Earlier text: Morality of the Ten CommandmentsAlmost a Christian
By Henry Smith
ALMOST sweet is unsavory; almost hot is lukewarm. Almost a Christian is like Micah, who thought himself religious because he had gotten a priest into his house. Almost a Christian is like Ananias, who brought a part, but left a part behind. Almost a Christian is like Eli's sons, who polled the sacrifices; like the fig-tree which deceived Christ with leaves; like the virgins who carried lamps without oil; like the willing-unwilling son who said he would come, and would not. —Henry Smith. A BRIGHT boy was lately apprenticed to the trade of a machine-maker. He had not been long at the trade before he was asked to fetch some beer for two men, who promised to let him have a share. James had no wish to avail himself of this offer, and told the men he was a Band of Hope boy, and could not go to fetch them drink. "Band of Hope! Humph!" said one of the men; "we want nothing to do with Bands of Hope here; you must drink your glass of beer or you'll never be a man." "Then," said James, "I'll always be a boy." "Nonsense! You'll have a man's work to do, and will have to take some drink." "Nay, nay, I shall never need any drunkard's drink to help me to do my work." "You know nothing about it, for with you it's all to try." "But I know that the strongest man in history, who was brought up under God's orders, was not allowed to have strong drink, and yet he became very powerful, and did many wonderful things." "Ah! I remember. That was the man who, when he was locked up in a walled city, and the people thought he could not get away, got up in the night, and went off with the gates of the city on his back, which he had lifted off the hinges—locks, bolts, and bars included—and left the big gates on the top of the next hill for the people to look at in the morning, when he had gone far enough away." "Yes, that was the man; and he managed the exploit and other feats of strength without any strong drink." "Ah! but there was no beer in his time, and people are obliged to take some beer nowadays if they mean to do any hard work." "Not so; for there is nothing in beer to make any one strong." "Oh don't talk like that to me! I have worked in a malt-house, and I know something about it. Why, a boy like you ought to know that beer must be a nourishing drink when it is made from barley. Isn't barley a good thing?" "Oh yes, if you only get it; but do malsters put the substance of the barley into the beer? How do they prepare the barley for the beer?" "They first steep the barley, or wet it with water, and then spread it on the malt floor till it sprouts." "Have you ever seen it sprouted?" "Is it not beginning to grow when the sprouts appear?" "Yes; the sprouts are the new barley coming out." "Then the sprouts must be the life of the barley--the real substance of it?" "Then if the best part of the barley comes away in the sprouts, it cannot both come out and stop in, can it?" "But are the sprouts put into the beer?" "Dear me, no! the sprouts are the 'culms,' which they give to the cattle." "Then it seems the cattle get the best part of the barley. But is the malt boiled into beer when the 'culms' have been given to the cattle?" "Oh dear, no! that would make sweetwort instead of beer; it is not proper beer until it is brewed." "What becomes of the sweetness when it is brewed?" "I cannot tell; but proper beer is not sweet." "I have learned in our Band of Hope that malt is only the sugary part of the barley, and that the sugar, which would help to make fat, is destroyed in brewing, and turned into an evil spirit, which, when men drink the beer, gets into their heads, and makes them talk silly talk, and do all sorts of foolish and bad things." "Well, I reckon it does." "And what becomes of the grains when the malt is brewed?" "They are given to the cattle." "Cattle again! it seems, then, the cattle get all the solids, and the beer drinkers only the slops." "I think, my lad, you've learned your lesson pretty well in your Band of Hope." "I wish you would come too, for I am sure it would do you good; and perhaps you would not want to spend any money on beer. We were told at one meeting that the great chemist Liebig says there is more nourishment in as much flour as will lie on the end of a table-knife than in nine quarts of the best beer." "Why, does he really say that?" "He does, and says there is more nutriment in a five-pound loaf than in three hundred and sixty-five gallons of beer." "Three hundred and sixty-five gallons!" "Yes; and that agrees with what Dr. Lyon Playfair has said, that there is more food in as much oatmeal as can be bought for 3½d. than in 7s. 6d. worth of Bass' best ale. And besides, when we buy the oatmeal, we buy no mischief; it is all good, and no harm; but when people buy Bass' best ale, they buy mischief in the bargain."
