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OLIVIA;
HU DOCTOR'S no LOR!.
T TOT AUTHOR OT
m f% Bteomi Mrs. Tillotson,- ‘ Sever
forgotten,’ Ale., Etc.
CHAPTER LIL
A nuaiu w patois.
* long day it was I How tho
tours b-corned to double thamselve*, and
reep along at the slowest pace they
could I I had had some hope of run
ning over to Sark to see Tardif, but
that oould not be. I was needed too
much by the party that had been left
behind by Captain Carey and Julia.
We tried to while away the time by a
drive round the island, and by visiting
many of my old favorite haunts, bnt I
could not be myself. Everybody ral
lied me on my want of spirits, but I
found it impossible to shake off my do
pression.
1 was glad when the day was over,
and Johanna and I were left in the
quiet secluded house in the Vale, where
the moan of the sea sighed softly
through the night air.
It was almost midnight the next day
when I reached Brook street, where I
found Jack expecting my return. He
had bought, in honor of it, some cigars
of special quality, over which I was to
tell him all the story of Julia’s wed
ding. But a letter w*s waiting for me,
directed in queer, crabbed handwrit
ing, and posted in Jersey a week before.
It had been so long on the road in
consequence of the bad penmanship of
the address. I opened it carelessly as
I answered Jack’s first inquiries; but
the instant I saw the signature I held
top my hand to silence him. It was
from Tardif. This is a translation:
Dear Doctor and Friend —This day 1
received a letter from matn’zelle; quite a
little letter with only a few lines In It. She
•ays, “Come to me. My husband has found
me; he is here. I have no friends but you
and one other, and 1 cannot lend for him.
You said you would oome to me whenever I
wanted you. I have not time to write more,
yam in a little village called Vllle-en-bois, be
tween Granville and Noireau. Come to tho
house of the cure; I am there.”
Behold, I am gone, dear monsieur. I write
this in my boat, for we are crossing to Jer
sey to cateb the steamboat to Granville. To
morrow evening I shall be In Ville-en-bols.
Will you learn the law of France about this
affair'/ They say the code bind* a woman to
follow her husband wherever he goes. At
London you can learn anything. Believe me,
I will protect mam'zelle, or I should say
madame, at tho loss of my llfo. Write to me
as soon as you recetvo this. There will bo
an Inn at Ville-en-bois; dlreot to mo there.
Take courage, monsieur. Your devoted
Tardif.
“I must go!” I exclaimed, starting to
my feet, about to rush out of the house.
“ Whero ?” cried Jaok, catching my
arm between both his hands hold
ing me fast.
“To Olivia,” I answered; “that vil
lain, that scoundrel has hunted her out
in Normandy. Bead that. Jack. Let
me go.”
“Btay!” he said; “there’s no ohance
whatever of going so late as this; it is
after twelve o’clock. Let us think for
a few minutes, and look at Bradshaw."
But at that moment a furious peal of
the bell rang through the house. We
both ran into the hall.
The servant had just opened the
•door, and a telegraph clerk stood on the
steps with a telegram, which he thrust
into his hands. It was directed to me.
I tore it open. “From Jean Grimont,
Granville, to Doctor Dobree, Brook
street, London.” I did not know any
Jean Grimont, of Granville; it was
the name of a stranger to me. A mes
sage was written underneath in Nor
man patois, bnt so misspelt and gar
bled in its transmission that I could not
make out the sense of it. The only
words I was sure about were “mam’-
Jielle,” “Foster,” “Tardif,” and “a
Vagonie.” Who was on the point ol
death I could not tell
Part 3.
CHAPTER L
OLIVIA*B JUSTIFICATION.
I know that in the eyes of the world
I was guilty of a great fault—a fault so
frave that society condemns it bitterly.
low shall I justify myself before those
who believe a woman owes her whole
self to her husband, whatever his con
duetto her maybe? That is impos
sible. To them I merely plead
“Guilty,” and say nothing of extenu
ating circumstances.
But there are others who will listen,
and be sorry for me. There are women
like Johanna Carey, who will pity mo.
and lay the blame where it ought to lie
I was little more than seventeen whet
I was married; as mere a child as any
simple, innocent girl of seventeen
among you. I knew nothing of whai
life was, or what possibilities of happi
ness or misery it contained. I married
to get away from a home which had
been happy, but which bad become
miserable. This was how it was.
My own mother died when I was tot
young a child to feel her loss. Fot
many years after that my father and ]
lived alone together on one of the
great sheep farms of Adelaide, which
belonged to him, and where he made
all the fortune that he left me. Avery
happy life, very free, with no trammels
of society and no fetters of custom; a
simple rustic life, which gave me no
preparation for the years that came
after it.
When I was thirteen my father mar
ried again—for my sake, and mine only.
I knew afterward that he was already
foreseeing his death, and feared t<
leave me alone in the colony. He
thought his second wire would be
mother to me at the age when I most
needed one. He died two years after,
leaving me to her care. He died mor
peacefully tliau he oould have done,
because of that. This he said to m
the very last day of his life. Ahl 1
trust the dead do not know the
troubles that come to the living. It
would have troubled my father—nay,
it would have been anguish to him, evon
in heaven itself—if he oould have seen
my life after he was gone. It is no ns
talking or thinking about it. Aftei
two wretched years I was only too glad
to bo married, and got away from the
woman who owed almost the duty of a
mother to mo.
