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a race and had won it.
CAPRICE,
Ble hung the cage at the window
“If he goes by,” she said,
#He will hear my robin singing
And when he lifts his head
I shall be sitting here to saw,
And he willbow to me, I know.
The robin sang a love-sweet song,
The young man raised his head ,
The maiden turned away and blushed.
“I am a fool I” she said,
And went on broidering in silk
A pink-eyed rabbit, white as milk.
The young man loitered slowly
By the house three times that day.
She took her bird fromthe window
**He need not Icck this way.”
She sat at her piano long,
And sighed, and played a death-sadsong.
But when the day was done she said
“I wish that Qe would come
lememoer, Mary, if he calls
To-»ight, I'm not at home.”
So when he rang. she went, the elf,
She went and let him in herself.
They sang full long together
Their songs love sweet, death s21
The robin woke from theslumber
And rang out clear and glad.
Now go! she coldly said; ‘tis late,” |
An followed him, to latch the gate.
He took the rosebud from her hair,
While, “You shall not !” she said;
IIe closed her hand within his own,
And, while her tongus forbaide,
Her wilt was darkened in the eclipsa
Of binding love upon his lips.
. D. Howel!s in Kansas City Times,
TYPEWRITTEN.
= HEN nn man has
battled with pov- |
erty all his life,
fearing as he]
fought it, feeling
for its skinny
throat to throttle, |
and yet dreading
all the “while the
¢ coming of the time
FEN when §t would
gain the mastery and throttle him—
when such a man is told that he is
rich it might be imagined he would
receive the announcement with hilar-
ity. When Richard Denham realized
that he was wealthy he became even |
more sobered than usual, and drew a
long breath as if he had been running |
When Mr. Denham left his office
and went out into the street every-
thing had an unusual appearance to
him. He walked along urheeding the
direction. He looked at the fine resi-
dences and reaiized that he mighthave |
a fine residence if he wanted it.
As he was walking through the park |
and away from the busy streets he |
took off his hat and ran his fingers |
through his grizzled hair, looking at |
his hand when he had done so as if
the gray, like wet paint, had come off.
He thought of a girl he knew once,
who perhaps would have married him
if he had asked her, as he was tempted
to. But that had always been the
mistake of the Denhams. They had
all married younz except himself, and
so sunk deeper into the mire of pov-
erty, pressed down by a rapidly in-
creasing progeny.
The girl had married a baker, he re-
membered. Yes, that was a icng time
ago. The clerk was not far wrong
when he called him an old man. Sud-
denly another girl arose before his
mental vision—a modern girl—very
different, indeed, to the one who mar-
ried the baker. She was the only wo-
man in the world with whom he was
on speaking terms, and he knew her
merely because her light and nimble
fingers played the business sonata of
one note on his office typewriter.
* Miss Gale was pretty. of course—all
typewriters girls are—and it was gen-
erally understood in the office that she
belonged to a good family who had
come down in the world. - Her some-
what independent air deepened this
conviction and kept the clerks at a
distance. She was a sensible girl, who
realized that the typewriter paid bet-
ter than the piano, and accordingly
turned the expertness of her white
fingers to the former instrument.
Richard Denham sat down upon a park
bench. ‘“Why not?” he asked him-
self. There was no reason against it,
except that he felt he had not the
courage. Nevertheless he formed a
desperate resolution.
Next day business went on as usual.
Letters were answered and the time
arrived when Miss Gale came in to see
if he had any further commands that
day. Denham hesitated. He felt
vaguely thet a business office was not
the proper place for a proposal, yet he
knew he would be at a disadvantage |
else. In the first place, he had no |
plausible excuse for calling upon the
young woman at home, and in the
second place he knew that if he once
got there he would be stricken dumb. |
It must be either at his office or no- |
where.
¢¢3it down a moment, Miss Gale,”
he said at last. “I want to consult
you about a matter—about a business
matter.”
Miss Gale seated herself and auto-
matically placed on her knee the
shorthand writing pad ready to take
down his instructions. She looked up |
at him expectantly. Denham in an |
embarrassed manner, ran his fingers |
through his hair.
«J am thinking.” Le began, ‘‘of tak-
ing a partner. The business is very |
prosperous. In fact, it has been for
gome time.” ] |
‘Yes?’ said Miss Gale, interroga-
tively.
«Yes. I think I should have a|
partner. It is about that I wanted to |
speak toyou.”
«Don’t you think it would be better |
to consult with Mr. Rogers. He lznows |
more about business than I do. But |
perhaps it is Mr. Rogers who 18 to be |
the partner?
{T have enough for both.
| refused.
| my offer a very advantageous one. I
| will—"
| were offering everything, and that my
| fiantly.
| write one that would please you.”
