ment, full of grave sweet melody. I'm afraid some good, true blue Presbyterians will be excusing Mr. Sankey's organ, and themselves for listening to it, by some such plea as that."

After "singing the Gospel" in many of the largest cities of England, Scotland and Ireland, Mr. Sankey has returned to our own country again, and has achieved "song victories" on our own shores equal to those which God awarded to him in other lands. We shall close this brief sketch of a career which we trust will long continue, by quoting an editorial from "The InterOcean" of Chicago in regard to "Mr. Sankey's Musical Oratory":

"People are not agreed as to what rank Mr. Sankey shall take as a singer, but they are agreed as to the point that he is just the man to join Mr. Moody in his great work. The methods of the two men are dissimilar, and they appear on the platform in marked contrast. Mr. Moody seizes a crowd at any moment, whether it be noisy or quiet, and asserts his authority.

"He never stands on ceremony, but grapples with the giant at once, and with a supreme con

sciousness that he will not lose his grip proceeds to the business in hand. Mr. Sankey, on the other hand, approaches a great crowd with almost womanly gentleness. He touches the keys of the organ with soft reverence. He waits till the Tabernacle is so quiet that you can hear a pin drop; he leans forward to say a few words in an appealing, musical tone, as though he wanted to be sure that the people were all in responsive mood, and then he takes possession and carries the crowd with him. His singing is a sort of musical oratory, and it affects or influences people as an oratorical performance rather than a musical one. That is to say, Mr. Sankey touches the same chords, arouses the same feelings, appeals to the same emotions that would be struck or aroused by a persuasive speaker, and he sways an audience precisely as it would be surged by a man of rare eloquence.

"If there be arts in his manner, they are of the orator, rather than of the musician. His sentences come to the audience clean cut and ringing with melody. The sentiment lives in the lines and in the tone as well as in the music. He sings as one in earnest, as one whose heart is

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full of the sentiment of his song, as one anxious to express all the tenderest and liveliest feelings of the human heart.

"Mr. Moody steps on the platform like a blacksmith approaching his forge. He makes no concessions to circumstances, and is not influenced by unfavorable conditions.

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"Mr. Sankey, on the contrary, commences work when the doors are closed. He understands his mission as well as Mr. Moody understands his, and so works with the same great results. He has studied men and women to good purpose, and in choice of subject, in manner of introduction, and style of execution he shows the results of this study. Musicians may not be charmed; he is not singing so much for them as for the men and women with troubled hearts; for men and women perplexed and tired; for men and women who have hearts and heartaches, as well as ears. He sings now for the' mother, now for the father, and again for all. He never makes a mistake. He never promises more than he accomplishes. He never ventures to approach a crowd until it is in the right mood, and he never leaves it until every heart is

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throbbing responsively. In studying Mr. Moody we are driven forward to the contemplation of the results of his work. In studying Mr. Sankey, we linger over the sweet voice, the trembling tones, the tender words. Mr. Moody startles us and arouses us, while Mr. Sankey soothes and comforts. Mr. Moody, earnest as he is, succeeds without the grace of voice and manner. Mr. Sankey, earnest as he is, succeeds because of grace in voice and manner. He is well fitted to be Mr. Moody's companion, and those who hear him do not wonder at his con

tinued success in this peculiar field."

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Where is now our loved one?

Where, O where?

Not where the living weary,

Not where the dying moan;

Not where the day is dreary,

Not where the night is lone.
Not in a home of weeping,
Not in a darkened room,

Not in a graveyard sleeping
Not in a silent tomb.

Where is now our loved one?

Where, O where?

Safe in a land immortal,

Safe in a country rare,

Safe in a heavenly portal

Safe in a mansion fair.

Safe with the joys supernal,
Safe with the blest to bow,
Safe with the Love Eternal,
Safe with the Master now.

From "The Prize." Copyrighted.



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