Earlier text: NOTES ON THE INTERNATIONAL LESSONThe Massacre of St. Bartholomew's.
THE August night of the 23d sunk down over Paris, and upon its narrow streets and gloomy lanes a strange stillness rested. The citizens awaited in silence the signal for the massacre of the Huguenots, and the perfect fulfillment of the constant injunctions from Rome. Every Catholic, every Parisian, knew that the popes had never ceased to inculcate a general destruction of the heretics. The king's body-guard had been stationed under arms in the city; the citizens were provided with weapons at the public cost; the houses of the Huguenots were marked to guide the murderers to their doors; the Catholic assassins were enjoined to wear a white cross to distinguish them from their victims. But while all was still without, in a retired chamber of the Louvre a scene of human passion and wickedness was exhibited, such as can scarcely be paralleled in history. A mother was urging her half-insane son to an unequaled deed of crime. Charles hesitated to give the final order. Soon after midnight Catherine had risen, perhaps from sleep, and gone to the king's chamber. She found Charles irresolute, and excited by a terrible mental struggle. He was probably insane. At one moment he cried out that he would call upon the Huguenots to protect his life; at another he overwhelmed with reproaches his brother Anjou, whom he hated and feared, and who had now entered the room. The other members of the guilty council—Guise, Nevers, and their associates—followed and gathered around the king. He still paced the room with rapid steps, incapable of decision. But Catherine, roused to a fierce rage, her voice filled with sinister meaning, told Charles that it was too late to recede, and that the order must be given. The king, still scarcely twenty-two years old, accustomed from infancy to tremble before his mother's glance, his mind enfeebled by dissipation and crime, conscious that if he disobeyed that menacing tone his own life was not safe, and that Catherine might remove him by her secret arts to place her favorite Anjou on his throne, in a sudden access of terror or of frenzy, gave the fatal command. From this moment all that was gentle in his nature died forever, and he became the chief promoter of the general massacre, the active instrument in the hands of unsparing Rome. Guise at once went swiftly from the room to begin the labor of death by the murder of Coligny. The clash of his horse's hoofs resounded in the still Sabbath morning as he led a party of soldiers to the admiral's quarters. Catherine, Charles, and the other conspirators, terrified at what they had done, kept closely together, and gathered at a window overlooking the tennis court. "We were smitten," says Anjou, "with terror and foreboding." Catherine, it is said, even sent to recall Guise; but he replied, "It is too late." Coligny had been stabbed in his bed-chamber, and his body thrown out of the window into the court below. Many587Huguenots perished with him. The death of the chief of the reformers roused the conspirators to new energy, and Catherine gave orders that the signal for the general massacre should be given before the appointed hour. The clock of the church of St. Germain l'Auxerrois sounded over silent Paris. Its ominous peal awoke an awful clamor, such as the earth had never witnessed before. A clang of bells responded from every tower and belfry; the adherents of the pope seized their arms, rushed to the houses of the Huguenots, and murdered every inmate, from the sleeping infant to the gray-haired grandsire and the helpless maid. The city had been suddenly illuminated, and from every Catholic house the blaze of torches lighted up the labor of death. Beneath their rays were seen women unsexed, and children endowed with an unnatural malice, torturing and treating with strange malignity the dying and the dead. It is impossible, indeed, to narrate the details of this awful event, over which Catholic kings and priests rejoiced, and for which the infallible pope at Rome gave public thanks to God. Within the palace of the Louvre itself, where a few days before every saloon had rung with festivity, and where mask and dance and throngs of gallant knights and maidens had greeted the nuptials of Henry and Marguerite, now echoed the groans of the dying Huguenots, and the shrieks of the terrified queen. In the evening Marguerite had been driven by her enraged mother from her presence and from the arms of her sister Claud, who would have detained her, and was forced to go, trembling, to the apartment of her husband, lest her absence might excite suspicion. She lay awake all night, filled with a sense of impending danger. She pretended that she knew nothing of the approaching event. Henry's rooms were filled with his companions in arms, who passed the night in uttering