready to die, 1t was good John Liv.ng-
ston.
Bo there are now a great man ood peo-
ple who shudder in passing DE Daa.
and they hardly dars think of Canaan be-
cause of the Jordan that intervenes. But
once they are down on a sick bed, then all
their fears are gone—the waters of death
dashing on the beach are like tbe mellow
voice of ocean shells—they smell of the blos-
soms of the tree of life, ~The music of the
heavenly choirs comes stealing over the
waters, and to cross now is only a pleasant
sail. How long the boat is coming! Come,
Lord Jesus, come quickly. Ckrist the Priest
advances ahead, and the dying Christian
goes over dry shod on coral beds and flowers
of heaven and paths ot pzarl.
Oh, could we make our donbts remove—
These gloomy doubts that rise —
And view the Canaan that we love
With unbeclouded eyes!
Could we bat climb where Moscs stood
_And view the landscape o'er.
Not Jordan’s stream nor death’s cold flood
Could fright us from the shore.
Again, this Jordanic passage teaches me
the completeness of everything tiat God
does. When God putan invisible dam across
Jordan, and it was halted, it would have
been natural, you would have supposed, for
the water to have overflowed the region all
around about, and that great devastation
would-have taken place, but. when God put
thedam in fromnt'of the river Hs puta dam
on the other side of the river, so that, ac-
cording to the text, the water halted and
reared and stood there and not overflowing
the surrounding country. Oh, thecomplete-
ness of everything that God does!
One wculd have thought that, i¢ the
waters of the Jordan had dropped until
they were only two or three feet deep, the
Israelites might have marched through it
and have come up on the other bank with
their clothes saturated and their garments
like those of men coming ashore from ship-
wreck, and that would bave been as wonder-
iul a deliverance, but God does something
better than that. When the priests’ feet
touched the waters oi Jordan and they were
drawn off, they might have thought thers
would have been a bed of mud and slime
through which the army should pass.
Draw off the waters of the Hudson or the
Ohio, and toere would be a good many days,
and perhaps many weeks, before the sedi-
ment would dry up, and yet bere in an in-
stant, immediately, God provides a path
through the deptas of Joraan. It isso dry
the passengers do mot even get their feet
damp. Oh, the completeness of everything
that God does! Does He make a universe?
. Misa perfect clock, running, ever since it
|
was wound up, the fixed stars the pivots, the
constellations the intermoving wheels, and
ponderous laws the weights and mighty
swingiog pendulum, the stars in the great
dome of night striking the midnight,and the
fun, with brazen tongue, toiling the hour of
noon.
The wildest comet h<s a chain of law that
it cannot break. The thistle down flying
before the schoolboy’s breath is controlled
by the same law that controls the sun and
the planets. The rossbush in your window
is governed by the same principle that
governs the tree of the universe on which
the stars are ripening fruits, and on which
God will one day put His hand and shake
down the fruits—a perfect universe. No
astronomy has ever proposed an amend-
ment.
If Cad makes a Bible, it is a complete
Bible. Standing amid the dreadful aad dea
lightful truths, you seem to be in the midst-
of an orchestra where the wailings over
sins, and the rejoicings over pardon, and the
martial strains of victory make the chorus
like an anthem of eternity. This book
seems to you the oc2an of truth, on every
wave of which Christ walks—sometimes in
the darkness of prophecy, again in the
spiendors with which He walks on Galilee,
Jn this boo apostle answers to prophst,
Paul to Isaiah, Revelation to Genests—glori-
ous light, turning midnight sorrow into the
midaocn joy. dispersing every flog, husbing
every tempest. Take this book: it is the kiss
of God upon toe soul of lost man. Perfect
Bible, complete Bible! No man has ever
proposed any improvement.