Kirlmrd l’lietor wm a nephew of m\
etepmothcr, the only man I wm allowed
to ace. He wm nearly twice my age,
lint he hail plcannnt maunera, and a
•mo- tb, smooth tongue, i believed ha
love 1 me, he awora so often and co
<iarimtly, ami 1 wm tudlv in need . f
love. 1 wanted aoine one to tnkerit-n
of me, uud oomfort wu. M uiv faih r
. ,e> in
ao . I l MU Mowu
Hu ef w i nor 1 waa l
Hi , !or w 11, that 1 fell ,
#i ‘ mrd I osu f wind) he a...
Jm w ■ lin'd to co ma in
I*l i' if, ’nd i7 H * , wi‘>fher ••
ana untried on our marriage and I did
not know what I was doing. The true
f*®* who had charge of my property
laft me to the care of my father's
widow. That was how I came to marry
him when I wee only a girl of seven
teen, with no knowledge of f* t world
but what I had learned on my father’s
sheep-rtu.
It was a horrible, shameful thing, if
you will only think of it. There was
1. an ignorant, nnconscions, bewildered
girl, with the film of childhood over my
eyes still; and there was he, a crafty,
unprincipled, double-tongued adven
turer, who was in love with my for
tune, not with me. As quiekly as he
could carry me off from my home and
return to his own haunts in Europe, he
brought me away from the oolony,
where all whom I could ever call
friends were living. I was utterly
alone with him—at his mercy. There
was not an ear that I could whisper a
complaint to; not one face that would
look at me in pity and compassion. My
father had been a good man, single
hearted, high-minded, and chivalrous.
This man laughed at all honor and con
science scornfnliy.
I cannot tell yon the shock and sor
row of it. I had not known there were
such places and such people in the
world, until I was thrust suddenly into
the midst of them; innocent at first,
like the child I was, but the film soon
passed away from my eyes. I grew to
loathe myself as well as him. How
would an aDgel feel who was forced to
go down to hell and become like the
lost creatures there, remembering all
the time the undefiled heaven ho was
banished from ? I was no angel, but I
had been a simple, unsullied, clear
minded girl, and 1 found myself linked
in association with men and women
such as frequent the gambling-places
on the Continent For we lived upon
the Continent, going from one gam
bling-place to another. How was a girl
like me to possess her own soul, and
keep it pure, when it belonged to a
man like Kichard Foster ?
There was one more injury and deg
radation for me to suffer. I recollect
the first moment I saw the woman who
wrought me so much misery afterward.
We were staying in Homburg for a few
weeks at a hotel, and she was seated at
a little table in a window, not far from
where we were sitting. A handsome,
bold-looking, arrogant woman. They
had known one another years before, it
seemed. He said she was his cousin.
He left me to go and speak to hor, and
I watched them, though I did not know
then that anything more would come of
it than a casual acquaintance. I saw
his faco grow animated, and his eyes
look into hers with an expression that
stirred something like jealousy within
me, if jealousy can exist without love.
When he returned to me, he told me
he had invited her to join ns as my
companion. She came to ns that
evening.
She never left ns after that. I was
too young, he said, to be left alone in
foreign towns while he was attending
to his business, and his cousin would
be tho most suitable person to take
care of me. I hated the woman in
stinctively. She was civil to me just
at first, but soon there was open war
between ns, at which he laughed only,
finding amusement for himself in my
fruitless efforts to get rid of her. After
a while I discovered it could only be by
setting myself free from him.
Now, judge me. Tell me what I was
bound to do. Three voices I hear speak.
One says, “You, a poor, hasty girl,
very weak, yet innocont, ought to have
remained in the alough, losing day by
day your purity, your worth, your no
bleness, till you grew like your com
panions. You had vowed ignorantly,
with a profound ignoranoe, it might
be, to obey and honor this man till
death parted you. You had no right
to break that vow.”
Another says, “You should have made
of yourself a spy; you should have
laid traps;'you should have gathered
up every scrap of evidence you could
find against them, that might have freed
you in a court of law.”
A third says, “It was right for you,
for the health of your soul, and the
deliverance of your whole self from an
intolerable bondage, to break the ig
norantly taken vow and take refuge in
flight. No soul can be bound irrevo
cably to another for its own hart and
ruin.”
I listened then, as I should listen
now, to the third voice. The chance
came to me just before I was one-and
twenty. They were bent noon extort
>ng from me tnat portion of my fath
er’s property whioh would come to me.
and be solely in my own power, when 1
came of age. It had been settled upon
me in such a way that, if I were mar
ried, my husband could not touch il
without my consent.
I mnst make this quite clear. One
third of my fortune was so settled that
I myself could not take any portion of
it save the interest; but the other two
thirds was absolutely mine, whether I
was married or single. By locking up
one-third my father had sought to pro
vide against the possibility of my ever
being reduced to poverty. Tho rest
was my own, to keep if 1 pleased, to
give up to my husband if I pleased.
At first they tried what fair words
and flattery would do with me. Then
they changed their tactices. They
brought me over to London, where not
a creature knew me. They made me a
prisoner in dull, dreary rooms, where
I had no employment and no resources.
That is, the woman did it My hus
band, after settling us in a house in
London, disappeared, and I saw no
more of him. I know now he wished
to keep himself irresponsible for my
imprisonment She would have been
the scapegoat had any difficulties aris
en. He was unxious to retain all his
rights over me.