vain threats against the Guises, and planning projects of revenge. Toward morning they all went out in company with the king; and Marguerite, weary with watching, sunk into a brief slumber. She was aroused by a loud cry without of "Navarre! Navarre!" and a knocking at the door. It was thrown open; a man, wounded and bleeding, pursued by four soldiers, rushed into the room, and threw his arms around the queen. He clung to her, begging for life. She screamed in her terror. The captain of the guard came in and drove off the soldiers, and the wounded Huguenot was allowed to hide himself in her closet. Marguerite fled hastily across the halls of the Louvre to her sister's room, and, as she passed amidst the scene that had so lately rung with the masks and revels of her wedding night, she saw another Huguenot pierced by the spear of his pursuer, and heard the clamor of the general massacre. Faint and trembling, she went to her mother and the king, threw herself at their feet, and begged the lives of two of her husband's retainers. Meantime, when Henry of Navarre had left his room in the morning, he had been arrested, and carried to the king's chamber; but of the band of Huguenots who had attended him in the night only a few escaped. Each man, as he passed out into the court, between two lines of Swiss guards, was stabbed without mercy. Two hundred of the noblest and purest reformers of France lay piled in a huge heap before the windows of the Louvre; Charles IX., Catherine, and her infamous train of maids of honor, inspected and derided them as they lay dead. All through that fearful Sabbath day, the feast of St. Bartholomew, and for two succeeding days, the murders went on; the whole city was in arms; every hat or cap was marked with a white cross, and every Catholic was converted into an assassin. Charles, a raging lunatic, rode through the streets, laughing and jesting over the fallen. The streets were filled with corpses; the Seine was turned to blood; many Catholics grew rich by the plunder of the Huguenots; and it was believed that the king and his brother, Anjou, shared the spoils of opulent merchants and skillful goldsmiths. The papal nuncio, Salviati, overjoyed at the spectacle, wrote to the pope that nothing was to be seen in the streets but white crosses, producing fine effect; he did not see the heaps of dead, nor the scenes of inexpiable crime. Charles IX. shot at the flying Huguenots from his bedroom window. The rage of the murderers was chiefly turned against women and infants. One man threw two little children into the Seine from a basket; another infant was dragged through the streets by a crowd of Catholic children, with a cord tied around its neck; a babe smiled in the face of the man who had seized it, and played with his beard, but the monster stabbed the child, and, with an oath, threw it into the Seine. For three days the massacre continued with excessive atrocities. A month later, Huguenots were still being murdered in Paris. It is computed that several thousand persons perished in that city alone. In every part of the kingdom, by orders of the king, an effort was made to exterminate the Huguenots; and Lyons, Orleans, Bordeaux, and all the provincial towns ran with blood. Four thousand reformers are said to have been killed in Lyons. At Bordeaux, Auger, the most eloquent of the Jesuit preachers, employed all his powers in urging on the work of slaughter. "Who," he cried, "executed the divine judgments at Paris? The angel of the Lord. And who will execute them in Bordeaux? The angel of the Lord, however man may try to resist him!" The number of the slain throughout France has been variously estimated at from ten to one hundred thousand. History has no parallel to offer to this religious massacre, even in its most barbarous period. The Pope, Gregory XIII., received the news of the fate of the Huguenots with unbounded joy. The wish of his heart had been gratified, and Charles IX. was now his favorite son. Rome rang with rejoicing. The guns of the Castle of St. Angelo gave forth a joyous salute; the bells sounded from every tower; bonfires blazed throughout the night; and Gregory, attended by his cardinals and priests, led the magnificent procession to the church of St. Louis, where the cardinal of Lorraine, the brother of the duke of Guise, chanted a Te Deum. The cry of the dying host in France was gentle harmony to the court of Rome. A medal was struck to commemorate the glorious massacre; a picture, which still exists in the Vatican, was painted by Vasari, representing the chief events of St. Bartholomew. The pope, eager to show his gratitude to Charles for his dutiful conduct, sent him the Golden Rose; and from the pulpits of Rome eloquent preachers celebrated Charles, Catherine, and the Guises as the new founders of the papal church.—Historical Studies. The Missionary.
