WIFELY INFLUENCE.

IT MAKES OR MARS THE FORTUNES OF MANY MEN.

Dr. Talmage Discourses on an Extremely Interesting Subject--A Great Woman of

the Days of Elisha--Christian Fortitude and Resignation.

BROOKLYN, Aug. 20.--Rev. Dr. Talmage chose for his subject today one of special interest to the gentler sex, the announced topic being "A Great Woman," and the text II Kings iv, 8, "And it fell on a day that Elisha passed to Shunem, where was a great woman." The hotel of our time had no counterpart in any entertainment of olden time. The vast majority of travelers must then be entertained at private abode. Here comes Elisha, a servant of the Lord, on a divine mission, and he must find shelter. A balcony overlooking the valley of Esdraelon is offered him in a private house, and it is especially furnished for his occupancy--a chair ot sit on, a table from which to eat, a candlestick by which to read and a bed on which to slumber--the whole establishment belonging to a great and good woman. Her husband, it seems, was a godly man, but he was entirely overshadowed by his wife's excellencies, just as now you sometimes find in a household the wife the center of dignity and influence and power, not by any arrogance or presumption, but by superior intellect and force of moral nature wielding domestic affairs and at the same time supervising all financial and business affairs, the wife's hand on the shuttle, on the banking house, on the worldly business. You see hundreds of men who are successful only because there is a reason at home why they are successful. If a man marry a good, honest soul, he makes his fortune. If he marry a fool, the Lord help him! The wife may be the silent partner in the firm, there may be only masculine voices down on exchange, but there oftentime comes from the home circle a potential and elevating influence. A SUPERIOR WOMAN. This woman of my text was the superior of her husband. He, as far as I can understand, was what we often see in our day--a man of large fortune and only a modicum of brain, intensely quiet, sitting a long while in the same place without moving hand or foot--if you say "yes," responding "yes," if you say "no," responding "no"--inane, eyes half shut, mouth wide open, maintaining his position in society only because he has a large patrimony. But his wife, my text says, was a great woman. Her name has not come down to us. She belonged to that collection of people who need no name to distinguish them. What would title of duchess or princess or queen--what would escutcheon or gleaming diadem--be to this woman of my text, who, by her intelligence and her behavior, challenges the admiration of all ages? Long after the brilliant women of the court of Louis XV have been forgotten, and the brilliant women of the court of Spain have been forgotten, and the brilliant women who sat on mighty thrones have been forgotten, some grandfather will put on his spec-

tacles, and holding the book the other side the light read to his grandchildren the story of this great woman of Shunem who was so kind and courteous and Christian to the good prophet Elisha. Yes, she was a great woman. In the first place, she was great in her hospitalities. Uncivilized and barbarous nations honor this virtue. Jupiter had the surname of the hospitable, and he was said especially to avenge the wrongs of strangers. Homer extolled it in his verse. The Arabs are punctilious upon this subject, and among some of their tribes it is not until the ninth day of tarrying that the occupant has a right to ask his guest, "Who and whence art thou?" If this virtue is so honored even among barbarians, how ought it to be honored among those of us who believe in the Bible, which commands us to use hospitality one toward another without grudging?

Of course I do not mean under this cover to give any idea that I approve of

that vagrant class who go around from place to place ranging their own lifetime perhaps under the auspices of some benevolent or philanthropic socie-

ty, quartering themselves on Christian families, with a great pile of trunks in

the hall and carpetbag portentous of tarrying. There is many a country parsonage that looks out week by week upon the ominous arrival of wagon with creaking wheel and lank horse and dilapidated driver, come under the auspices of some charitable institution to spend a few weeks and canvass the neighborhood. Let no such religious tramps take advantage of this beautiful virtue of Christian hospitality. GRACES OF HOSPITALITY. Not so much the sumptuousness of your diet and the regality of your abode will impress the friend or the stranger that steps across your threshold as the warmth of your greeting, the informality of your reception, the reiteration by grasp and by look and by a thousand attentions, insignificant attentions, of your earnestness of welcome. There will be high appreciation of your welcome, although you have been nothing but the brazen candlestick and the plain chair to offer Elisha when he comes to Shunem.

