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THE SEMI-WEEKLY SUMTER REPUBLICAN.
ESTABLISHED IN 1854,
By CHAS. W. HANCOCK. J
VOL. 18.
The Sumter Republican.
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Weely, One Year - - - - - 2.00
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Notices in local column inserted for ten
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Charles F. Crisp,
Attorney at L,aw^
AMERICUS, GA.
decl6tf
B. P. HOLLIS,
Attorney at ILate*
AMERICUS, GA.
Office, Forsyth Street, in National Hank
building. dec2otf
~eTg. SIMMONS,
Attorney at JLaw,
AMERICUS GA.,
Office in Hawkins’ building, south side of
Lamar Street, in the old office of Fort&
S.mmons. janfitf
J. A. ANBLEY,
ATTORNEY AT LAW
AND SOLICITOR IN EQUITY,
Office on Public Square, Ovf.ii Gyles’
Clothing Store, Americus, Ga.
After a brief respite I return again to the
practice of law. As in the past it will he
my earnest purpose to represent my clients
faithfully and look to their interests. The
commercial practice will receive close atten
tion and remittances promptly made. The
Equity practice, and cases involving titles of
land and real estate are my favorites. Will
practice in the Courts of Soutli west Georgia,
the Supreme Court and the United States
Courts. Thankful to my friends for their
patronage. Fees moderate. novlltf
DR. BACLEY’S
INDIAN VEGETABLE LIVER AND
KIDNEY PILLS.
For sale hy all Druggists in Americus.
Price 25 cents per box. jan26wly
CARD.
X offer my professional services again to the
good people of Americus. After thirty years’
of medical service, I have found It difficult
to withdraw entirely. Office next door to
Dr. Eldridge’s drugstore, on the Square
janl7tf R. C. BLACK, M. D.
Dr. J. A.
Physician and Surgeon.
Offers his professional services to the
people of Americus and vicinity. Office at
Dr. Eldiidge’s Drug Store. At night can
be found at residence on Furlow’s lawn.
Calls will receive prompt attention.
may26-tf
Dp. D. P. HOLLOWAY,
DentisT,
Americas. - - - Georgia
Troatssuccessfully all diseases of the Den
tal organs. Fills teeth by the Improved
method, and inserts artificial teeth on the
best material known to the profession.
®“OFFICE over Davenport and Son’s
Drug Store. marllt
J. B. C. Smith & Sons,
nm AID BUILD,
Americus, Ca.
We are prepared to do any kind of work
in the carpenter line at short notice and on
reasonable terms. Having had years of ex
perience In the business, we feel competent
to give satisfaction. All orders for con
tracts for building will receive prompt at
tention. Jobbing promptly attended to.
may26-3m
Commercial Bar.
This well-established house will be kept
in the same first-class style that has always
characterized it. The
Choicest Liquor and Cigars,
Milwaukee, Budweiser and Aurora Beer,
constantly on hand, and all the best brands
of fine Brandies, Wines, &c. Good Billiard
Tables for the accommodation of customers.
may9tf JOHN W. COTNEY, Clerk.
Commerciaf Hotel,
G. M HAY, Proprietor.
This popular House is quite new and
handsomely furnished with new furniture,
bedding and all other articles. It is in the
centre of the business portion of the city,
convenient to depot, the banks, warehouses,
So., and enjoys a fine reputation, second to
none, among its permanent and transient
guests, on account of the excellence of its
cuisine.
Table Boarders Accommodated on
Reasonable Terms.
may9-tf G. M. HAY, Proprietor.
L GEORGE ANDREWS,
BOOT AND SHOE HAILEB,
At his shop in the rear of J. Waxelbaum
& Co.’s store, adjoining the livery stables,
on Lamar St., invites the public to give him
their work. He can make and repair all
work at short notice. Is sober and always
on hand to await on customers. Work
guaranteed to be honest and good.
pru*tf
Rev. Father Wilds’
EXPERIENCE,
Tlie Bev. Z. F. Wilds, well-known city
missionary in New York, and brother
of the late eminent Judge Wilds, of the
Massachusetts Supreme Court, writes
as follows:
“78 E. 5 4th St., New York, May IG, 1882.