By E. R. Jones
THE camp was pitched on a level plat of ground in the limits of Carson City, a town of about 5,000 inhabitants, the capital of the State. There were twenty tents besides the large one. The meeting had not been previously advertised, and as the cotton town quickly and silently arose in their very midst, many inquired, "Who are they?" "Where did they come from?" "What are they going to do?" etc. The bills soon explained the matter, as they were quickly scattered everywhere. About fifty of our people camped on the ground, quite a proportion of whom had newly come into the faith; this gave an additional interest to the meeting, as they eagerly sought for and rejoiced to gain a better understanding of the truth. At the opening service there were four or five hundred present from the city. Many of these came from mere curiosity, and having had that gratified, attended little afterward. The second evening the congregation settled down to those who wished to hear what we had to say. The number of these increased from evening to evening, and the interest deepened till the very last. Judges, lawyers, and the governor of the State attended some of the evening services. The city became mightily stirred up over the things that were being preached at the camp. There had been colporter work done in the city for some time previous to the meeting, and a few had become interested. They and others with them now became fully established and took their stand on the truth. The forenoon of each day was devoted to giving instruction in Sabbath-school work, the keeping of church records, and in Bible study. Brother Loughborough had these in charge, and most excellent instruction was given. Upwards of sixty services were held during the meeting; of these twenty-three were discourses given by Brethren Loughborough, Colcord, Briggs, and the writer. The devotional services which at first did not seem to be all we could desire, improved till the very last, and at the close were sweet seasons of waiting before the Lord. The Sabbath-school each Sabbath was no insignificant feature of the meeting. Brother Loughborough superintended. There were about seventy in attendance each Sabbath, and the lessons were well learned. In classification, arrangement, and interest it was a model school. The contributions amounted to $22.50. All were well pleased with the meeting, and anxious to have another next year. They unanimously voted to request the California Conference to so arrange. They subscribed about $400 for this purpose. Monday morning as the meeting closed, fourteen were baptized; one was baptized the day previous. The cause in Nevada is certainly advancing, much to the encouragement of all our people there. They are liberal toward the cause, which is a feature common to all mining districts, and warm-hearted and enthusiastic in the work. Brethren Briggs and Colcord remain in Carson to still further the interest by a protracted effort in the tent. Anxiously are the brethren looking for the full development of the work in Carson City, and earnestly are they praying to God for its success. E. R. JONES. Santa Barbara and Goleta, California.
By H. A. St. John
Elder Healey and family left for the Stockton camp-meeting, Sept. 2. I continued the meetings in Goleta until Sept. 13. Here the work in this part of Santa Barbara County closes for the present. The results of our three months' work in this field are not what we wish they were, nevertheless the Lord has wrought with us in some measure, in the enlightenment of many, and the winning of a few souls to the path of obedience. Altogether thirty-five names have been secured to the covenant, the greater part of this number accepting the truth during our meetings. We have learned of one wayside hearer among the number on the covenant, and of three at least who are obeying the truth whose names have not been secured. About all are quite poor, and some extremely so, yet we are glad to know that with God there is no respect of persons, but that the poor of this world may be rich in faith and heirs of the coming kingdom. I baptized six persons in the Pacific Ocean, Monday, Sept. 6. It was not deemed advisable to organize just at present, but an organization we doubt not will be effected in the city of Santa Barbara, at no distant day. I should state, also, that nearly one-third of the number signing the covenant were only temporary dwellers in the city, and have already gone. Nearly all have the SIGNS OF THE TIMES. At a meeting on Sept. 6, all voted to have a treasury at their homes, and lay aside on the first day of the week, as God had prospered them. This they cheerfully agreed to do, after we had explained to them that the tithing system was the only way we knew of to do this scripturally. Brother Isaac Amy will have charge of the Sabbath-school and meetings for the present. Much difficulty still exists in obtaining a central and suitable place for Sabbath meetings. Including children, about forty were present at the two last Sabbath meetings. Now that we leave them, it is with the prayer that they may dwell together in unity, and in love abound more and more. Steamer Santa Rosa, Sept. 15, 1885. North Pacific T. and M. Society.
