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processions, bands of music, banners afloat, flags waving, national toasts, responses and firing of guns—all this joyous festivity to impress upon the mind and heart of every man, woman and child in the land that our National Freedom is a reality, and this reality the price of blood.

Citizen sovereignty is a problem in civil government the old monarchies of Europe can't solve; but our Pilgrim Fathers solved it; but they did it with treasure, bloodshed, death!

So these fertile hills and these grand old homesteads in this fertile county are ours only by the toil, hardships, labor, and fearful sufferings and bloodshed of our Germanic, Scotch-Irish ancestry.

This great truth, human perfection and true religious freedom, are the price of blood, history, redemption and science all clearly proclaim. The Apostles died for the truth they preached. The reformers bled and suffered for the truth of the Gospel. “ The blood of martyrs is the seed of the church.” The idea of spiritual freedom from sin and death is a plant too celestial, too heaven born to grow on the soil of the human heart without the watering of blood to ensure its growth. The Disciples felt this, they knew this. They were willing every one of them to suffer martyrdom for the cause of Christ. They knew that righteousness, truth and eternal life are ours only by the death and crucifixion of their Master. Christ crucified contained the seed of a new creation. Sin and pride were the cruel monsters that drove the spear into His side. The Saviour's truth and purity were too holy and divine to germinate in the dead stock of humanity without the shedding of blood to ensure its growth. Christ's death is the germ of life. “If I be lifted up I will draw all men unto Me." Via Crucis, via Lucis.

So, too, in the sphere of intellect. No freedom from this darkness of ignorance and superstition except by toil, hardship, and even self-sacrifice and death. Robert Fulton, in 1807, was hissed at, laughed at and mocked when he sought to launch forth his first steamboat on the waters of the Hudson. Columbus is called the madman because he seeks the discovery of another world. Galileo, in Italy, is imprisoned because he seeks the improvement of astronomy.

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And even that holy man, Paul, as he stood on Mar's Hill, is called a Jewish babbler because he reasoned of “the resurrection and the life to come.

History, too, is full of the same truth. States perish, nations die, all the forms of life are mutable, only that the living spirit of humanity may go forward with new energy and create out of these smouldering ruins new forms of life and activity. The decay of Greece is the life of Rome, and the eruption of the northern barbarians, who lay all Roman civilization in the dust, gives life to the Germanic nations and the Anglo-Saxon race.

Death is the condition of life. So in the history of civilization and in the progress of civil freedom. The wars of George III., the long years of cruel Indian warfare and the hardships of border life, all prove that our peaceful homes and these fertile valleys which we now so richly enjoy are the price of blood ! They are redeemed for us from savage rule and the cruel tomahawk, only by toil, hardship and sacrifices the most horrible, such as only true courage, martyr-heroism and earnest piety could endure.

Mark well, therefore, the resting place of the man who fell a sacrifice to education and offered his life a ransom for the lives of innocent children! Keep green the graves of our patriot fathers, who spent their treasure and shed their blood to secure to us the fertile fields of this rich old county, whose history to-day reaches up to the hoary foot-prints of a hundred years!

Follow closely in the steps and pathway of a most worthy ancestry, who loved God, studied His word, kept the commandments, believed in His Son, confessed His name, and everywhere dotted this whole county with the church and the school-house ; and then God will be honored, our children blessed and freedom perpetuated.

Our mountain homes, the fruit of their blood and the scalps of their children ! Oh! sing to-day as you never sang before

"My country! 'tis of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing.
Land where my Fathers died,
Land of the patriot's pride,
From every mountain side,

Let Freedom ring.

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SERMON OF REV. 7. W. KNAPPENBERGER, A. M., PREACHED IN TRINITY REFORMED CHURCH, MERCERSBURG, PA.,

SEPTEMBER 7, 1884.

“We spend our years as a

PSALM 90. Last clause of the oth verse. tale that is told.”