God provided a Saviour. Heisa com-
plete Saviour—God-man— livinity and
humanity united in the same person. He
set up the starry pitlars of the universe and /
the towers of light. He planted the cadars
and the heavenly Lebanon. He struck out
of the rock the rivers ot lif», singing under
the trees, singing under the thrones. He
quarried the sardonyx and stal and the
topaz of the heavenly wall. s put down
the jasper for the foundation and ped up
the amethyst for the capital and swung the
1? gates which are 12 pearls. In one instant
He thought out a universs, anl yet He be-
came a chili crying for His mother. feeling
al the sides of the manger, learning to
waik,
Omnipotencs sheathed in the muscle and
flesn of a child's arm; omniscienca strung in
the optic nerve of a child's eye: iofinite
love beating in a child’s heart; a great God
appearing in the form of a child 1 year old,
5 years old, 15 years old. While all the
heavens were ascribing to Him glory and
honor and power on earth, men said, ‘Who
is ths fellow?” While all the heavenly
hosts, with folded wing about their faces,
bowed down before im crying, “doly,
holy,” on earth, they denounced Him as a
blusphemer and a sot. Rocked in a boat on
Genunesaret, and yet He it is that uadirked
the lightoing from the storm cloud and dis-
masted Lebanon of its forests and holds the
five oceans on the tip of His finger as the
leaf holds the raindrop.
Oh, the complete Saviour, rubbing His
hand over the place where we have the pain,
yet the stars of heaven the adorning gems
ot His right hand. Holding us in His arms
when we take our last view of our dead, Sit-
ting down with us on the tombstone, and
while we plant roses there He planting con-
solation in our heart, every chapter a stalk,
every verse a stem, every word A rose.
complete Saviour, a complete Bible, a com~
Plate universe, a complete Jordanic passage.
verything that God does is complete.
ain, I learn from this Jordanic passage
that between us and every Canaan of suc-
cess and prosperity there is a river that
must be passed. ‘‘Ob, how I would like
to bave some of those grapes on the other
side!” said some ot the Israelites to Joshua.
“Well,” says Joshua, *‘why don’t you cross
over and get them?’ There is a river of
difficulty between us and everything that is
worth knowing. That which costs nothing
is worth nothing.
God didn’t intend this world for an easy
rior, through which we are to be dra
in a rocking chair, but we are to work o
passage, climb masts, fight battles, scale
mountains and ford rivers. God makes
everything valuable difficult to get at, for
the same reason that He put the gold down
in the mine and the pearl clear down in the
sea—to make us dig and dive for them. We
acknowledge this principle in worldly things;
oh, that we were only wis? enough to ac-
knowledge it in religious things!
You have scores of illustrations under
your own observation where men bave had
the hardest lot and been trodden under foot,
and yet after awhile had it easy. Now theic
homes blossom and bloom with pictures,
and carpets that made foreign looms laugh
row. embrace tioeir feet: the sum ner winds
lift the tapestry about the window gorgaous
enough for a ‘lurkisa sultan; impatient
steeds paw and neigh at the door, their car-
riages mcving through the sea oi New Yorg
life a very wave of splendor.
Who isit? Why, it is a boy who came ta
New York with a dollar in his pocket and
all his estate slung over his shoulder in a
cotton handkercoief. All that silver on the
dancing span is petrified sweat drops; that
beautiful dress is the faded calico over
which God put Hisband of perfection, turning
it to I'urkish satin or Italian silk; those dia-
monds are the tears which suffering frozs as
they feil. Ob, there is a river of difficulty
between us and every earthly achievement.
You know that, You admit that.
You know thisis so with regard to the
acquisition of knowledge. The ancients
used to say that Vulcan strusk Jupiter on
the head and the goddess of wisdom jumped
out, illustrating the truth that wisdom
comes by hard knocks, There was a river
of difficulty between Shakespeare, tae boy,
holding the horse at tne door of the London
theatre, and that Shakespear2, the great
dramatist, winning the applause of all au-
diences by his tragedies. There wasa river
between Benjamin Franklin, with a loaf of
bread under nis arm, walking the streets of
Philadelphia, and tbat same Ben amin
Franklin, toe philosopher, just outside of
Boston flying a kite in the thunder-storm.
An idler was cure} oi his bai habit by
looking through the window, night after
night, at a man who seemed sitting at his
desk turning off one sheet of writing alter
another until almost the dawn of the morn-
ing. The man sitting there writinz until
morning was industrious Walter Scott; tae
man who looked athim through the window
was Lockhart, his illustrious biographer
afterward. Lord Mansfield, pursuzd by the
press and by the populace, because of a cer-
tain line of duty, went on to discharge the
demanding the taking of his life he shook
his fist in th? face of the mob and said,
‘‘3irs, when ona'slast enl comes, it cannot
come too soon if he falls in defenss of law
and the liberty of his country.”
