For strength we askFor the ten thousand times repeated task,The endless smallnesses of every day.No, not to layMy life down in the cause I cherish most,That were too easy. But whate’er it cost,To fail no moreIn gentleness toward the ungentle, norIn love toward the unlovely, and to giveEach day I live,To every hour with outstretched hand its meedOf not-to-be-regretted thought or deed.
For strength we askFor the ten thousand times repeated task,The endless smallnesses of every day.No, not to layMy life down in the cause I cherish most,That were too easy. But whate’er it cost,To fail no moreIn gentleness toward the ungentle, norIn love toward the unlovely, and to giveEach day I live,To every hour with outstretched hand its meedOf not-to-be-regretted thought or deed.
For strength we askFor the ten thousand times repeated task,The endless smallnesses of every day.
For strength we ask
For the ten thousand times repeated task,
The endless smallnesses of every day.
No, not to layMy life down in the cause I cherish most,That were too easy. But whate’er it cost,
No, not to lay
My life down in the cause I cherish most,
That were too easy. But whate’er it cost,
To fail no moreIn gentleness toward the ungentle, norIn love toward the unlovely, and to give
To fail no more
In gentleness toward the ungentle, nor
In love toward the unlovely, and to give
Each day I live,To every hour with outstretched hand its meedOf not-to-be-regretted thought or deed.
Each day I live,
To every hour with outstretched hand its meed
Of not-to-be-regretted thought or deed.
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DAY, THE BASKET OF THE
Priscilla Leonard is the author of these lines found in the PittsburgChristian Advocate:
Into the basket of thy dayPut each thing good and each thing gayThat thou canst find along thy way.Neglect no joy, however small,And it shall verily befallThy day can scarcely hold them all.Within the basket of thy dayLet nothing evil find its way,And let no frets and worries stay.So shall each day be brave and fair,Holding of joy its happy share,And finding blessings everywhere.
Into the basket of thy dayPut each thing good and each thing gayThat thou canst find along thy way.Neglect no joy, however small,And it shall verily befallThy day can scarcely hold them all.Within the basket of thy dayLet nothing evil find its way,And let no frets and worries stay.So shall each day be brave and fair,Holding of joy its happy share,And finding blessings everywhere.
Into the basket of thy dayPut each thing good and each thing gayThat thou canst find along thy way.
Into the basket of thy day
Put each thing good and each thing gay
That thou canst find along thy way.
Neglect no joy, however small,And it shall verily befallThy day can scarcely hold them all.
Neglect no joy, however small,
And it shall verily befall
Thy day can scarcely hold them all.
Within the basket of thy dayLet nothing evil find its way,And let no frets and worries stay.
Within the basket of thy day
Let nothing evil find its way,
And let no frets and worries stay.
So shall each day be brave and fair,Holding of joy its happy share,And finding blessings everywhere.
So shall each day be brave and fair,
Holding of joy its happy share,
And finding blessings everywhere.
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Deaconesses—SeePersonal Work.
DEAD, INFLUENCE OF
Oh, tell me not that they are dead—that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes! They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism? Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register; and, till the mountains are worn out, and the rivers forget to flow, till the clouds are weary of replenishing springs, and the springs forget to gush, and the rills to sing, shall their names be kept fresh with reverent honors which are inscribed upon the book of national remembrance.—Henry Ward Beecher,Evangelical Messenger.
Oh, tell me not that they are dead—that generous host, that airy army of invisible heroes! They hover as a cloud of witnesses above this nation. Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society, and inspire the people with nobler motives and more heroic patriotism? Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register; and, till the mountains are worn out, and the rivers forget to flow, till the clouds are weary of replenishing springs, and the springs forget to gush, and the rills to sing, shall their names be kept fresh with reverent honors which are inscribed upon the book of national remembrance.—Henry Ward Beecher,Evangelical Messenger.
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Dead, Number of the—SeeCemetery, The Earth as a.
DEAD, RESPECT FOR THE
The Chinese have such respect for the dead that they will live in poverty during life to pay for elaborate ceremonies at the time of death. An old carpenter whose shop adjoined the church in Tsicheo, in a time of business prosperity acquired for himself a beautiful coffin valued at four hundred thousand cash. (About $800.) Flood, disease and two worthless sons brought him to poverty, so that he was unable to pay the yearly rental of twenty-two dollars for his shop. Nevertheless, he was unwilling to part with his coffin, tho it would have given him a roof over his head for ten years.In this same town a very poor Christian woman was forced to become a beneficiary of the church, because relatives who owed her a year’s wages would not pay. When she passed away, however, they paid their long-standing debt in a coffin and funeral accessories ungrudgingly.
The Chinese have such respect for the dead that they will live in poverty during life to pay for elaborate ceremonies at the time of death. An old carpenter whose shop adjoined the church in Tsicheo, in a time of business prosperity acquired for himself a beautiful coffin valued at four hundred thousand cash. (About $800.) Flood, disease and two worthless sons brought him to poverty, so that he was unable to pay the yearly rental of twenty-two dollars for his shop. Nevertheless, he was unwilling to part with his coffin, tho it would have given him a roof over his head for ten years.
In this same town a very poor Christian woman was forced to become a beneficiary of the church, because relatives who owed her a year’s wages would not pay. When she passed away, however, they paid their long-standing debt in a coffin and funeral accessories ungrudgingly.
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DEAD, THE, LIVE BEYOND
He is not dead, but only lieth sleepingIn the sweet refuge of his Master’s breast,And far away from sorrow, toil, and weepingHe is not dead, but only taking rest.What tho the highest hopes he dearly cherishedAll faded gently as the setting sun;What tho our own fond expectations perishedEre yet life’s noblest labors seemed begun.What tho he standeth at no earthly altar,Yet in white raiment, on the golden floor,Where love is perfect, and no step can falter,He serveth as a priest for evermore!O glorious end of life’s short day of sadness,O blessed course so well and nobly run!O home of true and everlasting gladness,O crown unfading! and so early won!Tho tears will fall we bless thee, O our Father,For the dear one forever with the blest,And wait the Easter dawn when thou shalt gatherThine own, long parted, to their endless rest. (Text.)
He is not dead, but only lieth sleepingIn the sweet refuge of his Master’s breast,And far away from sorrow, toil, and weepingHe is not dead, but only taking rest.What tho the highest hopes he dearly cherishedAll faded gently as the setting sun;What tho our own fond expectations perishedEre yet life’s noblest labors seemed begun.What tho he standeth at no earthly altar,Yet in white raiment, on the golden floor,Where love is perfect, and no step can falter,He serveth as a priest for evermore!O glorious end of life’s short day of sadness,O blessed course so well and nobly run!O home of true and everlasting gladness,O crown unfading! and so early won!Tho tears will fall we bless thee, O our Father,For the dear one forever with the blest,And wait the Easter dawn when thou shalt gatherThine own, long parted, to their endless rest. (Text.)
He is not dead, but only lieth sleepingIn the sweet refuge of his Master’s breast,And far away from sorrow, toil, and weepingHe is not dead, but only taking rest.
He is not dead, but only lieth sleeping
In the sweet refuge of his Master’s breast,
And far away from sorrow, toil, and weeping
He is not dead, but only taking rest.
What tho the highest hopes he dearly cherishedAll faded gently as the setting sun;What tho our own fond expectations perishedEre yet life’s noblest labors seemed begun.
What tho the highest hopes he dearly cherished
All faded gently as the setting sun;
What tho our own fond expectations perished
Ere yet life’s noblest labors seemed begun.
