THERE are many ways in which the Satanic agency, alcohol, finds entrance to the human system. Some of these ways are decidedly insidious, taking unawares many honest people who even desire to prohibit its use in any way. Comparatively few of the many users of delectable perfumes realize that they are taking in the essence of deadly alcohol in what they deem a pleasant and refreshing inhalation of some favorite brand. No one knows how many otherwise temperate people have acquired a taste for alcoholic drinks through the perfume “habit.” No doubt many ladies whose sudden addiction to strong drink has been deemed unaccountable, owe their unfortunate fall to the use of perfumes.
These thoughts are suggested by an incidental remark of Congressman Platt, of Connecticut, in a recent debate on the question of taxing corporations to raise means for defraying war expenses. He was showing how some of the corporations were already taxed, and how they would be affected by the proposed legislation. He stated, for instance, that he knew a manufacturing perfumery corporation that pays a tax of $50,000 on the alcohol it uses. No one can fail to see that that corporation uses an enormous amount of alcohol, when its tax on the stuff alone amounts to such a sum. Then when we reflect that this is the consumption of only one manufactory, and consider that large quantities of these concoctions are taken into the systems of people who never dream of their dangerous contents, the insidious deception becomes appalling.
We are informed also that many ladies become so infatuated with some of these perfumes that they actually sip them from the bottles. Surely there must be something unusually alluring about such preparations; and what is more so than the treacherous alcohol? And ladies are often sorrowfully disappointed to find that their gentlemen friends have suddenly broken vows of abstinence, never dreaming that the desire to imbibe may have been renewed by the odor of the alcoholic perfumes with which they themselves were liberally douched. We have heard of saloon-keepers who spilled their stale beer about their doors in order that the fumes might catch and overcome those who were endeavoring to break loose from the grasp of the alcoholic demon. May it not be that the pleasant odors of the perfumes with which the ladies at all kinds of social gatherings are redolent, have the same effect?
We must beware of the “little foxes” that spoil the vines, as well as the “roaring lion” that goes about “seeking whom he may devour.” The souls that are lured into the snares of the evil one through the delicate perfume are as surely lost as tho they went headlong into the pit at one dread bound.
W. N. G.
RUFFIANISM
By T.
EVERY day in the year the newspapers devote quite an amount of space to telling of the ruffians who are continually attacking people, robbing them of their money, indecently assaulting women and even little girls, etc., etc. A recent issue of the New York World informs us that in one of the suburbs of Greater New York this ruffianism has become so alarmingly great that “influential business men” have called a meeting to form a vigilance committee for their mutual protection against assault.
Numerous women and also little schoolgirls have been assaulted again and again by the vile men who are hanging about in that particular locality. And the place is not a back alley among the hovels and dens of vice, but is a beautiful residence district, in which many of the well-to-do business men of New York reside. It is claimed that appeals have been made to the police for protection, but all to no purpose.
It has not been a great while since attention was called through these columns to the fact that official investigation has proved the deplorable and degraded condition of the police in many of our large cities. It has been shown beyond dispute that the police have formed a regular league with these vile criminals, and have become partakers with them in the spoils of their criminality.
How much longer can this sort of thing continue? We are informed by the Word of God that “in the last days perilous times shall come.” 2 Tim. 3:1. But how much more perilous will they get before the very last one of these “last days” is reached? We are also told that “evil men and seducers shall wax worse and worse, deceiving, and being deceived.” 2 Tim. 3:13. But how much more degraded will they become before the end arrives? Certainly mankind is getting bad enough, but we are assured that they “shall wax worse and worse.”
Men who have either studied the Bible superficially or else from a prejudiced standpoint, have been affirming that the world was going to get better and better, until everybody should become good. But the text above quoted speaks directly to the contrary of this man-made theory. And the facts as they plainly exist everywhere show that the text is true and the human theory false.
Then let it be clearly understood by all that when the “last days” are reached, “perilous” and not good times will come, and that “evil men and seducers shall wax worse and worse.” If you have never thought of this before, you need not be hasty in forming your conclusions, but just consider it a little, and watch the unfolding of events, and you will see that which will show you that the Word of God is correct, no matter what may be the contrary theories of man. T.
BAD LAWS.
By W. N. G.