—Youth's Temperance Banner. 'I Had Never Looked at It in That Light.'
THERE are some people who have great sympathy for hotel-keepers when a town goes no-license, and the bars are closed.
We met a man a few days ago who said, "You temperance people are depreciating the value of property; our hotel-keeper will lose $2,000 on his property if this town remains no-license. You will admit this, won't you?"
"Yes, of course we will admit this, but my dear sir, let us see if this hotel has not been a means of depreciating the value of real estate. Do you know how much Carton paid for his farm ten years ago?"
"Yes, he paid $10,000 for it, and at that time it was a bargain."
"I was by there to-day, and I saw the barn doors were off the hinges, the fence down, the house needed painting; all along the tumbled-down fences I saw elders, briars, etc. How much would you give for it now; you are a good judge of property?"
"I would not give over $6,000 for it; in fact, I would not want it at that price."
"How did this farm come to run down as it has? Why, you know, Carton spent all his time at the hotel in the village; neglected his farm; has a heavy mortgage on it now, and it came from the hotel. Am I over-stating it?"
"No; his farm has run down in the way you have mentioned."
"How is it with John McLuney, Bill Allen, McCormick, and others I might mention? Has not this hotel you have helped to keep running been the means of depreciating the real estate of this town? Look at the farms mortgaged because the owners spent their time and money at this bar."
"I guess you are right. I had never looked at it in that light before."
We then commenced to figure, and at the figures this man set himself, we found on seventeen farms a loss of $27,000, coming direct from the hotel he had desired to keep open. He came to the conclusion it was better for the hotel to lose in value $2,000, than taxable property to the amount of $27,000.
How much longer will it be before the people will see the wholesale ruin coming from the bar-rooms?—Sel. NOTHING is more common when a man gets out of health, from mere overwork, from some improper use of his health, from some misuse of his faculties, or some other thing that ought to be remedied by the rules of hygiene—that ought to be prevented and cured by the removal of its cause—nothing is more common than to tell a man to take a little wine, instead of telling him to look into his surroundings, and get rid of the cause. I find that what is wanted with these cases of debility is regular work, proper hygiene, mental discipline of the individual, and a proper system of diet and regimen; and then I find that they get well infinitely better without drink than they do with it. Whenever a man tells me that he cannot eat his dinner without a glass or two of wine, I know the wine has got hold of him to that extent. I know it is all the more reason why he should leave it off, and if he will leave off, in a week he will eat more than he did before, will digest it infinitely better, and get stronger in every way.—Dr. Townsend. I Made That Man What He Was.