Messrs. J. O. Ayer & Cos.. Gentlemen :
Last winter I was troubled with a most
uncomfortable itching humor affecting
more especially my limbs, which itched so
intolerably at night, and burned so intense
ly, that 1 could scarcely bear any clothing
over them. I was also a sufferer from a
severe catarrh and catarrhal cough; my
appetite was poor, and my system a good
deal run down. Knowing the value of
Ayer’s Sarsaparilla, by observation of
many other cases, and from personal use
in former years, 1 began taking it for the
above-named disorders. My appetite im
proved almost from the first dose. After
a short time the fever and itching were
allayed, and all signs of irritation of the
skin disappeared. My catarrh and cough
were also cured by the same means, and
my general health greatly improved, until
it is now excellent. I feel a hundred per
cent stronger, and I attribute these results
to the use of the Sarsaparilla, which
I recommend with all confidence as the
best blood medicine ever devised. I took
it in small doses three times a day, and
used, in all, less than two bottles. I plaoe
these facts at your service, hoping their
publication may do good.
Yours respectfully, Z. P. Wilds.”
The above instance is but one of the many
constantly coining to our notice, which prove
the perfect adaptability of Ayer's Sarsa
parilla to the cure of all diseases arising
from impure or impoverished blood, and a
weakened vitality.
Ayer’s Sarsaparilla
cleanses, enriches, and strengthens the blood,
stimulates the action of the stomach and
bowels, and thereby enables the system to
resist and overcome the ntlucks of all Scrofu
lous /y,*ctißca. /eruptions of the Skin, I thru
m.itisnt, t'a'arrh , (icucr-tt Debility, and all
a nd: -orders resulting from poor or corrupted
b. >od Mini iow slate o! the system.
Mi l Ai; n i\
Dr. J. C.Ayci’&Co., Lowell, Mass.
Sold ly a’.l Druggists: price SI, six bottles
for §5.
AYER ’S
CATHARTIC
IgffgllP PILLS.
Best Purgative Medicine
cure Constipation, Indigestion, Headache, and
;:!1 I'ilious Disorders.
Sold everywhere. Always reliable.
rostette^
Pb. STOMACH A
BjfTERS
No time should be lost if the stomach,
liver and bowels are affected, to adopt the
sure remedy, Hostetter’s Stomach Bitters.
Diseases of the organs named beget others
far more serious, and a delay is therefore
hazardous. Dyspepsia, liver complaint,
chills and fever, early rheumatic twinges,
kidney weakness, bring serious bodily
trouble if trilled with. Lose no time in
using effective and safe.medicine.
For sale by all Druggists and Dealers
generally.
AYER’S
Ague Cure
IS WARRANTED to euro all cases of ma
larial disease, such as Fever and Ague, Inter
mittent or Chill Fever, Remittent Fever,
Dumb Ague, Bilious Fever, and Liver Com
plaint. In case of failure, after due trial
dealers arc authorized, by our circular o
July Ist, 1882, to refund the money.
Dr. J.C. Ayer&Co., Lowell, Mass.
Sold by all Druggists.
POUTZ’S
HORSE AND CATTLE POWDERS
No llorse will die of .Colic, Rots or Luxe Fk
vkb, if Foutz’s Powders are used in time.
Foutz’s Powders will cure and prevent Hoo Cholera.
outz’s Powders will prevent Gapes in Fowls.
Foutz’s Powders will increase the quantity of milk
and cream twenty per cent., and make the butter Arm
and sweet.
Foutz’s Powders will cure or prevent almost every
Disease to which Horses and Cattle are subject.
Foutz’s Powders will give Satisfaction.