What tho he standeth at no earthly altar,Yet in white raiment, on the golden floor,Where love is perfect, and no step can falter,He serveth as a priest for evermore!
What tho he standeth at no earthly altar,
Yet in white raiment, on the golden floor,
Where love is perfect, and no step can falter,
He serveth as a priest for evermore!
O glorious end of life’s short day of sadness,O blessed course so well and nobly run!O home of true and everlasting gladness,O crown unfading! and so early won!
O glorious end of life’s short day of sadness,
O blessed course so well and nobly run!
O home of true and everlasting gladness,
O crown unfading! and so early won!
Tho tears will fall we bless thee, O our Father,For the dear one forever with the blest,And wait the Easter dawn when thou shalt gatherThine own, long parted, to their endless rest. (Text.)
Tho tears will fall we bless thee, O our Father,
For the dear one forever with the blest,
And wait the Easter dawn when thou shalt gather
Thine own, long parted, to their endless rest. (Text.)
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DEAD THO ALIVE
There are many “dead” men walking about who do not know they are dead.
An illustration of the logic of Judge O’Connor is best shown in the case of a man who had looked long and lovingly on the flowing bowl. He fell into a deep pit dug by workmen while fixing the bridge over the Mohawk River. Several policemen with ropes got the man out and he was arrested. Drunk and disorderly was the charge against him when he stood before Judge O’Connor somewhat sobered and chastened. “You were drunk last night,” said the court. “No, sir, your honor, I wasn’t drunk.” “Why, you must have been drunk,” said the court. “If you had not been, you would have been killed by that fall.” “Shure, I wazzent drunk,” persisted the culprit. “Then you are a dead man, so what are you doing here,” declared the judge; and the man, taking the hint, walked out somewhat amazed.
An illustration of the logic of Judge O’Connor is best shown in the case of a man who had looked long and lovingly on the flowing bowl. He fell into a deep pit dug by workmen while fixing the bridge over the Mohawk River. Several policemen with ropes got the man out and he was arrested. Drunk and disorderly was the charge against him when he stood before Judge O’Connor somewhat sobered and chastened. “You were drunk last night,” said the court. “No, sir, your honor, I wasn’t drunk.” “Why, you must have been drunk,” said the court. “If you had not been, you would have been killed by that fall.” “Shure, I wazzent drunk,” persisted the culprit. “Then you are a dead man, so what are you doing here,” declared the judge; and the man, taking the hint, walked out somewhat amazed.
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A marvelous thing for these times is reported from Weathersfield, Conn. A convict who has served a sentence of fifty years in the State prison receives his liberty at this Christmas season (1909). In 1859, when he was twenty-one, he murdered his wife, who was only a young girl of eighteen. He is seventy-one now. Every one of the great occurrences in American life which make our modern civilization what it is belongs to thathalf-century for which this man has been behind prison bars. Into what a changed world he will come. What can he do? His friends are dead. His generation has passed. His own State does not know him. One would suppose he would almost want to commit some crime that would take him back to his home of fifty years. What can he do? Society punished him, now what will society do for him? There is no asylum for him. He knows nothing of the business methods of the day. He is a living dead man. Would it not have been more merciful for society by capital punishment to have made him a dead man fifty years ago?
A marvelous thing for these times is reported from Weathersfield, Conn. A convict who has served a sentence of fifty years in the State prison receives his liberty at this Christmas season (1909). In 1859, when he was twenty-one, he murdered his wife, who was only a young girl of eighteen. He is seventy-one now. Every one of the great occurrences in American life which make our modern civilization what it is belongs to thathalf-century for which this man has been behind prison bars. Into what a changed world he will come. What can he do? His friends are dead. His generation has passed. His own State does not know him. One would suppose he would almost want to commit some crime that would take him back to his home of fifty years. What can he do? Society punished him, now what will society do for him? There is no asylum for him. He knows nothing of the business methods of the day. He is a living dead man. Would it not have been more merciful for society by capital punishment to have made him a dead man fifty years ago?
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There is a very real “death” other than the merely natural, as the following paragraph from theScrap Bookwill show:
Emperor Francis Joseph’s only surviving brother, Archduke Louis Victor, was confined a lunatic, in a mountain castle hidden away in one of the remotest corners of the Austrian Tyrol. He himself, to all intents, is dead as far as the imperial family and the great world at Vienna are concerned. (Text.)
Emperor Francis Joseph’s only surviving brother, Archduke Louis Victor, was confined a lunatic, in a mountain castle hidden away in one of the remotest corners of the Austrian Tyrol. He himself, to all intents, is dead as far as the imperial family and the great world at Vienna are concerned. (Text.)
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Dead Valued More than Living—SeeAncestor Worship.
Deafness—SeeArticulation.
DEATH
We are too stupid about death. We will not learnHow it is wages paid to those who earn,How it is the gift for which on earth we yearn,To be set free from the bondage to the flesh;How it is turning seed-corn into grain,How it is winning heaven’s eternal gain,How it means freedom evermore from pain,How it untangles every mortal mesh.We are so selfish about death. We count our griefFar more than we consider their reliefWhom the great Reaper gathers in the sheaf,No more to know the seasons’ constant change;And we forget that it means only life,Life with all joy, peace, rest, and glory rife,The victory won, and ended all the strife,And heaven no longer far away or strange.Their Lent is over, and their Easter won,Waiting till over paradise the sunShall rise in majesty, and life begunShall grow in glory, as the perfect dayMoves on, to hold its endless, deathless sway.—William Croswell Doane,The Outlook.
We are too stupid about death. We will not learnHow it is wages paid to those who earn,How it is the gift for which on earth we yearn,To be set free from the bondage to the flesh;How it is turning seed-corn into grain,How it is winning heaven’s eternal gain,How it means freedom evermore from pain,How it untangles every mortal mesh.We are so selfish about death. We count our griefFar more than we consider their reliefWhom the great Reaper gathers in the sheaf,No more to know the seasons’ constant change;And we forget that it means only life,Life with all joy, peace, rest, and glory rife,The victory won, and ended all the strife,And heaven no longer far away or strange.Their Lent is over, and their Easter won,Waiting till over paradise the sunShall rise in majesty, and life begunShall grow in glory, as the perfect dayMoves on, to hold its endless, deathless sway.—William Croswell Doane,The Outlook.
We are too stupid about death. We will not learnHow it is wages paid to those who earn,How it is the gift for which on earth we yearn,To be set free from the bondage to the flesh;How it is turning seed-corn into grain,How it is winning heaven’s eternal gain,How it means freedom evermore from pain,How it untangles every mortal mesh.
We are too stupid about death. We will not learn
How it is wages paid to those who earn,
How it is the gift for which on earth we yearn,
To be set free from the bondage to the flesh;
How it is turning seed-corn into grain,
How it is winning heaven’s eternal gain,
How it means freedom evermore from pain,
How it untangles every mortal mesh.
We are so selfish about death. We count our griefFar more than we consider their reliefWhom the great Reaper gathers in the sheaf,No more to know the seasons’ constant change;And we forget that it means only life,Life with all joy, peace, rest, and glory rife,The victory won, and ended all the strife,And heaven no longer far away or strange.
We are so selfish about death. We count our grief
Far more than we consider their relief
Whom the great Reaper gathers in the sheaf,
No more to know the seasons’ constant change;
And we forget that it means only life,
Life with all joy, peace, rest, and glory rife,
The victory won, and ended all the strife,
And heaven no longer far away or strange.