Some time ago a saloon-keeper in Dover, Delaware, who patronized his own bar very liberally, stepped into a back room where men were at work about a pump in a well. The covering had been removed, and he approached to look down, but being very drunk, he pitched in head foremost. He had become so much of a bloat, by the use of strong drink, that it was impossible to extricate him in time to save his life. There was great excitement in the town. Men and women who had never been inside his saloon before were the first to rush to the rescue, and offer sympathy to the bereaved family. As he was dragged from the well, and stretched out dead on the saloon floor, a wholesale liquor dealer from Philadelphia stepped in. After the first shock of finding one of his good customers dead, he turned to a prominent lady, and said, pointing to the wretched victim:— “I made that man what he was. I lent him the first dollar, and set him up with his first stock of liquors, and now he is worth $10,000 or $15,000.” Looking him square in the face, she replied:— “Yes you did make that man what he was—a drunkard, a bloat, a stench in the nostrils of society; and sent him headlong into eternity and a drunkard’s hell! What is $15,000 weighed against a lost soul, a wasted life, a wife a widow, and children orphans?” He turned deadly pale, and without a word left the house. What is all the revenue to the millions whose homes are destroyed, whose children are beggared, and whose loved ones are sent headlong to a drunkard’s grave?—The Christian Woman. A New York reporter has been making investigations and spinning a tale which will not have the effect of adding to the appetizing qualities of cheap teas for some time to come. The other day he visited the ruins of some burned bonded warehouses, where over 1,000,000 pounds of tea had been stored. Workmen were shoveling out the refuse, much of the tea being smoked and saturated with salt water pumped from the East River. It was taken out "in the shape of a coarse black mud, plentifully mixed with cinders and other rubbish. This is piled up in great heaps on the South Street sidewalks, and the roadway for a considerable distance is strewn with a layer of it half a foot thick, which the feet of workmen and pedestrians are tramping constantly into filth. Every day or two these heaps are sold to the highest bidder, on condition of immediate removal." The reporter interviewed purchasers of the filth as to what they did with the stuff, and learned that it was partly cleaned and sold again as tea. One buyer said he had some of the rubbish dried, sifted, and recolored, and sold it at a profit of 800 per cent. "to one of the great tea concerns of the country." A fellow does not object to toe-nails, locks of negro wool, bits of bark, rusty nails and pieces of coal in his plug tobacco, but the muck of the streets in tea is too much for good nature. Smoking on Passenger Cars
By The Truth
A PHILADELPHIA smoker removed the cigar from his mouth on entering the horse-car, but insisted on retaining it in his hand. The conductor warned him to throw it away, as the smoke from it was offensive to the women passengers, and finally ejected him by force. He sued the company for damages, but the verdict was against him, the court charging the jury that he was a nuisance which the conductor had a right to abate. The conductors of our city and suburban passenger railways should also be instructed to eject any man who brings into the car a cigar that had been partially smoked, because a cold cigar emits and fills the air with an odor not only disagreeable and offensive, but decidedly sickening, and we have more than once seen ladies leave a car, which we believe was because they had been made sick by the sickening odor arising from a cigar in a man's hand. Another very disgusting thing is the breath of a man who has been smoking. Frequently we have to sit opposite a man and endure this. If a man must smoke, when he gets in front of another let him breathe through his nose, and keep his mouth shut.—The Truth. THE ruins of that old country school-house yet remain, a deformity by the roadside. It had brick walls, and these are not entirely gone. A portion of the chimney, too, is still to be seen, while old foundation-stones, and bits of lath, and broken layers of mortar, make the place desolate and forbidding. The wet, spongy farm-lot in the rear is no handsomer, nor the rude highway more attractive, than was the case forty years ago. It would seem as if country school-houses, like country grave-yards, were once begrudged the room required for them, and hence, pushed into the most uninviting places. Even now, in sleep, I sometimes dream of my school-days there, and of the little boy with the big boots—the sorrowful little boy, whom none of us knew enough to make happy. Boys are not really more cruel then men, but their well of kindness lies deep, and they leap over it and run around it, without