Most beautiful is this grace of hospitality when shown in the house of God. I am thankful that I am pastor of a church where strangers are always welcome and there is not a state in the Union in which I have not heard the affability of the ushers of our church complimented. But I have entered churches where there

was no hospitality. A stranger would stand in the vestibule for awhile and then make pilgrimage up the long aisle. No door opened to him until, flushed and excited and embarrassed, he started back again, and coming to some half filled pew with apologetic air entered it, while the occupants glared on him with a look which seemed to say, "Well, if I must, I must." Away with such accursed indecency from the house of God! Let every church that would maintain large Christian influence in community culture Sabbath by Sabbath this beautiful grace of Christian hospitality. A good man traveling in the far west, in the wilderness, was overtaken by night and storm, and he put in at a cabin. He saw firearms along the beams of the cabin, and he felt alarmed. He did not know but that he had fallen into a den of thieves. He sat there greatly perturbed. After awhile the man of the house came home with a gun on his

shoulder and set it down in a corner. The stranger was still more alarmed. After awhile the man of the house whispered with his wife, and the stranger thought his destruction was being planned. Then the man of the house came forward and said to the stranger: "Stranger, we are a rough and rude people out here, and we work hard for a living. We make our living by hunting, and when we come to the nightfall we are tired, and we are apt to go to bed early, and before retiring we are always in the habit of reading a chapter from the word of God and making a prayer. If you don't like such things, if you will just step outside the door until we get through I'll be greatly obliged to you." Of course the stranger tarried in the room, and the old hunter took hold the horns of the altar and brought down the blessing of God upon his household and upon the stranger within their gates. Rude but glorious Christian hospitality! WELCOME GOD'S MESSENGER. Again, this woman in my text was great in her kindness toward God's messenger. Elisha may have been a stranger in that household, but as she found out he had come on a divine mission he was cordially welcome. We have a great many books in our day about the hardships of ministers and the trials of Christian ministers. I wish somebody would write a book about the joys of the Christian minister--about the sympathies all around him, about the kindnesses, about the genial considerations

of him.

Does sorrow come to our home and is there a shadow on the cradle, there are hundreds of hands to help, and many who weary not through the long night watching, and hundreds of prayers going up that God would restore the sick. Is there a burning, brimming cup of calamity placed upon the pastor's table, are there not many to help him drink of that cup and who will not be comforted because he is stricken? Oh, for somebody to write a book about the rewards of the Christian minister--about his surroundings of Christian sympathy! This woman of the text was only a type of thousands of men and women who come down from the mansion and from the cot to do kindness to the Lord's servants. I suppose the men of Shunem had to pay the bills, but it was the large hearted Christian sympathies of the women of Shunem that looked after the Lord's messenger. Again, this woman in the text was great in her behavior under trouble. Her only son had died on her lap. A very bright light went out in that household. The sacred writer puts it very tersely when he says, "He sat on her the writer goes on to say that she exknees until noon, and then he died." Yet claimed, "It is well!" Great in prosperity, this woman was great in trouble. THE SAHARA OF SORROW. Where are the feet that have not been blistered on the hot sands of this great Sahara? Where are the shoulders that have not been bent under the burden of grief? Where is the ship sailing over glassy sea that has not after awhile been caught in a cyclone? Where is the garden of earthly comfort but trouble hath hitched up its fiery and panting team and gone through it with burning plowshare of disaster? Under the pelting of ages of suffering the great heart of the world has burst with woe. Navigators tell us about the rivers, and the Amazon and the Danube and the Mississippi have been explored, but who can tell the depth or length of the great river of sorrow made up of tears and blood rolling through all lands and all ages, bearing the wreck of families and of communities and of empires--foam-ing, writhing, boiling with the agonies of 6,000 years? Etna and Cotopaxi and Vesuvius have been described, but who has ever sketched the volcano of suffering retching up from its depths the lava and the scoria and pouring them down the sides to whelm the nations? Oh, if I could gather all the heartstrings, the broken heartstrings, into a harp I would play on it a dirge such as was never sounded.

