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THE MONROE ADVERTISER,
PUBLISHED EVERT TUESDAY.
FORSYTH, - - GEORGIA
The Pennsylvania Railroad Company
dses 6,000 tons of coal a day on its vari
ous lines, and is the largest consumer of
•oft coal in the country. It is now ex
perimenting with natural gas as a fuel
for its engines, and proposes, if the plan
Should prove to be feasible, to use gas
on all the engines ruuning into Pitts
burg. __________
The Acting Commissioner of Agricul
ture, in reply to a resolution of the
House making inquiries concerning
stocks of corn and wheat in this and
other countries, the demands of con
sumption, and the prospects of produc
tion throughout the world, has trans
mitted an exhaustive compilation of sta
tistics by the statistician of the Depart
ment of Agriculture. The tables show
that the world's product of wheat in
1885 was 2,110,000,000 bushels, the re
quirements of consumption 2,165,000,-
000 bushels, presenting a deficiency of
55,000,000 bu-hels, drawn from the pre
vious year’s surplus of 125,000,000 bush
els. They find the product of Europe a
medium, those of Tndia and Australia
large, and a heavy icdu< tioa in the
United States. For the supply of the
coming year, the crops of Australia,
India and South America already har
vested are probably about 32,000,000
bushels less than those of last year, while
those of the Tnitcd State? promise fully
100,000,000 bushels more than the harvest
of 1885. The wheat in the United States
on May 1, last, wss 104,000,000 bushels,
against 152,000,000 in 1885. The crop
of (orn in 1885-86 was 1,617,000,000
bushels, the stock 687,000,000 bushels,
and the exportation, 42,000,000 j bushela.
The estimated a< reage of winter wheat
now growing is 24,727,087; spring
wheat, 11,800,000; total, 36,527,087.-
The Stockholder.
________' •
The estate of the Vanderbilt family is
estimated at about $200,.000,000; that of
the Astors at nearly as much, and that
of A. T. Stewart from $70,000,000 to
$75,000,000. Jay Gould's wealth is set
down in round numbers at $100,000,000
and Rockefeller’s at $35,000,000. The
property belonging to the estates of the
rich Californians—Hopkins,Mills, Flood,
Fair, Sharon,O’Brien,Mackay and Hunt
ington—will reach, it is thought, some
$250,000,000 more, making in all $855,-
000,000. Even this enormous sum is not
supposed to equal the combined wealth
of all the members of the Rothchilds.
The richest man in Great Britain is the
Duke of Westminster, whose income is
rated at a guinea (twenty-one shillings)
a minute, or about $2,700,000 a year,
derived almost entirely from real estate
in the mulct of t.nnrlon The late Wil
iam H. Vanderbilt is said to have had
an income at least three times as large.
There arc, however, more Englishmen
than Americans with incomes of $1,000,-
000 or thereabouts. England is prodigi
ously wealthy uis well as extremely poor),
and her wenlth is the accumulation of
hundreds of years, and is growing now
at the rate of $600,000,000 annually,
the net profits of all her industrial and
commercial enterprises. At the present
rate of increase, she will have accumu
lated in twenty five years fifteen thou
sands of millions additional capital. No
wonder interest is low there, and that
her capitalists arc constantly seeking in
vestments throughout civilization. The
accumulation of money, however, has
been even greater in this country, where
the rate of inter? st has diminished in ten
years far more than in any part of Eu
rope.
Elections on the other side arc far les
costly now than in the ante-reform days.
One memorable election in the West
Hiding of 3 orkshire cost Lord Fitz.wil
liam $‘.230,000. and the defeated rival
house of Wortley, Lord Wharncliffe,
SIOO,OOO. Fox's famous election for
Westminster east $1*33,000. The elec
tions in Galway and Mayo, in the west
of Ireland, which lasted over weeks, cost
the contestants generally at least $30,-
000, and in nearly every instance their
estates, loaded with encumbrances thus
contracted, passed out of their families.
The voters, many of them brought from
mountain li mes at long distances from
the seat of the election, had virtually to
tight their way in hordes to the polls.
Ihe candidates, on their part, had usu
ally to tight two or three duels as a nec
cessary accompaniment. On one occasion
the celebrated t'olouel Martin, on being
asked who was likely to win a certain
election, wrote back: ‘'The survivor."