knowing how clear and sparkling its waters would be if drawn up. I was a lad of eleven, the first and only winter of my attendance there. I am now more than fifty, and in the review, that single winter seems as long to me as a dozen years. The incidents of youth have a consistency like that of pure gold, and the mind afterwards beats them out, so that they cover a very broad surface. Mr. Tanner, the master, I would know in a moment were he to rise up before me now, and the fresh-looking girl at the desk in the corner, and the blue-eyed country beauty, whose seat was by the window, and the freckled boys, and boys with tow hair, the big boys on the back seat, and the little boys on the front seat by the stove—I would recognize them every one, could some psychological wonder bring them back to me again, with the looks that they have long since shed, atom by atom, on the road of life. There was one little fellow about my own age, whom, on the first day of school, I remarked as having a thoughtful and somewhat troubled face, and to be poorly dressed. It was a cold day in November, and at recess some of the boys put on their overcoats. One of them, who had a very handsome garment of the kind, on taking it down from its nail in the entry, observed beside it an old, faded coat belonging to some one else. This he rudely grasped, and with a jeering, cruel air and derisive whoop, exclaimed:— At the same time he threw it across the small entry and out upon the stone step. Another kicked it as it fell, while a third caught it up and ran with it, as if it were a kite or a banner. Presently, however, it was dropped, and as the boys became somewhat scattered, I saw the little fellow of the reflective face hastily pick up the despised article and return it to the place where it hung. As he turned away his countenance was flushed, and he drew the back of his hand across his somewhat handsome eyes. It was his coat; this was plain, and all my enjoyment of the recess was spoiled, for I thought how he must feel to be jeered at and insulted for what he could not help, and what had no doubt caused him much anxiety and mortification, even before any one had made it a subject of ridicule. He did not put on the coat at that time, though he had worn it in the morning, but when the day was over, and all the children were making ready for home, as the bitter wind whistled past the door, he once more buttoned it around him, and I was glad to find that nothing was said, although some of the boys looked curiously at his thread-bare attire, as if wondering how he could wear such clothes on the very first day of school. But I now observed that he had ill-fitting boots, much too large for his feet; and although the coat escaped attack for the time, the boots did not. "Boots! boots! what is the price of old leather?" "Who wants to take a sail in a mud scow?" were some of the unfeeling ejaculations that he was compelled to hear as he started out upon the road with the others, who, after the manner of rude school-boys, sauntered or ran along pushing each other into ditches, or throwing pebbles at gate-posts and trees. The following day was still colder, and the boy came wrapped in his poor overcoat; but this had now ceased to attract particular attention; the big boots, which really made a remarkable appearance upon feet so small, becoming the butt instead. They made a louder sound on the school-house floor than the boots of any other boy; and the sensitive heart of young Master Robert Brown (for this was the lad's name) told him so. There were enough others to tell him so too. Oh, the cruelty of those sarcastic smiles and impudent glances! One evening I told my parents of the boy with the big boots, who came from the other end of the district; and my mother replied that Robert Brown must be the son of that Mr. Brown who lived at the turn of the road, two miles off; and who by intemperance kept his whole family in misery. Mrs. Brown, my mother said, was an excellent woman, and was always mending and fixing up her children's clothing, trying in her careful, anxious way, to make something of nothing, and often, too, succeeding surprisingly well. Robert, she added, had an elder brother, who had gone to sea, and perhaps the big boots might be a pair which he had left at home. The family had lately lost a little girl, Robert's sister, and were in affliction every way, and she hoped that I would never show by word or look that I noticed the clumsy boots or the threadbare coat. And now I remember hearing Robert say to himself, sobbing, one day when the big boys had treated him ill:— "O, little Mamie! little Mamie! I am glad you cannot know of it!" One day not long after the commencement of the school, two of the committee called upon some business with the teacher, and at recess some of the boys maliciously remarked that they had observed these officials smiling at Robert's big boots, as he stood in his class or