‘No, it is not Rogers.
good man. But—-it is not Rogers.
“Then I think in an important mat-
ter like this Mr. Rogers, or some one
Rogers is ado. But just put it on the friendly
besis.”
A moment later she said :
e ~~ join me in this business.
who knows the business as thoroughly | I make you this offer entirely from a
as he does, would be able to give yon | friendly, and not from a financial,
advice that would be of some value.” | standpoint, hoping that you like me
“I don’t want advice exactly. Thave | well enongh to be associated with me.”
made up my mind to have a partner if |
the partrer is willing ” |
Denham mopped his brow.
had anticipated.
“Is it, then, a question of the capi-
tal the partner is to bring in?” asked |
Miss Gale, anxious to help him. |
“Ne, no. 1 don’t wish any eapital.
And the
business is very prosperous, Miss Gale
—-and——and has been.”
The young woman raised her eye-
brows in surprise.
“You surely don’t intend to share |
she profits with a partner who brings
no capital into the business?”
“Yes—yes, I do. You see, as I said
I have no need for more capital.”
“Oh, if that is the case I think you
should consult Mr. Rogers before you
commit yourself.”
“But Rogers wouldn't understand.”
“I'm afraid I don’t understand,
either. If seems to me a foolish thing
to do—that is, if you want my ad-
vice.”
“Oh, yes, I want it.
foolish as you think.
had a partner long ago.
where I made the mistake.
up my mind on that.”
“Then I don’tsee that can be of
any use—if your mind is already made
”
But it isn’t as
I should have
That is
I've made
5
“Oh, yes, you can. I'm a little
afraid that my offer may not be ac-
cepted.”
“It is sure to be if the man has any
sense. No fear of such an offer being
Offers like that are not to be
had every day. It will be accepted.”
“Do you really think so, Miss Gale?
I am glad that is your opinion. Now,
what I want to consult you about is
the form of the offer. I would like to
put it—well—delicately, you know, so
that it would not be refused or give
offense.”
“J seo. You want me to write a let-
ter to him?”
“Txactly, exactly,” cried Denham,
with some relief. He had no thought
of sending a letter before. @~ Now he
wondered way he had not thought of
it. Tt was so evidently the best way
out of a situation that was extremely
disconcerting.
“Have you spoken to him about
i?”
“To him! What him?”
“To your future pariner about the
proposal ?”
“No, no. No, no. That is—Ihave
spoken to nobody but you.”
“And you are determined not to |
speak to Mr. Rogers before you write ?” |
“‘Certainly not. It’s none of Rogers’s |
business.”
“Oh, very well,” said Miss Gale
shortly, bending over her writing
pad.
It was evident that her opinion of
Denham’s wisdom was steadily lower-
ing. Suddenly she looked up.
“How much shall I say the annual
profits are? Or do you want that
mentioned?”
“I—I dou’t think I would mention
that. You see, I don’t wish this ar-
rangement to be carried out on a
monetary basis—not altogether.”
“On what basis, then?”
*“Well—I ‘can hardiy say. On a
personal basis, perhaps. I rather hope
that the person—that my partner—
would, you know, like to be associated
with me.”
“On a friendly basis, do youmean?”
asked Miss Gale, mercilessly.
“Certainly. Friendly, of course—
and perhaps more than that.”
Miss Gale looked up at him with a
certain hopelessness of expression.
“Why not write a note inviting
your future partner to call upon you
here, or anywhere else that would be
convenient, and then discuss the mat-
ter?”
Denham looked frightened.
«I thought of that, but it wouldn’t
do. No, it wouldn’t do. I would
much rather settle everything by cor-
respondence.”
“I am afraid I shall not be able to
compose a letter that will suit you.
There seem to be so many difficulties.
It is very unusual.”
“That is true, and that is why I
knew no one but you could help me,
Miss Gale. If it pleases you it will
please me.”
Miss Gale shook her head, but after
a few moments she said, “How will
this do?”
“Dear Sir—"’
“Wait a moment,” cried Mr. Den-
ham. “That seems rather a formal
It was ground.
going to be even more difficult than he | typewritten, won't it?
| might add something to show that I
shall be exceedingly disappointed if
my offer is not accepted.”
opening, doesn’t it? How would it |
read to put it ‘Dear Friend?” |
“If you wish it 80.” She crossed |
out the ‘sir’ and substituted the word |
suggested. Then she read the letter:
“‘Dear friend, I have for some time
past been desirous of taking a partner,
and would be glad if you would con-
gider the question and consent to join |
me in this business. The business is,
and has been for several years, very
prosperous, and as I shall require no
capital irom you I think you will fiad
“II don’t think I would put i
quite that way,” said Denham, with
some hesitation. “It reads as if I
partner—well, you see what I mean.”