THERE was a time when well-meaning people thought that the proper way to keep men from evildoing on Sunday was to compel them to go to church. The same principle lies in the laws that forbid certain acts on that day that are deemed proper on other days. The former is but one step, and a logical step, further than the latter. The following from the London Daily Mail is worthy of consideration:—
“Very few members of the Church of England are aware that the bishops have still the power to oblige them to present themselves at church on every Sunday in the year, as well as on no less than twenty-eight saints’ days. Moreover, they could oblige them to fast at least a dozen times a year, if they felt so inclined. The act under which this power is held by the bishops is one passed when people apparently were given to cock-fighting and other profane amusements on the Sabbath, in the reign of Edward, A.D. 1551. Many years later another and more stringent law was enacted, but that has been repealed, while, curiously enough, the older law is still in the statute-book. The latter says:—
“ ‘Forasmuch as, at all tymes, men be not so myndeful to lawde and praise God, so readie to resorte and heare Godde’s hollie worde, as their bounden dewtie doth require; therefore, to call men to remembrance of their dewtie, it hath been provided that there shoulde be certaine days appointed wherein Christians shoulde cease from all other kynde of labour and applie themselves onlye unto the aforesaide hollie works.’”
“And if people should not obey willingly, then it is: ‘lawful to all archebusshoppes and busshoppes to enquire of every persone that shall offend in the premisses, and to punishe each offender, and to enjoyne him such penaunce as shall be thought mete.’”
“It might be thought that this law is quite obsolete, but it is not so. Corresponding with the power of the bishops to enforce attendance, there is a duty to provide accommodation for every parishioner. Quite recently a reformatory boy was refused admission to church by one of the church wardens, and an action was brought against the latter. The judge decided in favor of the boy, and, in giving judgment, he said that tho the courts can no longer fine a man for not going to church on Sundays, the bishops can ‘admonish’ him if he refuses to go, and he would then be compelled to pay the whole costs of the proceeding.”
Bad laws do not down very easily, while there is a disposition to enforce them. And as long as there is in the world a disposition to compel men in religious matters, the resort to available law for that purpose will be deemed a righteous act. As long as such laws are allowed to remain on the statute-books, there is a likelihood of their being called into action. While the law mentioned in the foregoing extract from the Mail, is deemed by many to be “quite obsolete,” it would be very difficult to procure its repeal. There is a Sunday law of Charles II. that provides for men’s being placed in the stocks for doing common labor on that day. This law is also deemed “quite obsolete,” yet we occasionally hear of overzealous churchmen appealing to it for the punishment of those who conscientiously differ from their ideas of Sabbath observance. It is quite common to boast of our progress in the matter of religious liberty, but the persistent effort on the part of professed reformers to secure laws on the same lines of these old statutes of Great Britain is evidence that the spirit of intolerance is again forging to the front. W. N. G.
MOTHER'S LOVE.
WE merely preface the following story from the Episcopal Methodist by Isa. 49:15, showing the greatness and tenderness of God's love: “Can a woman forget her sucking child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee.”
There was a pathetic incident in Recorder Audion's court yesterday. It was during recess, and the judge was sitting in his private office, when an aged woman came in and said she wanted relief.
“I have seven children, judge,” began the old woman, “and I work hard to support them, but my oldest boy gets drunk—”
“Speak to the clerk, madam,” interrupted the methodical judge; “he attends to these matters, and will make out an affidavit for you.”
So she went to the clerk and told her pitiful story of how she labored at her little stand in the market to support her children, and how her great, burly son, whom she had been looking forward to as a comfort and assistance in her old age, would come in drunk, and abuse her, and with maudlin oaths demand money of her to get more drink.
“Well, madam,” said the clerk, “do you make an affidavit against your son?”
“Affidavit, sir?”
“Yes; send him to jail early in the morning.”
“Send my son to jail! Can't you stop him in any other way?”
“No, madam; affidavit—jail—only cure. Hurry up, madam, I have something else to do.”
The old woman's face assumed an expression of resolve. She would make the affidavit. She half opened her mouth to say yes, when the mother's heart got the better of her. The tears welled to her eyes; her hard hand went up to her wrinkled old forehead with a tired movement, and, looking at the clerk with wistful eyes, she said: “No. He's my son, tho he is bad. He may abuse me, he may kill me, but I can not send my son to jail. Tear up the affidavit, sir.”