Their Lent is over, and their Easter won,Waiting till over paradise the sunShall rise in majesty, and life begunShall grow in glory, as the perfect dayMoves on, to hold its endless, deathless sway.—William Croswell Doane,The Outlook.
Their Lent is over, and their Easter won,
Waiting till over paradise the sun
Shall rise in majesty, and life begun
Shall grow in glory, as the perfect day
Moves on, to hold its endless, deathless sway.
—William Croswell Doane,The Outlook.
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DEATH AS A SHADOW
Did not Jesus show us glimpses of what is behind the shadow into which our friends have gone?
My neighbor’s lamp, across the way,Throws dancing lights upon my wall;They come and go in passing play,And then the sudden shadows fall.My friend’s white soul through eyes and lipsShone out on me but yesterdayIn radiant warmth; now swift eclipseHas left those windows cold and gray.Ah, if I could but look behindThe still, dark barrier of that night,And there-undimmed, unwavering-findThat life and love were all alight! (Text.)—Charles Buxton Going,Munsey’s Magazine.
My neighbor’s lamp, across the way,Throws dancing lights upon my wall;They come and go in passing play,And then the sudden shadows fall.My friend’s white soul through eyes and lipsShone out on me but yesterdayIn radiant warmth; now swift eclipseHas left those windows cold and gray.Ah, if I could but look behindThe still, dark barrier of that night,And there-undimmed, unwavering-findThat life and love were all alight! (Text.)—Charles Buxton Going,Munsey’s Magazine.
My neighbor’s lamp, across the way,Throws dancing lights upon my wall;They come and go in passing play,And then the sudden shadows fall.
My neighbor’s lamp, across the way,
Throws dancing lights upon my wall;
They come and go in passing play,
And then the sudden shadows fall.
My friend’s white soul through eyes and lipsShone out on me but yesterdayIn radiant warmth; now swift eclipseHas left those windows cold and gray.
My friend’s white soul through eyes and lips
Shone out on me but yesterday
In radiant warmth; now swift eclipse
Has left those windows cold and gray.
Ah, if I could but look behindThe still, dark barrier of that night,And there-undimmed, unwavering-findThat life and love were all alight! (Text.)—Charles Buxton Going,Munsey’s Magazine.
Ah, if I could but look behind
The still, dark barrier of that night,
And there-undimmed, unwavering-find
That life and love were all alight! (Text.)
—Charles Buxton Going,Munsey’s Magazine.
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DEATH-BED FAITH
John G. Paton tells in his autobiography of the death-bed of Nerwa, the converted chief of Aniwa.
On my last visit to Nerwa his strength had gone very low, but he drew me near his face and whispered, “Missi, my Missi, I am glad to see you. You see that group of young men? They came to sympathize with me, but they never once have spoken the name of Jesus, tho they have spoken about everything else. They could not have weakened me so if they had spoken about Jesus! Read me the story of Jesus. Pray for me to Jesus. No, stop, let us call them and let me speak with them before I go!” I called them all around him and he said, “After I am gone let there be no bad talk, no heathen ways. Sing Jehovah’s songs and pray to Jesus, and bury me as a Christian. Take good care of my Missi, and help him all you can. I am dying happy and going to be with Jesus, and it was Missi that showed me this way. And who among you will take my place in the village school and in the church? Who among you will stand up for Jesus?” Many were shedding tears,but there was no reply, after which the dying chief proceeded, “Now let my last work on earth be this: We will read a chapter of the Book, verse about, and then I will pray for you all, and the Missi will pray for me, and God will let me go while the song is still sounding in my heart.”
On my last visit to Nerwa his strength had gone very low, but he drew me near his face and whispered, “Missi, my Missi, I am glad to see you. You see that group of young men? They came to sympathize with me, but they never once have spoken the name of Jesus, tho they have spoken about everything else. They could not have weakened me so if they had spoken about Jesus! Read me the story of Jesus. Pray for me to Jesus. No, stop, let us call them and let me speak with them before I go!” I called them all around him and he said, “After I am gone let there be no bad talk, no heathen ways. Sing Jehovah’s songs and pray to Jesus, and bury me as a Christian. Take good care of my Missi, and help him all you can. I am dying happy and going to be with Jesus, and it was Missi that showed me this way. And who among you will take my place in the village school and in the church? Who among you will stand up for Jesus?” Many were shedding tears,but there was no reply, after which the dying chief proceeded, “Now let my last work on earth be this: We will read a chapter of the Book, verse about, and then I will pray for you all, and the Missi will pray for me, and God will let me go while the song is still sounding in my heart.”
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DEATH, CHEERFULNESS BEFORE
The following is a glimpse of Maximilian on the day of his execution:
Miramon slept three hours; he then arose, drank a cup of chocolate, and drest himself with care; at six o’clock he was ready to start, accompanied by a priest, M. Ladron de Guevara. In the corridor he found Maximilian bidding his lawyer, Eulalio Ortega, farewell. The sun was already high in the heavens, and his warm beams shot down brilliantly on the Quaretaro Valley; flashes of sunlight penetrated into the narrow courtyard of the convent. “What a splendid day, Don Eulalio!” said Maximilian; “it is on such a day as this I should have chosen to die.” A few bugle-notes were heard, and Maximilian, not knowing how to interpret them, questioned Miramon: “Miguel, will that be for the execution?” “I have not the slightest idea, sire; it will be the first time I shall ever have been shot.” This reply brought a smile to the Emperor’s lips.—ParisFigaro.
Miramon slept three hours; he then arose, drank a cup of chocolate, and drest himself with care; at six o’clock he was ready to start, accompanied by a priest, M. Ladron de Guevara. In the corridor he found Maximilian bidding his lawyer, Eulalio Ortega, farewell. The sun was already high in the heavens, and his warm beams shot down brilliantly on the Quaretaro Valley; flashes of sunlight penetrated into the narrow courtyard of the convent. “What a splendid day, Don Eulalio!” said Maximilian; “it is on such a day as this I should have chosen to die.” A few bugle-notes were heard, and Maximilian, not knowing how to interpret them, questioned Miramon: “Miguel, will that be for the execution?” “I have not the slightest idea, sire; it will be the first time I shall ever have been shot.” This reply brought a smile to the Emperor’s lips.—ParisFigaro.
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The officer in command of the file of execution approached Maximilian and asked his pardon for having to fulfil his duty. The Emperor distributed several pieces of gold bearing his effigy to the soldiers, recommending them not to aim at his face. He then embraced the Generals Mejia and Miramon, and, as the latter had placed himself on his right, he said to him aloud: “Brave men should be respected by their sovereigns to the brink of the grave. General, pass to the place of honor.” Miramon stept to the center. Then, with a firm voice, the Emperor addrest the crowd: “Mexicans! Men of my race and origin are born either to make a people’s happiness or to be martyrs. God grant that my blood may be the last shed for the redemption of this unhappy country. Long live Mexico!” Immediately General Miramon, at the top of his voice, as when he commanded his troops on the battle-field, cried: “Mexicans! Before the court-martial my defenders only sought to save my life. At the moment I am about to appear before my God I protest against the name of traitor, which they have thrown in my face to justify my condemnation. Let this spot of infamy be removed from my children’s name, and God grant that my country may be happy. Long live Mexico!” General Mejia raised his eyes toward the heavens: “Very Holy Mother, I beseech thy Son to pardon me, as I pardon those who are about to sacrifice me.” A volley rung out from the file of soldiers, and amidst the cloud of smoke, which slowly drifted away, Maximilian appeared writhing convulsively in a pool of blood, and groaning, “Hay Hombre!”—ParisFigaro.