shuffled along the floor. This was not true, but it had its effect. The idea that grown-up men could regard him with derision for his patched jacket and his poor, clumsy boots, seemed to impress him with a feeling more forlorn than aught else had done. How many leaden thoughts fell on his young heart! He recalled his father, a drunkard; his mother, so careful, so sorrowful, so worn with work, so tender of himself; his little sister, asleep under the new mound, where his own and his mother's hands placed, every ivy, mosses, and circlets of the pretty creeping-jenny—for it was all they could do; and then in the midst of all how inexpressibly dreadful to his mind seemed the taunts which poverty brought upon him. The coat upon which his mother had sewed at night, hoping it might answer; the boots she had dreaded to ask him to wear; the course dinner that the boys had made fun of at noon, as he took it from his pail,—the thought of these things made him feel more bitter than ever, and suddenly at that recess that he was missed from among his school-fellows. I found him stretched at full length on the damp ground, out of sight of his tormentors, and when I knelt by his side, and put my arm tenderly about him, his sobs were violent. He cried long and bitterly—all the more for this sympathy, so precious, so unexpected. Presently a number of school-boy faces peered over the fence that had hidden us from the common view, but after a moment's watching, they slunk away in shame. I soon perceived that my school-mates were talking earnestly among themselves, and saw also that some of the faces I had thought so cruel wore a look of repentance and sorrow. The teacher's bell sounded, and we all thronged into school—Robert Brown the last. How sad he looked. The master asked no questions; but he must previously have observed something of the condition of things, for when school was over at night, he put his arm around Robert's neck, and asked him to remain for a few moments. Robert held me by the hand, and asked that I might remain also. Then, when we were alone, he told, at the master's request, the story of his troubles. How simply and how frankly he spoke, and what unstudied pathos there was in his words! The school-master's eyes were full of tears, and in answering the poor little boy, his voice became choked, and more than once he left a sentence unfinished. As to myself, I could not help weeping outright. The next day Robert was absent. He had taken cold during the few minutes in which he lay on the wet ground, and as the weather was now stormy, his mother had not ventured to send him. His absence afforded the master an opportunity of talking to the other pupils in a way which he could hardly have done had the little boy with the big boots been present. My school-fellows had, however, already begun to think—begun to put themselves in Robert's place, and imagine how they would feel if their mothers, who so loved them, were poor and care-worn, and sat up at night, trying to make old things answer for their dear boys, hoping that the other boys would not notice the difference, or at least would not speak of it—to consider how it would be if, when they came to school, all this anxiety, and toil, and love were mocked by unfeeling voices, and all the dear things of home were insulted through a senseless derision, by those who had the good fortune to possess parents who could buy them new coats, new mittens, and new boots. There is almost everything in thinking, and at last the boys thought. Master Tanner spoke kindly to them on the subject. Though he could be stern at times, there was now not one atom of severity in his tones. His heart had no room for anger, but as he spoke, he became eloquent. It was a soft, willing kind of eloquence, and the most thoughtless boy in the school was affected to tears. Whether or not Robert's mother knew what had transpired I cannot tell; but the succeeding day he came again, wearing the same coat and boots as before. But the boys saw them not, or saw them only to feel a heartache, and a new-born sympathy for the poor little fellow who would not have worn them if he could have helped it. The tide of impulse had turned. Nothing was overdone, but there was kindness of act and tone, and the big boys showed that they were doing what they could, in a gentle, unobstrusive way, to make Robert forget that they had ever treated him ill.