JONAH'S PERVERSITY

MORAL LESSONS OF THE MEMORABLE

JOURNEY TO TARSHISH.

Dr. Talmage Preaches an Interesting Sermon on the Waywardness of Man, the Delusions of Life and the Wages of Sin.

NEW YORK, Aug. 4.--At this season of the year, when a large portion of the community is journeying either by land or sea, Rev. Dr. Talmage, who is still absent on his midsummer preaching and lecturing tour, has chosen as the subject of his sermon for today, "Man Overboard," the text being Jonah i, 6: "So the shipmaster came to him and said unto him: What meanest thou, O sleeper? Arise, call upon thy God, if so be that God will think upon us, that we

perish not."

God told Jonah to go to Nineveh on an unpleasant errand. He would not go. He thought to get away from his duty by putting to sea. With pack under his arm I find him on the way to Joppa, a seaport. He goes down among the shipping and says to the men lying around on the docks, "Which of these vessels sails today?" The sailors answer, "Yonder is a vessel going to Tarshish. I think if you hurry you may get on board her." Jonah steps on board the rough craft, asks how much the fare is, and pays it. Anchor is weighed, sails are hoisted, and the rigging begins to rattle in the strong breeze of the Mediterranean. Joppa is an exposed harbor, and it does not take long for the vessel to get on the broad sea. The sailors like what they call a "spanking breeze," and the plunge of the vessel from the crest of a tall wave is exhilarating to those at home on the deep. But the strong breeze becomes a gale, the gale a hurricane. The affrighted passengers ask the captain if he ever saw anything like this

before.

"Oh, yes," he says. "This is nothing." Mariners are slow to admit danger to landsmen. But after awhile crash goes the mast, and the vessel pitches so far "abeam's end" there is a fear she will not be righted. The captain answers few questions, and orders the throwing out of boxes and bundles and of so much of the cargo as they can get at. The captain at last confesses there is but little hope and tells the passengers that they had better go to praying. It is seldom that a sea captain is an atheist. He knows there is a God, for he has seen him at every point of latitude between Sandy Hook and Queenstown. Captain Moody, commanding the Cuba of the Cunard line, at Sunday service led the music and sang like a Methodist. The captain of this Mediterranean craft, having set the passengers to praying, goes around examining the vessel at every point. He descends into the cabin to see whether in the strong wrestling of the waves the vessel had sprung aleak [sic], and he finds Jonah asleep. Jonah had had a wearisome tramp and had spent many sleepless nights about questions of duty, and he is so sound asleep that all the thunder of the storm and the screaming of the passengers does not disturb him. The captain lays hold of him and begins to shake him out of his unconsciousness with the cry: "Don't you see that we are all going to the bottom? Wake up and go to praying if you have any God to go to. What meanest thou, O sleeper? Arise, call upon thy God, if so be that God will think upon us, that we perish not." The rest of the story I will not rehearse, for you know it well. To appease the sea threw Jonah overboard. Learn that the devil takes a man's money and then sets him down in a poor landing place. The Bible says he paid his fare to Tarshish. But see him get out. The sailors bring him to the side of the ship, lift him over the guards and let him drop with a loud splash into the waves. He paid his fare all the way to Tarshish, but did not get the worth of his money. Neither does any one who turns his back on his duty and does that which is not right. The Rewards of Dissipation. There is a young man who during the past year has spent a large part of his salary in carousal. What has he gained by it? A soiled reputation, a half starved purse, a dissipated look, a petulant temper, a disturbed conscience. The manacles of one or two bad habits that are pressing tighter and tighter will keep on until they wear to the bone. You paid your fare to Tarshish, but you have been set down in the midst of a sea of disquietude and perplexity. One hundred dollars for Sunday horse hire. One hundred dollars for wine suppers. One hundred dollars for cigars. One hundred dollars for frolics that shall be nameless. Making four hundred dollars for his damnation! Instead of being in Tarshish now he is in the middle of the Mediterranean. Here is a literary man tired of the faith of his fathers who resolves to launch out into what is called freethinking. He buys Theodore Parker's works for $12, Renan's "Life of Christ" for $1.50, Andrew Jackson Davis' works for $20. Goes to hear infidels talk at the clubs and to see spiritualism at the table rapping. Talks glibly of David, the psalmist, as an old libertine, of Paul as a wild enthusiast and of Christ as a decent kind of a man, a little weak in some respects, but almost as good as himself. Talks smilingly of Sunday as a good day to put a little extra blacking on one's boots and of Christians as, for the most part, hypocrites and of eternity as "the great to be," "the everlasting now" or "the infinite what is it." Some day he gets his feet very wet and finds himself that night chilly; the next morning has a hot mouth and is headachy; sends word over to the store that he will not be there today; bathes his feet; has mustard plasters; calls the doctor. The medical man says aside, "This is going to be a bad case of congestion of the lungs." Voice fails. Children must be kept down stairs or sent to the neighbors to keep the house quiet. You say, "Send for the minister." But no. He does not believe in ministers. You say, "Read the Bible to him." No; he does not believe in the Bible. A lawyer comes in, and sitting by his bedside writes a document that begins: "In the name of God, amen. I, being of sound mind, do make this my last will and testament." It is certain where the sick man's body will be in less than a week. It is quite certain who will get his property. But what will become of his soul? It will go into "the great to be," or