And so there is, my friends, a fuz, a tus-
sle, a trial, a push, an anxiety, throuzh
which every man must go before he comes
to worldly success ani worldly achievement.
You admit it. Now be wise enough to ap-
ply it in religion. Eminent Christian char-
acter is only gained by the' Jordanic
passage, no man just happened to get good.
Why does that man know so much about
the Scriptures? He was studying ths Bible
while you were reading a novel. He was on
fire with the sublimities oi the Bible while
you were sound asleep; by tug, tussle, push-
ing and running in the Christian life that
i man got so strong for God; in a hundred
| Solferinos he learned how to fight: in a’hun-
| dred shipwrecks he learned how to swim,
| Tears over sin, tears over Zion's desolation,
| tears over the impenitent, tears over the
| graves made, are the Jordan which that
man had passed. Borrow pales the cheek,
and fades the eye, and wrinkles the brow,
and withers the hands. There are mourn-
ing garments in the'wardrobe, and there are
deaths in every family record; all arouad are
the relics of the dead.
The Christian has passed the Red sea of
trouble, and yet he thinks there is a Jordan
of death bébween him and heaven, He
comes down to that Jordan of death ana
thinks how many bave been lost there.
Whoen Molyneux was exploring the Jordan
in Paiestine, he had his boats all knocked tc
| pieces in the rapids of that river. And there
are a great many men who have gone down
in the river of death; tae Atlantic and
Facific have not swallowed so many.
duty, and while the mob were around him
Itis |
an awful thing to make shipwrecks on the
rock of ruin—masts falling, hurricanes
flying, death coming, groanings in the
water, moani in the wind, thunder in
the sky, while , with the finger of light.
ning, writes all over the kx “1 will tread
sem in My wrath, and I 1 trample them
y fury.” i
The Christian comes down to this raging
torrent, and he knows he must pass out. a
as he comes toward the time his breath
shorter, and his last breath leaves him as he
steps into the stream, and no sooner does ha
touch the stream than it is parted, and he
goes through dry shod, while all the waters
wave their plumes, crying: ©O death, whera
is thy sting? O grave, where is thy victory
id shall Wipe away 2 tears from their
an re sha no mors weepin,
and Shere shall be 2110 wo more death. E
me of your cl ave already gons
up the other bank. You let them down on
this side of the bank; they will be on tha
other bank to help you up with supernat-
ural strength. Tae other morning at my
table, all my family present, I ht to
myseif how pleasant it would be if I eould
put all in a boat and then go in with them,
next world anil be there altogether. No
family parting, no gloomy obsequies. It
wouldn't take five minutes to go from bank
to bank, and then in that bettsr world to be
tosether forever. Wouldu't it be pleasant
for you to take all your family into thas
blessed country if you couid all go together?
I remember my mother in her dvinz hou:
said to my father, “Father, wouldn't it be
pleasant if ‘we could all go tozether?’ But
we cannot all go together. We mustgo one
by oue, and we must be grateful if we gat
thers at ail. YWhat a heaven it will be if
we have all our families there to look
around and sce all the children ars present!
you go with bare brow forever, than that
one suould be missing to complete the gar-
lands of heaven for your coronal.” The Lor
Gol of Joshua gave them a sate Jordanic
passage. ; a
Even children will go through dry shod.
Toose of us who wers brougat up in the
country remember, when the summer was’
‘coming on in our boyhood days, we always
longed for the day when we were to go
barefooted, and after teasing our mothers
in regard to it for a good while, and they
consented, we remoambear the delicious sensa-
tion of the cool grass waen wa put our un
covered foot on it.
And the time will come whan thesa shoes
we wear now, lest we be cut of the sharp
places of this worli, shall be taken off, and
with unsandied foot we will step into the
of the river; with feet untrammeled,
free from pain and fatigue, we will gain
that last journey, whea, with ons foot in
the of theriver and the other foot on
the other bank, we struggle uoward. That
will be heaven. Oi, I pray for all my dear
people a safe Jordanic- passage! ‘hat is
what the dying Christian husnand felt when
he said: ‘**How ths canile flickers, Nellie!
