Was it not Emerson who said that the knowledge of being well dressed gives a woman a certain feeling of serenity which even religion does not bestow?
This rather extreme statement has in it much of truth. The knowledge that her dress is all that it should be relieves her of the feeling of self-consciousness that is so destructive of peace of mind. It is not so much the woman whose costume is au fait that is self-conscious as she who herself knows why "her feather goes far round her bonnet," or "the reason for always holding her left arm fast against her side when she went abroad in her black jacket."
"If I can forget myself altogether, I always have a good time," was the statement of a young girl who was getting her first experience of social life. She had found one secret of true enjoyment,—the forgetfulness of self. Self-conscious people are so either through vanity or through self-deprecation.
A self-conscious public speaker can never win his audience as he could if he lost sight of himself in his subject. If he thinks too meanly of himself, he seems in a manner to apologize for his presence as a speaker, and lessens his own value in the minds of his hearers; if he thinks too highly of himself, he awakens a sense of criticism that is unfavorable to a reception of his thought.
I know a minister, sweet in spirit and honest in purpose, whose influence is greatly diminished by his self-consciousness. When he comes into the pulpit, his attitude and bearing seem to say, "Look at me. Do I not carry myself well?" and he begins the benediction with a gesture that might be interpreted as, "Allow me to present to you."
The self-conscious person does not know what to do with hands or feet or eyes, cannot walk naturally, is never at ease, and therefore puts other people in a state of discomfort. No doubt we who are parents are desirous that our children should be happy, should be easy in manner, and unconscious of self; and yet we often, unintentionally of course, train them into the most intense self-consciousness.
The child that is taught to "show off" before company is being made vainly self-conscious, and perhaps exceedingly disagreeable. Comments in the hearing of children in regard to their "smartness" often develop very unpleasant traits. Not long since I was a guest in a home where was a boy of ten, who was introduced to me as "our little mathematician." The child at once put on a sullen and offended look, and made no response to the introduction. During the meal the fond father dilated on his son's ability, and the boy grew more and more restless. When the father offered to show me some of the lad's work, he muttered, "I'll tear it up." "No you won't," said the father; "I wouldn't take two dollars for it." The father's motive was681good, but his method was bad; and as I observed its results, I could see that the boy was becoming so conscious of self that he was constantly unhappy. As yet, the praise had irritated him; later, I have no doubt, it will make him vain.
A timid, shrinking little girl was made so conscious of her looks that the meeting of strangers almost made her ill. Daily comments were made on her "shovel teeth" and "peeled onion eyes," until in desperation she veiled her face whenever she went out, and always sought to sit in the shadow when making or receiving calls, and shrank with real pain if a pair of observing eyes were fixed upon her, feeling sure that they were taking account of her blemishes.
Constant fault-finding will either result in awkwardness or in an arrogant, defiant manner, both of which are expressions of self-consciousness. Children may be made conscious of their personal appearance either by repeated prohibitions in regard to amusements that might soil or tear their clothing, or by the continual calling of their thoughts to the subject of dress by the lavish expenditure of time and money upon elegant garments to adorn their little bodies. There is something pathetic in the child who stops to consider her clothing when the question is one of child-like amusements. There is something pitiful when a young girl refuses to go to a party because she has not a new dress. In both cases self-consciousness has been developed until natural instincts of sociality have yielded to vanity.
To the thoughtful parent the subject will present many phases not mentioned in this article, and indeed that will be the best evidence of its value if it prove suggestive beyond its own definite limits.—Dr. Mary Wood Allen.
HIS NIGHT OFF.
By Evangelist
My father played a queer trick on me the other night. You know I used to feel that I had done myself an injustice if I did not go to the theater about five or six nights a week. It wasn't always the theater, but if it wasn't that, it was a music hall, or a game of cards or billiards with some of the boys. Well, you know how I am situated as to my business. I work for my father, and I have to be at the office early in the morning, just as the rest of the family are sitting down to breakfast. In consequence, I get my breakfast and leave the house before they are up. But I can't complain of that. I'm doing exactly what the man who had my place before me did. But that's neither here nor there. It's the evenings. I used to finish work about six, get dinner in the city, and go somewhere in the evening.