And slowly, feebly, she went out into the street.
SHOW YOUR COLORS.
By H. C. Mead
I WAS riding on the train through the eastern section of North Carolina. Nothing can be flatter than that portion of the country, unless it be the religious experience of some people. The rain was pouring down fast, and, for a person so inclined, not a better day or place for the blues could be found. Looking out of the car windows brought nothing more interesting to view than pine trees, bony mules, and razor-back hogs. Groups of men, white and black, gathered at each station to see the train arrive and depart. Each passenger that entered brought in more damp, moisture, and blues.
Two men at last came in and took a seat in front of me. Shortly after, one of them took a bottle from his pocket, pulled the cork, and handed the bottle to his companion. He took a drink, and the smell of liquor filled the car. Then the first took a drink, and back and forth the bottle passed, until at last it was empty and they were full. Then one of them commenced swearing, and such blasphemy I never heard in my life. It made the very air blue. Women shrank back, while the heads of the men were uplifted to see where the stream of profanity came from. It went on for some time, until I began talking to myself.
“Henry, that man belongs to the devil.”
“There is no doubt about that,” I replied.
“And he is not ashamed of it.”
“Not a bit ashamed.”
“To whom do you belong?”
“I belong to the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“Are you glad or sorry?”
“I am glad—very glad.”
“Who in the car knows that that man belongs to the devil?”
“Everybody knows it; for he has not kept it a secret.”
“Who in the car knows you belong to the Lord Jesus?”
“Why, no one knows it; for you see I am a stranger around here.”
“Are you willing they should know to whom you belong?”
“Yes, I am willing.”
“Very well; will you let them know it?”
I thought a moment and then said, “By the help of my Master I will.”
Then, straightening up and taking a good breath, I began singing in a voice that could be heard by all in the car:—
“There is a fountain filled with blood,
Drawn from Immanuel’s veins;
And sinners plunged beneath that flood
Lose all their guilty stains.”
Before I had finished the verse and the chorus the passengers had crowded down around me, and the blasphemer had turned around and looked at me with a face resembling a thunder cloud. As I finished the chorus, he said:—
“What are you doing?”
“I am singing,” I replied.
“Well,” said he, “any fool can understand that.”
“I am glad you understand it.”
“What are you singing?”
“I am singing the religion of the Lord Jesus.”
“Well, you quit.”
“Quit what?”
“Quit singing your religion on the cars.”
“I guess not,” I replied. “I don’t belong to the Quit family; my name is Mead. For the last half hour you have been standing by your master; now for the next half hour I am going to stand up for my Master.”
“Who is my master?” he asked.
“The devil is your master, while Christ is mine. I am as proud of my master as you are of yours. Now I am going to have my turn, if the passengers don’t object.”
A chorus of voices cried out, “Sing on, stranger; we like that.”
I sang on, and as the next verse was finished, the blasphemer turned his face away, and I saw nothing of him after that but the back of his head, and that was the handsomest part of him. He left the train soon after, and I’ve never seen him since. Song after song followed, and I soon had other voices to help me. When the song service ended, an old man came to me, put out his hand, and said, “Sir, I owe you thanks and a confession.”—H. C. Mead.
WHAT THE CHINESE THINK OF US.
AS INSTANCES of the wonderment with which the average Chinese watch the doings of Europeans, the Frankfurter Zeitung, Frankfort, gives the opinions of a Chinaman who lives near Shanghai, and from which the following extracts are taken:—
“We are always told that the countries of the foreign devils are grand and rich, but that can not be true, else what do they all come here for? It is here they grow rich. But you can not civilize them; they are beyond redemption. They will live weeks and months without touching a mouthful of rice, but they eat the flesh of bullocks and sheep in enormous quantities394. That is why they smell so badly; they smell like sheep themselves. Every day they take a bath to rid themselves of their disagreeable odors, but they do not succeed. Nor do they eat their meat cooked in small pieces. It is carried into the room in large chunks, often half raw, and then they cut and slash and tear it apart. They eat with knives and prongs; it makes a civilized being perfectly nervous. One fancies himself in the presence of sword-swallowers.