«‘T¢’s the truth,” said Miss Gale, de-
“Better put iton the friendly basis,
as you suggested a moment ago.”
«I didn’t suggest anything, Mr.
Denham. Perhaps it would be better
if you would dictate the letter exactly
as you want it. Iknew I coald not |
«Jt does please me, but I'm think-
iny of my future partner. You are
| doing first rate—Dbetter than I could |
| the crossing.
“Anything else, Mr. Denham 2”
“No; I think that covers the whole
It will look rather short
Perhaps you
“No fear,” said Miss Gale. ‘I'll add
that, though, ‘Yours truly,’ or ‘Yours
very truly?”
‘You might end it ‘your friend.””
The rapid click of the typewriter
was heard for a few moments in the
next room, and then Miss Gale came
out with the completed letter in her
hand.
¢‘Shall I have the boy copy it?” she
asked.
“Oh, bless yo, no!” answered Mr.
Denham, with evident trepidation.
The young woman said to herself:
“He doesn’t want Mr. Rogers to know,
and no wonder. It was a most un-
business-like proposal.”
Then she said aloud:
want me again to-day?”
“No, Miss Gale; and thank you very
much.”
Next morning Miss Gale came inta
Mr. Denham’s office with a smile on
her face.
“You made a funny mistake last
night, Mr. Denham,” she said, as she
took off her wraps.
“Did 1?” he asked, in alarm.
“Yes. You sent that letter to my
address. I got it this morning. 1
opened it, for I thought it was for me,
and that perhaps you did not need me
to-day. But I saw at once that you
put it in the wrong envelope. Did
you want me to-day?”
It was on his tongue to say, ‘I want
you every day,” but he merely held
out his hand for the letter and looked
at it as if he could not account for its
having gone astray.
The next day Miss Gale came in late
and she looked frightened. It was ev
ident that Denham was losing his
mind. She put the letter down before
him and said .
“You addressed that to me the sec
ond time, Mr. Denham.”
There was a look of haggard anxiety
about Denham that gave color to her
suspicions. He felt that it was now or
never.
“Then, why don’t you answer it,
Miss Gale?” he said, grufily.
She backed away from him.
“Answer it?” she repeated faintly.
“Certainly. If I got a letter twice
I would answer it.”
“What do you mean?’ she cried,
with her hand on the doorknob.
“Exactly what the letter says. 1
want you for my partner. I want tc
marry you, and—financial considera
tions—"" ;
“Oh!” cried Miss Gale, in a long:
‘Shall you
| drawn, quivering sigh. She was doubt:
less shocked at the word he had used
and fled to her typewriting room, clos
ing the door behind her.
Richard Denham paced up and down
the floor for a few moments, then
rapped lightly at her door, but there
was no response. He put on his hat
and then went out into the street.
After a long and aimless walk he again
found himself at his place of business.
When he went in Rogers said to him.
“Miss Gale has left, sir.”
*‘das she?”
‘Yes, and she has given notice. Says
she is not coming back, sir.”
“Very well.”
He went into his own room and
found a letter marked ‘‘personal’ on
his desk. He tore it open and read its
neatly typewritten characters.
“I have resigned my place as typewriter
girl, having been offered a better situation.
I am offered a partnership in the house of
Richard Denham. I have decided to accept
the position, not so much on account of its
financial attractions as because I shall be
glad, on a friendly basis. to be associated
with the gentleman I have named. Why did
you put me to all that worry writing that
idiotic letter when a few words would have
saved ever so much bother? You evidently
need a partner. My mother will be pleased
to meet you any time you call. You have
the address. Your friend,
“MARGARET GALE.”
‘“Rogers!” shouted Denham, joy-
fully.
“Yes, sir,” answered that estimable
man, putting his head into the door.
‘‘Advertise for another typewriter
girl, Rogers.”
Yes, air,”
Idler.
said Rogers. —London
—————r re
The Reality of War.
“Speaking of low water in the
Ohio,” said an old resident of Ohio
and of Cincinnati, ‘‘I remember dur-
ing the war when the Ohio was very
low. I was living at Proctorville,
Lawrence County, when the news
came by wire or boat that the Union
General Morgan, who lately died, was
coming to Greenup, Ky., having
marched through Kentucky from Cum-
berland Gap. I was a half-grown boy
then, and was crazy to see an army.
Father told me to ride down and see
It was a ride of forty
miles, but 1 had a cousin in Ironton,
and the night before I started on
horseback, riding through to Ironton.
Here I met and stayed with my cousin.
The next morning by daybreak we
rode to Greenup, about ten miles, and
for the first time I saw an army, and
that army fording the Ohio River.