The officer in command of the file of execution approached Maximilian and asked his pardon for having to fulfil his duty. The Emperor distributed several pieces of gold bearing his effigy to the soldiers, recommending them not to aim at his face. He then embraced the Generals Mejia and Miramon, and, as the latter had placed himself on his right, he said to him aloud: “Brave men should be respected by their sovereigns to the brink of the grave. General, pass to the place of honor.” Miramon stept to the center. Then, with a firm voice, the Emperor addrest the crowd: “Mexicans! Men of my race and origin are born either to make a people’s happiness or to be martyrs. God grant that my blood may be the last shed for the redemption of this unhappy country. Long live Mexico!” Immediately General Miramon, at the top of his voice, as when he commanded his troops on the battle-field, cried: “Mexicans! Before the court-martial my defenders only sought to save my life. At the moment I am about to appear before my God I protest against the name of traitor, which they have thrown in my face to justify my condemnation. Let this spot of infamy be removed from my children’s name, and God grant that my country may be happy. Long live Mexico!” General Mejia raised his eyes toward the heavens: “Very Holy Mother, I beseech thy Son to pardon me, as I pardon those who are about to sacrifice me.” A volley rung out from the file of soldiers, and amidst the cloud of smoke, which slowly drifted away, Maximilian appeared writhing convulsively in a pool of blood, and groaning, “Hay Hombre!”—ParisFigaro.
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DEATH, CHRISTIAN ATTITUDE TOWARD
Prof. G. Currie Martin points out the difference between the Christian and the unchristian views of death.
In the old days, when the plague swept over Italy, the ladies and gentlemen of fashion used sometimes to withdraw into some beautiful country residence, with its surrounding park, and behind its high walls shut themselves off from all thought of the misery and sorrow that surrounded them. Death, they imagined, could no longer reach them, until suddenly the spectral figure stalked into their midst, no one knew whence, and the false safety was shattered at a blow. The power of Christianity is found in the fact that it can say such brave and hopeful words about life, while all the time it is perfectly conscious of death. (Text.)
In the old days, when the plague swept over Italy, the ladies and gentlemen of fashion used sometimes to withdraw into some beautiful country residence, with its surrounding park, and behind its high walls shut themselves off from all thought of the misery and sorrow that surrounded them. Death, they imagined, could no longer reach them, until suddenly the spectral figure stalked into their midst, no one knew whence, and the false safety was shattered at a blow. The power of Christianity is found in the fact that it can say such brave and hopeful words about life, while all the time it is perfectly conscious of death. (Text.)
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DEATH, CHRISTIAN VIEW OF
Death, ever present all the world over—how softened his grim visage is when associated with the name of Jesus, how awful when he appears alone. The writer still recalls one summer long ago, May, 1889, when funeral preparations were being made before a neighboring house. He made inquiry of An, his host: “I didn’t know that there was a death.” “Yes, the master of the house is dead; they will bury him.” “But when did he die? To-day when we were out?” “No, no, not to-day. He died before you came.” I had been there two months. They had a bier ornamented with dragons’ heads, painted in wild colors, that suggested skull and cross-bones. The funeral service was a fearful row; everybody was noisy, many were weeping, many were drunk. Amore gruesome performance than that which I saw, over that horrible, unburied body, no one could imagine. To-day that same village sits as it did then, with background of mountain and foreground of sea, but how changed! All is Christian; Sunday is a day of rest, and every house is represented at the service in the chapel. They have lived down old-fashioned death in that village and exchanged it for quiet sleep.—James S. Gale, “Korea in Transition.”
Death, ever present all the world over—how softened his grim visage is when associated with the name of Jesus, how awful when he appears alone. The writer still recalls one summer long ago, May, 1889, when funeral preparations were being made before a neighboring house. He made inquiry of An, his host: “I didn’t know that there was a death.” “Yes, the master of the house is dead; they will bury him.” “But when did he die? To-day when we were out?” “No, no, not to-day. He died before you came.” I had been there two months. They had a bier ornamented with dragons’ heads, painted in wild colors, that suggested skull and cross-bones. The funeral service was a fearful row; everybody was noisy, many were weeping, many were drunk. Amore gruesome performance than that which I saw, over that horrible, unburied body, no one could imagine. To-day that same village sits as it did then, with background of mountain and foreground of sea, but how changed! All is Christian; Sunday is a day of rest, and every house is represented at the service in the chapel. They have lived down old-fashioned death in that village and exchanged it for quiet sleep.—James S. Gale, “Korea in Transition.”
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DEATH COMPELLING SINCERITY
When the great man comes to the hour of his death, we expect him to be natural, avoiding all sentiments that are forced or incongruous. That is the striking thing about the last words of Sir Walter Raleigh; they were the inevitable and necessary words. Looking down upon his enemies and his friends, Raleigh exclaimed about the executioner’s axe, “It is a sharp medicine, but it is a sure cure of all diseases.” When the sheriff asked if the niche in the block would fit his neck, Raleigh answered, “It matters not how the head lies, if only the heart be right.”—N. D. Hillis.
When the great man comes to the hour of his death, we expect him to be natural, avoiding all sentiments that are forced or incongruous. That is the striking thing about the last words of Sir Walter Raleigh; they were the inevitable and necessary words. Looking down upon his enemies and his friends, Raleigh exclaimed about the executioner’s axe, “It is a sharp medicine, but it is a sure cure of all diseases.” When the sheriff asked if the niche in the block would fit his neck, Raleigh answered, “It matters not how the head lies, if only the heart be right.”—N. D. Hillis.
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DEATH DOES NOT CHANGE CHARACTER
When corn is cut down and is lying on the ground, and is afterward put into the granary, it is the very same corn as had grown up to full maturity in the earth. So also the souls in the granary above are the very same souls as had grown up to maturity in heaven on earth. When they are transferred to heaven above, they are not tares which had been cut down on earth, and which somehow in the process of cutting had been transformed into corn or wheat. Unless wheat will grow up as wheat in the earth, and be harvested as wheat, it will not turn into wheat in the act of cutting, or while it is being removed to the granary.—Alexander Miller, “Heaven and Hell Here.”
When corn is cut down and is lying on the ground, and is afterward put into the granary, it is the very same corn as had grown up to full maturity in the earth. So also the souls in the granary above are the very same souls as had grown up to maturity in heaven on earth. When they are transferred to heaven above, they are not tares which had been cut down on earth, and which somehow in the process of cutting had been transformed into corn or wheat. Unless wheat will grow up as wheat in the earth, and be harvested as wheat, it will not turn into wheat in the act of cutting, or while it is being removed to the granary.—Alexander Miller, “Heaven and Hell Here.”
(688)
DEATH MADE PLAIN
To Paul Laurence Dunbar the secret of death has already been made plain, of which before he died he wrote as follows:
The smell of the sea in my nostrils,The sound of the sea in mine ears;The touch of the spray on my burning face,Like the mist of reluctant tears;The blue of the sky above me,The green of the waves beneath;The sun flashing down on a gray-white sailLike a simitar from its sheath.So I said to my heart, “Be silent;The mystery of time is here;Death’s way will be plain when we fathom the main,And the secret of life be clear.”
The smell of the sea in my nostrils,The sound of the sea in mine ears;The touch of the spray on my burning face,Like the mist of reluctant tears;The blue of the sky above me,The green of the waves beneath;The sun flashing down on a gray-white sailLike a simitar from its sheath.So I said to my heart, “Be silent;The mystery of time is here;Death’s way will be plain when we fathom the main,And the secret of life be clear.”