I had been doing it for six months, and when I look back I remember that about the only time that I saw my mother and sister during that period was at Sunday dinner. Nothing unusual in that, of course. The same thing is true of hundreds of young men in town. But they haven't fathers like mine. He came to me one afternoon and asked me if I had an engagement for that night.
"Yes," I said, "I've promised to go to the theater."
"How about to-morrow night?" he asked.
"Nothing on at present," I replied.
"Well, I'd like you to go somewhere with me."
"All right," I said; "where shall I meet you?"
You see he leaves the office about an hour before I can get my work finished. He suggested Lenox Restaurant, at 7:30, and I was there, prepared for a quiet lecture on late hours. But when he appeared, he said he wanted me to call on a lady with him. "One I knew quite well when I was a young man," he explained.
We went out, and started straight for home.
"She is stopping at the house," he said, when I spoke of it. I thought it strange that he should have made the appointment for the Lenox Restaurant under those circumstances, but I said nothing.
Well, we went in, and I was introduced with due formality to my mother and sister. The situation was ludicrous, and I began to laugh, but the laugh died away. None of the three even smiled. My mother and my sister both shook hands with me, and my mother said she remembered me as a boy, but hadn't seen much of me lately. Then she invited me to be seated. It wasn't a bit funny then, though I can laugh over it now. I sat down, and she told me one or two stories of my boyhood, at which we all laughed a little. When I finally retired, I was courteously invited to call again.
I went upstairs, feeling pretty small, and doing a good deal of thinking. Then I made up my mind that my mother was a most entertaining lady, and my sister was a good and brilliant girl. Now I'm going to "call again," as I have been doing quite regularly for the last week. I enjoy their company, and I intend to cultivate their acquaintance.—Evangelist.
A TEMPERANCE HERO.
THE days of heroism are never past, and the history of temperance in the days when it was everywhere denounced would afford some noble specimens. I have often spoken of Willie Bartlett, and it will interest those of your readers who admire British pluck, wherever it is found, to read of his trial and triumph. Willie's father was a noble father, one of the multitude whom the drink sweeps away, who are said to be "nobody's enemies but their own"—a saying terribly false, as Willie's mother and fatherless children soon felt. Burdened with debt, and with six small children to support, her prospects were dark indeed. Early in life, however, she had become a true Christian, and, though her husband, who had once walked with her in the narrow path, had been led away by the drink fiend, she remained faithful, and now that the day of trouble had come, she knew where to go for support and guidance. After much consideration and prayer, she determined to open a little shop in one of the suburbs of the town in which she resided. For some time she had a hard struggle, but God blessed her efforts, and the sky began to brighten.
Willie, who was a sharp, observant boy, was very much impressed with her success, and one day said to her:—
"Mother, I can't think how it is so many people come to your shop."
"Can't you?" said his mother. "What puzzles you?"
"Why," said he, "a lot of them come from right the other end of the town, and I can't think why they pass so many shops and come here."
"Willie," said she, "you are fond of ciphering. Get your slate, and tell me how far off people must live that God cannot bring them to my shop."
This way of putting it made a great impression on the boy, and did much to mould his character and shape his future life.
After a while Willie's mother determined to apprentice him to his father's trade, and, after some negotiations, the master agreed to take him. Having a high regard for the fa682ther, the master took him into the works, and gave him in charge of his principal foreman. As soon as the master had left, the foreman said:—
"Well, Willie, we'll make a man of thee here for thy father's sake, and we must have a footing to drink thy success; and as I know money is not very plentiful at home, I will pay for it myself," and immediately one of the other lads was sent for a quart of beer.
Poor Willie was bewildered with this arrangement, for his mother had trained him up a strict abstainer, and had taught him to hate his father's murderer—the drink. The beer was soon brought, and the men gathered round, and each drank to Willie's success. Then the foreman poured out a glass and offered it to Willie:—
"Now, my lad, drink success to all." Willie quietly replied: "I am a teetotaler, and never touch the drink."