The last of the Martin family,his daugh
ter, died just after landing in ISSO, at
the Union Place (present Morton House)
Hotel. The liquor saloous. styled ou
the other side public houses, instead of
being closed as here on election days,
were all kept open at the candidates' ex
pense. A S pure Fleming, who success
fully opposed Lord Palmerston for
Hampshire, in reply to a long address of
that Minister, got up and said: "Ido
not know anything about the subjects on
which the noble lord has spok n. I only
know that 1 have ordered all the public
houses in Hampshire to be opened, and
they w ill l e kept open at my expense
until the close of the polls." The ballot
was the principal instrument in doing
away with those old lively electioneer
ing times. The expenses are now limited
by law to $3,000 at the outside and in
many c; sc; to lc.-s. and need not exceed
s*23o or $:00. The candidate is obliges
to make returns of the exact amoun .x
--p end el The expenditure of many of
the l.ish M. P.s at the last el etion did
not exceed $230. Mr. Labouchcrc’s re
turn at No t’ amptou w as ouiy $l3O.
pProm th Chicago l.nljrr.
OLIVIA;
OB,
THE DOCTOR’S TWO LOVES.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
" TKt Second Mrs. Tillotson-Never
Forgotten," Etc., Etc.
ICHAPTEK XLll—Continued.']
“No. 19 Bellringer street!” we repeated,
in one breath.
“Yes, gentlemen, that is the address,”
said the clerk, closing the book. “Shall I
write it down for you? Mrs. Wilkinson
was the party who should have paid our
commission; as yon peiceive, a premium
was required instead of a salary given. Wo
feel pretty sure the young lady went to the
school, bat Mrs. Wilkinson denies it, and
it is not worth our while to pursue our
olaim in law. ”
“Can you describe the young ladv?” I in
quired.
“Well, no. We have such hosts of young
ladies here. But she was pretty, decidedly
pretty; she made that impression upon me,
at least. We are too busy to take particu
lar notice, but I should know her again if
she came in. I think she would have been
hfere again before this if she had not got
that engagement.”
‘Do you know where the school is?” I
asked.
“No. Mrs. Wilkinson was the party,” he
aaid. “We had nothing to do with it, ex
cept to send any ladies to her who thought
it worth their while. That was all."
As we could obtain no further informa
tion, we went away, and paced up and
down the tolerably quiet street, deep in
consultation. That we should have need
for great caution, and as much craftiness
aB we both possessed, iu pursuing our in
quiries at No. 19 Bellringer street, was
quite evident. Who could be this unknown
Mrs. Wilkinson? Was it possible that she
might prove to be Mrs. Foster herself? At
any rate it would not do for either of us
to present ourselves there in quest of Miss
Ellen Martineau. It was finally settled be
tween us that Johanna should be intrusted
with the diplomatic enterprise. There was
not much chance that Mrs. Foster would
know her by sight, though she had been in
Guernsey, and it would excite less notice
for a lady to be inquiring after Olivia. We
immediately turned our steps toward Han
over street, where we found her and Julia
seated at some fancy work iu their somber
drawing-room.
Julia received me with a little embarrass
ment, but conquered it sufficiently to give
me a warm pressure of the hand, and to
whisper in my ear that Johanna had told
her everything. Unluckily, Johanna her
self know nothing of our discovery the
night before. I kept Julia’s hand in mine,
and looked steadily into her eyes.
“My dear Julia,” I said, “we bring
strange news. We have reason to believe
that Olivia is not dead, but that something
underhand is going on, which we cannot
yet make out. ”
Julia’s face grew crimson, but I would
not let her draw her hand away from my
clasp. I held it the more firmly, and, as
Jack was busy talking to Johanna, I con
tinued speaking to her in a lowered tone.
“My dear,” I said, “you have been as
true, and faithful, and generous a friend as
any man ever had. But this must not go
on, for your own sake. You fancied you
loved me, because every one about us
wished it to be so; but I cannot let you
waste your life on me. Speak to me ex
actly as your brother. Do you believe you
could be really happy with Captaiu Carey?”
“Arthur is so good,” she murmured, “and
he is so fond of me.”
I had never heard her call him Arthur
before. The elder members of our Guern
sey circle called him by his Christian name,
but to us younger ones he had always been
Cupiatn Cuioy. Jujio’s use of ii was mere
eloquent than many phrases. She had
grown into the habit of calling him fa
miliarly by it.
“Then, Julia,” I said, “whit folly it
womld be for you to sacrifice yourself to a
false notion of faithfulness! I cculd not
accept such a sacrifice. Think no more of
me or my happiness. ”
“But my poor aunt was so anxious for
you to have a home of your own,” she said,
6obbing, “and Ido love you dearly. Now,
you will never marry, I know you will not,
if you cau have neither Olivia nor me for
your wife.”
“Very likely,” I answered, trying to laugh
away her agitation; “I shall be in love with
two married women instead. How shock
ing that will sound in Guernsey! But I’m
not afraid that Captaiu Carey will forbid
me his house. ”
“How little we thought!” exclaimed Julia.
I knew* very well what her mind had gone
back to—the days when she aud I and my
mother were furnishing and settling the
house that would now become Captain Ca
rey’s home.