the everlasting now," or "the infinite what is it." His soul is in deep waters, and the wind is "blowing great guns." Death cries, "Overboard with the unbeliever!" A splash. He goes to the bottom. He paid $5 for his ticket to Tarshish when he bought the infidel books.

He landed in perdition.

Satan's Swindles.

Every farthing you spend in sin satan will swindle you out of. He promises you shall have 30 per cent or a great dividend. He lies. He will sink all the capital. You may pay full fare to some sinful success, but you will never get to

Tarshish.

Learn how soundly men will sleep in the midst of danger. The worst sinner on shipboard, considering the light he had, was Jonah. He was a member of the church, while they were heathen. The sailors were engaged in their lawful calling, following the sea. The merchants on board, I suppose, were going down to Tarshish to barter, but Jonah notwithstanding his Christian profession, was flying from duty. He was sound asleep in the cabin. He has been motionless for hours--his arms and feet in the same posture as when he lay down--his breast heaving with deep respiration. Oh, how could he sleep? What if the ship struck a rock? What if it sprang aleak? What if the clumsy oriental craft should capsize? What

would become of Jonah?

So men sleep soundly now amid perils

infinite. In almost every place, I suppose, the Mediterranean might be sounded, but no line is long enough to fathom the profound beneath every impenitent man. Plunging a thousand fathoms

down, you cannot touch bottom. Eternity beneath him, before him, around him! Rocks close by and whirpools and hot breathed Levanters. Yet sound

asleep! We try to wake him up, but

fail. The great surges of warning break over the hurricane deck, the gong of warning sounds through the cabin, the bells rings [sic]. "Awake!" cry a hundred voices. Yet sound asleep in the cabin. In the year 1775 the captain of a Greenland whaling vessel found himself at night surrounded by icebergs and "lay to" until morning, expecting every moment to be ground to pieces. In the morning he looked about and saw a ship near by. He hailed it. No answer. Getting into a boat with some of the crew, he pushed out for the mysterious craft. Getting near by, he saw through the porthole a man at a stand, as though keeping a logbook. He hailed him. No

answer. He went on board the vessel

and found the man sitting at the log-

book, frozen to death. The logbook was dated 1762, showing that the vessel had

been wandering for 13 years among the ice. The sailors were found frozen among the hammocks, and others in the cabin. For 13 years this ship had been

carrying its burden of corpses.

So from this gospel craft today I descry voyagers for eternity. I cry: "Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy!" No answer. They

float about, tossed and ground by the icebergs of sin, hoisting no sail for heaven. I go on board. I find all asleep. It is a frozen sleep. Oh, that my Lord Jesus would come aboard and lay hold of the wheel and steer the craft down into the warm gulf stream of his mercy. Awake, thou that sleepest! Arise from the dead, and Christ shall give thee life.