“The opium poison, which they have brought us, they do not use themselves. But they take enormous quantities of weskichu and shang ping-chu [whisky and champagne]. The latter is very good. They know what is good, the rascals. It is because they eat and drink so much that they never rest. A sensible civilized person does nothing without due consideration; but the barbarians hurry with everything. Their anger, however, is only a fire of straw; if you wait long enough, they get tired of being angry. I worked for two of them. The one we used to call the ‘Crazy Flea’ because he was always jumping about; the other we named the ‘Wooden Gun,’ because he never went off, though he was always at full cock.”
“They certainly do not know how to amuse themselves. You never see them enjoy themselves by sitting quietly upon their ancestor’s grave. They jump around and kick balls as if they were paid to do it. Again, you will find them making long tramps into the country; but that is probably a religious duty, for when they tramp they wave sticks in the air, nobody knows why. They have no sense of dignity; for they may be found walking with women. They even sit down at the same table with women, and the latter are served first. Yet the women are to be pitied, too. On festive occasions they are compelled to appear almost naked before every man who likes to look at them, and then they are dragged around a room to the accompaniment of the most hellish music.”
HE CARETH FOR THEE.
WHAT can it mean? Is it ought to Him
That the nights are long and the days are dim?
Can He be touched by the griefs I bear,
Which sadden the heart and whiten the hair?
Around His throne are eternal calms,
And strong, glad music of happy psalms-
And bliss unruffled by any strife;
How can He care for my poor life?
When shadows hang o’er me the whole day long,
And my spirit is bowed with shame and wrong;
When I am not good, and the deeper shade
Of conscious sin makes my heart afraid,
And the busy world has too much to do
To stay in its course to help me through,
And I long for a Saviour, can it be
That the God of the universe cares for me?
O wonderful story of deathless love!
Each child is dear to that Heart above;
He fights for me when I can not fight;
He comforts me in the gloom of night;
He lifts the burden, for He is strong;
He stills the sigh, and awakens the song;
The sorrow that bowed me down He bears,
And loves and pardons, because He cares.
—Anon.
THE CORNER-STONE.
A great cathedral was being built. The most beautiful marble, exquisitely carved, made its walls. Its woodwork was like satin, and of delicate colors. The windows were like rich paintings, telling the wonderful stories of Christ’s life. The workmen had come from far and near, the most skilful only having been chosen. For months hammers and chisels rang, till at last all but one window was finished. It was a south window, not large, where rich sunlight fell early and late.
“Strange it should have been forgotten,” said the master workman. “The bishop comes to-morrow, and all should be finished.”
A little, bent man, with a shrewd but kindly face, limped up. Doffing his cap, he said:— “Sir, I have made a window for that space from bits of the other windows. Pray you, let it go up.”
“It is the best we can do,” said the master. “Put it up for to-morrow, man, but after that it must come down.”
The next day the church was crowded. Just as the old bishop turned to preach the sermon, the sun burst out. It came through the south window, touching his white hair with a halo. Every one turned to look. The stranger’s window was a flashing jewel. Tho it was made of bits, the colors were so blended that they seemed like one. The sunlight glittered and broke into a thousand rays.
The bishop knew about the forgotten window, and the strange way one had been made. He had written a stately sermon, but he put it away, and preached the thought the beautiful window gave,—the rejected stone being the head of the corner.
People who heard it, and saw the window, never forgot. So shall we feel, little and big, when we see that some of our little efforts, which many thought worthless, shall be counted by Jesus worthy of all recognition.—Anon.
THE FOCUS OF HEATHENISM IN INDIA.
By H. Grattan Guinness
BY H. GRATTAN GUINNESS, D.D.
PHANTASMAGORIA, such as it seems, a strange, incredible dream, yet it is a reality. Benares! this is India, this is heathenism. In the golden light of the morning sun flows the broad Ganges, past the crowded flights of steps, extending inch after inch along the bank, covered with worshiping thousands, men, women, children, in white or colored costumes, or no costumes, undressing, dressing, washing, chatting, praying, pouring the sacred water on their bodies, plunging their bodies into the sacred stream, washing their hands in it, their feet, their legs, their arms, their chests, their faces, their clothes, their wet garments clinging to their bodies, the water streaming off their limbs, their prayers babbling from their lips, washing away, as they imagine, both the filth of the flesh and the sin of the soul, in the self-same sacred stream, holy Ganges; the ever-flowing river of salvation.