“Then it is all nettled,” I said, “and 1
shall wiite to him by to-night's post, invit
ing him back again—that is, if he really left
you last night.”
“Yes,” she replied; “he would not stay a
day longer.”
Her face had grown calm as we talked
together. A scarcely perceptible smile was
lurking about her lips, as if she rejoiced
that her suspense was over. There was
something very like a pang in the idea of
another filling the place I had once fully
occupied iu her heart; but the pain was un
worthy of me. I drove it away by throw
ing myself heart and soul into*the'mystery
which hung over the fate of Olivia.
"We have hit upon a splendid plan,” said
Jack. “Miss Carey will take Simmons’cab
to Bellringer street, and reach the house
about the same time as I visit Foster. That
is for me to be at hand if she-should need
any protection, you know. I shall stav up
stairs with Foster till I hear the cab drive
off again, and it will wait for me at the
corner of Dawson street. Then we will
come direct here and tell you everything at
once. Of course Miss Dobree will wish to
hear it all. ”
“Cannot I go with Johanna?” she asked.
“No,” I said hastily; “it is very probable
Mrs. 1 oster knows you by sight, though
she is less likely to know Johanna. I fanev
Mrs. Wilkinson will turn out to be Mrs.
Foster herself. Yet why they should spirit
Olivia away into a French school, and pre
tend that she is dead, I cannot see.”
Nor could any one of the others see the j
reason. But as the morning was fast wan
ing away, and both Jack and I were busy,
we were compelled to close the discussion,
and, with our minds preoccupied to a
frightful extern, make those calls upon our
patients, which were supposed to be in
each case full of anxious and particular
thought for the ailments we were attempt
ing to alleviate.
i pen meeting again for a few minutes at
luncheon we made a slight change in our
plan, for we found a note from Foster
awaiting me, in which he requested me to
visit him in the future, instead of Doctor
John Senior, as he felt more confidence in i
my knowledge of his malady,
CHAPTER XLIIT.
MAKTIN DOBKEK'S PUEDGF.
I followed Simmons' cab up Bellringer
street aud watched Johanna alight and en
ter the house. The door was scarcely closed
upon her when I rang, and asked the slat
ternly drudge of a servant if I could see
Mr. t oster. She asked me to go up to the
parlor on the second floor, and 1 went j
a one, with little expectation of finding
Mrs. Foster there, unless Johanna was
there also, in which case I was to appear as 1
a stranger to her.
The parlor looked poorer and shabbier
by daylight than at night. There was not
a single element of comfort in it. The
*■ rta ' l U ; U J rags a’ out a window be
r mea with soot and smoke. The only
cc.sy m tor j.r.s the one o cupied by Foster, j
1 - looked as shabby and worn as !
•ne ; . _Th e cuSs and collar of hisjshiri j
~*ow a_ nis
long and lank; and his skin had a sallow,
unwholesome tint. The diamond ring up
on his finger was altogether out of keeping
with his threadbare coat, buttoned up to
the chin, as if there were no waistcoat be
neath it. From head to foot he looked a
broken-down, seedy fellow, yet still pre
serving some lingering traces' of the gen
tleman.
This was Olivia's husband'
A good deal to my surprise I saw Mrs.
Foster sitting quietly at a table drawn close
to the window, very busily writing— en
grossing, as I could see, for some misera
ble pittance a page. She must have had
some considerable practice iu the work, for
it was done well, and her pen ran quickly
over the paper. A second chair left empty
°PP2, sue to ner uowea mat rosier iwu
been engaged at the same task before he
heard my step on the stairs. He looked
weary, and I could not help feeling some
thing akin to pity for him. I did not know
that they had come down as low as that.
“I did not expect you before night,” he
said testily. a I like to have some idea
W'hen my medical attendant is coming.”
“I was obliged to come now,” I an
swered, offering no other apology. The
man irritated me more than any other per
son that had ever come across me. There
wag something perverse and splenetic in
every word he uttered and every expression
upon his face.
“I do not like your partner,” he said;
■‘don’t send him again. He knows nothing
about his business.”
He spoke with all the haughtiness of a
millionaire to a country practitioner. I
could hardly refrain from smiling as I
thought of Jack’s disgust and indignation.
“As for that, ” I replied, “most probably
neither of us will visit you again. Doctor
Lowry will return to-morrow, and you will
be in his hands once more.”
“No!" he cried, with a passionate urgency
in his tone; “no, Martin Dobree; yon said
if any man in London could cure me it
was yourself. I canuot leave myself in any
other hands. I demand from you the ful
fillment of your words. If what you said
is true you can no more leave me to the
care of another physician than you could
leave a fellow-creature to drown without
doing your utmost to save him. I refuse to
be given up to Doctor Low ry. ”
“But it is by no means a parallel case,” I
argued; “you were under his treatment be
fore, and I have no reason whatever to
doubt his skill. Why should you feel safer
in my hands than in his?”