Again, notice that men are aroused by the most unexpected means. If Jonah had been told one year before that a heathen sea captain would ever awaken him to a sense of danger, he would have scoffed at the idea, but here it is done. So now men in strangest ways are aroused from spiritual stupod. A profane man is brought to conviction by the shocking blasphemy of a comrade. A man attending church and hearing a sermon from the text, "The ox knoweth his owner," etc., goes home impressed, but, crossing his barnyard, an ox come up and licks his hand, and he says: "There it is now. 'The ox knoweth his owner and the ass his master's crib,' but I do not know God." The careless remark of a teamster has led a man to thoughtfulness and heaven. The child's remark: "Father, they have prayers at uncle's house. Why don't we have them?" has brought salvation to the dwelling. By strangest ways and in most unexpected manner men are awakened. The gardener of the Countess of Huntingdon was convicted of sin by hearing the countess on the opposite side of the wall talk about Jesus. John Hardoak was aroused by a dream, in which he saw the last day, and the judge sitting, and heard his own name called with terrible emphasis, "John Hardoak, come to judgment!" The Lord has a thousand ways of waking up Jonah. Would that the messengers of mercy might now find their way down into the sides of the ship, and that many who are unconsciously rocking in the awful tempest of their sin might hear the warning: "What meanest tho, O sleeper? Arise and call upon thy God!" Awake Too Late. Again: Learn that a man may wake up too late. If, instead of sleeping, Jonah had been on his knees confessing his sins from the time he went on board the craft, I think that God would have saved him from being thrown overboard. But he woke up too late. The tempest is in full blast, and the sea, in convulsion, is lashing itself, and nothing will stop it now but the overthrow of Jonah. So men sometimes wake up too late. The last hour has come. The man has no more idea of dying than I have of dropping down this moment. The rigging is all white with the foam of death. How chill the night is! "I must die," he says, "yet not ready. I must push out upon this awful sea, but have nothing with which to pay my fare. The white caps! The darkness! The hurricane! How long have I beein sleeping? Whole days and months and years. I am quite awake now. I see everything, but it is too late." Invisible hands take him up. He struggles to get loose. In vain. They bring his soul to the verge. They let it down over the side. The winds howl. The sea opens its frothing jaws to swallow. He has gone forever. And while the canvas cracked, and the yards rattled, and the ropes thumped, the sea took up the funeral dirge, playing with open diapason of midnight storm. "Because I have called, and ye refused. I have stretched out my hand, and no man regarded, but ye have set at naught all my counsel and would none of my reproof, I also will laugh at your calamity. I will mock when your fear cometh." Now, lest any of you should make this mistake, I address you in the words of the Mediterranean sea captain: "What meanest thou, O sleeper? Arise, call upon thy God, if so be that God

will think upon us that we perish not." If you have a God, you had better call upon him. Do you say, "I have no

God?" Then you had better call upon your father's God. When your father was in trouble, whom did he fly to? You heard him in his old days tell about some terrible exposure in a snowstorm, or at sea, or in battle, or among midnight garroters, and how he escaped.