After speaking of the antiquity of the psalm, its beauty and sublimity and rich meaning, of the custom of telling tales, among Eastern people and when all were told how short they would seem in thinking of them, we spoke as follows:

And just so in many respects is it with our lives. They are like tales that have been told. How short they seem ! How quickly do they pass away! Three score years and ten roll into eternity, before we are aware of it. As we think of our past history, the oldest among us, how dim and indistinct, do the most prominent facts in our lives stand out in. memory! You, whose hair has been silvered with the weight of years, and even those of you, who have only reached the middle mile stone of your life, try to recall the scenes and incidents and experiences of your early years,—those which happened under the parental root, when father, mother, brothers and sisters were with you,

when

you gathered together, it may be, around the family altar, when you ate, drank, laughed and talked, played and toiled with one another,—when you rejoiced together on some notable interesting occasion, or wept with them over some great sorrow; or when with bowed head and sorrowing hearts, you stood together around an open grave, which received one after another of those, who were to you most dear. How you mourned their departure ! How you missed them when you got back home; how sad you all were then and how time gradually healed the wound, which death had made ! Or think, if you please, of the companions and associates

your early years, of those who went to school with you,of the lessons, which you studied and recited together, of incidents that happened, indeed of all the things connected with those early, interesting days, and as you dwell in meditation upon them does not your whole past life, –all the facts, incidents and experiences, --seem very much like a

of

we cannot even now overcome.

As we

tale that is told ? You know it was real, actual and yet how dim and shadowy, how like a tale it all appears now!

But all their experiences, every early impression, as well as everything, that has happened to us or which we have done, have had an effect upon our lives, an influence which

All these things have been worked

up into the very texture of our being, and made us what we are. Had it not been for all these associations and influences we would not be what we are to-day. Our characters are the rich ripe fruit of all these complex forces.

And as it is with the history of our individual lives, so is it with the history of a community or of a country. think of the early history of this country, the bloody scenes which marks its pages, the struggles, hardships, dangers, and sacrifices of the early settlers,—of the condition in which this country was at that time, the valleys covered with tall prairie grass, the rivers and creeks lined with forest trees and the whole overrun with the Red Man, and the wild animals peculiar to this district of territory at that time-how difficult is it for us to throw ourselves back into the spirit of these trying days, and make the conditions, which actually existed, and the things which really took place, seem real to us now! We can read the facts connected with the massacre of Enoch Brown and his ten scholars, but we can't make them as real to us as they were to those who found their mangled bodies, and buried them together in one large box in one great grave. And so it is with the story of John McCullough, the burning of Ft. McCord, the killing of men and women, and the taking of prisoners. All these facts and incidents, as well as hundreds of others connected with the early settlement of this county, seem now very much like tales that have been told. And yet the history of those early days is a true account of the struggles and conflicts and dangers of real men and women, who labored to get a foothold in this new district of country. Had they not endured, toiled, fought and bled as they did, our country to-day would not be what it is. They did a grand, noble work, in times, too, which tried the mettle of which men and women are made. In the midst of peace, prosperity and plenty, we should not forget the pioneer settlers who helped to secure the blessings which we now enjoy. Their

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labors of love and sacrifice should still be held in fond remembrance.

As we think of the condition of this county and its people one hundred years ago, and their situation to-day, what a contrast ! If we take a position on the top of one of our high mountains, and cast our eyes over the surface of Franklin county, we can see hundreds of beautiful farms, in a high state of cultivation, yielding rich harvests of almost every kind of grain, vegetables and fruits. The whole number of farms in this county, according to the census of 1880, is 3,602, and their estimated value, with their improvements, is in the neighborhood of twenty (20) millions of dollars. Upon these farms are comfortable dwellings, large barns, good fences and every machine to lighten labor, and make the soil fertile and fruitful. Why, the value of the farming implements and machinery alone is to-day in the neighborhood of nearly one million of dollars. All these facts indicate a prosperous condition of affairs in this county to-day.

But look back one hundred years, or more and what do you see? These same acres were covered with stones, bushes, briars and trees, and it was only with hardest labors that the inhabitants could secure enough from them to satisfy their necessary wants. It required the honest labor of hundreds, yea, thousands of persons, extending through a

more, to make their farms what they are to-day. If all the persons that worked on these farms for the past one hundred years, or more, to make them what they are,—were to assemble in one place, what an army would there be; what labors and patience and sacrifices and sorrow would they represent! In the enjoyment of present blessings how prone are we to forget what others did to secure them to us!

To-day there are roads and lanes running East and West, North and South, intersecting one another at almost every angle, so that we can travel anywhere and everywhere in perfect safety, feeling assured that the law which rules and reigns in Franklin county is no dead letter, but that it is powerful to protect her citizens, and terrible in its punishment of the transgressor.

One hundred years ago these roads did not exist in the condition in which they are

hundred years

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