By Mrs. C. L. Boyd
REPORT FOR QUARTER ENDING JUNE 30, 1885. No of members......................................... 167
“ reports returned.................................... 89
“ members added....................................... 16
“ “ dismissed......................................... 2
“ letters written..................................... 403
“ visits made......................................... 800
“ pp. of tracts loaned................................ 13,237
“ “ “ given away.................................... 14,888
“ “ “ sold............................................ 12,177
“ periodicals distributed............................. 9,045
“ new subscribers obtained: SIGNS, 49; SIGNS
on trial, 30; Review, 4; Instructor, 3; Good
Health, 31; Stimme, 1; total.......................... 118
Received on donation and membership...................$ 38 45
“ “ sales............................................. 133 50
“ “ periodicals....................................... 154 80
“ “ five thousand dollar fund......................... 714 90
Total receipts........................................$1,011 65 1. WE must believe. "All things, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive." Matt. 21 : 22; Heb. 11 : 6. 2. We must desire. "What things soever ye desire, when ye pray, believe that ye receive them, and ye shall have them." Mark 11 : 24; Jer. 17 : 9, 10. 3. Pray in the name of Christ. "Whatsoever ye shall ask in my name, that will I do, that the Father may be glorified in the Son. If ye shall ask anything in my name, I will do it." John 14 : 13, 14; 16 : 24. 5. Pray importunately. "Though he will not rise and give him, because he is his friend, yet because of his importunity he will rise and give him as many as he needeth. And I say unto you, Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you." Luke 11 : 8, 9. 6. Pray in submission to God's will. "This is the confidence that we have in him, that, if we ask anything according to his will, he heareth us." 1 John 5 : 14. "Abba, Father, all things are possible unto thee; take away this cup from me; nevertheless, not what I will, but what thou wilt." Mark 14 : 36. 7. Pray in the Spirit. "Praying always with all prayer and supplication in the Spirit." Eph. 6 : 18. "Praying in the Holy Ghost." Jude 20. That Mighty Name.
By Congregationalist
MR. WILLIAM REYNOLDS, of Peoria, Ill., the well-known Sunday-school worker, tells the following touching story, which he had from the lips of the missionary himself:— Rev. E. P. Scott, while laboring as a missionary in India, saw on the street one of the strangest-looking heathen his eyes had seen. On inquiry, he found that he was representative of one of the inland tribes that live away in the mountain districts, and that came down once a year to trade. Upon further investigation, he found that the gospel had never been preached to them, and that it was very hazardous to venture among them, because of their murderous propensities. He was stirred with earnest desires to break unto them the bread of life. He went to his lodging-place, fell on his knees, and pleaded for divine direction. Arising from his knees, he packed his valise, took his violin, with which he was accustomed to sing, and his pilgrim staff, and started in the direction of the Macedonian cry. As he bade his fellow-missionaries farewell, they said, "We shall never see you again. It is madness for you to go." But he said, "I must preach Jesus to them." For two days he traveled, scarcely meeting a human being, until at last he found himself in the mountains and suddenly surrounded by a crowd of savages. Every spear was instantly pointed at his heart. He expected that every moment would be his last. Not knowing of any other resource, he tried the power of singing the name of Jesus to them. Drawing forth his violin, he began with closed eyes to sing and play:— "All hail the power of Jesus' name!