Irritated at the boy's reply, the foreman said: "None of that nonsense. We'll have no teetotalism here. Take the drink at once."
Willie said: "I promised mother I would never touch the drink and I never will."
"Look here," said the man, "we are not going to have two masters here, so drink it up."
"I cannot and I will not," said Willie.
Mad with the boy's rebellion against his orders, the foreman said: "This is all nonsense. You will have it in you or over you."
"Well," said Willie, "I can't help it. I will never drink. You can throw it over me if you like. I have brought here a clean jacket and a good character. You may spoil my jacket if you will, but you shall never spoil my character."
Struck with the boy's earnest look, the man's better nature prevailed, and, turning away, he said to his mates:—
"He's a rum one, but I believe he'll make a man."
The prophecy was right, for to-day Willie is a prominent temperance worker, and is at the head of a large establishment noted for their intelligence and high principle.—Pacific.
OUR GREATEST PERIL.
It is not the "hush power of Rome" nor the scheming of Catholic prelates that the republic has most to fear from at the present time. It is the manner in which the principles of our government are gradually but surely being subverted by the very men who are loudest in denouncing the Roman prelates. It is a Protestant religio-political combination, at whose instance the Constitution is being overridden, which aspires to exceed in this country even the power and supremacy which Rome has had in some of the European and South American countries. This religious hierarchy has already made subservient tools of the judicial, the legislative, and executive branches of the government. It is seeking to establish a national religion and to compel all people within the borders of the republic to obey laws which, in direct violation of the Federal Constitution, are framed in the interest of that religion. It is time that the people became alive to the dangerous character of this religious conspiracy which strikes at the very foundations of our government.—Duluth (Minn.) Evening Herald, Oct. 14, 1892.
The Old Testament for Today
By John Heyl Vincent
I love and honor the Old Testament. It is a book for the nineteenth century, as much as it was for the centuries before Christ, and, like Paul, I feel it is profitable for doctrine, for reproof, for correction, for instruction in righteousness, that the man of God may be thoroughly furnished unto all good works.—J. H. Vincent.
IT NEVER PAYS.
It never pays to fret and growl,
When fortune seems our foe;
The better bred will push ahead
And strike the braver blow.
For luck is work,
And those who shirk
Should not lament their doom,
But yield the pay
And clear the way,
That better men have room.
It never pays to foster pride,
And squander time in show;
For friends thus won are sure to run
In times of want or woe.
The noblest worth
Of all the earth
Are gems of heart and brain,
A conscience clear,
A household dear,
And hands without a stain.
It never pays to hate a foe,
Or cater to a friend,
To fawn and whine, much less repine,
To borrow or to lend.
The faults of men
Are fewer when
Each rows his own canoe,
For feuds and debts
And pampered pets
Unbounded mischief brew.
It never pays to wreck the health
In drudging after gain,
And he is sold who thinks that gold
Is cheaply bought with pain.
A humble lot,
A cozy cot
Have tempted even kings,
For station high
That wealth will buy
Not oft contentment brings.
—Selected.
WHO PAYS THE BILLS?
Who pays the bills? Who feeds the drunkard’s children? Who provides for the drunkard’s wife? Who supports the beggarly tramps, who, having wasted their money in drink, wander about the country? Who repairs the losses caused by the failure of intemperate merchants and reckless and half-intoxicated business men? Who makes good the damages caused by the blunders of drunken workmen, and the hindrances of business caused by the sprees of intemperate employes? Who pays for the railroad wrecks caused by drunken conductors and engineers? Who builds the asylums where crazy drunkards are kept? Who supports the idiotic children of drunken men? Who pays the attorney’s and juries and judges who try drunken criminals? Who pays the expenses of trials and commitments and executions occasioned by the crimes of drunken men? Who pays for the property destroyed and burned by drunken men? Who builds and supports almshouses, which, but for drink, might remain unoccupied? Who endures the suffering and losses and brutality which are due to the recklessness and insanity of drunken husbands and fathers? Who pays for the inquests held on drunkards found dead by the wayside? Who pays for a pauper’s coffin, and for digging a drunkard’s grave in the potters’ field, when the last glass has been drunk?