The smell of the sea in my nostrils,The sound of the sea in mine ears;The touch of the spray on my burning face,Like the mist of reluctant tears;
The smell of the sea in my nostrils,
The sound of the sea in mine ears;
The touch of the spray on my burning face,
Like the mist of reluctant tears;
The blue of the sky above me,The green of the waves beneath;The sun flashing down on a gray-white sailLike a simitar from its sheath.
The blue of the sky above me,
The green of the waves beneath;
The sun flashing down on a gray-white sail
Like a simitar from its sheath.
So I said to my heart, “Be silent;The mystery of time is here;Death’s way will be plain when we fathom the main,And the secret of life be clear.”
So I said to my heart, “Be silent;
The mystery of time is here;
Death’s way will be plain when we fathom the main,
And the secret of life be clear.”
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DEATH MASKED IN BEAUTY
A news item from Chicago says:
Robert Wahl, one of the foremost chemists in the United States, with a knowledge of drugs and subtle poisons far beyond the ken of the average alchemist, is charged with threatening to kill his wife by giving her a flower to smell.It would have been a murder that no latter-day coroner or detective could have proved—something unheard of since the days of the Borgias.
Robert Wahl, one of the foremost chemists in the United States, with a knowledge of drugs and subtle poisons far beyond the ken of the average alchemist, is charged with threatening to kill his wife by giving her a flower to smell.
It would have been a murder that no latter-day coroner or detective could have proved—something unheard of since the days of the Borgias.
The deadliest influence may be conveyed to the mind and soul as well as to the senses by the most delicate and apparently beautiful means.
(690)
DEATH NOT TO BE FEARED
The following lines by Maltbie D. Babcock were read by him just before sailing abroad on the voyage from which he never returned:
Why be afraid of death as tho your life were breath?Death but anoints your eyes with clay. O, glad surprize!Why should you be forlorn? Death only husks the corn.Why should you fear to meet the Thresher of the wheat?Is sleep a thing to dread? Yet sleeping you are deadTill you awake and rise, here, or beyond the skies.Why should it be a wrench to leave your wooden bench?Why not with happy shout run home when school is out?The dear ones left behind—O foolish one and blind.A day, and you will meet—a night, and you will greet.This is the death of death, to breathe away a breathAnd know the end of strife, and taste the deathless life,And joy without a fear, and smile without a tear,And work, nor care to rest, and find the last the best.
Why be afraid of death as tho your life were breath?Death but anoints your eyes with clay. O, glad surprize!Why should you be forlorn? Death only husks the corn.Why should you fear to meet the Thresher of the wheat?Is sleep a thing to dread? Yet sleeping you are deadTill you awake and rise, here, or beyond the skies.Why should it be a wrench to leave your wooden bench?Why not with happy shout run home when school is out?The dear ones left behind—O foolish one and blind.A day, and you will meet—a night, and you will greet.This is the death of death, to breathe away a breathAnd know the end of strife, and taste the deathless life,And joy without a fear, and smile without a tear,And work, nor care to rest, and find the last the best.
Why be afraid of death as tho your life were breath?Death but anoints your eyes with clay. O, glad surprize!
Why be afraid of death as tho your life were breath?
Death but anoints your eyes with clay. O, glad surprize!
Why should you be forlorn? Death only husks the corn.Why should you fear to meet the Thresher of the wheat?
Why should you be forlorn? Death only husks the corn.
Why should you fear to meet the Thresher of the wheat?
Is sleep a thing to dread? Yet sleeping you are deadTill you awake and rise, here, or beyond the skies.
Is sleep a thing to dread? Yet sleeping you are dead
Till you awake and rise, here, or beyond the skies.
Why should it be a wrench to leave your wooden bench?Why not with happy shout run home when school is out?
Why should it be a wrench to leave your wooden bench?
Why not with happy shout run home when school is out?
The dear ones left behind—O foolish one and blind.A day, and you will meet—a night, and you will greet.
The dear ones left behind—O foolish one and blind.
A day, and you will meet—a night, and you will greet.
This is the death of death, to breathe away a breathAnd know the end of strife, and taste the deathless life,
This is the death of death, to breathe away a breath
And know the end of strife, and taste the deathless life,
And joy without a fear, and smile without a tear,And work, nor care to rest, and find the last the best.
And joy without a fear, and smile without a tear,
And work, nor care to rest, and find the last the best.
(691)
Death-rate Reduced—SeeImproved Conditions.
Death, Religion in—SeeReligion to Die By.
DEATH, SPIRITUAL
Says a writer in theNorth China Herald:
One of the facts that ineffaceably cut into my memory during my first winter in New-chwang was the finding on one morning about New Year’s time thirty-five masses of ice, each mass having been a living man at 10 o’clock the preceding night. The thermometer was a good bit below zero. The men had just left the opium dens, where they had been enjoying themselves. The keen air sent them to sleep, and they never wakened.
One of the facts that ineffaceably cut into my memory during my first winter in New-chwang was the finding on one morning about New Year’s time thirty-five masses of ice, each mass having been a living man at 10 o’clock the preceding night. The thermometer was a good bit below zero. The men had just left the opium dens, where they had been enjoying themselves. The keen air sent them to sleep, and they never wakened.
The freezing was only the external manifestation of a spiritual benumbing that long before existed within. (Text.)
(692)
Death Swifter than Justice—SeeJustice Delayed.
DEATH, THE CHRISTIAN’S
For centuries the world has admired the calmness and fortitude of Socrates in the presence of death, but if Socrates died like a philosopher, Patrick Henry died like a Christian. In his last illness, all other remedies having failed, his physician, Doctor Cobell, proceeded to administer to him a dose of liquid mercury. Taking the vial in his hand, and looking at it for a moment, the dying man said:
“I suppose, doctor, this is your last resort?”“I am sorry to say, governor, that it is.”“What will be the effect of this medicine?”“It will give you immediate relief, or—” The doctor could not finish the sentence.His patient took up the word: “You mean, doctor, that it will give relief or will prove fatal immediately?”“You can live only a very short time without it,” the doctor answered, “and it may possibly relieve you.”Then the old statesman said:“Excuse me, doctor, for a few minutes,” and drawing over his eyes a silken cap which he usually wore, and still holding the vial in his hand, he prayed in clear words a simple, childlike prayer for his family, for his country, and for his own soul, then in the presence of death. Afterward, in perfect calmness, he swallowed the medicine.Meanwhile Doctor Cobell, who greatly loved him, went out upon the lawn, and in his grief threw himself down upon the earth under one of the trees, and wept bitterly. Soon, when he had sufficiently mastered himself, the doctor returned to his patient, whom he found calmly watching the congealing of the blood under his finger-nails, and speaking words of love and peace to his family, who were weeping round his chair.Among other things, he told them that he was thankful for that goodness of God which, having blest him through all his life, was then permitting him to die without any pain. Finally fixing his eyes with much tenderness upon his dear friend, Doctor Cobell, with whom he had formerly held many arguments respecting the Christian religion, he asked the doctor to observe how great a reality and benefit that religion was to a man about to die.And after Patrick Henry had spoken these few words in praise of something which, having never failed him in his life before, did not then fail him in his very last need of it, he continued to breathe very softly for some moments, after which they who were looking upon him saw that his life had departed.—The Youth’s Companion.