I can see how subtle he was. ThougL
my life was a daily torture, there was
positively nothing I could put into
words against him—nothing that would
have authorized me to seek a legal sep
aration. I did not know anything of
the laws; how should I? except the
fact which he dinned into my ears, that
ho could compel me to live with him.
But 1 know uow that the host friends
in the world could not have saved me
from him in any other way than the
one I took. He kept within the letter
of the law. Ho forfeited no atom at
hie claim upon me.
Then (Sod took me by the hand, an.
led mo into a peaceful and untroubled
refuge, until I had gathered strength
•guiu.
CHAPTER 11.
oe THC WIND AHA IN.
flow should | see that Doctor Mar
ro wr* fulling in love with me?
u| to it; atiuugely blind those
■hi Will think wnoaar a woman
'i' ti u n.an loves her.
il that all my lif.i was shut
ildboc.l, tUt’Tuuver rIST
• '** ** b m I w.. • young
... MwlfWt
GEORGIA HOME JOURNAL: GREENESBORO. FRIDAY. OCTOBER 15 1586.-EIGHT PAGES.
were lie once eat tree Irom Uu engage
ment to his cousin Julia.
I had not looked for any trouble of
that kind. Hs had l>een as kind to me
as any brother could hsve been—kind,
and chivalrous, and considerate. The
first time I saw him I waa weak and
worn ont with great pain, and my mind
seemed wandering. His face came sud
denly and distinctly before me; a
pleasant face, though neither handsome
nor regular in features. It possessed
great vivacity and movement, changing
readily, and always full of expression.
He looked at me so earnestly and com
passionately, his dark eyes seeming to
search for the pain I was suffering,
that I felt perfect confidence in him at
once. I was vaguely conscious of his
close attendance and unremitting care
during the whole week that I lay iIL
All this placed ns on very pleasant
terms of familiarity and friendship.
How grieved I was when this friend
ship came to an end—when he con
fessed his unfortunate love to me—it is
impossible for me to say. Such a
thought had never crossed my mind.
Not until I saw the expression on hia
face when he called to ua from the
shore to waft for him, and waded
eagerly through the water to ns, and
held my hands fast as I helped him into
me Doat —not tin then aid 1 suspect toe
secret. Poor Martin I
Then- there came the moment when 1
was compelled to say to him, “I waa
married four years ago, and my hus
band is still living”—a very bitter mo
ment to me; perhaps more bitter than
to him. I knew we must see one an
other no more; and I, who was so poor
in friends, lost the dearest of them by
those words. That was a great shock
to me.
But the next day camo the second
shock of meeting Kate Daltrey, my
husband’s half-sister. Martin had told
me there was a person in Guernsey
who had traced my flight so far; but
in my trouble and sorrow for him I had
not thought much of this intelligence.
I saw in an instant that I had lost all
again—my safety, my home, my new
friends. I must flee once more, alone
and unaided, leaving no trace behind
me. When old Mother Itenouf, whom
Tardif had set to watch me for very
fear of this mischance, had led me away
from Kate Daltrey to tho cottage, I
sought out Tardif at once.
He was down at the water’s edge,
mending his boat. He heard my foot
steps among the pebbles, and turned
round to greet me with one of his grave
smiles, which had never failed me when
ever I went to him.
“Mam’zello is triste,” he said; “is
there anything I can do for you?”
“I must go away from here, Tardif,”
I answered, with a choking voice.
A change swept quickly across his
face, but he passed his hand for a mo
ment over it, and then regarded me
again with his grave smile.
“For what reason, mam’zelle,” he
asked.
“Oh! I must tell you everything I* I
cried.
“Tell me everything,” he repeated;
“it shall be buried here, in my heart,
as if it was buried in the depths of the
sea. I will try not to think of it, even,
if you bid me. lam your friend as
well as your servant.”
Then, leaning against his boat, for I
could not control my trembling, I told
film nearly all about my wretched lue
from which God had delivered me,
leading me to him for shelter and com
fort. He listened, with his eyes cast
down, never once raising them to my
face, and in perfect silence, except that
once or twice he groaned within him*
■elf, and clenched his hands together.
I know that I could never have told my
history to any other man us I told it to
him, a homely peasant and fisherman,
hut with as noble and gcutlo a heart af
ever beat.
(TO 118 CONTINUED. I
The Patriarch or Cape Cod.
“One of the oddeet fellows I ever met
in my travels was in the town of ,
in Cape Cod," said a Massachusetts
“drummer” the other night at the Hoff,
mun House. “Every Now England vil
litge has its odd genius, but this one sur
plus cd all competition. He was called
‘l.ncle Abe,’ and he was the station
master. baggage-master, telegraph oper
ator, express agent, and general factotum.
Having been born in this place, and lived
in it his four-score years and ten, his
knowledge of the people and their ante
cedents was uncompromisingly familiar.
I y the introduction of the telegraph he
wa* put in possession of a means of en
larging his private fund of information,
which gave him a great advantage. He
had great respc< t for the telegraph and
would not have it m;sused. I happened
to be at the station one day when a lot
of pretty girls visiting the place came to
him and wanted to send a te'egrnm to
New London to learn the result of the
race between Harvard and Yale.