Let angels prostrate fall;
Bring forth the royal diadem,
And crown him Lord of all." Being afraid to open his eyes, he sang on till the third verse, and while singing the stanza,
"Let every kindred, every tribe,
On this terrestrial ball,
To him all majesty ascribe,
And crown him Lord of all," He opened his eyes to see what they were going to do, when, lo, the spears had dropped from their hands, and the big tears were falling from their eyes! They afterward invited him to their homes. He spent two and a half years among them. His labors were so richly rewarded that when he was compelled to leave them because of impaired health, and return to this country, they followed him for thirty miles. "O missionary," they said, "come back to us again! There are tribes beyond that never heard the gospel." He could not resist their entreaties. After visiting America, he went back again to continue his labors till he sank into the grave among them. Missionaries are often the bravest men on earth. "I WILL praise the Lord according to his righteousness; and will sing praise to the name of the Lord most high." Ps. 7:17. Fathers and Sons.
By H. H. Boyesen
DURING a long career as a teacher, I have come in contact with several thousand young men, and with many of them I have had confidential chats. In this way I have occasionally gotten glimpses of home life which fairly appall me. In nine cases out of ten it is the same story. The father is too busy to look after his sons. He is at his business down town from nine or ten o'clock in the morning until five or six in the afternoon. He comes home for dinner, and, after having had his smoke, and a perfunctory chat with his family, he goes to his club and is invisible for the rest of the evening. He asks his son an occasional question about his college affairs, and scolds him if he spends too much money; but rarely makes an effort to influence him, to give a wholesome direction to his thought, or to point out to him the terrible consequence of vicious indulgence. He expects the young man to "sow his wild oats," perhaps, and thinks he had better explore life for himself, and reap the consequences of his youthful follies. That this is in no sense a caricature of the fashionable father, every one who has more than a surface knowledge of New York society will readily admit. There are of course, even among the fashionable, many honorable exceptions, but they are the exceptions that prove the rule. The majority of them need an introduction to their own sons. They would be astonished to get a glimpse of the thoughts that live and thrive beneath the polished surface of the young gentlemen who sit opposite to them at the table. They would be startled (though they would have no right to be) at the frank cynicism of these disillusionized philosophers, at the sordid ideals which they profess to worship, at their superior contempt for all that humanity has, in the past, held sacred. If you talk with them, you discover, before long, that their one aim and object in life is to have "fun," and that, in that word, they include the whole catalogue of pleasures, from a base-ball match or a flirtation to a disgraceful debauch. If you tell them that they destroy themselves by such indulgences, and unfit themselves for all future usefulness, they smile and, in their hearts, pronounce you a milk-sop. Some of them will, with vulgar ostentation, tell you that they are rich enough to do what they choose; that they have no ambition to be useful; that they can see no harm in having "a good time" while they are young and capable of enjoyment. Confessions of this kind, of which I have often been the depositary, have explained to me several social phenomena which before seemed puzzling. The frequent decline and disappearance of old American names in the business world, and the perpetual crowding out of the native element by German and Jewish firms, is unquestionably due to the inability of the generation born and nurtured in luxury to hold its own in the competition with the frugal and industrious foreigner. The son of the self-made man is, by his father's wealth, absolved from the necessity to work. The self-made man himself looks, perhaps, upon work, not as the blessing that it is, but as a more or less unpleasant means of realizing his ambitions; and he is happy in the thought that his son will not have to slave as he slaved in his youth. Few will deny that this is a legitimate and natural pleasure; and provided the son is duly impressed with his responsibility as the possessor of a large fortune, and has by inheritance, or by education, acquired high and noble aims, his position will, in many respects, be more enviable than his father's. And yet, in spite of all factitious advantages which