“I suppose, doctor, this is your last resort?”
“I am sorry to say, governor, that it is.”
“What will be the effect of this medicine?”
“It will give you immediate relief, or—” The doctor could not finish the sentence.
His patient took up the word: “You mean, doctor, that it will give relief or will prove fatal immediately?”
“You can live only a very short time without it,” the doctor answered, “and it may possibly relieve you.”
Then the old statesman said:
“Excuse me, doctor, for a few minutes,” and drawing over his eyes a silken cap which he usually wore, and still holding the vial in his hand, he prayed in clear words a simple, childlike prayer for his family, for his country, and for his own soul, then in the presence of death. Afterward, in perfect calmness, he swallowed the medicine.
Meanwhile Doctor Cobell, who greatly loved him, went out upon the lawn, and in his grief threw himself down upon the earth under one of the trees, and wept bitterly. Soon, when he had sufficiently mastered himself, the doctor returned to his patient, whom he found calmly watching the congealing of the blood under his finger-nails, and speaking words of love and peace to his family, who were weeping round his chair.
Among other things, he told them that he was thankful for that goodness of God which, having blest him through all his life, was then permitting him to die without any pain. Finally fixing his eyes with much tenderness upon his dear friend, Doctor Cobell, with whom he had formerly held many arguments respecting the Christian religion, he asked the doctor to observe how great a reality and benefit that religion was to a man about to die.
And after Patrick Henry had spoken these few words in praise of something which, having never failed him in his life before, did not then fail him in his very last need of it, he continued to breathe very softly for some moments, after which they who were looking upon him saw that his life had departed.—The Youth’s Companion.
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DEATH, THE RING OF
The whole world hates death. In Madrid, the Spanish capital, in one of its beautiful parks, stands a statue of its patron saint, about whose neck hangs a rare and valuable ring set with pearls and diamonds. It is never stolen, for nobody wants it. The reasonis that a tragic story hangs about it. Every one who ever wore it died—Mercedes, Queen Christina, Infanta del Pillar, and others. It is known as “The Ring of Death.” (Text.)
The whole world hates death. In Madrid, the Spanish capital, in one of its beautiful parks, stands a statue of its patron saint, about whose neck hangs a rare and valuable ring set with pearls and diamonds. It is never stolen, for nobody wants it. The reasonis that a tragic story hangs about it. Every one who ever wore it died—Mercedes, Queen Christina, Infanta del Pillar, and others. It is known as “The Ring of Death.” (Text.)
(694)
DEATH, UNTIMELY
Louis Albert Banks tells this story of a young girl cut off just after her graduation from school:
And there is her diploma, lying just as she threw it there, when she came home from college, but a few days before she was taken ill. I came up with her to the room, and she flung the diploma in there with a sort of girlish glee, and it stuck at an angle across the compartment of the bookcase. She closed the door on it and said, “Well, I’m glad I’ve got you anyhow!” and it has never been touched since. Two weeks later, we went with her over to the cemetery and laid her beside her father; and there lies her unused diploma that cost her so much hard work and that she was so proud to obtain. (Text.)
And there is her diploma, lying just as she threw it there, when she came home from college, but a few days before she was taken ill. I came up with her to the room, and she flung the diploma in there with a sort of girlish glee, and it stuck at an angle across the compartment of the bookcase. She closed the door on it and said, “Well, I’m glad I’ve got you anyhow!” and it has never been touched since. Two weeks later, we went with her over to the cemetery and laid her beside her father; and there lies her unused diploma that cost her so much hard work and that she was so proud to obtain. (Text.)
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DEATH USUALLY PAINLESS
Sudden and violent death, shocking to the senses, may not be, probably is not, painful to the victim. Drowning, hanging, freezing, shooting, falling from a height, poisoning of many kinds, beget stupor or numbness of the nerves which is incompatible with sensation. Persons who have met with such accidents, and survived them, testify to this. Records to this effect are numberless. Death from fire dismays us; we can scarcely conceive aught more distressing. In all likelihood, however, it appears far worse than it is. Fire probably causes suffocation from smoke, or insensibility from inhaling flame, so that the agony we imagine is not felt. They who have been near their end have experienced more pain on returning, so to speak, from their grave, than if they had gone to it. They have endured all the pangs, corporeal and mental, of death, without actually dying. It is an error, therefore, to suppose that men may not have tasted the bitterness of death, and yet be alive and in good health.—Junius Henry Browne,The Forum.
Sudden and violent death, shocking to the senses, may not be, probably is not, painful to the victim. Drowning, hanging, freezing, shooting, falling from a height, poisoning of many kinds, beget stupor or numbness of the nerves which is incompatible with sensation. Persons who have met with such accidents, and survived them, testify to this. Records to this effect are numberless. Death from fire dismays us; we can scarcely conceive aught more distressing. In all likelihood, however, it appears far worse than it is. Fire probably causes suffocation from smoke, or insensibility from inhaling flame, so that the agony we imagine is not felt. They who have been near their end have experienced more pain on returning, so to speak, from their grave, than if they had gone to it. They have endured all the pangs, corporeal and mental, of death, without actually dying. It is an error, therefore, to suppose that men may not have tasted the bitterness of death, and yet be alive and in good health.—Junius Henry Browne,The Forum.
(696)
Death Valley Conquered—SeeConquest, Severe.
DEATH WITH SAVAGES
H. M. Stanley relates that an African king, as a delicate compliment, presented him with the heads of a dozen of his own subjects whom he had just killed in his guest’s honor; and these twelve unfortunates accepted death as stolidly as a matter of course, and the incident made no sensation whatever.—Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen,Chautauquan.
H. M. Stanley relates that an African king, as a delicate compliment, presented him with the heads of a dozen of his own subjects whom he had just killed in his guest’s honor; and these twelve unfortunates accepted death as stolidly as a matter of course, and the incident made no sensation whatever.—Hjalmar Hjorth Boyesen,Chautauquan.
(697)
DEBAUCH, FATAL
A twisted auto on a dead man’s chest—Ye ho, and a bottle of rum!Drink and the devil had done their best—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!The roadhouse bar and the “lady friend”—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!And at eighty miles they took the bend—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!A swerve that mocked their drunken wills,A crash and a shriek through the darkness thrills;“Joy riding” is the pace that kills—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!—New YorkWorld.
A twisted auto on a dead man’s chest—Ye ho, and a bottle of rum!Drink and the devil had done their best—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!The roadhouse bar and the “lady friend”—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!And at eighty miles they took the bend—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!A swerve that mocked their drunken wills,A crash and a shriek through the darkness thrills;“Joy riding” is the pace that kills—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!—New YorkWorld.
A twisted auto on a dead man’s chest—Ye ho, and a bottle of rum!Drink and the devil had done their best—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!The roadhouse bar and the “lady friend”—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!And at eighty miles they took the bend—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!A swerve that mocked their drunken wills,A crash and a shriek through the darkness thrills;“Joy riding” is the pace that kills—Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!—New YorkWorld.
A twisted auto on a dead man’s chest—
Ye ho, and a bottle of rum!
Drink and the devil had done their best—
Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!
The roadhouse bar and the “lady friend”—
Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!
And at eighty miles they took the bend—
Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!
A swerve that mocked their drunken wills,
A crash and a shriek through the darkness thrills;
“Joy riding” is the pace that kills—
Ye ho! and a bottle of rum!
—New YorkWorld.
(698)
Debt Paid—SeeKindness.
Debt-paying Converts—SeeTestimony, Indisputable.
Debts, Payment of—SeePayment of Debts.