Sold everywhere.
DAVID E. FOUTZ, Proprietor.
BALTIMORE, MD.
DIVORCES— No publicity; residents of
Desertion, Non-Support. Advice and
applications for stamps. VV. H . LEE, Att’y,
239 B’way, N. Y.
ADVERTISERS
By addressing EO P. miwm r.*v CO.,
10 Spruce St., New York, can learn the ex
act cost of any proposed line of ADVER
TISING in American Newspapers. J3TTOO
page Pamphlet, 25c. july-1
El, AM JOHNSON, JOHN W. M’ PHEKSON,
BTEVER. JOHNSON, JAMES B. WILBANKS.
EIAM JOHNSON, SON & CO.,
WHOLESALE
hub Si musm mums
—DEALERS IN—
TOBACCO AND CIGARS.
FOREIGN and DOMESTIC FRUITS, Veg
etables and Melons in Season. BUT
TER, CHICKENS and EGGS,
SWEET and IRISH Potatoes,
Consignment* and Order* solicited.
12 Decatur and 13 Line Sts., P. O. Box 515.
ATLANTA, GEORGIA.
mayStf
Corn Starch, Arrow Root, Imperial
Granum, Tapioca, Sago.
Dr. Eldridge’s Drug Stow.
INDEPENDENT IN POLITICS, AND DEVOTED TO NEWS, LITERATURE, SCIENCE AND GENERAL PROGRESS
AMERICUS, GEORGIA, WEDNESDAY, JULY 18, 1883.
WE/T&T.
THE TWO SOWEIIS.
Death came to the earth, hy his side was
Spring,
They came from God’s own bowers,
And the earth was full of their wandering,
For they both were sowing flowers.
"I sow,” said Spring, hy the stream and the
wood,
And the village children know
The gay glad time of my own sweet prime,
And where my blossoms grow.
“There is not a spot in the quiet wood
But hath heard tne sound of my feet,
And the violets come from their solitude
When my tears hath made them sweet.”
“I sow,” said Death, “where the hamlet
stands
I sow in the churchyard drear;
I drop in the giave with gentle hands,
My flowers irom year to year.
“The young and the old go into their rest,
To the sleep that waits them below;
But I clasp the children unto my breast,
And kiss them before 1 go.”
“I sow,” said Spring, “but my (lowers de
cay
When the year turns weak and old,
When the breath of the bleak winds wears
them away,
And they wither and droop in the mould.
“But they come again when the young earth
feels
The new blood leap In her veins,
When the fountain of wonderful life un
seals,
And the earth is alive with the rains.”
“I sow,” said Death;” “but my flowers nn
seen
Pass away from the hand of men,
Nor sighs nor tears through the long sad
years
Ever bring back their bloom again:
“But now they are wondrous bright and
fair
In the fields of their high abode;
Tour flowers are the flowers that a child
may wear
But mine are the blossoms of God.”
Death came to the earth, by his side was
Spring;
Ihe two came from God’s own bowers;
One sowed in night and the other in light,
Yet they both were sowing flowers.
A BURIED ROMANCE.
Even in the kindly shadows of the
gathering twilight, she looked older
than he, this woman of rare grace and
matchless charm, whose eyes rested so
worsbipfully on the face of the man
who hail thrown himself on the cushion
at her feet—older than the year them
selves would warrant, for she, Sydney
Reed, was in reality but, six years
George Winston’s senior. But six
years leave their wt.n their
way lies over burning ploughshares.
There were lines upon the lovely
face, and a sadness in the beautiful
eyes, r.o time unaided could have
wrought. She passed her hand now,
half bewilderingly across her brow.
“Is sorrow for me really at an end?”
she murmured, “I cannot grasp it.”
“At an end forever, darling, if my
strength avails anything to keep it
from your door, for to-night you belong
for the last time to yourself. To-mor
row you belong to me!” answered the
young, confident voice.
He was but twenty-two, this boy.