The ill-savored drainage of the city pours into the sacred stream; it issues from wide openings on the banks, black and fetid, and mingles with the waters of the river; a corpse floats by, swollen and bloated, face down, or face up, in the mighty flood; the vultures sit on neighboring walls of shrines and temples, or wheel on lazy wing above the wave, or light upon the floating or stranded dead. Side by side on the shore burn the funeral pyres, great piles of wood blazing and smoking around newly-brought corpses, the feet of the dead protruding from the crackling flames, crowds gazing without concern at the daily spectacle. Hundreds of Brahmans sit or stand in ceremonial worship on wooden rafts, built out from the stone steps, on which the people of the city, or the pilgrims from distant places, are performing their religious ablutions. Suniassis, Yogis, or Fakirs, naked, smeared with mud, giving a hideous ashen color to their faces and bodies, with disheveled locks, gaunt limbs, stiff attitudes, and demoniac aspect, sit on raised platforms, and gaze at you, or stare into emptiness, or worship the stream, or grasp the offerings flung to them by admiring crowds.
Above them on the river banks rise the walls, the sculptures, the terraces, the towers, the pinnacles of countless temples, some dark with age, others glowing with color, or glittering with gilded roof and spire against the clear blue sky, while beyond the shrines which line the river bank, stretch the roofs of houses closely packed together in maze-like masses,11whose narrow, winding streets are filled with swarming thousands, struggling in the crossings, crowding round the shrines, jammed in gateways; or courts, or temples, pouring water on the idols, scattering flowers on them, muttering prayers, chattering or shouting in half a score of tongues, beggars adding to the Babel by imploring bakshish from every passer-by, while rich and poor cast food or money at the feet of proud and lazy priests, squatting half naked beside these senseless and abominable idols, idols in many cases too indecent for description, foul objects, on which the priests publicly pour the consecrated libation, or the devotee hangs the garland, or flings the flower, as to a god. Thy Pantheon a pandemonium; thy millions made in the image of God prostrate themselves before beasts and devils, as tho they were divine; and this is thy daily habit and thy delight; this has been thy way for ages; never hast thou known the revelation; truth has never been truth to thee; from time immemorial things have been inverted, falsehood has been to thee truth, and truth falsehood.
A Sacred Bathing Place in India.
Who shall deliver thee from thy delusions? Who shall break thy adamantine chain? Who shall bring thee forth from thy dark prison-house, from thy horrid chamber of imagery, from the groveling pit of thy perdition, into the sunlight of reality, the fair open day of truth and righteousness?
O pitiable spectacle! Look at those women, grave, earnest, elderly women, walking in procession round and round that dusty old tree by the roadside, which they are taught to hold sacred, reverently sprinkling it with water from the neighboring Ganges, each carrying a pot of water in her left hand, and a brazen spoon in her right. Round and round they go, with weary feet, sprinkling and still sprinkling as sacred the gnarled trunk and knotted roots of an unsightly tree. And this in the name of religion.
Sitting under his umbrella by the wayside, the Pundit reads to the passer-by out of some old Sanskrit book, words which the common people can not comprehend; the language in which he reads has long ceased to be spoken; it is a dead tongue; and this is all they have by way of moral or spiritual instruction. No voice that we could hear was lifted up to protest against idolatry, or to point to the way of righteousness or salvation; and this while Christendom crowds her cities with places of worship, and has pulpits with preachers, scatters her religious books and tracts among her favored children by millions, fights over petty parish rights and local privileges, oblivious of the great world's needs and of the state of the outlying millions of the race.
Say not there are missionaries in India. There are; but what are the missionaries there to the needs? Who shall waken the Christian church to her duty? Look, O ye favored ones, on the people of India! They are real men and women, with bodies and spirits, with hearts and consciences, with sins and sorrows like your own. But, unlike you, they are living and dying thus as we describe, without the knowledge of God, and without the knowledge of salvation. Who will come in a Christlike spirit to help them? Who will bring them the message of the Gospel which Christ commanded His disciples to proclaim to every creature of mankind?—Missionary Review.