Mythologists tell us of Gorgon and Centaur and Titan, and geologists tell us of extinct species of monsters, but greater than Gordon or megatherium, and not belonging to the realm of fable, and not of an extinct species, is a monster with iron jaw and iron hoofs walking across nations, and history and poetry and sculpture, in their attempt to sketch it and describe it, have seemed to sweat great drops of blood. CHRISTIAN FORTITUDE. But, thank God, there are those who

can conquer as this woman of the text conquered and say: "It is well! Though my property be gone, though my chil-

dren be gone, though my home be broken up, though my health be sacrificed, it is well, it is well!" There is no storm on the sea but Christ is ready to rise in the hinder part of the ship and hush it. There is no darkness but the constellations of God's eternal love can illumine it, and though the winter comes out of

the northern sky you have sometimes seen the northern sky all ablaze with

auroras that seem to say: "Come up this way. Up this way are thrones of light, and seas of sapphire, and the splendor of an eternal heaven. Come up this way." We may, like the ships, by tempest be tossed On perilous deeps, but cannot be lost. Though satan enrage the wind and the tide, The promise assures us the Lord will provide. I heard an echo of my text in a very dark hour, when my father lay dying, and the old country minister said to him, "Mr. Talmage, how do you feel now as

you are about to pass the Jordan of death?" He replied--and it was the last

thing he ever said--"I feel well; I feel very well; all is well," lifting his hand in a benediction, a speechless benedic-

tion, which I pray God may go down through all the generations. It is well! Of course it was well.

Again, this woman of my text was great in her application to domestic duties. Every picture is a home picture, whether she is entertaining an Elisha, or whether she is giving careful attention to her sick boy, or whether she is appealing for the restoration of her property--every picture in her case is a home picture. Those are not disciples of this Shunemite woman who, going out to attend to outside charities, neglect the duty

of home--the duty of wife, of mother, of daughter. No faithfulness in public ben-

efaction can ever atone for domestic negligence.

There has been many a mother who by indefatigable toil has reared a large

family of children, equipping them for the duties of life with good manners and

large intelligence and Christian princi-

ple, starting them out, who has done more for the world than many another woman whose name has sounded through all the lands and through all centuries. I remember when Kossuth was in this country there were some ladies who got reputation, honorable reputation, by pre-

senting him very gracefully with bou-

quets of flowers on public occasions, but what was all that compared with the

work of the plain Hungarian mother who gave to truth and civilization and the cause of universal liberty a Kossuth? Yes, this woman of my text was great in her simplicity. HUMILITY. When the prophet wanted to reward her for her hospitality by asking some preferment from the king, what did she say? She declined it. She said: "I dwell among my own people," as much as to say: "I am satisfied with my lot. All I want is my family and my friends around

me. I dwell among my own people." Oh, what a rebuke to the strife for precedence in all ages! How many there are who want to get great architecture and homes furnished

with all art, all painting, all statuary, who have not enough taste to distinguish between gothic and byzantine, and who could not tell a figure in plaster of paris

from Palmer's "White Captive," and would not know a boy's penciling from

Bierstadt's "Yosemite"--men who buy large libraries by the square foot, buying these libraries when they have hardly enough education to pick out the day of

the almanac! Oh, how many there are striving to have things as well as their neighbors, or better than their neighbors, and in the struggle vast fortunes are exhausted and business firms thrown into bankruptcy, and men of reputed honesty rush into astounding forgeries.

Of course I say nothing against refine-

ment or culture. Splendor of abode, sumptuousness of diet, lavishness in art, neatness in apparel--there is nothing against them in the Bible or out of the Bible. God does not want us to prefer mud hovel to English cottage, or untanned sheepskin to French broadcloth, or husks to pineapple, or the clumsiness of a boor to the manners of a gentleman. God, who strung the beach with tinted

shell and the grass of the field with the dews of the night and hath exquisitely

tinged morning cloud and robin red breast, wants us to keep our eye open to

all beautiful sights, and our ear open to all beautiful cadences, and our heart open to all elevating sentiments. But what I want to impress upon you is that you ought not to inventory the luxuries of life as among the indispensables, and

you ought not to depreciate this woman of the text, who, when offered kingly preferment, responded, "I dwell among my own people."