Who pays the bills? The drunkard cannot, for he has wasted his substance in his cup. Will the rumseller pay them? The fact is, you and I, and the sober and industrious toiling portion of the community, must meet all these bills. The drunken rowdy, wounded in the street fight, is cared for in the city hospital at our expense; the drunken beggar is fed from our table; his hungry children come to our doors for bread, and we cannot refuse assistance to his suffering wife, and when, at last, having “wasted his substance in riotous living,” he comes to the almshouse, the asylum, the hospital, or the prison, honest, sober, temperate men pay the bills for supporting him there. There is no escaping it. We may protest, we may grumble at the taxes and find fault with beggars, but ultimately and inevitably we must foot the bills.—New England Evangelist.
A DAY AMONG DEVIL WORSHIPERS IN TRICHINOPOLY.
By Rev. J. M. Thompson
BY REV. J. M. THOMPSON.
TOWARD the end of February or early in March every year a great festival is held at Puttur, a suburb of Trichinopoly, in honor of Kulamayee, a female demon, a sort of South India representative of the bloody Kâli of Calcutta. She has her temple in a lonely spot on the banks of the River Uyakundân, a branch of the sacred Cauvery, but on the occasion of the annual festival she is brought down to a branch temple in Puttur. Her devotees are principally either members of the thief caste, or cultivators, and low-caste people living in out-of-the-way villages and hamlets, and their worship is inspired by fear of her anger. Her desire for blood is very great, and, unless this is met and amply satisfied, her worshipers fear that during the year she will visit them with all manner of dreadful calamities. Hence on the occasion of the great annual festival these poor people crowd into Puttur in their thousands from all points of the compass.
The day before the usually quiet neighborhood is all astir. Merry-go-rounds, swings, etc., are being erected, favorable positions for peep-shows are secured, and also stands, where the gambler may ply his nefarious calling. Booths and tents of all shapes, sizes, and colors are set up, and in these on the great day of the feast a busy trade will be carried on. During the night previous to or very early in the morning of the feast day, Kulamayee’s chief priest takes up his abode in the Puttur temple and there awaits the orgies which will begin683with the dawn. One thousand goats are demanded in sacrifice, and he, as representing the authority of the demon, receives the victims and professes to drink their blood. He is somewhat fastidious in his tastes and rigid in exacting compliance with his conditions.
One of these is that each goat presented shall be perfectly black. A single white or colored hair will disqualify it, and it is ruthlessly rejected. As it is not so easy to find goats in large numbers fulfilling this condition, rigid insistence upon it has the twofold effect of considerably limiting the quantity of blood the man has to drink, and also of stirring up the zeal of the devotees by making their task more difficult; for so greatly do they dread the anger of the demon that they spare neither trouble nor expense in trying to find an acceptable offering.
All night long the crowds have been gathering, and daybreak shows every road and street leading to Puttûr a stream of men, women, and children dressed in their picturesque holiday attire. Little black kids are wriggling in the arms of some, and full-grown black goats are struggling upon the shoulders of others. The streams converge at the point where the temple stands, where sits the priest side by side with the hideous representation of his demon deity. No preparatory rites or ceremonies are necessary as an introduction to the bloody scene. The first goat that arrives fulfilling the required conditions is promptly beheaded, and the priest receiving the reeking blood proceeds to drink it. For long, weary hours the disgusting scene continues. The surging crowd ever grows through the morning hours, and as the sun rises high in the heavens the scorching heat and the dust make the scene well-nigh unendurable. The noise is deafening. The din of the crowd, the cries of the showmen, the yells and shouts of those whose victims have been accepted, the blare of huge trumpets, and the almost childlike bleat of the goats and kids as they are being hurried to the place of sacrifice, make a conglomerate of sound that has to be heard before it can be understood.