“ ‘No such blanked nonsense will ye
be sending over my wires,’ said the old
man, locking up his office and telling
them to be o.f, with no respect to per
son.
*'l naturally made some inquiries about
the old fellow. On another occasion he
had a message to be sent to Bister Mar
g iret, a member of a religious order in
some Massachusetts city, who was sum
moned to take care of a sick relative.
Unc!e Abe eyed the address, and solilo
quized as follows:
“ ‘Sister Margaret. Now, if that don’t
beat all! What won’t folks do when
they is in trouble! Sister Mnrgaretl
Why they hev writ the directions with
out any hind name. Now, Mr. Jones,
he ham t no sister Margaret. Must be
Mrs. Jones’s sister; she was a Smith ’
he directed the letter accordingly,
without consulting a ly one, to Miss Mar
garet Smith. No answer was received.
‘‘Once a dispatch came announcing
the death of a person ho had never heard
of, a relative of someone living in the
iown whose family he thought he knew
ell about. He car.ied the message him
self. bit instead of delivering it at once
began in this way;
“ ‘Who is there in your family by the
naive of ncksoi? llov yo get anybody
by that naiaef'
“ ‘ies,’ was Ihe reply.
“ ‘Must be h cousin, I guess?”
“‘Yes.’
“ ‘H al, did Ja ie—marry a Jackson?’
“ ‘Yes.’
“ ‘\Val. one of them Jacksons is dead ■
you can read what it siys,’ handing over
the message.*’—A’zie Ti rlc Tribune.
NOT A PARTISAN.
“Isn’t lie beautiful ?" unirl the wife ol
Ihe politician, a* she dandled her baby
buy, wbo smileii and kicked every Unit
•he threw hiiu up.
“lie is," answered the proud father,
•s ho watched tho pUv of tlio little feel,
“hut Cm afraui ho will never bo • good
"Why not?’’
“lie.uv bo's • kicker."
Il b tlives linHilo lUiugs that cast •
gloom over tho tmjipiost famine*."—
DR. TALMAGE’S SERMON.
“TWO YOUNG 111 WHO CAKE
TO LIVE IE THE CITY.”
TSxti “Ponder the path of thy feet”—Prov
erbs |v., 96.
f* was Monday, September tO, at a country
depot. Two young men are to lake the car*
to the city. Father brought them in a wa;on
with two trunka. Ihe evening before at tbs
old home was rather a sad time. The ne.gh
bor haul gathered in to say good bye. In
deed, all the Sunday afternoon there had
been m strolling that way from adjoining
farms for it was generally known that the
two boys the next morning woe going to the
city to live and the whole neighborhood was
interested, some hoping they would do well
and others, without saying anything, hoping
fen- them a city failure. Bitting on the fence
talking over the matter, the neighbors would
interlard their conversation about the wheat
crop of last summer and the apple crop yet to
be gathered with remarks about the city pros
pects of Edward and Nicholas, for these
were the names of the two young men; Ed-
Nard, seventeen, and Nicho as, nineteen, but
Edward, although Kvo years younger, being
quicker to learn, knew as much as Nicholas.
They were both brown-faced and hearty and
bad gone through all the curriculum of coun
try sports by which muscle is developed and
the chest filled out
Father and mother on Monday morning
had both resolved to go to the depot with the
lioys, but the mother at the last moment
backed out, and she said that somehow she
felt quite weak that morning, and had no
appetite for a day or two, and so concluded
to say good-bye at the front door of the old
place. Where she went an 1 what she did
after the wagon left I leave other mothers to
guess. The breakfast things stood almost
till noon before they were cleared awav. But
little was said on the way to the railroad sta
tion. As the locomotive whistle was heard
coming around the curve the fatbor put out
his hand, somewhat knotted at the knuckles
and one of the joints stiffened years ago by
a wound from a scythe, and said: “Good-bye
Edward, good-bye, Nicholas! Take good
care of yourselves and write as soon as you
get theie and let us know how they treat you.
Your mother will lie anxious to hear.”
Landed in the c.ty they sought out with
cons.deiable inquiry of policemen on street
corners and questioning of car-drivers tho
two commercial establishments to which they
were destined, so far apart that thereafter
they seldom saw each other, for it is aston
ishing how far apart two persons cau lie in
a large city, especially if their habits are
different. Practically a hundred miles from
Bowling Green to Canal street or from At
lantic avenue to Fulton.
Edward, b?ing the youngest, we must look
after him first; He never was in so large a
store in all his life. Fu h interminable
shelves, such skillful imitation of real men
and women to display goods on. such agility
of cash boys, such immense st ock of goods
and a whole community of employes. His
bead is confused as hs seem3 dropped like a
pebble in the gri at ocean of business life.
‘Have you seen that greenhorn from the
countryl” whispers young man to young
man. “He is in such and a department. We
will have to break him in some night.” Ed
ward stands at his new place all day so ho ne
sick that any mo cent he could have cried
aloud if his pride had not suppressed every
thing. Here and there a tear he carelessly
dashed off as though it were from influenza
or a cold iu the head. But some of you know
how a young man feels when set down in a
city of strangers thereafter to fight his own
battles and no one near by seeming to care
whether he lives or dies. The centre of a
desert, a mouth’s journey to the first settle
ment, is not mu -h more solitary.