She was twenty-eight, and a widow.
Her married life had been one of unut
terable wretchedness. Four years be
fore, her husband had deserted her.
Two years later she had learned of his
death, which had taken place in a
drunken brawl in a far Western city.
She had put on the outward badge
of mourning in memory of the days
when he, handsome and reckless, had
smiled away her girl’s heart. She
buried in his unseen grave her weight
of woe, and with it all his faults. She
thought, too, that she had long buried
youth and happiness, but three months
since they had resurrected themselves,
and listening to George Winston’s
pleading words and loving prayer, she
found resistance had failed her, and so
granted him the boon he asked of her.
And to-morrow was to be her second
wedding day. Fondly and hopefully
he painted to her the coining years,
each moment of which should be to her
a recompense for past misery. She
said little. It was such joy to hear
his voice, to feel his touch, to creep
into the shelter of his love and rest
there, grateful and content.
It was ten o’clock* when she bade
him good-night. She still felt the ten
der pressure of his lips upon hers as
she mounted the stairs to her room.
She made him leave her thus early be
cause some of her preparations were
yet to be made for the morrow, and
had promised him to retire before mid
night—though her waking dreams she
said were so much sweeter than any
slumber might bestow, she hardly
thought the exchange a fair one.
There were some letters she wanted
to be preserved. Among these latter
were a few he had written to her, dur
ing a short absence, a month previous.
She took out the first from its wrap
per to re-read, but had not turned the
page when there came a low rap at the
door.
“Como in,” she called, haif-impa
tiently, without looking up.
She had given orders to her servants
not to be disturbed. She had told
Marie, her maid, to come to her at
midnight. Tt was not yet half-past
ten.
The door opened at her summons,
but no one entered.
“Well, Marie,what is it?” she ques
tioned, and slowly raised her eyes, to
find—no Marie, no servant, but a
man’s form, guaut and haggard, dark
ening the threshold—a man’s eyes hot
and burning, fixed upon her face.
She sat carven into stone. It was
pitiful to see the blood recede from her
face, leaving it white and drawn. If ■
three hours previously she had looked i
older than her lover, ten years were i
now added to her age.
Her lover? No longer had she a i
right to the possession of the sweet ;
title, for he whose gaze held hers was i
her living husband —the man whom i
for two years she had mourned as dead.
He came forward at last, closing the
door behind him, and advancing, with
feeble tottering her.
“Speak to me,” he said. “Give me
one word of welcome, one word of for
giveness.” 1
She opened her lips then, hut no
sound came.
“I—l know,” he went on. “You
need not tell me. You were to have
been married. It would have been a
crime. But for this T would not have
come. I would still have let you give
credence to my death. Oh, Sydney,
will you not believe me when 1 swear
to you that, both for your sake and my
own, I wish to God I wire.”
The utter misery of his tone brought
her own desolate anguish more fully
before her. With a low cry, she bur
ied her face in her hands. The letter
she held fell from them. Still she
heard'her husband speaking, as though
from afar off.
“Courage, Sydney,” he said. “You
will only need patience dear. Look at
me! It is not hard to see that lam a
doomed man. I have never recovered
from the wound I received in the affray
in which they reported me to have been
killed. Dissipation helped the work
along—though since that night, no
drop of liquor has touched my lips.
When a man stands so close to Death
that he recognizes his icy breath, lie
sees things with anew clearness. Dur
ing my long and desperate illness, 1
thought of you with a longing you can
never dream of, but I dared not send
for you. I felt that all my right was
forfeited. Nor will I trouble you now.
When I am dead, you shall learn of
your freedom. Until that time, you
will not hear of or from me again.”
He stooped as he finished. She knew
that he lifted up the material of dress
and pressed it a moment to his lips.
Slowly and falteringly he again
crossed the room. His hand was on
the knob of the door, when she broke
the spell that bound her, and rose up
to her feet.