—Evangelist. "How obliging Ed. Dayton is," said Martin Wells to Will Buchanan one day when they left the school-house together. "He says he will lend me any book he has, and he has so many nice ones. He promised to bring me 'Carlina' tomorrow. I never could finish it, because I didn't get the magazine." "Oh yes, he's very good about making promises!" said Will, dryly. "And he said he'd get me a ticket to the Mercantile, or speak to his father—he's one of the managers. There's some arrangement by which they give tickets to a certain number of boys. Wasn't it kind of him?" Martin was a stranger in a strange place, with little money to spend; and Ed. Dayton's pleasant words and obliging offers had made a strong impression upon a mind naturally sensitive and grateful. "Oh, certainly, very kind of him," said Will, who knew pretty well the nature of Ed. Dayton's371 promises, but would not prejudice a stranger against a school-mate. "So different from John Fitz Adam," continued Martin. "I wanted so to see 'Atkinson's Siberia,' and I knew he had it, and I did venture to ask him to let me take it this week, and all he said was he 'couldn't promise.' It's the first time I ever asked a favor of any one in this school," said Martin, proudly, "I guess it will be the last." "It's not like John to be stingy," said Will; and then the boys parted. The next morning Ed. Dayton had forgotten to bring "Carlina," and then when Martin, two days after, ventured to remind him of his promise, he said that the book was his sister's, and that she didn't like to lend her books. Seeing the state of the case, Martin said nothing about the library ticket, of which he heard nothing more, to his very great disappointment, for he dearly loved books. He was going home Friday night, feeling rather tired, homesick, and lonesome, when John Fitz Adam came running after him, with a book in his hand. "Here's Atkinson," he said, out of breath, "I couldn't promise it the other day, because I didn't know whether father wanted to send it away to grandma or not, and it was lent to my cousins, but it came home last night, so it's at your service, and keep it as long as you like." "Oh, thank you !" said Martin, brightening, and regretting his hasty judgment of John, "I'm sure you are very good;" and then the boys parted, and presently Martin was joined by Ed. Dayton. "I think Fitz Adam is a regular mean fellow," said Ed. "I just asked him this morning to look out some references for me in some books I know he has at home, and he wouldn't promise to do it, because he said he thought his father wanted him this evening. I'd like to see the time when I couldn't promise to oblige a friend." "And I'd like to see the time when you'd keep your promise," thought Martin. "If people always keep their promises, they are generally rather careful how they make engagements. It don't cost any one much to promise, who never performs."—Child's World. To WEARY hearts, to mourning homes,
God's meekest angel gently comes;
No power has he to banish pain,
Or give us back our lost again;
And yet in tenderest love, our dear
And heavenly Father sends him here. There's quiet in that angel's glance;
There's rest in his still countenance!
He mocks no grief with idle cheer,
Nor wounds with words the mourner's ear;
But ills and woes he may not cure
He kindly trains us to endure. Angel of patience! sent to calm
Our fev'rish brows with cooling palm;
To lay the storm of hope and fear,
And reconcile life's smile and tear;
The throbs of wounded pride to still,
And make us own our Father's will. O thou who mournest on thy way
With longings for the close of day,
He walks with thee, that angel kind,
And gently whispers: "Be resigned;
Bear up, bear on, the end shall tell
The dear Lord orders all things well!" —The city of Paris is suffering from a scarcity of water. —The city of Honolulu, Sandwich Islands, is to be lighted with electricity. —A dispatch from Tangier states that a holy war is being preached throughout Morocco against the Christians. —The destruction of vineyards in Europe by the phylloxera is estimated at 3,000,000,000 francs within ten years. —The Milwaukee and St. Paul Railroad Company has sold to an English syndicate 1,000,000 acres of land, at $4.50 per acre. —Rear Admiral David S. McDougal, of the U. S. Navy, died in San Francisco, Aug. 6, aged nearly seventy-three years. —The army worm is making heavy ravages in the vicinity of Pine Plains, New York. Farmers are compelled to harvest their oats before they are ripe. —The yearly product of the pearl fisheries on the coast of Lower California is about $500,000. There are no less than 1,000 divers engaged in this pursuit. —The Hardy Powder Works, near Vallejo, Cal., exploded Aug. 11. Two men were instantly killed, and two others have since died. The loss was complete. —The people of Geneva, Switzerland, expend more money for wine than they do for bread, the average amount spent by each person for this article being 300 francs yearly. —A large portion of Gardiner, Me., was destroyed by fire, Aug. 7. About sixty dwellings and many manufactories were burned. Between 300 and 400 men are thrown out of employment. —Governor Colquett, of Georgia, now a candidate for the United States Senate, in a recent speech, planted himself squarely upon the platform of temperance, and against the manufacture of whisky in Georgia. —Judge Rives, in charging a jury in the United States Court at Danville, Va., said he attributed the distress in Patrick County