“Well!” he said, with a sneer, “if Olivia
were alive 1 dare scarcely have trusted you,
could I? But you have nothing to gain by
my death, you know; and I have so much
faith in you, in year skill, and your hUH\
and your conscientiousness—if there be
any such qualities in the world—that I
place myself unfalteringly under your pro
fessional care. Shake hands upon it, Mar
tin Dobree."
In spite of my repugnance I could not
resist taking his offered hand. His eyes
were fastened upon me with something of
the fabled fascination of a serpent’s. I
knew instinctively that he would have the
power, and use it, of probing every wound
he might suspect in me to the quick. Yet
he interested me; and there was something
about him not entirely repellant to me.
Above all, for Olivia’s sake, should we find
her still living, I was anxious to study his
character. It might happen, as it does
sometimes, that my honor and straightfor
wardness would prove a match for his crafty
shrewdness and cunning.
“There,” he said exultantly, “Martin Do
bree pledges himself to cure me. Carrie,
.rou are the witness of it. If I die he has
been my assassin as surely as if he had
plunged a stiletto into me.”
“Nonsense!” I answered; “it is not in
my power to heal or destroy. I simply
pledge myself to use every means I know
of for your recovery. ”
“Which comes to the same thing,” he re
plied; “for, mark you, I will be the most
careful patient you ever had. There should
be no chance for you even if Olivia were
alive.”
Always harping on that one string! Was
it nothing more than a love of torturing
somo one that made him thone
words? Or did he wish to drive home more
deeply the conviction that she was indeed
dead?
“Have you communicated the intelligence
of her death to her trustee in Australia?” I
{ asked.
No; why should I?" he said; “iio good
j would come of it to me. Why should ]
trouble myself about it?”
“Nor to your step-sister?” I added.
1 “To Mrs. Dobree?” he rejoined; “no, it
does not signify a straw' to her either. She
j holds herself aloof from me now, confound
| her! You are not ou very good terms with
her yourself, I believe?”
The cab was still standing at the door,
, and I could not leave before it drove away
| or I should have made my visit a short
; one. Mrs. Foster was glancing through
| the window from time to time, evidently on
the watch to see the visitor depart. Would
j she recognize Johanna? She had stayed
| some W'eeks in Guernsey; and Jo
j hanua w T as a fine, stately looking woman,
not c cable among strangers. I must do
I something to get her away from her post of
j observation.
“Mis. Foster,” I said, and her eves
sparkled at the sound of her name, “I
should be exceedingly obliged to you il
ycu will give me another sight of those
papers you showed to me the last time I
was here. ”
She was away for a few minutes, and 1
heard the cab drive off before she returned.
That was the chief point gained. When
the papers were in my hand I just glanced
at them and that was all.
“Have you any idea where they came
from?” I asked.
“There is the London post-mark on the
envelope,” answered Foster. “Show it to
him, Carrie. There is nothing to be learned
from that.”
“No,” I said, comparing the handwriting
on the envelope with that of the letter, and
finding them the same. “Well, good-by.
I cannot often pay you as long a visit as
this.”
I hurried off quickly to the corner ot
Dawson street, where Johanna was waiting
for me. She looked exceedingly contented
when I took my seat beside her in the cab.
“Well, Mar;in,” she said, “you need suf
fer no more anxiety. Olivia'has gone as
English teacher in an excellent French
school, where the lady is thoroughly ac
quainted with English ways and comforts.
This is the prospectus of the establish
ment. You see there are ‘extensive grounds
for recreation, and the comforts of a cheer
fully happy home, the domestic arrange
ments being on a thoroughly liberal scale.’
Here is also a photographic view of the
place: a charming villa, vou see. in th
best French style. The lady's husband is
an avocat; and everything is taught by
professors—cosmography and pedagogy,
and other studies of which we never heard
when I was a girl. Olivia is to stay there
twelve months, and in return for her serv
ices will take lessons from professors at
tending the establishment Your mind
may be quite at ease now.”
“But where is the place?” I inquired.
“Oh! it is in Normandy—Noireau,” she
said-—“quite out of the range of railways
and tourists. There will be no danger of
any one finding her out there; and you
kuow she has changed her name altogether
this time. ”
“Did ycu discover that Olivia and Ellen
M rtineau are the same persons?” I asked.
“No, I did not,” she a .swered; “I
thought you were sure of that ”
But I was not sure of it; neither could
Jack be sure. He puzzled himself in trv
ing to give a satisfactory description of his
Ellen Martineau; but every an-wer he gave
to my eager questions plunged us into
greater uncertainty. He was not sure of
the color either of her hair or eyes, and
made blundering guesses at her height.