“Stay, Harold,” she said. “Your
place is here. It was you who desert
ed me. You shall not say that I de
serted you.”
He staggered against the walk
“Oh, ray C.,d!” he cried; “is this an
angel or a woman who thus speaks to
me?”
“It is no angel,” she answered;
“only a woman, striving to do the duty
so plainly marked out before her.”
But the strength which had upheld
him in the hopelessness now failed him.
With a great cry, he threw himself
at her feet, striving in vain to check
the sobs which so cruelly rent him.
Very gently she soothed him. She
had no time to realize her own misery,
until, at last, she left him, quiet and
sleeping, ain room beneath her roof.
How the time passed, she never
knew. With her locked hands clasped
before her, she sat watching the fire
till it perished, watching the dawn
break, conscious of neither heat nor
darkness, until, at nine o’clock, her
maid brought a cup of coffee to her
door. The servants had been apprised
ot the master’s return the night before.
She took the coffee now and diank it.
“When Mr. Winston comes,” she
said, “admit him yourself, Marie, and
bring him immediately here to me.”
“An hour later her dour opened.
“Not dressed, my darling, cried a
happy voice. “Sydney, in God’s name
what has happened?”
For he saw the white haggered face,
upraised so piteously to his.
With marvelous strength and calm
she told him all. He listened silently
until she had finished, and then, with
one bound, he had gathered her to his
arms.
“What is this man to you, that he
should take you from me? You are
mine—mine, I never will forego my
claim.”
At the old, tender masterfulness of
his tones, her womanhood re-asserted
itself. She bowed her head upon his
breast, and burst into a passion of
Bobs.
“My love—my own!” he whispered,
“this is but the chimera of the dark
ness. Our wedding day has dawned—
you are mine. Oh, my darling, come
to me!”
But how she lifted her face.
“He is my husband, George,” she
said. “My duty lies with him. Now,
leave me. I can bear no more. YY>u
who have always said you loved me
host in my womanhood—you would
not tempt me to sin? No, dear leave
me and forget me. Y'ou are young—
you have but to look for happiness and
to find it.”
“No, Sydney. I cannot resist your
words! you bid me go, and I obey you.
But first, love, I exact a promise—when
you are free, send me word. I will
leave an address, where a letter will
always reach me. I must put the ocean
between us—l could not stay here and
prove obedient else; but my own, I
never will renounce my claim—and be
it one year, or ten, or twenty, one line
will bring me to your side, to leave it
never again.
Then with a thousand mad kisses,
he sealed the promise he had exacted,
and went out from her believing that
earth held no such wretched man as
he.
Five years had passed—five years to
Sydney Reed of faithful, devoted duty
—five years, during which her love
and care alone fostered the feeble spark
of life in Harold Reed’s remorseful
heart, and then he laid the heavy bur
den down and with his last words
murmurs of grateful love and blessing,
the tired eyes closed, shutting out for
ever the vision which all these years
had been their light and gladness.
She had had no word from George
Winston all this time. He had kept
his promise faithfully. For a year
longer, she too would be silent, and
then—ah then she would send for him.
Once more she would look into his
face—once more listen to his voice.
They might be friends only, but
would friendship e’er before have been
so sweet? The love she long repressed
as sin, again held sway. It had burst
its tetters and renewed its strength.
When the time came to write the let
ter, she knew not how to word it,
though every day for months she fan
cied the hour when she would pen it.
But at last she wrote theso simple
words;
“Come to me George. You will not
have forgotten me, and I—l have lived
but to remember.
Sydney Reed.”
These she sealed and addressed to
the address he had given her, and sank
back in her chair to dream awhile, ere
touching her bell and ordering it post
ed.
A happy smile played about her lips.
The future, so long closed to her again
opened its gate of promise and feasted
her hungry gaze.
Idly she took up a paper at her hand
holding it before her eyes as a screen
from the fire, when her attention was
arrested by a name—the name which
was inscribed upon the envelope whose
ink was scarcely yet dry.