WOMAN'S DEBT TO CHRISTIANITY. Yes, this woman of the text was great in her piety, faith in God, and she was not ashamed to talk about it before idolaters. Ah, woman will never appreciate what she owes to Christianity until she

knows and sees the degradation of her sex under paganism and Mohammedanism. Her very birth is considered a mis-

fortune. Sold like cattle in the shambles. Slave of all work, and at last her body fuel for the funeral pyre of her hus-

band.

Above the shriek of the fire worship-

ers in India and above the rumbling of the juggernauts I hear the million voiced groan of wronged, insulted, bro-

ken hearted, downtrodden woman. Her tears have fallen in the Nile and Tigris

and the La Plata and on the steppes of Tartary. She has been dishonored in

Turkish garden and Persian palace and Spanish Alhambra. Her little ones

have been sacrificed in the Ganges. There is not a groan, or a dungeon, or an

island, or a mountain, or a river, or a sea but could tell a story of the outrages heaped upon her.

But, thanks to God, this glorious Christianity comes forth, and all the chains of this vassalage are snapped, and she rises

from ignominy to exalted sphere and becomes the affectionate daughter, the

gentle wife, the honored mother, the useful Christian. Oh, if Christianity has done so much for woman, surely woman will become its most ardent advocate and its sublimest exemplification!

When I come to speak of womanly in-

fluence, my mind always wanders off to one model--the aged one who, 27 years ago, we put away for the resurrection. About 87 years ago, and just before their marriage day, my father and mother stood up in the old meeting house at Somerville, N. J., and took upon them the vows of the Christian. Through a long life of vicissitude she lived harmlessly and usefully and came to her end in peace. No child of want ever came

to her door and was turned away. No one in sorrow came to her but was

comforted. No one asked her the way to be saved but she pointed him to the cross. When the angel of life came to a neighbor's dwelling, she was there to re-

joice at the starting of another immortal spirit. When the angel of death came to a neighbor's dwelling, she was there to robe the departed for the burial. We had often heard her, when leading family prayers in the absence of my father, say: "O Lord, I ask not for my children wealth or honor, but I do ask that they all may be the subjects of thy comforting grace!" Her 11 children brought

into the kingdom of God, she had but one more wish, and that was that she

might see her long absent missionary son, and when the ship from China anchored in New York harbor and the long absent one passed over the threshold of his paternal home she said, "Now, Lord, lettest thou thy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen thy salvation." The prayer was soon answered.

It was an autumnal day when we gath-

ered from afar and found only the house from when the soul had fled forever. She looked very natural, the hands very much as when they were employed in kindness for her children. Whatever else we forget, we never forget the look of mother's hands. As we stood there by the casket we could not help but say, "Don't she look beautiful?" It was a cloudless day when, with heavy hearts, we carried her out to the last resting place. The withered leaves crumbled

under hoof and wheel as we passed, and the sun shone on the Raritan river until it looked like fire; but more calm and beautiful and radiant was the setting sun of that aged pilgrim's life. No more toil, no more tears, no more sickness, no

more death. Dear mother! Beautiful mother!

Sweet is the slumber beneath the sod, While the pure spirit rests with God. I need not go back and show you Zenobia or Semiramis or Isabella or even the woman of the text as wonders of womanly excellence or greatness when I in this moment point to your own picture gallery of memory, and show you the one face that you remember so well, and arouse all your holy reminiscences, and [?] you in new consecration to God by the pronunciation of that tender beautiful, glorious word, "Mother, mother!" DANGER IN A WALKING STICK. An English Physician Has Discovered a New Disease That Attacks Men. As a medical man with a fairly large practice I meet with and treat cases which cover a very wide ground. But never until last night have I met with a case the trouble an very probably suffering from which may be distinctly traced to the carrying of a walking stick! A man came to see me who had completed a week's walking tour in Devonshire. He looked well and healthy. There was no mistake about that, but his left arm was almost numb, the muscles were contracted, and it was with great trouble and evident pain he lifted it from his side. It puzzled me at first. His right arm was all right, but on examining it I noticed the skin on the hand was peeling off, while his left hand had no sign whatever of this. "Been boating?" I asked. No, he had not been boating. Then I suddenly caught sight of a walking stick resting by the side of his chair, and which he had brought into the room. The secret of it all was soon out then--a very simple secret. It was a thick and heavy stick weighing quite a pound. He had carried that in the right hand for a whole week, while he admitted that his