Perhaps 20 years before you were born your father made sweet acquaintance with God. There is something in the worn pages of the Bible he used to read which makes you think your father had a God. In the old religious books lying around the house, here are passages marked with a lead pencil--passages that make you think your father was not a godless man, but that, on that dark day when he lay in the back room dying he was ready--all ready. But perhaps your father was a bad man--prayerless and a blasphemer--and you never think of him now without a shudder. He worshiped the world or his own appetites. Do not then, I beg of you, call upon your father's God, but call upon your mother's God. I think she was good. You remember when your father came home drunk late on a cold night, how patient your mother was. You often heard her pray. She used to sit by the hour meditating as though she were thinking of some good, warm place, where it never gets cold, and where the bread does not fail, and staggering steps never come. You remember her now as she sat in cap and spectacles reading her Bible Sunday afternoon. What good advice she used to give you! How black and terrible the hole in the ground looked to you when with two ropes they let her down to rest in the graveyard! Ah, I think from your looks that I am on the right track. Awake, O sleeper, and call upon thy mother's God. But perhaps both your father and mother were depraved. Perhaps your cradle was rocked by sin and shame, and it is a wonder that from such a starting you have come to respectability. Then don't call upon the God of either of your parents, I beg of you. The God of Thy Children. But you have children. You know God kindled those bright eyes and rounded those healthy limbs and set beating within their breast an immortality. Perhaps in the belief that somehow it would be for the best you have taught them to say an evening prayer, and when they kneel beside you and fold their little hands and look up, their faces all innocence and love, you know that there is a God somewhere about in the room. I think I am on the right track at last. Awake, O sleeper, and call upon the God of thy children! May he set these little ones to pulling at thy heart until they charm thee to the same God to whom tonight they will say their little prayers! But, alas, alas, some of these men and women are unmoved by the fact that their father had a God, that their mother had a God, and their children have a God, but they have no God. All the divine goodness for nothing. All warning for nothing. They are sound asleep in the side of the ship, though the sea and sky are in mad wrestle. Many years ago a man, leaving his family in Massachusetts, sailed from Boston to China to trade there. On the coast of China in the midst of a night of storm he made shipwreck. The adventurer was washed up on the beach sense-less--all his money gone. He had to beg in the streets of Canton to keep from starving. For two years there was no communication between himself and family. They supposed him dead. He knew not but that his family were dead. He had gone out as a captain. He was too proud to come back as a private sailor. But after awhile he choked down his pride and sailed for Boston. Arriving there, he took an evening train for the center of the state, where he had left his family. Taking the stage from the depot and riding a score of miles, he got home. He says that, going up in the front of the cottage in the bright moonlight, the place looked to him like heaven. He rapped on the window, and the affrighted servant let him in. He went to the room where his wife and child were sleeping. He did not dare to wake them for fear of the shock. Bending over to kiss his child's cheek, a tear fell upon the wife's face, and she wakened, and he said, "Mary!" and she knew his voice, and there was an indescribable scene of welcome and joy and thanksgiving to God. Today I know that many of you are sea tossed and driven by sin in a worse storm than that which came down on the coast of China, and yet I pray God that you may, like the sailor, live to get home. In the house of many mansions your friends are waiting to meet you. They are wondering why you do not come. Escaped from the shipwrecks of earth, may you at last go in! It will be a bright night--a very bright night as you put your thumb on the latch of that door. Once in you will find the old family faces sweeter than when you last saw them, and there it will be found that he who was your father's God, and your mother's God, and your children's God, is your own most blessed Redeemer, to whom be glory and domination throughout all ages, world without end. Amen.

The Narrative of a Singular Experience of Lod and Lady Dunraven. Apropos of a report that the Brevoort House was to be closed, which was denied, however, there is a story that Lady Dunraven has been known to tell about the famous old inn. The countess is described by those who know her as a woman much more inclined to common sense than to ghost haunted Cock lanes, even with Dr. Johnson's authority. She used to tell the facts in t he tale simply for what they were worth. It was more than one decade ago, years before the Valkyrie was thought of, when Lord Dunraven was first interested in the mining regions of northern Michigan. He and Lady Dunraven were staying in New York for a few days before starting west and had taken rooms at the Brevoort--pleasant rooms, with a view of the avenue and a nice glimpse of Washington square. The first night, being tired with their voyage, they went early to bed, but, as it happened, not so early to sleep. Both the earl and countess were blessed with hearty English constitutions. They were not at all accustomed to lying awake till the small hours. They wondered what they could have done, what they could have eaten or drank to afflict them with such gratuitous vigilance. Just at a venture finally they bundled themselves out into the adjoining parlor, made themselves extempore couches there and slept soundly till morning. Next night and the night after there was the same wakefulness and in the end the same migration to the adjoining room for relief. They began to think they should have to leave town earlier than they had planned, for they would not for the world have made any pretext to shift chambers. The explanation of the mystery, if it was an explanation, came out by chance. They had a call before long from an old time New Yorker whom they had met in England, an authority on all matters pertaining to the town's minor history. "I wonder," he remarked casually, "that they should have given you these rooms. You know it was in that room there, not so long ago, that a Mr. X---- hanged himself." It was in that room that Lord and Lady Dunraven had tried in vain to sleep, and they exchanged significant glances. Of course it was only a coincidence, they said, but the next day they took their departure for the west.--New York Tribune.