It was a printed description of Geo.
Winston’s marriage to the young and
beautiful heiress of one of England’s
noblemen.
The marriage had taken place in
London, a fortnight before.
Once, twice, thrice, she read it
through, and then, quietly reaching
forth, she took "dp the letter she had
wiitten, passed it an instant to her
white, quivering lips, and falling on
her knees, dropped it in the flames.
As the fire darted up, she laughed
aloud in the strange stillness. Others
would have seen but the light the pa
per gave, but she saw more—it was
the funeral pyre of a broken heart.
A DEAD HEART.
Everybody wondered when Robert
j Egerton married his wife.
He was plain, and quiet, but honest
and as good as gold, he worshipped
Marguerite as a devotee dois his saint.
But all the same people wondered
how in the world such a plain unas
suming man had won such a glorious
ly beautiful creature as she, while
equal astonishment was felt and ex
pressed that Marguerite Lassenr had
taken up with him when so many oth
er more desirable men had been at her
feet.
Of course nobody knew the true in
wardness of the affair, how that in her
twenty years of life, Marguerite Las
seur had never had a friend so good to
her as Mr. Egerton, how, notwith
standing all her admirers, no one of
them all had ever caused her a quick
ened heart beat; how gratitude urged
her acceptance of Robert Egerton’s suit
when he asked her, in his quiet, intense
way, to be his wife.
He did love her so entirely.
It seemed to him that his heart and
soul were one flame of passion for her,
and yet, in his reserve and reticence,
he very seldom gave expression to it.
Well, Marguerite liked him infinitely
better than any one else in the world,
He was able to give her a delightful
home, and many of the things of life
that she wanted, and she married him,
and they were happy.
That there was no delicious ecstasy
about her feeling for him, she never
cared, and believed there was no capac
ity for deep passion about her.
Then, when they had been two years
married, Eugene Sartoris come homo
with Mr. Egerton to dinner one day,
and then—his first glance into the
magnificent eyes, great dark-grey eyes,
that shone like star-beams from under
the heavy black brows, as the luscious
scarlet lips, and pale, proud face, told
him that there was a woman whose
heart had never been touched by love’s
fire yet.
He was wonderfully handsome—this
friend of Marguerite’s husband—as
handsome for a man as Marguerite was
wondcrously beautiful for a woman.
He was rich, and all through his life
he had been accustomed to having
things pretty much as he wanted them
—his horses, his servants, his travels,
and among women who idolized him.
That one very first look into Mrs.
Egerton’s serene eyes told his observ
ant glance its own story.
He looked at her keenly, sharply,
with his handsome, lazy blue eyes,
noted the exquisite beauty of her face
and figure, heard the sweet melody of
her low, womanish voice, watched the
lissom grace of her manner, and—fell
in love with her there and then, as he
had never fallen in love before.
And deliberately set himself to work
to awaken her sleeping heart.
And succeeded.
It was not a week later when Mar
guerite discovered what had come to
her, and in her first discovery she was
horrified and frightened to know that
1 there had been depths lying dormant
in her nature of which she had no idea
until Eugene Sartoris’s master baud
touched them with unsealing power.
It seemed to her the very first mo
ment of it all that suddenly some rap
turous cup was given her to drink, if
only she would lift it to her lips.
But she neither dared enter in, nor
lift the cup, because of her conscience,
that would not hush its ceaseless mo
notone of warning, that faithful des
perate conscience of hers that contiu
uedly reminded her how horrible, how
sinful, how hopeless it would be to
yi Id to the sweet temptation.
But Sartoris, understanding so well
just what a woman of her temperament
would of necessity have to go through
before the struggle between passion
and duty, wrong and right, were ad
justed, patiently bided his time, and hy
bis looks, his words, liis manners,
made her love him even more and more.