The chief proof we had of Olivia’s identity
was the drunken claim made upon Ellen
Martineau by Foster a month after he had
received convincing proof that she was
dead.
What was I to believe?
It was running too great a risk to make
my further inquiries at No. 19 Bellringer
street. Mrs. Wilkinson was the landlady
ox ui6 loagmg-nouse, ana sne nna toia
Johanna that Madame Peirier boarded with
her when she was in London. But she
might begin to talk to her other lodgers if
her own cariosity were excited; and once
more my desire to fathom the mystery
hanging about Olivia might plunge her into
fresh difficulties, should it reach the ears
of Foster or his wife.
“I must satisfy myself about her safety
now,” I 6aid. “Only put yourself in my
place, Jack. How can I rest till I know
more abotit Olivia?”
“1 do put myself in your place,” he an
swered. “What do you say to having a run
down to this place in Ba?se Normandy and
seeing for yourself whether Miss Ellen
Martineau is your Olivia?”
“How can 1?” I asked, attempting to
hang back from the suggestion. It was a
busy time with us. The season was in full
roll, and our most aristocratic patients were
in town. The easterly winds were bringing
in their usual harvest of bronchitis and
diphtheria. If I went Jack's hands would
be more than full. Had these things come
to perplex us only two months earlier I
could have taken a holiday with a clear
conscience.
“Dad will jump at the chance of coming
back for a week,” replied Jack; “he is
bored to death down at Fulham. Go you
must, for my sake, old fellow. You are
good for nothing as long as you’re so down
in the mouth. I shall be glad to be rid of
you. ”
We shook hands upon that as warmly as
if he had paid me the most flattering com
pjimunfa.
CHAPTER XLIV.
NOIREAU.
In this way it came to pass that two
evenings later I was crossing the Chan
nel to Havre, and found myself about
five o’clock iu the afternoon of the next
day at Falaise. It was the terminus of
the railway in that direction; and a very
ancient conveyance, bearing the name
of La Petite Vitesse, was in waiting to
carry on any travelers who were vent
uresome enough to explore the regions
beyond.
There was space inside for six passen
gers, but it smelt too musty and was too
full of the fumes of bad tobacco for
me; and I very much preferred sitting
beside the driver, a red-faced, smooth
cheeked Norman, habited in a blue
blouse, who could crack his long whip
with almost the skill of a Parisian om
nibus-driver. We were friends in a
trice, for my patois was almost identi
cal with his own, and he could not be
lieve his own ears that he was talking
with an Englishman.
“La Petite Vitesse” bore out its name
admirably if it were meant tfc. indicate
exceeding slowness. W T e never ad
vanced beyond a slow trot, and at the
slightest hint of rising ground the trot
slackened into a walk, and eventually
subsided into a crawl. I3v these means
the distance we traversed was made to
seem tremendous, and the drowsy jin
gle of the collar-bells, intimating that
progress was being accomplished, add
ed to the delusion. But the fresh,
sweet air, blowing over leagues of fields
and meadows, untainted with a breath
of smoke, gave me a delicious tingling
in the veins. I had not felt such a
glow of exhilaration since that bright
morning when I had crossed the chan
nel to Sark to ask Olivia to become
mine.
The sun sank below the distant hori
zon, with the trees showing clearly
against it, for the atmosphere was as
transparent as crystal; and the light of
the stars that came out one by one al
most cast a defined shadow upon our
path from the poplar trees standing in
long straight rows in the hedges. If I
found Olivia at the end of that star-lit
path my f rla ) jfr“‘ia SH7 it-wajili be eqrn
pleted. Yet if t*f<Srn?l her, what then?
I should see her for a few minutes in
the dull salon of a school, perhaps with
some watchful, spying Frenchwoman
present. I should simply satisfy my
self that she was living. There could
be nothing more between us. I dared
not tell her how dear she was to me or
ask her if she ever thought of me in
her loneliness and friendlessness.
I began about this time to wish that
I had brought Johanna with me, who
could have taken her in her arms and
kissed and comforted her. Why had I
not thought of that before ?
As we proceeded at our delusive pace
along the last stage of our journey I
began to sound the driver, cautiously
wheeling about the object of my
excursion into those remote regions.
I had tramped through Normandv and
Brittany three or four times, but 'there
had been no inducement to visit Noi
reau, which resembled a Lancashire
cotton town, and I had never been
there.
“There are not many English at
Noireau?” I remarked suggestively.
“Not one,” he replied; “not one at
this moment. There was one little
English mam’zelle—peste!—a very
pretty little English girl, who was voy
aging precisely like you, m’sieur, some
months ago. There was a little child
with her, and the two were quite alone.
They are very intrepid, are the English
mam’zelles. She did not know a word
of our language. But that was droll,
m’sieur! A Erench demoiselle would
never voyage like that.”