wealth brings him, he is, from a sociological point of view, to be deplored. The removal of the natural stimulus to work is a very questionable blessing. Just as a limb which is not exercised grows limp and feeble, so a brain which has no serious and absorbing labor deteriorates. Faculties which are not called into play are gradually dulled; latent energies, which are never aroused, languish and disappear. Instead of bequeathing an increased fund of moral and intellectual strength to the next generation, the luxurious man of leisure bequeaths less than he received. He is like the unfaithful servant whom his lord so severely condemned for hiding his talent in the ground, where it benefited no one. The Russian author, Tourguéneff, in his famous novel, "Fathers and Sons," makes Arcaidi Kirsanoff say to his father, "You and I belong to different generations; therefore you cannot understand me;" and the father is represented as being greatly grieved at the thought of the distance which mentally separates them. I have heard American fathers express the same regret. "Young men are not nowadays what they were in my youth," is the refrain of a hundred lamentations at the degeneracy of the age. But if, instead of deploring the inevitable, these same fathers would make an earnest effort to bridge the gulf which separates them from their children, they would find that the task is by no means so hopeless. If, instead of leaving the training of the children to their mother (who is, perhaps, not always a wise mother), or to hired teachers, they would sacrifice some hours from their clubs and interest themselves in the games, the lessons, and the general development of the young, they would be rewarded with a love and devotion which are a hundredfold more valuable than the insane pleasures of a club room. The father who possesses his son's confidence is a happy father; and the son who has in his father an older friend and sympathetic counselor will rarely, if ever, go astray. Instead of insisting upon an undue degree of respect, which often produces distance and estrangement, let the father enter with hearty appreciation into his son's pursuits, and endeavor to guide him gently and imperceptibly, and to store his mind without didactic homilies, with reverence for all that is good, and abhorrence for all that is base. A certain degree of comradeship, so far from interfering with the proper respect, is more apt to deepen the mutual confidence and affection which are, after all, the only safe basis of the parental relation. Herbert Spencer somewhere relates an imaginary conversation with a British farmer who had been attending a farmers' convention, at which the discussion had turned chiefly on the proper diet for pigs. Spencer asks him how he feeds his children. "The children," exclaims the farmer, contemptuously, "I leave the feeding of them to the women." This is very à propos of the attitude of fathers to their offspring in general. Mentally as well as physically they "leave them to the women," and they are astounded if the children do not repay them for this indifference with affection and regard. The farmer probably looked upon the pigs as "business;" and, like the American merchant, took it for granted that business ought to take precedence before everything. But, after all, what is more serious business than the moral and physical welfare of those to whom the keeping of all that the parents hold precious—name, wealth, and position—is to be intrusted? Would it not, then, be good economy to let the down-town business suffer a little, and devote the time thus saved to the cultivation of the mind and heart of him who before long may have the power to scatter the accumulated results of all this anxiety and toil to the four winds of heaven? On purely utilitarian grounds, then, as a matter of business, it would repay fathers to cultivate closer relations with their sons.—H. H. Boyesen, in the Congregationalist. The Home Circle.
By Clark W. Bryan
THE evening shadows gather and night draws on apace,
With freshly printed papers the daily world I trace.
My wife, drawn close beside me, in tender tones and low,
Hums nursery airs, and gently rocks the cradle to and fro.
The open fire and cheery, sheds light and heat around.
The old clock in the corner, keeps up its measured sound,
Old Towser sleeps serenely the evening hours away,
And Tabby purrs contentedly in rest from romp and play.
Here duty and affection weave strong their web and well,
Here worldly strifes are barred the way, here peace and quiet dwell;
The outside world knows not how rich the clust'ring joys that come,
To fireside realms where love draws near and builds a happy home.
—Clark W. Bryan, in Good Housekeeping. A Stupendous Rift in the Earth.
By Sel.