The Snub That He Took From a Clerk Without Getting Ruffled. I never saw a man take life less seriously than John D. Rockefeller, says a correspondent of the New York Press. He has an easy way of saying and doing

things that appeal to the aesthetic nature. Nothing worries him, not all his mil-

lions. At times I have known John to seem dull. I have known people to take him for a soft, slow, stupid fellow, instead of the hard, gliding, firm, rocky fellow that he is. He once had an employee, a nervous, irritable young man,

full of his own importance, but withal

a capable clerk. He occupied an office in which there was one of those pulling

and lifting machines, and regularly every morning about 9, when he was im-

mersed in figures of correspondence, a small, black mustached man, quiet and diffident in manner, entered, said "Good morning," walked on tiptoe to the corner and exercised for a quarter of an hour. It became a bore t othe clerk, who at last, unable to stand it longer, remarked with considerable heat and fireworks, to the inoffensive but annoying stranger: "How do you expect me to do my work properly while you are fooling with that ---- machine? I'm getting tired of it. Why don't you put it where it won't worry a person to death?" The stranger replied, with a blush: "I am very sorry if it annoys you. I will have it removed at once."

A porter took it away within an hour. A few days later the clerk was sent for by Mr. Flagler, whom he found in earnest conversation with the small, black mustached man. The latter smiled at seeing him, gave Flagler some instructions and left the room. "Will you tell me who that gentleman is?" the young man asked, a light beginning to break upon him. "That is Mr. Rockefeller," was the reply. With a gasp for breath, the clerk staggered back to his office to think. It was his first acquaintance with the Standard Oil magnate.

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POE KNEW ARGON. The Poet Wrote of the Third Constituent of the Atmosphere.

Will Lord Rayleigh and Professor Ramsay have to share the honor of "spotting" the third constituent of the atmosphere with Edgar Allan Poe? It certainly looks like it, if we consider the evidence adduced by a correspondent of a French journal, who has been dipping into the "Tales of Mystery and Imagination." The passage upon which this gentleman rests Poe's claims is contained in "The Unparalleled Adventure of One Haus Pfaall." It is worth while quoting it in full:

"I then took the opportunities of conveying by night to a retired situation east of Rotterdam five iron bound casks, to contain about 50 gallons each, and one of a large size; six tin tubes 3 inches in diameter, properly shaped and 10 feet in length; a quantity of particular metallic substance, or semimetal, which I shall not name, and a dozen demijohns of a very common acid. The gas to be formed from these latter materials is a gas never yet generated by any other person than myself--or at least applied to any similar purpose. I can only venture to say here that it is a constituent of azote (nitrogen), so long considered irreducible, and that its density is about 37.4 times less than of hydrogen. It is tasteless, but not odorless; burns, when pure, with a greenish flame and is instantaneously fatal to animal life. Its full secret I would make no difficulty in disclosing, but that it of right belongs to a citizen of Nantes, in France, by whom it was conditionally communicated to myself." It must be confessed that the mysterious gas evolved by the force of Poe's imagination has not a little in common with argon, whose acquaintance we are now privileged to make some 50 years later. The "particular metallic substance or semimetal," used by Hans Pfaall, has its fellow in clevite, from which we have been led to understand argon has been extracted when treated with an acid, after the manner of the veracious Dutch balloonist. If the new

gas is not precisely regarded as "a constituent of nitrogen," it has at least been declared by some to be an allotropic modification of it. No doubt the physical and chemical qualities of Edgar Allan Poe's gas are not exactly those of argon. But what of that? Instead, for example, of being 37 times lighter than hydrogen, argon, we understand, is very much heavier. It must be remembered, however, that Hans Pfaall had to make a journey to the moon. Had his gas been heavier, how could he have dropped a couple of ballast bags on the head of Mynheer Superbus Van Underduk, and have disappeared above the clouds almost before the worthy burgomaster had recovered himself? The romancer, even when he is a man of science, must surely be allowed a little latitude with his chemistry.--Westminster Gazette.