Until at the moment of awfullest
indecision, he made the temptation the
sweeter, and conquered, and hit a
masterful blow on the conscience that
deadened it.
After the confession and the avowal,
oh how rapturous was the descent into
that enchanted land! and even in the
midst of her wild, wicked happiness,
Margeuritc remembered that it was a
“descent,” not an “ascent.”
I hardly know how to chronicle the
pitiful story of those days.
Mr. Egerton never doubted his wife,
a devotee would sooner have doubted
his patron saint.
Ho was kindness and hospitality
combined to the man who professed to
be his friend.
His horses, and his home, and his
wife, were always placed at Sartoris’s
disposal, and before his very eyes the
two lived their life.
People saw and remarked upon it.
People said Egerton was as blind as
a bat not to see the desperate flirtation
going on under his nose.
But, as usually is the case, uo word
ot town-talk came to his ears, the in
jured husband oi deserted wife gener
ally remains longest in actual ignor
ance.
And then, as if the furies had added
their choicest bension upon Sartoris
ami Marguerite, it so happened about
this time that Mr. Egerton was obliged
to be absent from home several weeks.
And then!
After he had gone, Marguerite suf
fered awfully in her conscience, that,
taithful and true, had struggled up
from its prostration and renewed its
good word.
But Sartoris had no such inward
monitor, and because his influence over
Marguerite was the strongest that had
ever been placed upon her, it was hard
ly a matter of surprise that when in
his sweetest and most persuasive way
he urged with her that their only hope
of happiness was in her giving her
home, her husband, up, and going with
him.
After a little, Marguerite consented.
And left her home, her beautiful
homo, while the man who loved her
was away, loving and trusting her
with all his great good heart.
Well, she was wicked, but don’t
judge her too harshly.
Had she been wholly depraved, her
conscience never would have given'her
such ruthless twinges, and never, in
the very midst of her fairest dreams of
bliss, was there a moment when she
was not in mortal fear and terror of the
God she had thus dared, by her sin.
Then, Egerton came home , to learn
all about it.
Did he hate her?
Did he wish her evil, or burn for re
venge upon her for the wreck and ruin
she had worked in his life?
Perhaps you may not believe it, but
that night when he reached home and
sat down alone, he laid his head on the
arm of his chair and cried like a child,
not for shame, not for anger, hut be
cause he loved her so.
And if Marguerite had come to his
door just then he would have snatched
her in his arms, and begged her to be
merciful to him.
It was a terrible experience for him—
out in the world, and alone in his
empty house; but the week passed
away somehow, as they will pass
whether one suffers, or enjoys, and the
months rolled up into years—three of
them—just one year more than he had
enjoyed with the woman he loved so
well.
Three years!
He had got into the new groove hy
this time, and had learned to live his
life without her, when one stormy,
sobbing November night, she came to
the door and rung, and was shown in,
so muffled in her veils and wraps that
the servant did not recognize her.
Not a pulse of his heart quickened
as he saw who she was.
He arose, and handed her a chair.
“You are not angry, then, enough to
cast me out of your house?”
She threw aside her veil as she spoke,
in her sweet pathetic voice, that had
once been the most enchanting music
to him.
“I do not know why I should cast
you out.”
“I am not in the habit of turning
chance comers from my doors.”
“I presume you wish to see me, or
you would not have taken the trouble
to call.”
“Robert, Robert!” she cried out ag
onizingly, “I would rather have you
strike me than speak to me like that.
Tell me you dispise me, hate me, scorn
me as I deserve, as I do myself, any
thing rather than like that.”
He looked at her, elegant, ladylike,
beautiful and young as the day he saw
her last, when she bad been his wife.
There was a cold curious look in his
| FOUR DOLLARS PER ANNUM.
face, thoughtful, pitying, but oh, cold,
cold as ice.
“I don’t understand the good taste
in your cjming,” he said at last, “but
if I can be of any service to you I hope
I tnay be.”
“Are you in trouble, or is Mr. Sar
toris?”