But that evening as the hour for closing
has come, there are two or three young men
who sidle up to Edward,and ask him how he
likes the city,and where he expects to go that
night, and if he would like them to show him
the sights. He thanks them, and says he shall
have to take some evenings for unpacking
and making arrangements, as he has just ar
rived, but rays that after a while he will be
glad to accept their company. After spend
ing two or three evenings in his boarding
house room, walking up and down, looking
at the bare wall or an old chromo hung there
at the time that religious newspapers, by such
prizes advanced their subscription lists, and
alter toying an hour with the match box,and
ever and anon examining his watch to see if
it is time to retire, and it seems that ten
o’clock at night, or even nine o’clock, will
never come, he resolves thereafter to accept
the chaperoning of his new friends at the
store.
Soon the night comes when they are all
out together. Although his salary is not
large he is quite flush with pocket money
which the old folks gave him after saving up
for some time. He cannot be mean and these
friends are doing all this for his pleasure and
■o he pays the bills. At the door of places
of amusement his companions cannot find the
change, or they accidentally fall behind just
as the ticket office is approached, or they say
they will make it all right and will them
selves pay the next time. Edward, accus
tomed to farm life or village life, is dazed
and enchanted with the glitter of spectacular
sin. Plain and blunt iniquity Edward would
have immediately repulsed, but sin accom
panied by bewitching orchestra, sin amid
gilded pillars and gorgeous upholstary, sin
arrayed in all the attractions that the powers
of darkness In combination can arrange to
magnetize a young man, is very different
from sin in its loathsome and disgusting
shape.
But after a few Dights, being very late out,
he says : “ I must stop, my purse won’t stand
this. My health won't stand this. My repu
tation won't stand this” Indeed one of the
business firm one night from his private box,
in which he applauded a play in which atti
tudes and phraseology occurred which, if
taken or uttered in n s own parlor, would
have caused bim to shoot or stab the actor on
the spot,—from this high-priced box see i in
a cheaper place the new clerk of his store,
and is led to ask questions about bis habits
and wonders how, on the salary the house
pays him, he can do as he does. Edward, to
recover his physical vigor and his finances,
stops a while and spends a few more even
ings examining the chromos on the wall and
counting the matches in the match box, or
nies down in the boarding-house parlor to
near the gossip about the other boarders or a
discourse on the insufficiency of the table
fare, considering the pri e paid—the criti
cism severe in proportion as the fault-finder
pays little or is resolved to leave unceremoni
ously and pay nothing at all.
“Confound it?” cries the young man, “I
cannot stand this life any longer, and I must
go out and see the world'. ” The same young
men and others of a now larger a quaintance
are ready to escort him. There is never any
lack of such guidance. If a man wants to
go the whole round of sin he can find plenty
to take him, a whole regiment who know the
way. But after awhile Edward’s money is
all gone. He has received his salary again
and again, but it was spent before he got it,
borrowing a little here and a little there
What shall he do now? Why. he has seen in
his rounds of the gambling tables men who
put down a dollar and took up ten, put down
a hundred and took up a thousand. Why
not he? To re onstruct his finances he takes
a hand und wins; is so pleased be takes an
other hand and wins, is inphrenzy of delight
and takes another hand and loses all.
When he first came to this city Edward
was disposed to keep Sunday in quietness,
n a ling a little ami going occasionally to
hear a sermon. Now, Sunday is a day of
i arousal. He i< so full of into licaots by 11
o'clock iu the day he tagge-s on tho street
some morning, Edwa and. his breath steuch
ful with rum, take his idace in the store. He
i< not tit to lie there. He is listhss or si 11 v
cr in pertinent or in some way incomi et ut
and a messenger <ouies to him and says:
“The firm de.-iros to are you iu the private
office.”
The gentleman in the private oTico says:
“I dward, we will not nee 1 you any in ue.
Weown you a litt e m i lev for services since
we ad you last nu 1 tore it is."
“Wliat is the matter?” says the v<<ung
man. ‘T lautiot uu ierstand this. Have]
done any tiling?”
•sue reply ia : "We do not wish any wont*
with you. Uur engagement with each other
U ended.”
“Out of em’doyment!" What does that
mean to a go,*l young man? It means an
opportunity to gut another and pe hui a
better place. ]t means opportunity for men
(*1 improvement and pre|*aratiou for higher
work. “Out of employment!” What does
that mean to a dissipated young maul It
Mean* a lightning etpreas train "U a down
gtaleuu the (baud Trunk to I'ordiUon Al
U irak was a wiuged bone os which Un
liouiet preteu le I to have ridden by night
from Mee * to Jerusalem, aud from Jcruai
leu to the seventh heaven w.tb sub a; ad j
•*“* "•*. ’* !• was as .ar os the ey • could
I*l4 11. A yoiiMl HIM 14 I* ill of tMlllilo Vit tool i
Miroilgh hi* <!i m J *ib*| !, n *|
It is now onlr fly* years sines Rdwa-U
ew it to town. H uiii to writs borne ones
a we-k at tbs longest H-i has not wnt.rn
horns for thres months. ** A hat c>n be ths
Brnttorf* asr ton oH psonle st home One
Saturday morning ths fsth -r puts on tbs test
fr srel of his wardrobe sud go-s to the city
to find out
“Oh, be has not be i here for a long
while,” say* the gentle-nan of tbs firm
Your son, I am torry to say, is ou the
wrung trs-k.”