BACK TO THE OLD HOME.
FARMER FOY, says Our Dumb Animals, lived just over the line in McKean County, Pennsylvania, and he sold several head of cattle one spring to a cattle buyer of Crawford County. Among the lot was a three-year-old heifer, born and raised on the Foy farm. Great difficulty was encountered in getting this youngest animal away from her native place, but the drover at last succeeded in driving her along with the rest to the railroad station, whence they were all shipped to Meadville, by Salamaca, a round-about course of 150 miles.
Four weeks later Farmer Foy was awakened late one night by the crying of a cow. The crying was so unusual and so loud and persistent that by and by the farmer got up and dressed and went out to see what it all meant. He could scarcely believe his eyes when he discovered that the animal that had been making all the fuss was the three-year-old heifer that he had sold to the cattle buyer a month before. She was standing at the bars of the barn-yard and calling lustily to be let in. She was promptly let in, and she lay down in her old place as if she had never left it.
Next day it was discovered that the creature was thin and footsore and plainly worn by long travel. Foy, being a native of Crawford County, was a subscriber to one of the Meadville papers, and in the week’s issue that came the day after the return of the heifer, he saw her advertised as an estray, she having broken out of her inclosure one night of the previous week.
A reward was offered for her return. That the heifer had found her way back to her old home, over a distance of at least 100 miles, in traveling which it was necessary for her to cross the Alleghany River at least three times, as well as other large streams, there could be no doubt, and that in her anxiety to get back she had not spared time to do much eating by the way was shown by her emaciated condition. How she, a strange cow, traveling through a strange land, managed to escape detention by some one as an estray, and by what marvelous instinct she found her way back to her native pastures, are things no one will ever know. It is hardly necessary to say that Farmer Foy promptly returned to her purchaser the price he had received for her, and that the animal remained all the rest of her days on the farm to return to which she had made so remarkable a journey.
HOST AND GUEST.
WHAT to do to make the guest-chamber comfortable for the visitor who brings only a satchel: The desk, with its pen, ink, and paper; the whisk broom, with its companion, the hat brush; the work-basket, with its sewing outfit; the china tray, with its pins and hairpins; the convenient button-hook, shoe horn, and glove fastener; the comfortable water bag; the much-used bed slippers and dressing-gown, and, last but not least, the wash cloth, nail, and flesh brush—three articles which are most desirable to the wanderer and traveler.
The duties of a guest are many, and should be observed with delicacy and gracious courtesy. Always be ready when meals are served. Do not exact of your hostess that her entire time should be given for your pleasure. Conform to all the rules of the house, and particularly the hour for retiring. Be oblivious to any event of an unpleasant character. Treat the servants with consideration, and do not seemingly be affected by the crying of children or any other domestic affairs that take place in the household. Do not leave your articles of apparel here, there, and everywhere. Always stamp your letters before the morning mail is collected. Be ready to drive, walk, and make yourself generally agreeable, and, above all things, “don't dwell on the beauty of women not present or splendor of other people’s houses, or on the superiority of anybody.” Just exercise the best tact nature has given, and you will be a success.—Good Housekeeping.
THE INVALID’S ROOM.
Of course you know all about the necessity of absolute cleanliness and sweetness in an invalid’s room, of the importance of fresh air, and just how much sunlight should be let in or excluded, but did you ever think of the importance of making little changes in the furniture and bric-à-brac in this room? To lie week after week and stare at the same pattern on the wall, the same pictures, the same vases and bottles of medicine, is depressing, to say the least.
If you will introduce, from time to time, some little new article—a vase brought from another room, at the same time removing one from this, a different picture, even tho it be only a supplement from an art paper pinned up without frame, a cunning little corner table, or even merely a new and fresh cover—you will add a new joy to the few pleasures possible to your dear invalid. Every little thing of this kind helps to vary the monotony of a sick room.—American Agriculturist.
THE GIFT OF LOVE.
By Mrs. M. M. Painter
It is in loving, not in being loved, the heart is blest;
It is in giving, not in seeking gifts, we find our quest.
If thou art hungry, lacking heavenly food, give hope and cheer;
If thou art sad, and would'st be comforted, stay sorrow's tear.