As the priest can only deal with one victim at a time, the afternoon is far advanced, and the sun is sinking down into the west before the end of the bloody scene is reached. When at length it is reached, a move is made to a spot across the rice fields, a quarter of a mile away. Here, during the year, under a tree by the side of a small irrigation channel, stand four granite pillars, without ornamentation or anything to suggest that they have any religious significance. But on the day of Kulamayee’s feast their existence and purpose are explained. They are the support of a temporary hut of plaited palm leaves, which for an hour or so on the evening of Kulamayee’s festival becomes the abode of her image. On the occasion of this visit, the priest with his idol is ensconced in a gorgeous pyramidal car, which is carried on men’s shoulders, preceded by an elephant lent for the occasion by the authorities of the great Vishnuvite Temple at Seringapatam, and accompanied by the music of many tom-toms and huge brazen trumpets, and by many thousands of people.
Arriving at the improvised temple the object of the visit is explained. The priest has drunk so much warm blood during the day that his body needs to be cooled. The water in the irrigation channel has been previously dammed up, and now forms a pool two or three feet deep and several yards in width. The priest descends from his car of state and plunges into the water, not to bathe, but to drink, and the task he sets himself is that of drinking till the level of the water has fallen one span. When this is done, the festival is over, and Kulamayee is taken back to the Puttûr temple to spend the night; and the following morning she is taken back in state to the loneliness of her own temple on the river bank, where, in comparative neglect and congenial darkness, she remains, till the lapse of another year brings round her festival again.
The Puttûr Temple is within five hundred yards of our mission house and chief mission premises in Warriore, Trichinopoly, and the festival is a field day for the mission. We are astir by daybreak—missionaries, native ministers, catechists, local preachers, and theological students—as large a staff of workers as we can muster. We get into a thoroughfare leading up to the temple, but far enough away from the noise for our voices to be heard. The strains of a Christian lyric soon attract attention, and the passers-by gather round us as, for longer or shorter periods, we tell them of the Saviour. Our audience is a very restless one and continually changes. Many with goats on their shoulders or in their arms stop and listen for a while, and then rush on with their victims. Others who have been earlier to the temple are now returning with the headless, skinless carcasses of their victims slung upon their shoulders. Some of these will stop with their ghastly, bleeding burdens for a few moments, but the majority of them are too much excited by the fact that their offering has been accepted, and by the prospect of the feast that awaits them when they get back to their villages, to give any heed to the voice that cries to them from the wayside. On they rush with eager haste to prepare what will be for them and their families probably the heartiest, heaviest, and merriest meal in the whole year.—Wesleyan Record.
Massachusetts Turns Toward Prohibition
MASSACHUSETTS is tired of saloons. Twenty-four more towns in that State held their annual meetings recently, and voted on the license question. Only one town out of the number voted for license, and three which went license last year changed to prohibition. The total vote on the license question in these 24 towns was 2,569 yes and 4,061 no, as against 2,361 yes and 3,424 no last year, showing a handsome gain for prohibition. Two large towns, Natick and Pepperell, changed from license by a majority for prohibition greater than was last year’s majority for license.—Selected.
Europe’s Oldest Inebriate Asylum
At Lintdorf, Dusseldorf, Germany, is the oldest inebriate asylum in Europe, founded in 1851, for the retention and protection of released prisoners whose intemperance led to their imprisonment.
Striving to Serve Others
By Whichcote
LET the strife of men be who shall do best, who shall be least.—Whichcote.
SCIENTIFIC AND CURIOUS.
THE highest chimneys in the world are two in Glasgow, one being 468 feet high and the other 455 feet, while one near Cologne comes next, with a height of 441 feet.
By holding the breath, wasps, bees, and hornets may be handled with impunity. The skin becomes sting proof, and holding the insect by the feet and giving it full liberty of action, you can see it drive its sting against the impenetrable surface with a force which lifts its body at every stroke; but let the smallest quantity of air escape from the lungs, and the sting will penetrate at once.
“SEMAKUIR,” a Finland stone, turns black before a fall of rain, while in fine weather it is mottled with spots of white. Analysis shows this stone to be a fossil mixed with clay, and containing a portion of rock salt and niter. This salt, absorbing atmosphere, turns black when the atmosphere is supersaturated with aqueous vapor, and a dry air brings the salt in white spots to the surface.