And I'll never forget it. All the ro-
mance of war was gone in a minute.
Instead of bright uniformed soldiers
and gayly cap risoned chargers, I saw
a tired and a dusty lot of men, worn-
out and lame mules and horses with-
out number, broken wagons and crip-
pled cannon, all getting across the
river the best way they could. But
the river was shallow, and horses,
men and wagons crossed easily enough.
Then I knew war was a serious busi-
ness, and not fun,”—Cincinnati Tri-
brine.
| THE WORD IF TURNS HISTORY
“failed.
A MIGHTY WORD.
Dr. Talmage Draws Remarkable Lessons
From an Old Subject.
Text: “7f Thou wilt forgive their sin—'
and if not, blot me, I pray Thee, out of Thy
book. '—Exodus xxxii., 32.
There is in our English language a small
conjunction which, I propose, by God's help,
to haul out of its present insignificancy and
set upon the throne where it belongs, and
that is the conjunction “if.” Though made
of only two letters, it is the pivot on which
everythin turns. All time and all eternity
are at its disposal. We slur it in our utter-
ance, we ignore it in our appreciation, and
none of us recognize it as the most tremen-
dous word in all the vocabulary outside of
those words which deseribe deity.
“If!” Why, that word we take as a tramp
amon< words, now appearing here, now ap-
pearing there, but having no value of its
own, when it really has a milllonairedom of
worids, and in its train walk all planetary.
stellar, lunar, solar destinies. If the boat of
leaves made watertight, in which ths infant
Moses sailed the Nile, had sunk who would
have led Israel out of Egypt? If the Red
Sea had not parted for the escape of one
host and then come tozether for the sub-
mergence of another, would the book of
Exodus ever have been written? If the ship
on which Coiumbus sailed for America had
gone down in an Atlantic cyclone, how much
longer would it have taken for the discov-
ery of this continent?
If Grou:hy had come up with reinforce-
ments ir time to give the French the victory
at Waterloo, what would have been the fate
of Europe? If theSpanish Armada had not
been wrecked off the coast, how different
would have been many chapters in English
history! Ifthe battle of Hastings or the
battle of Pultowa, or the battle of Valmy. or
the battle of Mataurus, or the battle of Ar-
bela, or the battle of Chalons, each one of
whaich turned the world’s destiny, had been
cecided the other way !
If Shakespeare had never been born for
the drama, or Handel had never been born
for musie, or Titian had never been born for
painting, or Thorwaldsen had never been
born for sculpture, or Edmund Burke had
never been born for eloquence, or Socrates
had never been born for philosophy, or
Blackstone had never been born for the law,
or Copernicus had never heen born for as-
tronomy. or Luther had never been born for
the reformation!
Oh, that conjunction ‘‘if I” How much has
depended on it! The height of it, the depth
of it, the length of it, the breadth of it, the
immensity of it, the infinity of it—who can
measure? It would swamp anything but
omnipotence. But I must confine myself to-
day to the ‘ifs’ of the Bible, and in doing so
I shall speak ofthe ‘if of overpowering
earnestness, the “if” of incredulity, the “if”
of threat, the *‘if” of argumentation, the “if”
of eternal significance, or so many of these
“ifs” ag I can compass in the time that may
be reasonably allotted to pulpit discourse.
First, the *‘if” of overpowering earnest-
ness. My text gives it. The Israelites have
been worshiping an idol. notwithstanding
all that God had done for them, and now
Moses offers the most vehement prayer of all
history, and it turns upon an “if.” ‘It
Thou wilt forgive their sins—and if not, blot
me, I pray Thee, out of Thy book.” Oh,
what an overwhelming “if!” It was as
much as to say + *‘If Thou wilt not pardon
them, do not pardon me. If Thou wilt not
bring them to the promised lamd, let me
never see the promised land. If they must
perish, let me perish with them. In that
book where Thou recordest their doom re-
cord my doom. If they are shut out of
heaven, let me be shut out of heaven. If
they go down into darkness, let me go down
into darkness.” What vehemence and holy
recklessness of prayer!
Yet there are thoss here who, I have no
doubt, have, intheir all absorbing desire to
have others saved, risked the same prayer,
for it isa risk. You must not makeit unless
you are willing to balance your eternal sal-
vation on such an “if.” Yet there have been
cases where a mother has bsen so anxious
for the recovery of a wayward son that her
prayer has swung and trembled and poised
on an ‘‘if”’ like that of the text. ‘It not,
blot me, I pray thee, out of thy book. Write
his name in the Lamb’s Book of Life, orturn
to the page where my name was written ten
or twenty or forty or sixty years ago, and
with the black ink of everlasting midnight
erase my first name, and my last name, and
all my name. If he is to go into shipwreck,
let me be tossed amid thesame breakers. It
he cannot be a partner in my bliss,let mebea
partnerin his woe. I have for many years loved
Thee, O God, and it has been my expecta-
ticn to sit with Carist and all the redeemed
at the banquet of the skies but I now give
up my promised place at the feast, and my
promised robe, and my promised crown, and
my promised throne unless John. unless
George, unless Henry, unless my darlingson
can share them with me. Heaven will bs no
heaven without him. O God, save my boy,
or count me among the lost!”