Put it out. I shall sleep well to-night and
wake in the morning. 3
One word of comfort on this subject for
all the bereaved.” You see, our departad
friends have not been submerged, have not
been swamped in the waters. They have
only crossed over. Thess Israelites wers
just as thoroughly alive on the western
banks of the Jordan as they had been on the
eastern banks of the Jordan, and our des
parted Christian friends have only crossed
over—not sick, not dead, not exhausted, not
extinguished, not blotted oui, but with
healthier respiration, and stouter pulses, and
keener eyesight, and batter prospects—
arossed over, tazir sins, their physical and
mental ci:quiet, all left clear this side, an
eternally flowing, impassable obstacle
tween them and all human and satanic pur-
suit, Crossed over! Oh, Ishake hands of
congratulati.n wita all ths bereaved in the
consideration that our departed Christian
friendsare safe !
circlesin New York when people heard
from the friends who wera on board that
belated steamer? It was feared that vessel
had gone to the bottom of the sea, and when
the friends on this side heard that the
steamer had arrived safely in Liverpool, had
we not a right to congratulate the people in
New York that their friends had got .safely
across? And is it not right this morning
that I congratulate you that your depar!
friends are safe on the shore of heaven?
Would you hava them bsci again? Would
you have those old parents backagain? You
get their breath in-the stiflad atmosahereof
the summer. Would you have them back i
this. weather? Didn't toey @se their brain.
longenough? Would you have your chil-
dren back in? Would you bave them
take the risks of temptation /which throng
every human pathway?
them cross the Jordan three times? In ad-
to greet you now and then cross back after-
ward? For certrinly you would not want to
keep them forever out of heaven. )
Pause and weep, not for the fre2d from pum, »
But that tne siga of love woall oring them back
I ask a question, and thera seams to coma
back the answer in heavenly echo: ‘‘What,
will you never be sick again?’ ‘“‘Never—
sick—again.”"—*What, will you never ba
tired again?’ ‘Never — tired -- again.”
“Wat, will you never weep again?’ **Never
—weep—again.” “What, will you never
die again?” *‘Never—die—again.”
Oh, ye army of departed kindred, we bail
you from bank to bank! Wait for us waen
the Jordan of death shall par: for us. Coma
down and meet us half way batween the
willowed banksot earth and the palm groves
of heaven. May our great High Priest go
ahead of us, and with bruised feet touch the
water, and then shall be fulfilled the worda
of my text, ‘‘All Israel went over on dry
ground until all the people wera gone clear
through Jordan.” .
If I ask you what shall baths glad hymn
of this morning, I think therz would
be a thousand voices that would choose the
same hymn—the hymn that illumines so
many death chambers—the hymn that has
been the parting hymn in many an instance
—the old hymn: !
On Jordan's stormy banks I stand
And cast a wistful eye
To Canaan’s fair and happy land,
Wiiere my possess.ons lie.
Oh, the transporting, rapturous scena
‘'hac rises on my sight
Sweet fields arrayed in Living green,
And rivers of delight.
I ———————t
They Want21 Doll Rags.
A policeman in Central Park, New
York City, the other day noticed
two little girls dodging busily about
through the crowds, and suspecting that
they were up to some mischief followed
them. Presently a woman stopped him
and said that there had Leen a piece cut
out of her dress. Two other women im-
mediately discovered that. their dresses
had been similarly mutilated. The po-
liceman. thereupon arrested the girls,and
found that each had a pair of scissors,and
several bits of cloth that they had cut
from different dresses. A man who said
that he had seen one of them cut at his
wife's dress, went with him to the sta-
tion house to lodge a complaint. The
girls, who were very much frightened,
said in the most isnnocent manner that
they wanted some rags to make clothes
for their dolls, and that as they did not
know how else to get them they decided
to cut them out of ladies’ dresses. The
gentleman concluded not to make a com-
plaint, and the girls were taken to their
mothers, who were advised to keep a
better watch on them in the future.—
New Orleans Picayune.
———
The respective ages of a bride and
groom, recently married ac Arthur, Ind.,
| were eighty-one and seventy-nine years.
and we could pull across the river to the
You would rather have them all there, and
Why was there so much joy in certain ;
know how hard it was sometimes for them to =
Would you have
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