The ol 1 father goe3 bun' ing hi m from place
to place and comer suddenly up >n him that
night m a place of abandonraeut The father
says: "My son, come with mo Your mother
hsi rent me t > bring yoj home. I bear you
•re outof money and good clothe < and you
know as long as we Ive you can haves
home. •‘Come right away!” he rays, put
ting his head on the young man's shoulder
Iu angry tone Edwa-a replies: “Take
your bands off me! Yoi mind your own
business. I will do as I please. Take your
bands off of me or I will strike you down!
Y ou go your way and I w.ll go mine.”
That Saturday night or rather Sunday
morning—for it is by this 1 i-ne two o'clock in
the moraiog, the father goes tothecitv horn
of his son Nicholas, and rings the ball and
rings again and again, and it seems as if no
answer would be given, but after a while a
window is hoists! and a voice cries:
"Who’sthere I"
“It is me,” says the old man.
“Why, father, is that you ?’
In a minute the door is opened and the son
says;
“What in the world has brought you to
the city this hour of the night ?'
“Oh. Edward has brought me here. I feared
your mother would go stark crazy not near
ing from him, and I find out that it is worse
with him than I suspected.”
“Ye,” says Nicholas, “I ha l not the heart
to write you anything about it I have tried
my best with him and all in vain. But It is'
after two o'cl ck,” says Nicholas to his
father, “and I will take you to a be 1.”
On a comfortable couch in that house the
old father lies down, coaxing sleep for a few
hours, but no sleep conies. Who house is
it! One rented by hs son, Nicholas. The
fact is ttat Nicholas soon after coming to
the city became ind'spensable in the com
mercial establishment where he was pla -ed.
He knew, what few persons know, that whi'e
in all departments of business and mechan
ism and art there is a surplus of people of
ordinary application and ordinary diligence,
there is a great scarcity and always has been
a great scarcity of people who excel. Plenty
of people to do things poorly or tolerably
well, but very few clerks or business men or
me/hanics who can do splendidly well. An
prccating this, Nicholas had res lived to do
bo grandly that the business firm could not
do without him. Always at his place before
the time he was re mired to come. Always
at his place a litt'.e after everybody had gone.
As extremely polite to th se who de lin'd
purchasing as to those who mado large pur
chases. He drank no wine, for he saw it
was the empoisonm.mt of multitudes, and
when any one asked him to take something
hs said “No,” with the peculiar intonation
that meant no. His conversation was always
as pure as if his sister had been listening.
He went to no place of amusement where he
would be ashamed to die. He never bet or
gambled, even at a church fair. When he
was at the boarding house after ho got all
the artistic development he could possibly
receive from the efiromo3 on the wall he be
gan to study that which would help him to
promotion; study penmanship, study biog
raphies of successful men, or went forth to
S laces of innocent amusement and to Young
ieu’s Christian Associations, and was not
ashamed to ha found at a church prayer
meeting. He rose from position to position
and from one salary to another salary.
On!y five years In town and yet he hai
rented his own house or a suit of rooms, not
very large, but a home large enough in its
hap. ’i ness to be a type of heaven. Iu the
morning as the oid father with handkerchief
in hand comes crying down stairs to the table,
there are four persons, one for each side; the
young man, and opposite to him the best
blessing that a God of infinite goodness can
bestow, namely, a good wits, and on anothei
side the high chair filled with dimpled and
rollicking glee that makes the grandfather
opposite smile outside while he has a broken
heart within.
Well, as I said, it was Sabbath and Nich
olas and his father knowing that there is no
place so appropriate for a troubled soul as
the house of God, find their way to church.
It is communion day, and what is the old
mans surprise to see his son pass down the
aisle with one of the silver chalices, showing
him to be a church offl dal. Tne fact was
that Nicholas from the start in city life hon
ored God and God had honored him. When
the first wave of city temptation struck him
he had felt the need of Divine guidance and
Divine protection and in prayer had sought
a regenerated heart, and had obtained that
mightiest of all armor, that mightiest of all
protection, that mightiest of all reinforce
ments, the multipotentandomnipotont grace
of God, and you might as well throw thistle
down azaiust Gibraltar, expecting to destroy
it, as with all the combined temp‘a‘ions of
earth and hell try to overthrow a young man
who can truthfully say: “God is my refuge
and strength.”
Come, let us measure Nicholas around the
head. As many inches of brain as any other
intelligent man. Let us measure him
around the heart. It is so large it takes in
all the earth and all the heavens. Measure
him around the purse. He has more re
sources than nine-tenths of any of those who,
ou that Monday, September 20, came in on
any of the railroads from North, or South,
or East, or West.
But that Sabbath afternoon, while in the
room, Nicholas and his father are talk
ing over anew plan for the reclamation of
Edward, there is a ringing of the door bell,
and a man with a uniform of a policeman
stands there, and with some embarrassment
and some halting, and in a roundabout way
says that in a fight in some low haunt of the
city Edward has been hurt He save to
Nicholas; “I heard that he was some rela
tion of yours aud thought you ought to know
it.”
“Hurt? Is he badly hurt?”
“Yes, very badly hurt?”
“Is the wound mortal?”
“Yes; it is mortal To tell you the whole
truth, sir,” says the policeman, “although I
can hardly bear to tell you, he is dead.”