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
Two Snow Stories.
Speaking of lying, says the San Fran
cisco Pont, every old Californian remem
bers Captain Jim Baker, immortalized by
John Phoenix as “Truthful Jeems.” His
habits of exaggeration were so notorious
that San Franciscans prided themselves
on possessing in him the cham; ion of the
world iu t! at line. But one day an Eng
glish tea captain came he;e who had
achieved a brilliant reputation a ; a liar,
and the sea c apt ins thin in port brought
the two together at a dinner at Martin’s
old restaurant on Commercial street.
When the wine was flowing freely the
conspirators proceeded to draw out their
guests.
“I presume you have seen some very
severe snow storms iu your travels! ' ‘aid
one, addres-ing the English Captain.
“Ye-, sir,” he replied; “I have seen
the snow fifty feet deep on a level ex
tending over miles of country up in
Siberia."
“And yo i must have seen some pretty
severe snow storms yourself, Ca jta u
Jim:’’ said another.”
“Well, Ishould say so.” replied Truth
ful. “In 1H3!) I v.:s going over the
Siena Nevada with a pack train, and
wl cn w • had nearly reached the summit
it s arted in to snow, and I’ll sv. ar that
it fell at the rate of an inch a minute."
“How long did it continue, Captain
Jim?”
“Three days and nights, sir.”
No Trade in Fire-Escapes,
“Did you sell any fire-escapes in Bos
ton?” asked the proprietor of his travel*
ing salesman who has just come in.
“Xaw,” was the di-gusted repiv.
“No! Why not?”
“You sent me to the wrong men,”
“Why, they are all old friends of
mine.”
“Maybe they are. but every one of
them was a Universalist. and I packed
up my samples and left."— Tid-Biti.
DR, TALMAGES’ SERMON,
IMPORTANCE OF CHRISTIANITY
IN THE HOME.
(Preached at Grim-by, Canada.)
Text: “Entreat me not to leave thee, or to
return from following after thee; for whither
thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest,
I will lodge; thy people shall be my people,
and thy God my do 1; where thou uie-t, will
I die, and there will I be buried; the Lord do
so to me, anil more also, if aught bat death
part thee and me.’’—Ruth i., In and IT.
Famine in Judah. Upon fields distin
guished for fertility the blight came, and at
the door of princely abodes want knocked.
Turning his back upon his house anil bis
lands, Llime!e.h took his wife. Naomi and
his two sons and started for the land of
Moab in search of bread. Getting into
Moab, his two sons married ido'aters —Ruth
the name of one. Orpah the name of the
other. Great calamiti-s came upon that
household. Elimeleeh died and his two sous,
leaving Naomi, the wife, and the two daugh
ters-in-law. Poor Naomi! iu a strange land
and her husband and two sous dead. She
must go back to Judah. She canuot stand it
in a place where everything reminded her of
her sorrow. Just as now, sometimes you
see persons moviug from one house to anoth
er, or from one city to another, and you can
not understand it until you find out that it is
because there were associations with a cer
tain place that they could no longer bear.
Naomi must start for the land of Judah; but
how shall she get th ‘re? Between Moab and
the place where she would like to go there
are deserts; there are wild beasts ranging the
wilderness; there are savages going up and
down, and there is the awful Dead Sea.
Well, you say, she came over the read once,
she can do so again. Ah! when she came
over the road before she had the strong arms
of her husband and her two sous to defend
her; now they are all gone. The hour of
parting has come, and Naomi must be sepa
rated from her two daughters-in law. Ruth
and Orpah. They were tenderly attached,
these three m turners. They had bent over
the same sick bed; they had moved in the
same funeral procession; they had wept
over the same grave. There the three
mourners stand talking. Naomi thinks
of the time when she left Ju
dah, with a prince for her companion.
Then they all think of the marriage festivals
when Naomi’s two sons were united to these
women, who have now exchanged the wreath
of the bride for the veil of the mourner.
Naomi s'arts for the land of Judah, and Ruth
and Orpah resolve to go a little way along
with her. They have gone but a short dis
tance when Naomi turns around and says to
her daughters-in-law; “Go back. There
may be days of brightness yet for you in
your native land. 1 can t bear to take you
away from your home and the homes of your
kindred. I am old and troubled. Go not
along with me. The Lord deal gently with
you as ye have dealt with the dead aud with
me.” But they persisted in going, and so the
three traveled on until after awhile Naomi
turns around again aud begs them to go back.
Orpah takes the suggestion, and after a sad
parting gee? away; but Ruth, grand and
glorious Ruth, turns her back upon her home.
She says: “I can’t bear to let that old mother
go alone. It is my duty to go with her.”