in part to the large consumption of grain by the distillers in making whisky. —The consumption of tobacco in Mexico, where everybody smokes, is immense. In the principal factory of Orizaba more than 11,000,000 packages, containing thirty cigarettes each, were manufactured last year. —The Mississippi River steamer Gold Dust blew up and burned to the water's edge near Hickman, Ky., Aug. 7. One hundred passengers were on board, of whom seventeen were killed. A large part of the remainder were wounded. —A very important decree has been published in France which allows commercial, educational, and financial associations authorized in the United States to have a legal status in France, and the full exercise of their rights in the French Courts. —A council of the leading military authorities at Alexandria, has been sitting to investigate the effects of the bombardment of the forts. The evidence of naval and military officers is that masonry is useless against modern guns, but that earth-works turn up every shot. —The checkers and callers of the Pennsylvania Railroad who struck with the freight handlers have unanimously decided to return to work. The officials of the company stated that it was very doubtful whether the strikers would be taken back, as the present employes are giving the utmost satisfaction. —Rufus Hatch and a party of New York and English capitalists have purchased 750,000 acres of grazing lands from the North Pacific Railroad, in Montana. As the grant to the road takes only alternate sections, they will practically have 1,500,000 acres of pasturage, as they will use the intervening sections of Government land. —The Sultan has very reluctantly complied with the demand to declare Arabi Bey a rebel. In addition to this, he has declared that unless he submits, he acts contrary to the precepts of the Koran. Importance is attached to this declaration, but it is just possible that Arabi will consider his rendering of the Koran as good as the Sultan's. —The San Francisco Alta, in an article espousing the whisky cause, speaks for the Republicans as follows: "The liquor interests know that they will never suffer wrong in this State at the hands of the Republican party." If this means that the Republican party will pander to the liquor interest, then that party may suffer at the hands of an outraged people. —The Republican State Convention of Kansas has nominated Gov. St. John for a third term. The following is the prohibition plank of the platform: "Resolved, That we declare ourselves unqualifiedly in favor of the prohibition of the manufacture and sale or interchange of liquor as a beverage, and we pledge ourselves to rigid enforcement of the constitutional amendment upon this subject in all parts." —Coral builders work after this fashion: After a cruise of a few months in the South Pacific, a French man-of-war was recently found to have specimens of living corals growing upon her hull. The interesting discovery has thrown some light on the question of the rapidity of growth of corals. The evidence tends to show that the vessel, on passing a reef of the Gambier Islands against which she rubbed, had picked up a young fungia, which adhered to the sheathing, and grew to a diameter of nine inches and a weight of three and a half pounds in nine weeks. —It has been learned by Government officials that a secret organization of 1,200 men has been formed in Arizona, who are bound by oath, in case any more raids are made and murders committed by Apaches, to enter the reservation and slaughter men, women, and children. Governor Tritle, appreciating the gravity of the situation, has had orders issued for troops to be removed from the fixed posts to the passes usually traveled by Indians after leaving the reservation, so as to head off any hostile bands. Heretofore it has been customary for Government officers to grant permits to leave the reservation on passes for the alleged purpose of hunting. It is said that most of the murders committed in Arizona, have been by Indians bearing these passes. Through the efforts of Governor Tritle, the issuing of such passes has been revoked for a period of six months. GUTHRIE.—Died in Oakland, Cal., Aug. 8, 1882, Flavel Guthrie, aged 70 years, 6 months, and 27 days. Death caused by paralysis. Bro. Guthrie was born in Manchester, England. He came to the United States in 1852; to California in 1854. He embraced the faith held by Seventh-day Adventists at a tent-meeting held in this city by Eld. Healey, in 1878, since which time until his death he was a member of the Oakland church. Remarks at the funeral from 2 Sam. 14 : 14. EDITOR. REVISED EDITION—JUST ISSUED.
By J. H. Waggoner
Being an examination of its ACTION, SUBJECTS, and RELATIONS. Also, a brief consideration of the Historical Evidences of Trine Immersion. Second Edition, Revised and Enlarged. Price, postpaid, Paper Covers, 25c.; Flexible Cloth, 35c. Address, SIGNS OF THE TIMES, Oakland, Cal.