That is a terrific prayer, and yet there is a
young man sitting in the pew on the main
floor, or in the lower gallery, or in thetop
gallery, who has already crushed such a
prayer from his mother’s heart. Ho hardly
ever writes home, or, living at home, what
does he care how much trouble he gives her!
Her tears are no more to him than the rain
that drops from the eaves on a dark night.
The fact that she does not sleep because of
watching for hisreturn late at night does not
choke his laughter or hasten his step forward.
She has tried coaxing and kindness and
gelf sacrifice and all the ordinary prayers that
mothers make for their children, and all have
She is coming toward the vivid and
venturesome and terrific prayer of my text.
She is going to lift her own eternity and set
it upon that one “if,’* by which she expects
to decide whether you will go up with her or
she down with you. She may be this mo-
ment looking heavenward and saying *‘O Lord
reclaim him by thy grace,” and then adding
that heart-rendering ‘‘if’ ofmy text ‘‘if not,
blot me, I pray Thee, out of Thy book.’,
After three years of abssnce a son wrote
his mother in one of the New England
whaling villages that he was coming home
in a certain ship. Motherlike, she stood
watching, and the ship was in the offing, but
a fearful storm struck it and dashed the ship
on the rocks that night. All that night the
mother prayed for the safety of the son, and
just at dawa there wasa knock at the cottage
door. and the son entered, crying out,
“Mother, I knew you would pray me home!”
If I would ask all those in this assemblages
who have been prayed home to God by pious
mothers to stand up, there would be scorss
that would stand, and if I should ask them
to give testimony it would be the testimony
of that New England son coming ashore
from the split timbers of the whaling ship,
¢My mother prayed me home!”
Another Bible “if” is the “it” of incredu-
lity. Satan used it when Christ's vitality
was depressed by forty days’ abstinence from
food, and the tempter pointed to some stones,
in color and snape like loases of breed, and
said, If tonou oe tas Son cf God, com-
mand that these stonss bs made bread.”
That was appropriate, for Satan isthe father
of that **if’’ of incredulity. Peter used the
same ‘it’ when, standing on the wet and
slippery deck of a fishing smack off Lake
Galilee, he saw Christ walking on the sea as
though it ware as solid as a pavement of
basalt from the adjoining volcanic nills, and
Pater eried, “if it be Thou, let me coma to
Thee on the water.”
What a preposterous ‘if!’ What human
foot was ever so constructed as to walk on
water? In what part of the earth did law of
gravitation make exception to the rule that a
man will sink to the elbows when he touches
the wave of river or lake and will sink still
farther unless he can swim? Buthere Peter
looks out upon the form in the shape of a
man defying the mightiest law of the uni-
verse, the law of gravitation, and standing
erect ou the top of the liquid. Yet the in-
erolu.ous Deter cries out to the Lord, “If
it be Thou.” Alas, for that incredulous ‘if I"
It is working as powerfully in the latter part
of this nineteenth Christian ce tury as it did
in the early part of the first Christian cen-
tury.
Though a small conjunction, it is the big-
gest block to-day in the way of the gospel
chariot. “If!” “If" We have theological
seminaries which spend most of their time
and employ their learning and their genius
in the manufacturing of “ifs.” With that
weaponry are assailed the Pentateuch., and
the miracles, and the divinity of Jesus Christ.
Almost everybody is chewing on an ‘if.”
When many a man hows for prayer, he puts
his knee on an ‘‘if.”’ The door through which
people pass into infidelity and atheism and
all immoralities has two doorposts, a»d the
one is made of the letter *‘i"” and the other
of the letter “‘f.”
There are only foar steps between strong
faith and complete unbelief : First, surrender
the idea of the verbal inspiration of the
Scriptures and adopt the idea that they were
all generally supervised by the Lord. Sec-
ond, surrender the idea that they were all
generally supervised by the: Lord and adopt
the theory that they were not all, but partly,
supervised by the Lord. Third, believe that
they are the gradual evolution of the ages,
and men wrote according to the wisdom of
the times in which they lived. Fourth, be-
lieve that the Bible is a bad book and not
only unworthy of credence, but pernicious
and debasing and cruel.