It is reported that Professor Hermann has succeeded in photographing the vowel sounds, by speaking them into a phonograph which reproduced them slowly. The vibrations were recorded by a micro-telephone, which has a small mirror in the vibrating drum. A ray of light reflected from the mirror recorded its vibrations—that is to say, the vibrations of the vowel sounds—on a traveling band of sensitized paper.
STATISTICS presented at the recent Congress of German Surgeons show that in a total of 157,815 persons who took some form of anæsthetics while undergoing surgical operations, fifty-three persons died, a ratio of 1 in 2,900. Not one of these deaths occurred with persons who took simple unmixed ether, and hitherto none has happened with a mixture of chloroform, ether, and alcohol, recommended by the great Viennese surgeon, Bilroth. The congress strongly indorsed ether as the best and safest anæsthetic.
WHO WILL GO?
By Fanny J. Crosby
BY FANNY J. CROSBY.
O'ER the restless, rolling ocean,
Where the prince of darkness reigns,
Holding fast his countless victims
Crushed beneath his cruel chains,
Oh! the wail of bitter anguish,
Oh! the deep, despairing cry,
"Send us light or we must perish,
Send it quickly or we die."
To these wretched, starving millions
Who the bread of life will bear?
At a throne of grace and mercy
Who will plead with them in prayer?
Who will undertake the journey
O'er the stormy billows' foam,
Leaving all without a murmur,
Parents, friends, and native home?
Firmly, bravely, comes the answer
From a loyal mission band
That our blessed Lord is keeping
In the hollow of his hand;
Firmly, bravely, comes the answer;
Even now I hear them say,
"Gracious Master, thou hast called us,
And thy message we obey."
Brother, sister, you are going
Where you oft may sow in tears,
And the fruit of earnest labor
Be withheld perhaps for years.
Though you toil amid their changes,
Burning sun and chilling frost,
Not a seed will be forgotten,
Not a single blade be lost.
God be with you on the billow,
God protect you o'er the main;
In his tender loving-kindness,
Bring you back to us again.
But if otherwise determined,
And on earth we meet no more,
May we all sing hallelujah
On the bright, eternal shore.
—Selected.
STUNDIST CONVERTS TO ORTHODOXY.
THE Russian press, and especially that portion of it devoted to the interests of the orthodox church, is very jubilant over the alleged return of 250 Stundists to the bosom of the true church. We have taken considerable pains to investigate the truth of these newspaper stories of recantations, and we have it now on undoubted authority that the Stundists who have returned to orthodoxy, and about whom so much fussy joy has been expressed, number exactly twenty-nine. They are peasants from the village of Kanev, a district in the province of Kief, and are twenty-nine of as poor specimens of Stundists as could well be found—weak-kneed, timid creatures, who have been frightened and cajoled into the step they have just taken. Their conversion and the story of what happened afterward are interesting as illustrations of the gentler tactics pursued by the mighty Russian Government and Church to win back erring schismatics.
For some time previous to their joining the church these men have attracted the favorable notice of the priests and the local police. It was observed that they were by no means strict Stundists. They had ceased to attend the secret Protestant meetings; they were frequently seen in the village drink shops; and although they themselves did not attend the services of the village churches, they sent their wives and children. The priests visited them and promised an easy penance and a hearty welcome back to the church; the police called on them and showed that by their conversion to orthodoxy they would escape impending measures against the Stundists of a terrible nature. The blandishments of the priests, the potency of the vodka, and the terrorism of the police converted these twenty-nine Russian peasants. The priests were very proud of it all. Magnificent services were gotten up in the local churches, and the recreant Stundists stood before the people and received absolution. Dinners were given in their honor; they were fêted and feasted; for days there was beef and brandy galore.