“Dead!” cries Nicholas. And by this time
the whole family are in the hallway. The
father says: “Just as I feared. It will kill
his mother when she hears of it. Oh, my sod,
my son! Wouid to God I had died for thzc.
Oh, my son, my son!"
“Wash off the wounds,” says Nicholas,
“and bring him right here to my house and
let there be all respect and gentleness shown
him. It is the last we can do for him."
Oh, what obsequies ! The next door neigh
bors hardly knew what was going on, but
Nicholas and ihe father and mother knew.
Out of the Christian and beautiful home of
the one brother is carried the dissolute
brother. No word of blame uttereu. No
harsh thing said. On the bank of camellias
is spelled out the word “Brother.” Had
the prodigal been true and pure and noble iu
li e and honorable in death, he could not
have been carried forth with more tender
a -as, or slept iu a 1110. 0 .1. .11 , . l u or
thedead. Amid the loosened t irf the brothers
who left the country for city life five years
before now part forever. The last scene of
the fifth act of an awful tragedy of human
life is ended.
What made the difference between these
two young men ? Religion. The one de
pended ou hiin-elf, ths other deluded ou
God. They started from the sam s home, had
tue same opportunities of education, arrived
in the city on the same day and if there was
any difference Edward had the advantage,
for he was brighter and quicker and a 1 the
neighbors prophesied gren er s i-cess for hiiu
than for Nicholas. But ceuol I and w mder
at the tremendous issue, v'oi o. comeuo
out of this audience and say : Did you know
these brothers ? Yes, knew thsm wall. Did
vnu kuow their parents / Yes, intimat ly.
Wnat was the city, what the street, what the
last names of these young men. You have
ex *ite 1 our curiosity, now tell us all.
I will. N thing in these fUara ters is fl-'tl-
Dons except the names. They are in every
city aud iu every street of every city and iu
every cemetery. Not two of them but ten
thousand. Aye, aye! Right before me to
day and on eitb >r side of me and above me
they sit an I stand, the invulnerable th ough
re.igious defence aud tho blasted of city at- ;
hi cements. Those who shall have lon e ity
in h-autiful homes aud others who shall have
•' ti'ly ffiivm of infamy. An 1I am lure t>
day in the Dame of Almighty 0 4 to give
you the ckoi e of two c!D* 'aoten, tfa. iwo
ul4 'Him, ibe two .ixperionmka. tUe tvo doiti
ui *e, the two worliU. the tw i etmi li it
Hia 'ding with you at Ihe or m o the r wl
■om-'ili iu ma iee me think (ha i t-tey|
e't lief re the '<# mle the term nf if the i w>i
roa la they w llall of ih meinlh > r ht ...
Th -re am lieforH no u til • hou ... an i m tit *
iu iei Ih audie cm i<a kofin • -In |mi -i|
i o In. ’Hue on y ;ien u every w> ill
tun ty tn ad lr>Mi u.* no it# m nil t e
town* Old Itiee of liiirikeilin t| 1 hi. iu
the inihln and mvi*'bl# a i lieu * |j I ar#
many who tiara itnt fui y male u - thlr
ml nil an nli ion 1 1 . take 'H-Viim *w th .hi"
cry • It-S* voice* of right* .new. “Cun*
w.th u:’ cry *ll tli* voice* of sift.
Now Um tronb* to that ma-iy mV:
dugraretul >u premier. At we *ll know,
tbr* to boil >r*b: an I <lijnt HI s ir
render. a* when ft >o*ll bn4 yto'dl
to superior number*. It to do hu
miliation for a thousand men to yield to
t* i thousand. It 1< bet * - than to keep on
when there cau be no result except
that of mawacre. lint th <s who surreuder
to sin make a surrender whan on their side
they hare enough reserve forces to rout all
the armies of perdition whether lei on br
what a demon xgrapher calls Belial or Bee:-
rebub or Apollyon or Ahadd m or Ariel. Th*
disgraceful thi ig about the surrender at
8 dan was that th < Fien h handed over 413
field gum and mitrailleuses, six thousand
horses and eighty-threo th >usand armed men.
And it to base for that man to surrender to
sin when all the armaments of Almigbti
new would have wheeled to the front to fight
his battle if he ha 1 waved one earnest signal.
But no! he surrendered body, mind, soul,
reputation, home, pedigree, time and eter
nity, while yet all the prayers of his Christian
an -estors were on his side aud all the prof
ered aid, supernal, cherubic, seraphic, arch
angelic, deific.
We have talked so much th? last few wee'rs
about the abdication of Alexander, of Bul
garia, but what a naltry throne was that
which the unhappy King descea led com ared
with the abdication of that young man or
middle-aged man or old man who quit, the
throne of his opportunity and turns his back
upon a heavenly throne and tra nps oST into
ignominy and everlasting exile. That is an
abdication enough to shock a universe. In
Persia they will not have a blind mau on tue
throne, and when a reigning monarch is jeal
ous of some ambitious relative ho ha; his
eyes extinguished so that he cannot possibly
ever cooie to crowning. And that su-ges.s
the difTeren~e between tiie way sin and di
vine grace takes hold of a man. Toe former
blinds him so he may never reach a t iroao,
while the latter illumines the blind that he
mav take coronation.
Why this sermon? I have made up my
mind thatourcitylife is destroying too many
young men. There comes in, every Septem
ber and October, a large influx of "those be
tween sixteen and twenty-four years of age.
and New York aud Brooklyn damn at least
a thousand of the n every year. They are
shoveled ofT and down with no more com
punction than that with whi h a coal heaver
scoops the authrac'te inti a dark cellar.
