The Indiana State sentinel. [volume] (Indianapolis) 1868-1895, 1893-08-23

say: II am satisfied with my lot. All
| want is my family and my friends
around me. l dwell among my own peo-
pie oh. what a rebuke TO the strife
for precedence in all ages
How many there are who want 10 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 figure in plaster of paris
from Palher's white Captive and
Bierstadt's yosemite men who buy
large libraries by the square foot, buy
ing 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
forgeriesi
OF course 1 say nothing against refine
ment or culture. splendor Of abode, stump
tuousness of diet, lavishDess in art, reat-
ness in apparel-there is nothing against
them in the bible or out of the bible.
God does not want us to prefer mud
howell to English cottage, or Unframed
sheepskin to French broadcloth, or husks
TO pineapple, or the clumsiness OF boor
to the manners of a gentleman. Cod
who strung the beach with tinted she'll
and the grass of the field with the dews
of the night, and hath eXquisitely tinged
morning cloud and robin redbreast,
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
want to impress upon you is That you
ought not depreciate This woman of the
text who. when offered kingly prefer
ment, responded, Il dwell among my own
people"
Great I'm Her Piety.
Yea, the woman Of the text was great
In her piety. Faith in God, and she was
not ashamed to talk about it before idol
ators All. woman will never appre-
ciate what she owes to Christianity until
she knows and sees the degradation Of
her sex under paganism and Moham-
mechanism. Her very birth considered
misfortune. She like cattle in the sham
bles Slave of all work, and at last her
body fuel for the funeral pyTe of her
husband. Above the Shrek of the fire
worShipers in India and above the rum
blingS of the juggernautS, | hear the
million-voiced grUan of wronged. i'm
suited, broken-hearted, dOwn-trOdden
woman. Her tears have fallen in the
Nile and Tigris and the La Plata, and on
the steppes of Tartary. She has been
OlSnOnOTeu III 1uFklSn garden ana GSI-
sian palace and Spanish alhambra. Her
little ones have been sacrificed in the
Gauges. There is not a grOan, or a
dungeon, or an island, or a mountain, or
river, or a lake, or a sea but could tell
a story of the Outrages heaped upon her.
When l come to speak of womanly in
fiuence my mind always wanders off to
one mOdel-the aged one, who twenty
seven years ago was put away for the
| resurrection. About eighty-seven years
ago and just before their marriage day.
my father and mother stood up in the
old meeting house at Somerville. y. j.,
and took upon them the vows of the
| Christians. Through long life of vicis-
! situde she lived harmlessly and usefully
| and came to her end in peace. No child
| of want ever came to her door and was
| turned empty 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 neighbours dwell
| ing she was there To rejoice at the start
| ing of another immortal spirit. When
| the angel of death came to a neighbor's
! dwelling she was there to robe the de-
| parted for the burial.
We had often heard her when lead
\ ing family prayers in the absence of
my father say, 80 Lord, 1 ask not for
| my children wealth or honor. but do
| ask that they all may be the subjects
1
| 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.
That Glorious Word "MOther."
It was an autumnal day when we
| gathered from afar and found only the
house from which the soul had fled for
| ever. She looked very natural, the hands
| very much as when they were employed
| in kindness for her children. Whatever
else we forgot, we never forget the
| look of mothers hands AS we stood
| there by the casket we could not help
| but say, Don't she look beautiful" II
| was a cloudless day when with heavy
| hearts we carried her out to the last
resting place. The withered leaves crum-
BILE under hoof and wheel as we passed
| and the sun shone on the Raritan river
until il looked like fire. But more calm
and beautiful and radiant was the set.
ting sun Of that aged pilgrims life. Nc
| more toll, no more tears, no more sick.
ness. no more death. Dear mother
| Beautiful mother!
| Sweet is the slumber beneath the sod,
While the pure spirit rests with God.
| l need not go back and show you
| ZenObia or Semiramis or Isabella oil
even the woman of the text, as wonder:
of womanly excellence or greatness
when L in this moment point to your
own picture gallery of memory and show
you the one face that you remember 81
well and arouse all your holy reminis
cences and start you in new conservation
to God by the pronunciation Of that ten
der, beautiful, glorious word, Mother
Motheri'