But fresh honors were in store for them. They were informed that they must visit Kief—Kief, the holy city, the bourne of the orthodox Russian pilgrim. Free tickets to travel on the Dnieper were procured for them; and, dressed in their Sunday best, they steamed up the river, everywhere received with ovations. A special service was prepared for them in one of the holiest of the orthodox sanctuaries; boys with beautiful voices sang them the pathetic hymns of the church, and priests in gorgeous vestments asked the intercession of the Virgin and all the saints on their behalf. They were then conducted to the Metropolitan, with whom an interview had been prearranged. This old gentleman, one of the most rigorous and cruel of the inquisitors of Stundism, received them with benign parental smiles, gave them ghostly warning and counsel, blessed them each and severally, permitted them to kiss his own particular icon, and presented each with a book about the saints and things of that sort. Of course they could read, as they had once been Stundists.
There was more to follow. A pleasant awe fell upon the pilgrims when the police conductors informed them that the governor general would receive them. The excitement was intense. In this country we can hardly gauge the immense distance between a Russian peasant and a governor general. The peasant cringes and creeps before the village policeman, the policeman before his district chief, the district chief before the governor, the governor before the governor general. And so the pilgrims felt as a simple countryman in some distant State might feel when he receives a special invitation to a brilliant function at the White House. Count Ignatieff, the governor general, was most gracious, chatted in a brotherly way to his visitors, asked about their families, and so on. Then he gently admonished them for having left the church for which so much Russian blood had been shed.
"Why did you leave us?" he asked plaintively.
"It was all through reading the Bible," one of them answered.
"That cannot be," the count replied; and, walking over to a bookcase, he took out a magnificently bound copy of the Russian Bible. "I possess a Bible, and yet I remain firmly orthodox."
Then the count took the peasants of Kanev all about his palace and showed them the curiosities. They stolidly tramped behind him, their eyes blinded with the splendors of everything. He then bade them an effusively friendly farewell, and presented each on departing with a valuable little cross to be worn on the breast.
They'll remember this pilgrimage to Kief for many a long year, and talk of it proudly to their children; and possibly a few more feeble brethren will follow in their steps; for it is not every day that a holy Metropolitan and a brilliant governor general receive simple peasants from the steppe.—Corr. N. Y. Independent.
AN ART OF THE NAVAJOS.
By J. J. Peatfield
THERE is evidence that among the Navajos the art of weaving antedates the time when any skill was imparted to them therein through the Pueblo Indians by the Spaniards. To-day they are preëminent in the art among the native tribes north of Mexico, and their advancement in the industry is due more to their own intelligence and artistic inclination than to the influence of European instruction. The wonderful variety of designs displayed in their fabrics, and the innumerable combinations of colors, are witnesses to the fertility of imagination which the Navajo weaver's mind is gifted with; while the fact that in a thousand Navajo blankets no two patterns can be found exactly alike proclaims that each designer scorns imitation or repetition. Our artists might take a lesson from them.—J. J. Peatfield, in August Californian.
FROM EUROPE.
By G. C. Tenney
ONE of the most remarkable features of our remarkable times is the rapid revolution that is taking place in the relation which heretofore distant and comparatively strange portions of the world are assuming to each other under the process of compression. The annihilation of terrestrial space is one of the great feats of modern improvement. By its transformation, to go to Europe from the United States is no more remarkable than it used to be to travel from one State to another, and the latter now is hardly called travel.
This revolution is significant in many ways. To none has it a greater significance than to the Christian evangelist, and especially to those who are called to give to the world the warning of the soon-coming day of God in connection with the everlasting gospel. The prophet, writing the words of the angel, says of this time, “Many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be increased.” Dan. 12:4. The increased facilities for travel make the most complete fulfillment of this prophecy possible in these last days, and the providence of God has connected the proclamation of his truth with these achievements of modern times. The thought is well worthy of extended consideration, but it is not our purpose to enlarge upon it here.
In the afternoon of July 12 we found ourselves comfortably berthed on the great steamship Majestic, and at 4 o’clock waved our farewells to a group of friends on the wharf, as we swung out into the channel and headed across the Atlantic. This floating village is over five hundred feet in length and contains about 1,500 souls, of whom two-thirds are passengers. Three hundred tons of coal are required each day to “keep things moving,” and it is handled by one hundred firemen. At first it seems like a strange little world we have come into, but as days pass, we become accustomed to the faces of our new neighbors and to the surroundings, so that when the voyage is done, it begins to seem somewhat homelike, though by no means satisfactory.