And throwing her arms around weeping Na
omi, she pours out her soul in the tenderness
and pathos and Christian eloquence of my
text: “Entreat me not to leave thee, or to
return from following after thee: for hither
thou goest, I will go; and whither thou lodg
est, I w r ill lodge; thy people shall be my peo
ple, and thy God my Gcd; where thou diest
I will die, and there will I be buried; the
Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught
but death part thee and me. ”
Five choices made Ruth in that text, and
five choices must wo all make, if we ever
want to get to heaven.
I. In the first place, if we want to become
Christians, we must, like Ruth in the text,
choose the Christian’s God. Beautiful Ruth
looked up into the wrinkled face of Naomi
and said: “Thy God shall be my God.” You
see it was a change of gods. Naomi's God
was Jehovah; Ruth’s God was Chemosh, the
divinity of the Moabites, whom she had wor
shiped under the symbol of a black star.
Now she comes out from that black-starred
divinity, an l takes the Lord in whom there
is no darkness at all; the silver-starred divin
ity to whom the met* or pointed down in
Bethlehem, the sunshiny God, of whom the
psalmist wrote: “The Lord God is a
sun.’ And so, my friends, if we want
to become Christians, we must change
gods. This world :s the Chemosh to
most people. It is a black-starred god. It
can heal no wounds. It can wipe away no
sorrows. It can pay no debts. It can save
no undying soul. It is a great cheat, so
many thousand miles in diameter an 1 so
many thousand miles in circumference. If
I should put this audience under oath, one
half of them would swear that this world is
a liar. It is a bank which makes large adver
tisement of w hat it has in ihe vaults and of
the dividends that it declares, and tells us
that if we want happiness, all we have got
to do is to come to that bank and apply for
it. In the hour of need, we go to that bank
to get happiness, and we find that the vaults
are empty, and all reliabilities have ab
sconded aud we are swindled out of every
thing. O thou bla -k-starred Chimosh, how
man} - are burning in: euse at thy shrine!
Now, Ruth turned away fron this god
Chemosh, and she took Naomi’s God. Who
was that? The God that made the world and
put you in it. The God that fashioned the
heaven and filled it with blissful inhabitants.
The God whose lifetime study it has bean to
make you and all his creatures happy. The
God who watched us in childhood, and led us
through the gauntlet of infantile distresses,
feeding us when we were hungry, pillowing
us when we were somnolent, and sending his
only Son to wash away our pollution with
the tears and blood of his own eye
and heart, and offering to be our
everlasting rest, comfort, and ec
stasy. A loving God. A sympathetic
God. A great-hearted God, An all-encom
passing God. A God who fling? himself on
this world in a very- abandonment of ever
lasting affection. The clouds, the veil of his
face. The sea, the aquarium of his palace.
The stars, the dew-drops on his lawn. The
God of Hannah’s prayer and Esther's conse
cration, aud Mary’s broken heart, and Ruth’s
loving and bereft spirit. Oh, choose ye be
tween Chemosh and Jehovah ! The one ser
vice is pain and disappointment; the other ser
vice is brightness and life. I have tried both.
I chose the service of Gcd because I was
ashamed to do otherwise. I felt it would be
imbecile for me to <"hoose Chi mosh above
Jehovah.
“Oh, happy- day that fixed my ihoice
Oh Thee, my Saviour, and my God!
Well may- this glowing heart rejoice,
And tell its rapture all abroad.
“Oh, happy bond that seals my vows
To Him v, ho merits all my love!
Let cheerful anthems fill His house,
While to His sacred throne I mo e.
“High heaven, that heard the solemn ,ow,
That vow renewed shall daily hear;
Till in life's latest hour I bow,
And bless in death a bon l so dear,”
11. Again, if we want t > be Christians
like Ruth in the tect, we must take the
Christ au's path. “Where thou goest Iw i 1
go," cried out the beautiful Moabitess to
Naomi, the mother-in-law. Langcrous prom
ise that There were deserts to be crossed.
There were ja kals that came down through
the wilderness. Tnere were bandits. There
was the Dead sea. Naomi . avs: “Ruth, you
must go back. You are too delicate to take
this journey. _ You will give out in the first
five miles. \ou cannot go. \ou have not
the physical stamina or the moral courage to
go with me. ’ Ruth responds: ‘ Mother I
am going anyhow. If I stay in this land I
will be overborne of the i lolaters; if Igo
aiong with 30U, I shall serve Hod. Hive me
that buudle. Let me carry it. lam
with you, mother, anyhow.” 0
" aut to serve Goi mast du
5 s did.crymg out: * ‘Where thou goest
1 T IU g °, ,* Sev T e / 7 ind tht ‘ D -a 1 Sea. Afoot
or borsebartc. If there be ri ers to ford, we
nu*;t ford the n. If there be mountains to
scale, we must scale them. If there be ene
mies to fight we must fight them. It re mires
grit and plu -k to get from M ab to Judah Oh
how many Christian there are win can be
dn erteil from the path by a quiver of the lip.