left hand generally occupied his trousers pocket. The constant of using the stick

had worn the skin away, while the carrying of it--not having been equally balanced between the two hands--had caused the one not thus exercised to become stiff and positively useless for the time being. A walking stick, to my mind, is not the most desirable thing. Still I suppose they will always be carried, but I would warn those who carry them to excess. Sticks should be avoided with plated tops. Either they should be of silver or gold or some perfectly pure metal, or, better still, only the polished top of the natural stick should come into contact with the flesh of the hand, which often--as in the case of clerks and those not occupied in manual labor--is as tender and susceptible to disease as any part of the body. A glove might, however, overcome this difficulty.

Then as to the weight of the stick. It is only reasonable to suppose that too great a drag on the muscles is not calculated to improve them. Stretching the muscles in this manner is far from advisable. A man should carry a stick

in proportion to his own weight, and a stick from 8 to 10 ounces will be found as good as any.

But the great danger appears to me to be that of constantly carrying this

wooden companion in the same hand. I may be called a faddist, an old woman

among medicos, and the like, but here I have just had a practical proof of the

difficulty which does arise from this practice. It means a certain amount of pleasant labor to the hand and arm to carry a stick, and in this labor--more particularly when the stick is carried for any length of time, as in the case I have just quoted--the work of the hands and arms should be fairly divided. I know this view will be severely questioned, but let any who have their doubts just set out and carry a stick of the same weight my patient did for only a few hours and note the result.--Lon-don Tit-Bits. Tea and Camphor In Transit. One of the big English tramp steamers which a week ago was unloading at a pier between the sectional docks and the bridge filled the east side with a mixture of odors peculiar to the far east, the most prominent among them being the pungent aroma of camphor.

"Halloo," said one of a group who were walking down South street. "Let's go down and see them unload the tea ship."

"No you don't," said a second man, "no tea there."

Argument followed, suppers were wa-

gered, and the question was settled by a visit to the Hankow, the steamer which

was at the pier. The first speaker knew more when they went away from the

pier, for he learned that no tea is carried on a steamer which carries camphor, and that no matter what composed the rest of the cargo, the camphor was kept in a separate, closed room and was only taken at an exceedingly high rate of freight. So carefully is tea handled, and so penetrating is the odor of camphor that the two are not allowed on the same pier together, even in the open air, with 300 feet of space between them. The next time he smells camphor he will not go down to the ship to see tea unloaded.--New York Tribune. They Both Had It. The man that always has a joke to be printed came in with a ha-ha in his voice. "Oh, I say," he exclaimed, "I've got a corker." "What is it?" inquired the helpless victim. "Did you celebrate the twenty-fifth of the alphabet?" "The what?" "The twenty-fifth of the alphabet--the Fourth of July?" "Come off. What's the twenty-fifth of the alphabet got to do with the Fourth of July?" "That's what it is." "I don't see it." "I'll show you," and the joker ha-ha'd some more. "You see, the twenty-fifth of the alphabet is one letter: that one letter is y; y is the fourth of July, and there you have it." "And there you have it too," added the helpless victim as he fired a pastepot into the joker's neck.--Detroit Free Press.

How Not to Grow Old.

The Spanish wit and philosopher, Quevedo, who in his time gained a reputation for knowing everything, was asked if he knew of a means whereby a person could avoid growing old. "Most certainly," said he; "I know of certain rules which will surely prevent you growing old." "What are they?" "Keep in the sun in summer and in

the wet in winter: that is one rule. Never give yourself rest: that is another.

Fret at everything that happens: that is another. And then if you take care Always to eat meat cold and drink plenty of cold water when you are hot you may be perfectly sure that you will never grow old!"--London Tit-Bits.

The consumption of tea in England during 1892 reached the highest point ever touched since its use has been generally diffused among the masses, the total quantity used being 207,000,000 pounds.

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