PROBABLY few rivers are less generally known than the "Colorado of the West." Rising in Colorado and Wyoming, it runs through a country of peerless beauty, through pleasant valleys, rocky mountains, high plateaus, arid deserts, finally debouching into the California Gulf, nearly 3,000 miles from its starting place. It drains an area of nearly 400,000 square miles. It is the river of cañons. From the junction of the Green and Grand Rivers to Colville it has but few breaks in what forms probably the most stupendous rift in the world. Five hundred miles in length is the cut, with a maximum depth of 6,500 feet, an average that exceeds 3,000. Americans are too apt to overlook their own country, and travel to other lands in search of the picturesque. To the geologist, the earnest student of nature, the artist, or the mere sight-seer, this country offers inducements unparalleled. Looking south across the House Rock Valley, in northern Arizona, one notices a few broken bluffs, about ten miles distant, apparently about twenty feet high. Only five or six of these occur, scattered at irregular intervals. There lies the cañon. Riding across the level plain toward the bluffs, one finds it hard to conceive how such a cañon can exist, with so few signs of its existence. Here and there we are obliged to make long detours, to avoid yawning crevasses that streams have worn in their downward rush to the Colorado. Until we come within a half a mile of the cañon we get no hint of its existence. Gradually it unfolds to nearer advance, until on its brink its awful sublimity bursts upon us. As we walk out upon a projecting tongue of rock, we gradually, dimly begin to appreciate the chasm. Great rock walls around us on every side stretch downward, seemingly fathomless.—Sel. A Thoughtful Daughter
By Editor
The following incident, from the Philadelphia Call, may be of the "made-up" kind, but we doubt not that there are many fond and foolish Mrs. Bluchers in the world; and are there not among our readers girls who recognize in Mary counterparts of themselves? "Hard at it, I see, Mrs. Blucher?" "Yes, Mrs. Brown; this is my wash-day, and looking after a family of ten don't leave much time on my hands." "Is that Mary's voice I hear at the piano in the parlor?" "Yes, that's her. I don't see how I'd git along without that gal, nohow. Al'ays on these days, when I hev the tiringest work, she picks out her nicest pieces, like 'Sweet Rest By-and-by,' 'Mother's Growing Old,' 'Love Will Roll the Clouds Away,' and sings 'em for me while I'm runnin' the duds through the first water. 'Taint every gal as 'd be so thoughtful, I can tell you." The Quietness of True Joy
Noisy merriment and laughter are no sure signs of happiness; true joy is commonly a quiet emotion. WHAT? The cholera. A good many people are anxious to be informed about the probability of its coming. Now some may not know, but it is a fact, that cholera is of a retiring disposition, and waits for an invitation before making a visit. You may not be posted in cholera etiquette, so as to know how to invite it in good style. But you, my friend, with that well that needs cleaning so badly—you're doing very well. That is a good invitation, and cholera will be sure to accept if it comes anywhere near, and it is at all convenient. And you, with that bad-smelling sink and drain—cholera won't pass you by, if it comes into the country; you couldn't please it better than to get up a strong smell like that. And that sink-hole near the house, where the frogs live? Oh, yes, cholera goes where frog concerts are to be heard, whenever it is possible to make connections. And if you have a damp and dirty cellar, that will be taken as a good invitation, and cholera will call on you if it calls on any one in the neighborhood, and will board with you awhile. A dirty sty or stable will also be considered in the light of a smile of welcome, and cholera will readily come in and stay a few days. If no other way of invitation is convenient, you might throw the slops near the back door, or be careful not to disturb that rotting refuse heap, or forget to clean out that out-house vault. Cholera will accept anything of that sort as a positive and urgent invitation, to come as soon as possible and stay as long as convenient. And there's another thing about it; if you give such an invitation, and cholera can't accept on account of not having business within a thousand miles or so of you, it will be almost sure to send diphtheria, or typhoid fever, or some other member of the family in its place, that may be able to fill the place of cholera itself, in good shape. If you don't give cholera some such invitation you needn't expect it, but if you do invite it in some way it will be pretty sure to call on you or send a good representative.