Only four steps from the stout faith in
which the martyrs died to the blatant car-
icature of Christianity as the greatest sham
of the centuries. But the door to all that
precipitation and horror is made out of an
**if.” The mother of unrests in the minds of
Christian people and to those who regard
sacred things is the *‘if”’ of ineredulity. In
1879, in Scotland, I saw a letter which had
been written many years ago by Thomas
Carlyle to Thomas Chalmers. Carlyle at the
time of writing the letter was a young man.
The letter was not to he published until after
the death of Carlyle. His death having taken
place, the letter ought to be published.
It was a letter in which Thomas Carlyle
expresses ths tortures of his own mind while
relaxing his faith in Christianity, while at
tha same time expresses his admiration for
Dr. Chalmers, and in which Carlyle wishes
that he had the same faith that the great
Scotch ministar evidently exercised. Nothing
that Thomas Carlyle ever wrote in ‘‘Sartor
Resartus,” or the ‘French Revolution,’ or
his ‘Life of Cromwell,” or his immortal
“Essays,” had in it more wondrous power
than that letter which bewailed his own
doubts and extolled the strong faith of
another.
I made an exact copy of that letter, with
the understanding that it should not be pub-
lished "until after the death of Thomas
Carlyle, but returning to my hotel in Edin-
burgh I felt uneasy lest somehow that letter
should gst out of my possession and be pub-
lished before its time. So I took it back to
the person by whose permission I had
copied it. All reasons for its privacy having
vanished, I wish it might be published.
Perhaps this sermon, finding its way into
a Scottish home, may suggest its printing,
for that letter shows more mightily than any-
thing Ihave ever read the differencebetween
the *‘I know” of Paul, and the “I know" of
Job, and the “I know” of Thomas Chalmers,
and the ‘I know” ofall those who hold with
a firm grip the gospel, on the one hand, and
the unmooring, bestorming and torturing
“if of incredulity on the other. I like the
positive faith of that sailor boy that Captain
Judkins of the steamship Scotia picked up in
a hurricane. ‘Go aloft,” said Ceptain Jud-
kins to his mate, ‘‘and look out for wrecks.”
Befora the mate had gone far up the rat-
lines he shouted: “A wreck! A wreck!”
“Where away !” said Captain Judkins, “Off
the port bow,” was the answer. Lifeboats
were lowered, and forty men volunteered to
put out across the angry sea for the wreck.
They came back with a dozen shipwrecked,
and among them a boy of twelve years.
“Who are you?’ said Captain Judkins.
The answer was: ‘Iam a Scotch boy. My
father and mother are dead, and I am on my
way to America.” “What have you here?”
said Captain Judkins as he opened the boy’s
jacket and took hold of a rope around the
boy’s body. “It is a rope,” said the boy.
*‘But what is that tied by this rope under
your arm?’ ‘That, sir,. is my mother's
Bible. She told me never to loss that.”
‘Could you not have saved something else?"
‘Not and saved that.” *‘Did you expect to
go down?” ‘‘Yes, sir, but I meant to take
my mother’s Bible down with me.” “Bravo ld
said Captain Judkins. “¥ will take care of
you.”
That boy demonstrated a certainty and a
confidence that I like. Just in proportion
as you have few “ifs” of incredulity in your
religion will you find it a comfortable re-
ligion. My full and unquestioned faith in it
is founded on the fact that it sooths and sus-
tains in time of trouble. I do not believe
that any man who ever lived had more bless-
ings and prosperity than I have received
from God and the world. But I have had
{rouble enough to allow me opportunity for
finding out whether our religion is ot any
use in such exigency. I have had fourteen
great bereavements. to say nothing of lesser
bereavements, for I was the younger of a
large family. I have bad as much persecu-
tion as comes to most people. I have had
all kinds of trial, except severs and pro-
longed sickness, and I would have been dead
long ago but for the consolatory power of
our religion.
Any religion will do in time of -prosperity.
Buddhism will do. Confucianism will do.
Theosophy will do. No religion at all will
do. But when the world gets after you and
defames your best deeds, when bankruptcy
takes the place of large dividends, when you
fold for ths last sleep, the still hands over
the still heart of your old father, who has
been planning for your welfare all these
years, or you close the eyes of your mother,
who has lived in your life ever since befors
you wera born, removing her spectacles be-
cause she will have clear vision in the home
to which she has gone, or you give the last
kiss to the child reclining amid the flowers
that pile the casket and looking as natural
and lifelike as she ever did reclining in the
cradle, then the only religion worth anything
is the old fashion religion of the gospel of
Jesus Christ.
I would give more in such a crisis for one
of the promises expressed in half a verse of
the old book than for a whole library con-
taining all the productions of all the other
religions of all the ages. The otherreligions
are a sort of cocaine to benumb and deaden
the sou! while bereavement and misfortune
do their work, but our religion is inspira-
tion, illumination, imparadisation. It is a
mixcure of sunlight and hallelujah. Do not
adulterate it with one drop of the tincture of
incredulity.