Debtors to All—SeeMutualism.
Decadence, National—SeeRetribution Inevitable.
DECAY
Old ships lying at anchor may have the appearance of soundness and the outward evidence of strength, usefulness, and sea-going qualities, but, when carefully examined for a sea voyage, are often found to be covered with barnacles and to be affected with dry rot. When such a vessel, no matter what good it has done or what use it has been in the traffic and carrying trade, is condemned, it is at once replaced by a new or more modern one that is in perfect order and fully seaworthy. What is true of vessels is often true of men also.—American Artisan.
Old ships lying at anchor may have the appearance of soundness and the outward evidence of strength, usefulness, and sea-going qualities, but, when carefully examined for a sea voyage, are often found to be covered with barnacles and to be affected with dry rot. When such a vessel, no matter what good it has done or what use it has been in the traffic and carrying trade, is condemned, it is at once replaced by a new or more modern one that is in perfect order and fully seaworthy. What is true of vessels is often true of men also.—American Artisan.
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SeeJudgment, Gradual.
Deceit—SeeEnticement;Untruthfulness.
Deceit Discovered—SeeFalsehood.
DECEIT WITH GOD
Rev. F. W. Hinton, of Allahabad, relates this story in the C. M. S.Gazette:
A young Bengali student came to me to ask for an explanation of difficult passages in a book he was reading. He said his name was “Sat Kori,” which means “seven cowry-shells,” and explained the reason for his curious name. His mother had borne several children before him, but all had died; so, like many other Hindu mothers, she thought God or the Evil One had a grudge against her, and if he could, he would take this last little one also. So she called the nurse who attended her in her illness, and made pretense to sell the baby to her for seven cowry-shells, and gave the boy the name of Seven Cowries to deceive the God into thinking he was of little worth. I asked the student if he thought the ruse had made any difference, and he replied, “Perhaps—at any rate, I did not die as the others had done.” So, a university student more than half believes that one can cheat God by a trick like that!
A young Bengali student came to me to ask for an explanation of difficult passages in a book he was reading. He said his name was “Sat Kori,” which means “seven cowry-shells,” and explained the reason for his curious name. His mother had borne several children before him, but all had died; so, like many other Hindu mothers, she thought God or the Evil One had a grudge against her, and if he could, he would take this last little one also. So she called the nurse who attended her in her illness, and made pretense to sell the baby to her for seven cowry-shells, and gave the boy the name of Seven Cowries to deceive the God into thinking he was of little worth. I asked the student if he thought the ruse had made any difference, and he replied, “Perhaps—at any rate, I did not die as the others had done.” So, a university student more than half believes that one can cheat God by a trick like that!
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DECEPTION
John Mitchell, president of the United Mine Workers, talking about unfair methods in use at the mines for weighing coal, said:
This method is most unfair. The fist-and-pound method, in fact, was scarcely worse. The fist-and-pound method originated, they say, in Scranton. A simple-minded old lady ran a grocery store there. A man came in one day and asked for a pound of bacon. The old lady cut off a generous chunk of bacon, and then, going to weigh it, found that she had mislaid her pound weight. “Dear me,” she said, “I can’t find my pound-weight anywhere.” The man, seeing that there was about two pounds in the chunk cut off, said hastily: “Never mind. My fist weighs a pound.” And he put the bacon on one side of the scales and his fist on the other. The two, of course, just balanced. “It looks kind o’ large for a pound, don’t it?” asked the old lady as she wrapt the bacon up. “It does look large,” said the man, as he tucked the meat under his arm. “Still—” But just then the old lady found her pound-weight. “Ah,” she said in a relieved voice, “now we can prove this business. Put it on here again.” But the man wisely refrained from putting the bacon on the scales to be tested. He put on his fist again instead. And his fist, you may be sure, just balanced the pound-weight. The old lady was much pleased. “Well done,” she said, “and here’s a couple o’ red herrin’ for yer skill and honesty.” (Text.)—New YorkSun.
This method is most unfair. The fist-and-pound method, in fact, was scarcely worse. The fist-and-pound method originated, they say, in Scranton. A simple-minded old lady ran a grocery store there. A man came in one day and asked for a pound of bacon. The old lady cut off a generous chunk of bacon, and then, going to weigh it, found that she had mislaid her pound weight. “Dear me,” she said, “I can’t find my pound-weight anywhere.” The man, seeing that there was about two pounds in the chunk cut off, said hastily: “Never mind. My fist weighs a pound.” And he put the bacon on one side of the scales and his fist on the other. The two, of course, just balanced. “It looks kind o’ large for a pound, don’t it?” asked the old lady as she wrapt the bacon up. “It does look large,” said the man, as he tucked the meat under his arm. “Still—” But just then the old lady found her pound-weight. “Ah,” she said in a relieved voice, “now we can prove this business. Put it on here again.” But the man wisely refrained from putting the bacon on the scales to be tested. He put on his fist again instead. And his fist, you may be sure, just balanced the pound-weight. The old lady was much pleased. “Well done,” she said, “and here’s a couple o’ red herrin’ for yer skill and honesty.” (Text.)—New YorkSun.
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One evening, as Vincent de Paul, the distinguished French priest, was returning from a mission, he found a beggar lying against the wall. The wretch was engaged in maiming an infant, in order to excite more compassion from the public when he went to beg. Vincent, horror-struck at the sight, cried, “Ah, you savage! you have deceived me. At a distance I mistook you for a man.” Then he took the little victim in his arms and carried him to the crèche, where foundlings were kept.—Edward Gilliat, “Heroes of Modern Crusades.”
One evening, as Vincent de Paul, the distinguished French priest, was returning from a mission, he found a beggar lying against the wall. The wretch was engaged in maiming an infant, in order to excite more compassion from the public when he went to beg. Vincent, horror-struck at the sight, cried, “Ah, you savage! you have deceived me. At a distance I mistook you for a man.” Then he took the little victim in his arms and carried him to the crèche, where foundlings were kept.—Edward Gilliat, “Heroes of Modern Crusades.”
(702)
SeeSampling.
DECEPTION EXPOSED
“Don’t try to make musicians out of all children indiscriminately and thus you will avoid such household conversations as one I overheard the other day,” said Baron Kaneko of Japan, who has been spending the summer in the Maine woods.“I was on a train and a father and his young son sat near me. The father said: ‘John, do you practise regularly on the piano while I am away at business?’—‘Yes, father,’ replied the boy. ‘Every day?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘How long did you practise to-day?’ ‘Three hours.’ ‘And how long yesterday?’ ‘Two hours and a half.’ ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that you are so regular.’ ‘Yes, father.’ And the next time you practise be sure to unlock the piano. Here is the key. I locked the instrument last week and I have been carrying the key in my pocket ever since.’” (Text.)—BuffaloEnquirer.
“Don’t try to make musicians out of all children indiscriminately and thus you will avoid such household conversations as one I overheard the other day,” said Baron Kaneko of Japan, who has been spending the summer in the Maine woods.
“I was on a train and a father and his young son sat near me. The father said: ‘John, do you practise regularly on the piano while I am away at business?’—‘Yes, father,’ replied the boy. ‘Every day?’ ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘How long did you practise to-day?’ ‘Three hours.’ ‘And how long yesterday?’ ‘Two hours and a half.’ ‘Well, I’m glad to hear that you are so regular.’ ‘Yes, father.’ And the next time you practise be sure to unlock the piano. Here is the key. I locked the instrument last week and I have been carrying the key in my pocket ever since.’” (Text.)—BuffaloEnquirer.
