“Vain mightiest fleets of iron found,
    Vain all her conquering guns,
  Unless Columbia keeps unstained
    The true hearts of her sons.”

Beautiful Constance of France was dressing for a court ball.  While standing before a mirror, clasping a necklace of pearls, a spark from the fireplace caught in the folds of her gown.  Absorbed in her attire, she did not detect the danger until a blaze started.  Soon, rolling on the floor in flames, she burned to death.  When the news reached the ballroom the music hushed, the dance halted, and “Poor Constance!  Poor Constance!” went from lip to lip, but soon the music started and the dance went on.  While I am talking now the youth, beauty and sweetness of American life is in peril from the flames that are kindled by the licensed saloon.  From an inward fire men are being consumed and homes destroyed.  Will we say, “Poor Columbia!” and keep step to the mocker’s march to the nation’s death; or will we put out every distillery and brewery fire and make this in reality “the land of the free and the home of the brave?”

In the name of all that is pure and true and vital in national life, I plead with every lover of home and country to come to the help of the cause that must succeed if this republic is to live.  I plead with Christians in the name of the church, bleeding at every pore because of the curse of drink.  If everyone whose name is on a church roll would step out in line of duty on this question, very soon God would stretch out His arm and save this republic from the liquor traffic.  God has been ready a long time; His people have not been ready to do their part.  Too many Christians are like the horse Sam Jones used to tell of.

He said:  “We have a horse in my neighborhood in Georgia, which if hitched to a load of stone or cotton balks and won’t go a step; but in light harness in the shafts of a race cart he will pace a mile in two-thirty.  We have too many Christians who are like this horse; they trot out to church Sunday morning, but hitch them to a prayer meeting and they won’t pull a pound.”

Dr. McLeod, the stalwart Scotch preacher, on his way to a session of his church had with him a small hunch-back member of his church, a dwarf in size but an earnest worker.  Crossing a certain stream a storm struck the boat and the waves were sending it toward the rocks.  A boatman at one end said: 

“Let the big preacher pray for us.”

The helmsman at the other end said:  “No, let that little fellow pray and the big one take an oar.”

Oliver Cromwell, going through a cathedral, came upon twelve silver statues.  Turning to the guide he said:  “Who are these?”

The guide replied:  “Those are the twelve apostles, life-size and solid silver.”

Cromwell said:  “What good are they doing as silver apostles?  Melt them down into money and let them be of some service to the country.”