Not a faltering of the quiet, icily
polite, thoughtful voice as he spoke the
name, but an awful deathly agony
spread over her face at the sound of it,
and she- rose to her feet, pale as a dead
woman.
“Don’t call his name in my hearing!”
“dou know as well as I where he
is.”
“I never have seen him since that
accursed day when T went with him
from here.”
“I swear to you I did not sin against
yon, Robert; hut who would believe
me?”
“I stayed away, afraid—ashamed to
come and tell yon I never had been the
worst you were thinking of me, Rob
ert.”
She tell on her knees, her fair hands
clasped in pleading.
He smiled coldly, sarcastically.
“I think I have read somewhere of a
man who had a living soul in a body
to all appearance dead.”
“I have a dead heart* in a living
body.”
“Your explanations, your prayers,
your tears, your oaths, your sworn
oath written in your heart’s blood, are
all nothing to me.”
“Gan I he of any service to you, pe
cuniarily or otherwise, madam?”
And Marguerite, poor, weak, wicked
Marguerite, who had sinned, but not
so deeply as you may have thought—
knew that even her humility and re
pentance could never avail with the
man who once worshipped her so.
She went away, poor Marguerite,
and Robert Egerton neither knew nor
cared, for his heart was dead, and she
had been its murderess.
FOOD FOR THOUGHT.
The best portions of a good man’s
life is his little, nameless, nnreniem
bored acts of kindness and of love.
The religious observances of the
Lord’s Day may legitimately be re
garded as essential to the Christian
life.
The same things are honest and dis
honest, the manner of doing them, and
the end of the design, makes the sep
aration.
From pity for others, spring ardent,
eouiagouus benevolence; from pity for
ourselves, feeble, cowardly sentimen
tality.
Every great example of punishment
lias in it some justice, the suffering in
dividual is compensated by the public
good.
The loss of purity, the loss of sim
plicity, the loss of honesty are real
losses; but they betall us only by our
own consent.
There is no saying to what perfection
of success a man may come, who be
gins with what he can do, and uses
the means at hand.
One of the best rules in conversation
is, never to say a thing which any of
the company can reasonably wish he
had left unsaid.
Form the habit of close, accurate
observation, and you will be possessed
of a powerful instrument for intellect
ual improvement.
Untold thousands of the bravest and
best souls in this world may be found
in coarse clothes, as a rough shell cov
ers many a sweet kernel.
Anger is a perfect alieniation of mind
from prayer; and therefore is contrary
to that attention which presents our
prayers in a right line to God.
There is no secret in the heart which
our actions do not disclose. The most
consumate hypocrite cannot at all
times conceal the workings of the
heart.
Even if work was the sole aim and
end ot life, it would be folly to neglect
relaxation, for no labor can be efficient
ly and permanently carried on without
it.
It is better to meet danger than to
wait for it. He that is on a lee shore,
and foresees a hurricane, stands out to
sea and encounters a storm to avoid
shipwreck.
He that is good will infallibly be
come better, and he that is bad will as
certainly become worse, for vice, virtue
and time are three things that never
stand still.
He who cheats the man that con
fides in him, in a witty manner, makes
us laugh at his jest, and half disarms
our anger; but reflection insures him
our contempt and indignation.
Carry yourself respectfully towards
your superiors, friendly towards yonr
equals, condescending towards your in
teriors, generously towards all.
New fallen snow does not more cer
tainly receive and reveal the footprints
ot the person that passes over it than
man’s spirit records the impress of
every thought and word and deed.
Alas! we know that ideals can nevor
be completely embodied in practice.
Ideals must ever lie a great way off—
and we will thankfully content our
selves with any not intolerable approx
imation thereto.
The flux of power is eternally the
same. It rolls in music through the
ages; and all terrestrial energy, the
manifestations of life as well as the dis
play of phenomena, are but the modu
lations of its rhythm.
NO. 85.