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INFLUENCE OF SCIENCE.

The Characteristic of Savants Is Their Unfailing Optimism.

The best that we gain from the pursuit of research is, Professor C. S. Minot writes in The Popular Science Monthly, our characteristic optimism. We are engaged in achieving results, and results of the most permanent and enduring quality. A business man may achieve a fortune, but time will dissipate it. A statesman may be the savior

of a nation, but how long do nations live? Knowledge has no country, belongs to no class, but is the might of mankind, and it is mightier for what

each of us has done. We have brought

our stones, and they are built into the edifice and into its grandeur. My stone

is a small one. It will certainly be forgotten that it is mine; nevertheless it will remain in place.

How different is the pessimism toward which literary men are seen to tend! Harvard university lost James Russell Lowell in 1891 and Asa Gray in 1888. The letters of both these eminent men have been published. Lowell's letters grow sad and discouraged, and he gives way more and more to the pessimistic spirit. Gray is optimistic steadily and to the end. The difference was partly due to natural temperament, but chiefly, I think, to the influence of their respective professions. The subject material of the literary man is familiar human nature and familiar human surroundings, and his task is to express the thoughts and dreams which these suggest. He must compete with the whole past, with all the genius that has been. There is nothing new under the sun, he exclaims. But to us it is a proverb contradicted by our daily experience.

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Kingsley's Place in Literature.

Kingsley was a striking example of that which is so characteristic of recent English literature--its strong, practical, social, ethical or theological bent. It is in marked contrast with French literature. Our writers are always using their literary gifts to preach, to teach, to promulgate a new social or religious

movement, to reform somebody or something, to illustrate a new doctrine. From first to last Carlyle regarded himself even more as preacher than as artist. So does his followed, Mr. Ruskni. Macanlay seemed to write history in order to prove the immeasurable superiority of the Whig to the Tory, and Fronde and Freeman write history to enforce their own moral. Disraeli's novels were the programme of a party and the defense of a cause, and even Dickens and Thackeray plant their knives deep into the social abuse of their time. Charles Kingsley was not a professed novelist nor professed man of letters. He was novelist, poet, essayist and historian almost by accident, or with ulterior aims. Essentially he was a moralist, a preacher, a socialist, a reformed and a theologian.

Without pretending that Kingsley is a great novelist, there are scenes, especially in "Westward Ho!" which belong to the very highest order of literary painting and have hardly any superior in the romances of our era. No romances, except Thackeray's, have the same glow of style in such profusion and variety, and Thackeray himself was no such poet of natural beauty as Charles Kingsley--a poet, be it remembered, who by sheer force of imagination could realize for us landscapes and climates of which he himself had no sort of experience. Even Scott himself has hardly done this with so vivid a brush.--Frederic Harrison in Forum.

CABLE'S PASSION FOR TREES. He Makes All His Distinguished Guests Plant Them.

George W. Cable, the novelist, who has resided in Northampton, Mass., for some years, calls his residence Tarryawhile. Some time ago a careless reporter sent a paragraph traveling about the country making the name "Stayawhile." Mr. Cable was grieved and desires a correction. Like the old story, "Stayawhile" has been going the rounds before "Tarryawhile" can catch up, and every little while Mr. Cable is annoyed by the false and uneuphonious name.

The pleasant residence Tarryawhile is on Dryad's green, which is the name of a locality in New Orleans which Mr. Cable has utilized in one of his novels.

Mr. Cable takes great pleasure in trees. Whenever he has a visitor of reputation in the literary world he is asked by Mr. Cable to become the godfather for a tree. Once Henry Ward Beecher was a guest at the home of Mr. Cable, who was then living on Paradise road, in the rear of the lake which adorns a portion of the Smith college grounds.

Then the tree planting with distinguished sponsors was inaugurated, and

an elm sapling was planted by the great preacher. It is now a lusty tree, but it

has been a great traveler. About two

years after it had been planted by Mr.

Beecher Mr. Cable changed the form of his grounds somewhat, and he had the tree transplanted.