What with the wine-cup aud the guilder's
dice and the scarlet enchantress, no young
man without tho grace of God is safe ten
minutes.
There is much discussion about which is
the worst city of the continent. Some
say New York, some say New Orleans,
some say Chi -ago. some say St Louis. What
I have to say ii you canuct make much com
parison between the indniti >s and in nil our
cities the temptation seem; infinite. We keep
a great many mills running day and night
Not rice mills nor cotton mIU Not mills of
corn or wheat, bit mills for grinding up
men. Such are all the grog-shops, licensed
or unlicensed. Such are all the gambling
saloons. Such are all the houses of infamy,
and wo do the work a cording to law an 1 we
turn out anew grist every hour, and grind
up warm hearts and clear heads, and the
earth about a cider mill is not more satu
rated with the beverage than the ground
about all theie soul destroying institutions is
saturate 1 with the blood of victims. We say to
Long Island neighborhoods an 1 villages:
“Send us more su inly,” and to Westchester
and Ulster and all the other counties of New
York: “Send us more men and womento put
under the wheels. Give us full chance and
we could grind up in the municipal mill five
hundred a day. We have enough machinery;
we have enough men who can run them.
Give us more homes to crush! Give us more
£ a rental hearts to pulverise! Put into the
opper the wardrobes and the family Bibles
and th 9 livelihood of wives aud children.
Give us more material for these mighty mills
which are wet with tears and sul ihurous
with woe and trembling with the earthquakes
of an incensed God who will, unless our cities
repent, cover us up as quick and as deep as
in August of the year 79 Vesuvius avalanched
Herculaneum.
Oh, man or woman, ponder the path of thy
feet! See which way you are going. Will
you have the distipv of Edward or Nicho
las? On this sacramental day when the
burnished chali 'es stand in the presence of
the people, start from the foot of the cross
for usefulness and heaven. Plutarch tells us
that after C esar was slain and his twenty
three wounds had been disp'ayed to the peo
ple, arousing an uncontrollable excitement,
and the body of tho dead conqueror, a -cord
ing to ancient custom, had been pit upon the
funeral pile and the flames arose.people rushed
up. took from the blueing mass torches with
which they ran through the city, crying
the glory of the assassinated and the
shame of his assassinators. On this
sacramental day when the five bleeding
woun Is of Christ, your King, are shown to
you and the fires of his earthly suffering
blaze before your imagination, each one of
you take a tor h aud start heavenward, a
torch with light for yourself and light for
others, for the race that starts at the cross
ends at the throne. While the twenty-three
wounds of Caesar wrought nothing but the
consternation of the people, from the five
wounds of our Conqueror there Hows a
transforming power to make all the un
counted millions who will accept it forever
happy and *ww** fr-A-
Xlio Aspamgus uea.
To the inquiry of a subscriber as to
the autumn treatment of the aspar gus
bed the Massachusetts re
plies: “Asparagus grows best on alight,
sandy loam; it was formerly believed
that this vegetable could only be grown
to perfection on a moist, heavy soil; but
many experiments have proved that this
is a mistake, and it is now very gener
ally conceded that this plant not only
does not do any better by being covered
every year with a dressing of alt, but
that the salt is an injury instead of a
benefit, if the stalks are cut down and
removed in the autumn, it sho.ild be
after being killed by frost, and the bed
should bo immediately covered with a
very liberal dressing of stable manure;
but our experience is that it is best to
cut only the stalks that bear seed
These should be cut out before the seed
begins to drop and carried fiom the
field; then the remaining stalks, before
winter, should be rolled down so as to
lay on the ground, and thus prevent the
surface from being blown any by tho
heavy winds in the dry days of autumn
and winter. It is inijiortant that the
seed should be removed, because, if left
on the ground, the young asparagus
proves to be a very troublesome weed,
for not one of 'hem should be permitted
to g;ow. Asparagus beds are frequent
ly very much in jured by permitting the
seedlings to grow in such numbers as to
choke out the old roots.”
A Palace Tragedy.
M. Maspero added an incident of a pe
culiarly horrible character to the story of
the unwrapping of royal mummies of
Dcir-el-Bohari. Among them was found
the body of a young man betweeu-twen
ty-five and thirty years of age, bearing
neither nnmc nor inscription of any kind,
which is byitsilf an extraordinary cir
cumstance. Instead of having been em
balmed in the usual way, the body had
merely been dried by some skillful pro
cess, without removing any of the inter
nal organs, and had been covered with a
thick layer of some mixture at once
fatty and caustic. Above all, the atti
tude of the corpse, ita bent legs, its feet
turned against each other, its clenched
hands, the expression of it* Utu —ell
combined to indicate that the unknown
lierson had died in extreme agony. At
first M. Masuero was tempted to sus|>ect
'hat he hail come across a case of the
iiilialmment of a living man —a form of
nurder which it is not difficult to recou
ile with Kgypiian usage. Medical men,
miner, who hail Iwen consulted, were
>i posed rather to recognize the synip
i ho of poisoning In any esse, we ere
iought fin e to fuel' with a palace trag
i', lor a Is*'l l f* U"d among the loynJ
min ire of f"ii and Kahaii nm hardly
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