—J. F. B., in Christian Cynosure. THE old epicures of Greece and Rome used on high occasions to revel in a dish of nightingales' brains. This was a wanton waste of birds; but to destroy birds for their beauty, and wear them in dead show as decorations, is a more revolting misuse than even the poorest pretense of turning them into food. Something like the heathen sentiment that gloated over the splendidly formed gladiator “Butchered to make a Roman holiday,” Seems to survive in civilization, and ride uppermost in the luxurious selfishness of dress. At least the taste of parading on the head the stuffed post mortem of a pretty creature killed for show is more appropriate to barbarian princesses and “medicine-men” than to the belles of Christian society. A correspondent of Forest and Stream says:— “In Massachusetts many thousand sea-swallows are killed every season, and their skins sent to France to be dyed for millinery purposes. It is in the direction of fashion that the destruction of our many birds is most to be feared—and the fashion is simply a disgusting one. Nothing is more sickening than a dead bird on a hat. It contributes nothing to the good taste of the wearer. I have seen a woman in the horse-cars this winter with the whole front of a prairie chicken on her hat, with shriveled beak and glass beads for eyes, projecting in the same direction as the woman's nose. The expression on her face seems to say, ‘What a nice ornament I wear on my hat!’ What a poor, cruel taste!” The writer of this has at the present time a Brazilian grass parouquet, a very handsome and affectionate little fellow. He sits on the finger while his master writes; chirps and kisses his fingers, then runs up the arm and nestles under his chin, puts his head into the vest pocket, will even climb up and kiss the lips if permitted to do so. This bird is a beauty, and has a little episode in his history. His beautiful plumage, long-tipped wing-pinions and tail might have cost him his life. A would-be lady earnestly petitioned his owner the other day to sell him. She had just held him on her finger and witnessed some of his affectionate, cunning tricks. But it turned out that she wanted him stuffed to wear on her hat. That woman would make a good Indian squaw, but she pretends to move in good society.—Youth's Companion. What Our Boys Must Learn.
To CULTIVATE a cheerful temper. To choose their friends among good boys. To sew on their own buttons. Not to tease boys or girls smaller than themselves. To take pride in being a little gentleman at home. To be polite and helpful to their own sisters as they are to other boys' sisters. To treat their mother as politely as if she were a strange lady, who did not spend her life in their service. To feel a noble pride in making their mother and sisters their best friends. If they do anything wrong, to take their mothers into their confidence, and, above all, never to lie about anything they have done. Not to take the easiest chair in the room, and put it directly in front of the fire, and forget to offer it to their mother when she comes in to sit down. Not to grumble or refuse when asked to do some errand which must be done, and which otherwise will take the time of some one who has more to do than themselves. To make up their minds not to learn to smoke, to chew, to drink, remembering that these things cannot be unlearned, and that they are terrible drawbacks to good men, and necessities to bad ones.—Exchange. Health and Temperance.
By Editor
THE Sunday-School Times answers the question which follows, in a very happy manner. If the questioner was unable to learn the opinion of the Times, we give him credit for dullness. We recommend the answer to all who are troubled over this and similar questions:— 'I am a constant reader of the Sunday-School Times, and one who has, for three years, got up a club for it. I have been much interested in your Notes on Open Letters. Incidentally you have referred to tobacco. I would very much like to have your opinion as to whether it is right for a Christian to use or sell tobacco; especially the selling. I do not use or raise it, but I sell it. Without telling you my own opinion, I would esteem it a favor if you answer in your usual concise manner, either through your columns, or personally by letter.' 'He is a friend of the Sunday-School Times. He is a worker in its behalf. He sells tobacco. He has his 'own opinion' as to the right or wrong of his course. And here he wants us to say concisely whether, in our opinion, 'it is right for a Christian to use or sell tobacco; especially the selling.' Of course, it wouldn't do for us to intimate that his own opinion is against his practice in such a matter; nor would it be pleasant for us to tell him that no Christian ought to do what he says he is doing. We can, however, go so far as to tell him confidentially that, in our opinion, tobacco is one-fourth poison and three-fourths filth; although we do not care to tell him that that is any reason why a Christian shouldn't live on it. As to the selling business, perhaps he remembers the story of the Jerseyman who was seen gathering some wild mushrooms in the woods. 'Look here, my friend,' said the passer-by, 'those mushrooms are rank poison. You'd better let 'em alone.' 'Oh! don't you be afraid,' was the quick response. 'I ain't picking 'em to eat. I'm picking 'em to sell.' But those were mushrooms, and that was in New Jersey. About selling tobacco in Massachusetts, we would rather not express an opinion, concisely, on the strength of that letter.' "A sound heart is the life of the flesh; but envy the rottenness of the bones." Prov. 14:30.