Another Bible ¢‘if” is ths “if” of eternal
significance. Solomon gives us that *‘it”
twice in one sentence when he says, “If thou
be wise, thou shalt be wise for thysslf, but if
thou scornest thou alone shalt bear it.”
Christ gives us that “if” when he says, “It
thou hadst known in this thy day the tnings
which belong unto thy peace, but now they
are hidden from thine eyes.” Paul gives us
| that “if” when he says, “If they shall enter
into my rest.” All these ifs” and a score
mors tnat [ might recall put the whole re-
sponsibility oi our silvation on ourselves.
Christ's willingness to pardon—n» “if” about
that. Reaims of glory awaiting the right-
eous—no *‘it"” about that.
The only **i’’ in all the case worth a mo-
ment’s consideration is the *‘if”’ that attaches
itself to the question as to whether we will
accept. whether we will repent, whether we
will believe, whether we will rise forever. Is
it not time that wa take our etarnal future
off that swivel? Is it not time that we ex-
tirpate that ‘‘if,”’ that miserable “if,” that
hazardous “if?” We would not allow this
uncertain ‘*if’’ to stay long in anything else
of importance. Let some one say in regard
to a railroad bridge, *'I have reasons for ask-
ing if that bridge is safe,” acd you would not
cross it. Let some one say, ‘‘I have reasons
to ask if that steamer is trustworthy,” and
you would not take passage on it.
Let some one suggest in regard to a prop-
erty that you are about to purchase, “Ihave
reason to ask if they can give a good title,”
and you would not pay a dollar cown until
you nal some skillful real estate lawyer ex-
amine the title. But I allowed for years of
my lifetime, and some of you have allowed
for years of your lifetime, an *‘if’ to stand
tossing up and down questions of eternal
destiny. Oh, decide! Perhaps your arrival
here to.day may decide. Stranger things
than that have n:* to flight forever the “if”
of uncertainty.
A few Sabbath rughts ago in this church a
man passing at the foot of the pulpit said to
me, ‘‘I am a miner from England,” and then
le pushed back his coat sleeve and said. ‘‘Do
you see that scar on my arm?” I said, “Yes;
you must have had an awful wound there
some time” He said: ‘Yes; it nearly cost
me my life. I was in a mine in England 600
feet underground and three miles from the
shaft of the mine, and a rock fell on me, and
my fellow laborer pried off the rock, and I
was bleeding to death, and he took a news-
paper from around his luncheon and bound
it around my wound and then helped me over
the three miles underground to the shaft,
where I was lifted to the top, and when the
newspaper was taken off my wound I read
on it something that saved my soul, and it
was one of your sermons. Good night,” he
said as he passed on, leaving me transfixed
with grateful emotion.
And who knows but the words I now speak,
blessed of God, may reach some wounded
soul deep down in the black mine of sin, and
that these words may be blessed to the stanch-
ing of the wound and the. eternal life of the
soul? Settle this matter instantly, positively
and forever. Slay the last *"if.” Bury deep
the last "if." How to do it? Fling body,
mind and soulin a prayer as earnest as that
of Moses in the text. Can you doubt the
earnestness of this prayer of the text? Itis
so heavy with emotion that it breaks down
in the middle. It was so earnest that the
translators in the modern copies of the Bible
were obliged to put a mark, a straight line,
a dash, for an omission that will never be
filled up. Such an abrupt pause, such a sud-
den snapping off of the sentence!
You cannot parse my text. It is an of-
fense of grammatical construction. But
that dash put in by the typesetters is mightily
suggestive. ‘If thou wilt forgive their sin
(then comes the dash)—‘'and if not. blot
me, I pray Thee, out of Thy book.” Some
of the most earnest prayers ever uttered
could not he parsed and were poor speci-
mens of language. They halted, they broke
down, they passed into sobs or groans or
silences. God cares nothing for the syntax
of prayers, nothing for the rhetoric of
prayers. Oh, the worldless prayers! If they
were piled up, they would reach to the rain-
bow that arches the throne of God. A deep
sigh may mean more than a whole liturgy.
Out of the 116,000 words of the English
language thers may not be a word enough
expressive for the soul.
The most effective prayers I have heard
have been prayers that broke down with
emotion—the young man for the first time
rising in a prayer meeting and saying, ‘*Oh,
Lord Jesus!” and then sitting down, bury-
ing his face in the handkerchief, the pemni-
tent in the inquiry room kneeling and say-
ing, ‘God help me,” and getting no further;
the broken prayer that started a great re-
vival in my church in Philadelphia. A
prayer may hava in style the gracefulness of
an Addison, and the sublimity of a Milton
and the epigrammatic force of an Emerson,
and yet be a failure, haviny a horizontal
power but no perpendicular power, hori- °
zontal power reaching ths ear of man, but
no perpendicular power reaching the ear of
God.