(703)
DECEPTION JUSTIFIED
Truth in the abstract is perhaps made too much of as compared to certain other laws established by as high authority. If the Creator made the tree-toad so like the moss-covered bark to which it clings, and the larva of a sphinx so like the elm-leaf on which it lives, and that other larva so exquisitely like a broken twig, not only in color, but in the angle at which it stands from the branch to which it holds, with the obvious end of deceiving their natural enemies, are not these examples which man may follow? The Tibbu, when he sees his enemy in the distance, shrinks into a motionless heap, trusting that he may be taken for a lump of black basalt, such as is frequently met with in his native desert. The Australian, following thesame instinct, crouches in such forms that he may be taken for one of the burnt stumps common in his forest region. Are they not right in deceiving, or lying, to save their lives? or would a Christian missionary forbid their saving them by such a trick? If an English lady were chased by a gang of murdering and worse than murdering Sepoys, would she not have a right to cheat their pursuit by covering herself with leaves, so as to be taken for a heap of them? If you were starving on a wreck, would you die of hunger rather than cheat a fish out of the water by an artificial bait? If a schoolhouse were on fire, would you get the children down-stairs under any convenient pretense, or tell them the precise truth, and so have a rush and a score or two of them crusht to death in five minutes?—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
Truth in the abstract is perhaps made too much of as compared to certain other laws established by as high authority. If the Creator made the tree-toad so like the moss-covered bark to which it clings, and the larva of a sphinx so like the elm-leaf on which it lives, and that other larva so exquisitely like a broken twig, not only in color, but in the angle at which it stands from the branch to which it holds, with the obvious end of deceiving their natural enemies, are not these examples which man may follow? The Tibbu, when he sees his enemy in the distance, shrinks into a motionless heap, trusting that he may be taken for a lump of black basalt, such as is frequently met with in his native desert. The Australian, following thesame instinct, crouches in such forms that he may be taken for one of the burnt stumps common in his forest region. Are they not right in deceiving, or lying, to save their lives? or would a Christian missionary forbid their saving them by such a trick? If an English lady were chased by a gang of murdering and worse than murdering Sepoys, would she not have a right to cheat their pursuit by covering herself with leaves, so as to be taken for a heap of them? If you were starving on a wreck, would you die of hunger rather than cheat a fish out of the water by an artificial bait? If a schoolhouse were on fire, would you get the children down-stairs under any convenient pretense, or tell them the precise truth, and so have a rush and a score or two of them crusht to death in five minutes?—Oliver Wendell Holmes.
(704)
Decision Dependent Upon Call—SeeTestimony, a Sheep’s.
Decisive Deeds—SeeOpportunity.
DECORATING SOLDIERS’ GRAVES
Strew flowers, sweet flowers, on the soldiers’ graves,For the death they died the nation saves,’Tis sweet and glorious thus to die—Hallowed the spot where their ashes lie.On Fame’s eternal camping-groundTheir martial tents are spread,While glory guards with solemn roundThe bivouac of the dead.—Evangelical Messenger.
Strew flowers, sweet flowers, on the soldiers’ graves,For the death they died the nation saves,’Tis sweet and glorious thus to die—Hallowed the spot where their ashes lie.On Fame’s eternal camping-groundTheir martial tents are spread,While glory guards with solemn roundThe bivouac of the dead.—Evangelical Messenger.
Strew flowers, sweet flowers, on the soldiers’ graves,For the death they died the nation saves,’Tis sweet and glorious thus to die—Hallowed the spot where their ashes lie.
Strew flowers, sweet flowers, on the soldiers’ graves,
For the death they died the nation saves,
’Tis sweet and glorious thus to die—
Hallowed the spot where their ashes lie.
On Fame’s eternal camping-groundTheir martial tents are spread,While glory guards with solemn roundThe bivouac of the dead.—Evangelical Messenger.
On Fame’s eternal camping-ground
Their martial tents are spread,
While glory guards with solemn round
The bivouac of the dead.
—Evangelical Messenger.
(705)
Decoration Day—SeeHonor’s Roll-call.
DECREES
A minister esteemed it his religious duty to visit an extreme frontier settlement to preach. To reach that settlement he had to pass through a wilderness infested with hostile Indians. When about to start on one of these journeys, he took his rifle from its rack and was about to depart with it on his shoulder when his good wife said to him: “My dear husband, why do you carry that great, heavy rifle on these long journeys? Don’t you know that the time and manner of your taking off has been decreed from the beginning of time, and that rifle can not vary the decree one hair’s breadth?” “That is true, my dear wife, and I don’t take my rifle to vary, but to execute the decree. What if I should meet an Indian whose time had come according to the decree and I didn’t have my rifle?”—Henry C. Caldwell.
A minister esteemed it his religious duty to visit an extreme frontier settlement to preach. To reach that settlement he had to pass through a wilderness infested with hostile Indians. When about to start on one of these journeys, he took his rifle from its rack and was about to depart with it on his shoulder when his good wife said to him: “My dear husband, why do you carry that great, heavy rifle on these long journeys? Don’t you know that the time and manner of your taking off has been decreed from the beginning of time, and that rifle can not vary the decree one hair’s breadth?” “That is true, my dear wife, and I don’t take my rifle to vary, but to execute the decree. What if I should meet an Indian whose time had come according to the decree and I didn’t have my rifle?”—Henry C. Caldwell.
(706)
DEED, THE GOOD
A man walked south on Main Street one afternoon recently. He had no overcoat and he shivered as the north wind struck him. Near the junction he stopped and picked something up. It was a bright silver dime.“Wasn’t I lucky,” he said to a man who had seen the episode, who related the story to a reporter on the Kansas CityTimes. “I haven’t a cent and have had nothing to eat since yesterday noon. Now for the nearest lunch-wagon.”A little girl came along at that moment. She, too, was poorly drest.“I’ve lost a dime,” she half sobbed, as she inspected the pavement.“I guess I’ve got what you were looking for,” said the man, as he handed the dime to the child, who danced away with only a “Thank you, mister.”“Just my luck,” said the man with the stomach.
A man walked south on Main Street one afternoon recently. He had no overcoat and he shivered as the north wind struck him. Near the junction he stopped and picked something up. It was a bright silver dime.
“Wasn’t I lucky,” he said to a man who had seen the episode, who related the story to a reporter on the Kansas CityTimes. “I haven’t a cent and have had nothing to eat since yesterday noon. Now for the nearest lunch-wagon.”
A little girl came along at that moment. She, too, was poorly drest.
“I’ve lost a dime,” she half sobbed, as she inspected the pavement.
“I guess I’ve got what you were looking for,” said the man, as he handed the dime to the child, who danced away with only a “Thank you, mister.”
“Just my luck,” said the man with the stomach.
(707)
DEEDS, BRAVE
This prayer in verse is by Harry P. Ford:
Our Father, God, while life is sweetWith earthly joys that round it cling,Grant us brave deeds, for heaven meet,To shape the dreams that death may bring.
Our Father, God, while life is sweetWith earthly joys that round it cling,Grant us brave deeds, for heaven meet,To shape the dreams that death may bring.
Our Father, God, while life is sweetWith earthly joys that round it cling,Grant us brave deeds, for heaven meet,To shape the dreams that death may bring.
Our Father, God, while life is sweet
With earthly joys that round it cling,
Grant us brave deeds, for heaven meet,
To shape the dreams that death may bring.
(708)
DEEDS, HEAVENLY