presented
in this house this morning that are in danger of such breaking-up. Oh,
Ahasuerus! that you should stand in a home, by a dissipated life
destroying the peace and comfort of that home. God forbid that your
children should ever have to wring their hands, and have people point
their finger at them as they pass down the street, and say, "There
goes a drunkard's child." God forbid that the little feet should ever
have to trudge the path of poverty and wretchedness! God forbid that
any evil spirit born of the wine-cup or the brandy-glass should come
forth and uproot that garden, and with a lasting, blistering,
all-consuming curse, shut forever the palace gate against Vashti and
the children.

One night during the war I went to Hagerstown to look at the army, and
I stood on a hill-top and looked down upon them. I saw the camp-fires
all through the valleys and all over the hills. It was a weird
spectacle, those camp-fires, and I stood and watched them; and the
soldiers who were gathered around them were, no doubt, talking of
their homes, and of the long march they had taken, and of the battles
they were to fight; but after awhile I saw these camp-fires begin to
lower; and they continued to lower, until they were all gone out, and
the army slept. It was imposing when I saw the camp-fires; it was
imposing in the darkness when I thought of that great host asleep.
Well, God looks down from heaven, and He sees the fireside of
Christendom and the loved ones gathered around these firesides. These
are the camp-fires where we warm ourselves at the close of day, and
talk over the battles of life we have fought and the battles that are
yet to come. God grant that when at last these fires begin to go out,
and continue to lower until finally they are extinguished, and the
ashes of consumed hopes strew the hearth of the old homestead, it may
be because we have

"Gone to sleep that last long sleep,
From which none ever wake to weep."

Now we are an army on the march of life. Then we shall be an army
bivouacked in the tent of the grave.

IV. Once more: I want you to look at Vashti the silent. You do not
hear any outcry from this woman as she goes forth from the palace
gate. From the very dignity of her nature, you know there will be no
vociferation. Sometimes in life it is necessary to make a retort;
sometimes in life it is necessary to resist; but there are crises when
the most triumphant thing to do is to keep silence.