Between the first and the last sentences of
my text there was a paroxysm of earnestness
too mighty for words. It will take half of an
eternity to tell of all the answers of earnest
and faithful prayer. In his last journal
David Livingstone, in Africa, records the
prayer so soon to be answered : ‘19 March—
my birthday. My Jesus, my God, my life,
my all, I again dedicate my whole self to
Thee. Accept me, and grant, O gracious
Father, that ere this vear is gone I may finish
my task. In Jesus’ name I ask it. Amen.”
When the dusky servant looked into Liv-
ingstone’s tent and found him dead on his
knees, he saw that the prayer had been an-
swered. But notwithstanding the earnest-
ness of the prayer of Moses in the text, it
was a defeated prayer and was not an-
swered. I think the two ‘‘ifs” in the prayer
defeated it, and one *‘if” is enough to defeat
any prayer, whatever other good character-
istics it may have. “If Thou wilt forgive
their sins—and if not, blot me, I pray Thee,
out of Thy book.” God did neither. As the
following verses show, He punished their
sins, but I am sure did not blot out ono let-
ter of the name of Moses from the Book of
Life.
There is only one kind of prayer in which
you need to put the if,” and that is the
prayer for temporal blessings. Pray for
riches, and they may engulf us ; or for fame,
and it may bewitch us; or for worldly sue-
cess, and it may destroy us. Better say, *‘If
it be best,” “If I can make proper use of it,”
“If Thou seest Ineed it.” A wife praying for
the recovery of her husband from illness,
stamped her foot and said with frightful
emphasis: “I will not have him die. God
shall not take him.” Her prayer was an-
swered, but in a few years alter the commu-
nity was shocked by the fact that he had in a
moment of anger ¢lain her.
A mother, praying for a son’s recover from
illness, told the Lord he had no right to take
him, and the boy recovered, but plunged in-
to all abominations and died a renegade.
Better in all such prayers and all prayers
pertaining to our tsmporal welfare to put an
“if, saying, ‘‘If it be Thy will.” But in pray-
ing for spiritual good and the salvation of
our soul we need never insert an “if.” Our
spiritual welfare is sure to be for the best,
and away with the *‘ifs.”
Abraham’s prayer for the rescue of Sodom
was a grand prayer in some respects, but
there were six “ifs’* in it, or ‘‘peradyen-
tures,” which mean the same thing. ‘‘Per-
adventure thers may be fifty righteous in the
city, peradventure forty-five, peradventure
forty, peradventure thirty, peradventure
twenty, psradventure ten.” Those six per-
adventures, those six *if’s” killed the prayer.
and Sodom went down and went under.
Nearly all the prayers that were answered
had no “ifs” in them—the prayer of Elijah
that changed dry weather to wet veather,
the prayer that changed Hezekiah from a
¢ick man to a well mah, the prayer that
halted sun and moon without shaking the
universe to pieces.
Oh, rally your soul for a prayer with no
“ifs” init! Sayinsubstance: ‘Lord, Thou
hast promised pardon, and I take it. Here
are my wounds; heal them. Here is my
blindness ; irradiate it. Here are my chains
of bondage; by the gospel hammer strike
them off. I am fleeing tothe City of Refuge,
and I am sure this is the right way. Thanks
be to God, I am free!”
Once, by the law. my hopes were slain,
But now, in Christ, I live again.
With the Mosaiz earnestness of my text
and without its Mosaic ‘its,’ let us cry out
for God. Aye, if words {ail us, let us take
the suggestion of that printer's dash ofthe
text, and with a wordless silence implore
pardon and comfort and life and heaven,
For this agsemblage, all of whom I shall
meet in the last juagment, I dare not offer
the prayer of my text, and so I change it and
say, ‘‘Lord God, forgive our sinsand write
our names in the book of Thy lovin remem-
brance, from: which they shall never be blot.
ted out.”
Most Peraicious of Winds.
The most pernicious winds are the
samiels or hot winds of Egypt. They
come from the deserts to the south-
west, and bring with them infinite
quantities of fine dust, which pene-
trates even the minutest crevice. The
thermometer often rises to 125 during
their continuance, and thousands of
human beings have been known to
perish from suffocation in the fiery
blast. It was one of those samiels that
destroyed the army of Sennacherib.
Alexander the Great nearly lost his
whole force in another, and the army
of Cambyses was utterly annihilated.
| Chieago Herald.
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