Whatever be thy longing or thy need, that do thou give;
So shall thy soul be fed, and thou, indeed, shalt truly live.
—Mrs. M. M. Painter.
PERIODICALS WANTED.
Mrs. H. M. Simers, 1802 Palmyra Street, New Orleans, La., earnestly solicits copies of the SIGNS, OUR LITTLE FRIEND, and any of our denominational papers, for missionary work.
Books, papers, and tracts wanted for the free reading-room of the Life Saving Mission, 212 North Kansas Avenue, Topeka, Kansas. Have not the many friends of present truth, literature that they would like to see doing good among the poor? If so, please send to the above address.
OUR WORK AND WORKERS.
PLANS are on foot for establishing helping hand and medical missionary work in Wheeling, W. Va.
THE Reporter says that a new church is soon to be organized at Lawndale, Texas.
BROTHER F. W. HIDDLESON has been assigned to the Walla Walla (Wash.) Mission, to conduct the Gospel services.
DURING the past week a camp-meeting in the interest of the German people was held at Endicott, Wash.
A CHURCH of sixteen members was organized at West Superior, Wis., May 22, by Brother Wm. Covert, president of the conference.
BROTHER G. H. SMITH, a Nebraska laborer, reports the baptism of ten persons at Arcadia, four at Loup City, and two at Milburn.
AT Kearney, Neb., Brother J. J. Hughes secured 100 subscribers for the SIGNS in a very short time, delivering them himself every week.
SO OFTEN laborers say of their respective localities, “This is a hard field.” Never mind, there are no easy fields in this world, but none of them is harder than was Judea when our Lord and His disciples labored there. Remember the promise, “Lo, I am with you.”
A WORKER went out from Omaha, Neb., lately, with 350 copies of the SIGNS, to some of the railroad towns, and sold all the papers in eighteen hours. In one place she sold 24 in thirty minutes.
A CALL is made upon the churches in Texas to assist in opening medical mission work in Galveston. We hope to hear favorable reports from this work before long.
JULY 2 and 3 have been set apart by the General Conference Committee as special days of consecration and earnest seeking of God for His guidance and blessing upon the work and workers. Contributions will be taken for foreign mission work.
THE California Conference officers for the coming year are as follows: Executive committee, W. T. Knox (president), N. C. McClure, R. S. Owen, M. C. Wilcox, E. E. Andross, G. A. Snyder, J. W. Bagby; secretary, J. J. Ireland; treasurer, Pacific Press Publishing Company. Other particulars will be given next week.
IN the semiannual report of the Helping Hand Mission in Cleveland, Ohio, we note the following testimony of a man at one of the meetings: “I thank God for this mission. I was a terrible object when I staggered in here five months ago. I had drunk up all I had, even to the clothes upon my back. I was an inmate of the workhouse, but the Lord saved me, and has taken away the desire for drink, and now I have steady work, and my family are with me to-night at this service.”
ELDER J. W. COLLIE has commenced a feature of public work in Cleveland, Ohio, which gives promise of success. He has engaged a large hall for Sunday nights. The first lecture was given on the evening of the 5th inst., with an attendance of over five hundred. The subject was “The Arming of the Nations for the War of the Ages.” That the audience was pleased was indicated by the fact that over seven hundred cards of admission were taken for the next meeting. Could not a like work be done in many more cities?
KEENE ACADEMY CALENDAR.
The fifth annual calendar of the Keene Industrial Academy is ready for distribution, and may be had upon application. The academy has dropped much of the language study from its courses, and has introduced eight lines of industrial study, which will be placed upon the same basis as other subjects, and will be required of all students in the Academic Department. All interested in the problem of industrial education should obtain a copy of the calendar. A year's subscription to the Keene Academy News costs but twenty-five cents, including the “Calendar Number.” Address, Keene Industrial Academy, Keene, Johnson County, Texas.
NEW SHEET MUSIC.
The March Agrestic is a new production in the musical line, brilliant, but not difficult, and will be mailed by the author, to any post-office in America, at twenty cents per copy, which is but half its regular price.
Address, Oscar Francis Broman. Kent City, Mich.
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A Luncheon of Bromose for a 4c Stamp. Seven Samples for 25c. Full line of samples, 50c.
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When you write, please mention the SIGNS OF THE TIMES.