On moving from Paradise road to

Tarryawhile, Mr. Cable had the tree transplanted again and placed in front

of his new home. It did not seem to the

novelist to be just where he wanted it,

and it was transplanted again and is now thriving finely.

The next tree that had a famous spon-

sor is a graceful white ash which now stands at the edge of the pine grove in

the rear of the novelist's house. This tree was planted by Max O'Rell, the French humorist. Not far away is another graceful ash. This was planted by Mr. and Mrs. R. J. Chard, the parents of the young man who married Mr. Cable's daughter Louise last winter. Another tree was set out by the Rev. Paul Vandyke, pastor of the Edwards church at Northampton. In the spring of 1894 Edward Atkinson planted an ash near the south corner of the Tarryawhile grounds. Last fall Dr. A. Conan Doyle planted a maple on the edge of the grove about 40 yards west from the northwest corner of the house.

A few months ago Sol Smith Russell and Mrs. Smith Russell planted a linden midway between the ash trees of Max O'Rell and Edward Atkinson. Mr. Cable has planted many trees, but his favorite is a tall and handsome elm which was about 15 years old when transplanted last year. It is a beauty.--Boston Globe.

The Czar's Present to an American.

A matter of almost international in-

terest is that known to but a very few

intimate friends of Dr. J. M. Crawford,

late consul general to St. Petersburg, is

the fact that when he was about to leave

Russia and had severed his connection

as representative of the United States

a number of officials representing the czar of all the Russians called upon him, and on behalf of the emperor presented Dr. Crawford with what is probably the

handsomest set of solid silver service in this city today as a token of the esteem in which the emperor held the consul

general. It will be remembered that in 1892 the United States sent to Russia

two shiploads of flour, because the crops

there had failed and the peasants were starving. The ships State of Missouri

and State of Indiana were dispatched there with cargoes of flour as a gift from the American people and landed at the war port of Liban, which is now being built, and where there were 1,000 workmen who were on the verge of starvation. Dr. Crawford went to Liban as the representative of his government to receive the flour and formally present it to the Russian authorities for distribution. For the great interest that he took in it the emperor desired to give an indication of the fact that he appreciated it.--Cincinnati Tribune.

Queen Elizabeth. Queen Elizabeth was of medium height and weight, but gave the impression of being much taller than aver-

age. She had a Roman nose, which in the last few years of her life became very red.

Her cheeks were prominent and her forehead broad and shelving. Her eyes were a grayish blue, and her hair had a decidedly reddish tinge.

The English Soldier. An English soldier coming on duty was heard to say to his comrade, "Well, Jim, what's the orders at this post?"

Jim replied, "Why, the orders is you're never to leave it till you're killed, and if you see any other man leaving it you're to kill him."--Recollections of a Military Life," General Sir John Adge.

From Her Standpoint. He--The doctor has told me to take a walk every evening for exercise, but he says I ought to have some object in view. She--Why not think of home?--New York Herald.

Railway Around Etna.

The Catania Bronte branch of the railway round Etna has been opened.

The first train passed through a rich and romantic stretch of country. Thousands of wondering peasants who had never seen a train before gathered to the line from surrounding districts and greeted it with cheers and waving of hats and handkerchiefs.--London News.

SMITH & THORN, 846 Asbury Avenue.

PLUMBING & DRAINAGE. All kinds of Pump, Sink, Drivewell Points and Plumbing Material constantly on hand. All kinds of Jobbing in our line promptly attended to. Best of Material used. Experienced workmen constantly on hand.

OCEAN CITY. A Moral Seaside Resort. Not Excelled as a Health Restorer. Finest facilities for FISHING, Sailing, gunning, etc. The Liquor Traffic and its kindred evils are forever prohibited by deed. Every lover of Temperance and Morals should combine to

help us.

Water Supply, Railroad, Steamboats, And all other Modern Conveniences.

Thousands of lots for sale at various prices, located in all

parts of the city.

For information apply to E. B. LAKE,

Secretary,

Ocean City Asso'n, SIXTH ST. & ASBURY AVE.