One week and two hours from the time we left the wharf in New York, we dropped anchor in the harbor of Liverpool. We were thankful to God, who cares for all his creatures, for the safe and prosperous voyage. Brother Drew, our faithful missionary in that port, was on hand to render all the assistance that we needed. Our company consisted of seven adults,—L. A. Smith, who now becomes assistant editor on the Present Truth, published in London, and wife; Brother Simkins, who takes the foremanship of the mechanical work in the office of publication, and his wife; Wm. Lenker, from the Battle Creek College, on his way to India; Elder Olsen and the writer, on our way to visit different portions of Europe and attend general meetings in various places.
At Liverpool Elder Olsen made a detour, going to Belfast, Ireland, and to Banbridge, where it is proposed to locate a private boarding school. The location is a large and pleasant homestead, where the students will be given an opportunity to learn manual labor while pursuing their studies, and thus contribute somewhat towards the expense of their schooling. The prospects for a school are reported to be very favorable, though the attendance at first is likely to be small. Brother Isaac Bell, who has the home, will be “father” of the enterprise, and it is hoped that a teacher can be procured from the workers now in the British field.
The rest of our party proceeded to London, over the Midland Railway, and passed through the beautiful Matlock Vale, celebrated as one of the beauty spots in English scenery. It is but just to say that the agent of this company in Liverpool rendered us every possible aid and attention in making our transfer and railway passage pleasant.
It was with gratitude to God that we greeted once more the workers in London in mutual health and the enjoyment of manifold blessings. The laborers there were bearing heavy loads, and the reinforcement that our company brought them was most welcome and timely. But they do not feel that the need is yet supplied. Indeed, the way the work is opening up it would seem impossible to fill all that is demanded for Great Britain at this time.
The last General Conference recognized the importance of establishing the work in London on a broader and more permanent basis than before, and appropriated $40,000 to the erection of mission and chapel buildings and other necessary equipments for the work. This aid comes none too soon nor is it too liberal. No city in the world exerts the influence that London does. In fact, it is a world in itself, with its 6,000,000 people. It is now expected that we shall be able to secure a desirable site close to the office of publication, on a lease, and there the buildings will be erected.
In other parts of the country the truth is gaining ground with encouraging success. The Bible work in London is carried on with a good interest, and souls are continually coming to a knowledge of the truth. After a few days there we crossed over the North Sea to Holland, and in the early morning reached the city of Rotterdam. The western portion of this country really belongs to the sea. When the fiat went forth, “Hitherto shalt thou come; but no further; and here shall thy proud waves be stayed,” that boundary was doubtless well back toward the German border. And the sea would immediately reclaim its lost dominion but for the dykes and banks erected at untold cost of labor. It is said that the water is Holland’s standing army; and when a few years ago Bismarck intimated that he would send the “six-footers” up there, Holland simply said, “And we will give them seven feet of water.”
The land is mostly devoted to grazing, and everywhere long, gaunt windmills swing their awkward arms in the breezes and pump the water off the land instead of onto it, as in some of our Western States.
An American is almost tempted to change the second “r” in Rotterdam to “n” when he sees how crazy the buildings appear, that is, the older ones, for the soil is too unstable for good foundations, and the buildings have settled out of shape, and lean, some this way and others that way. Many of the streets are waterways, and the most of the heavy traffic is carried over them, so that the land streets are comparatively free from heavy vehicles, much to the relief of passengers. A half day here and another in Amsterdam is all that we could give to Holland, except the time during which we were traversing the country. These cities resemble each other to some extent, though Amsterdam is much the larger, having 450,000 inhabitants. The buildings are finer, and the canals not so numerous. The art gallery is one of the best and most extensive in the world.
There are but few adherents to present truth in Holland, but no doubt there are many honest hearts; and it is gratifying to know that the time is near when more attention will be given to this quaint country than has heretofore been given it. Our next will take us to Hamburg and Copenhagen.