-nH ve of , scor °- They do not surrender to
but they bend to it. And if in a
company there be those who tell unclean
stones, tney will go so far as to tell some
thing on the margin between the pure and
the impure. And if there be those who
swear in the rcorn and use the rough word
“damn, they will g 0 so far as the word
darn, and look over the fence wishing they
but as to any detect
hk? '• [° g° the whole road of all
that 1, right, they nave not the grace to do it.
Th-v hove not in all their body as much
courage as Ruth had in her little finger
On. my friends let us start for heaven and
go clear through: In the river that runs bv
tce gate o. the city we shall wash off all our
bruises. When Dr. Chalmers printed his
astronomical discourses, they were read in
tiie haylofts, in the fields, in the garrets, aud
in the palaces, l-ecause they advocate 1 the
idea that the stars were inhabited. Oh,
hewer! does not vour soul thrill with the
thought that there 'is another world beauti
fully inhabited? Nay. more, that you by the
grace of God may become one of its glorious
citizens?
111. Aga n I remark, if we want to become
Christians, like Ruth in the text, we must
choose the Christian habitation. “I* here
thou lodgest, will I lodge,” crie 1 Ruth to
Naomi. Bhe knew that wherever Naomi
stopped, whether it were hove! or mausion,
there would be a Christian home, and she
wanted to be in it. What do I mean by a
Christian home? I mean a home in whi.’h th e
Bible is the chief boek; a home in which the
family kneel in prayer; a home in which
father aud mother are practical Christians; a
home in which on Sabbath, from sunr.se to
sunset, there is profitable converse and cheer
ful song and suggestions of a better world.
Whether the wall be frescoed or not, or only
a ceiling of implaned rafters; whether mar
ble lions are couchant at the front entrance,
or a plain latch is lifted by- a tow-string, that
home is the ante-chamber of heaven. A man
never gets over having lived in such a home.
It holds you in an eternal grip. Though
your parents may have been gone forty
years, the tears of penitence and gladness
that were wept at the family altar still glit
ter in your memory. Nay, do you not now
feel hot and warm on your hands, the tears
which that mother shed thirty years ago,
when, one cold winter night, she came and
wrapped you up in the bed and prayed for
your welfare here and for your everlasting
welfare before the throne ?
O ye who are to set up your own home, see
that it-be a Christian home! Let Jesus make
the wine at that wedding. A home without
God is an awful place, there are so many
perils to threaten it, and God himself i? so
bitterly against it; but “the Lord emrampeth
around about the inhabitation of the just.
What a grand thing it is to have God stand
guard at that door, and the Lord Jesus the
family physician; and the wings of angels the
canopy over the pillow.aud the Lord of Glory
a perpetual guest. You say it is im portaut that
the wife anil mother be a Christian. I say to
you it is just as important that the hus
band and father be a Christian. Yet
how many clever men there are who say:
“My wife doe? all the religion of my house.
lam a worldly man; but 1 have confidence in
her, and I think she will bring the whole fam
ily up all right.” It will not do, my brother.
The fact that you are not a Christian has
more influence on your family than the fact
that your wife is a Chris ian. Your children
will say: “Father’s a very good man; he is
not a Christian, and if he can risk the future,
I can risk the future.” O father and husband!
join your wife on the road to heaven, aud at
night gather your family at the altar. Do you
say: “I can t pray. lam a man of few words
and I don’t Think I could put half a doyen
sentences together in such a prayer.” Y’ou
can pray; you can. If your child were down
with scarlet fever, and the next hour were to
decide it? recovery or its death, you would
pray iu sobs and groans and paroxysms of
earnestness. Ye?, you can pray-. When the
eternal life of your household may depend
upon your supplication, let your knees limber
and go down, but, if you still insist that you
cannot compose a prayer, then buy or bor
row a prayer book of the Episcopal church,
aud gather your family, and put your prayer
book on a chair and kneel down before it,
and in the solemn and hushed presence of
God gather up all your sorrows and tempta
tions and sins, aud cry out: “Good Lord, de
liver us.”
IV. Again I remark: If we want to be
come Christians, like Ruth in the text, we
must choose Christian associations. “Thy
people shall be my people,” cried out Ruth to
Naomi. “The folks you associate with I
want to associate with. They will come aud
see me, and I will go aud see them. I want
to move in the highest of all circles, the circle
of God’s elect; and therefore, mother, lam
going back with you to the land of Judah.”
Do you who are seeking after God—and I
suppose there are many such in this pres
ence—do you who are seeking after
God prefer Christian society to
worldly society ? “No,” you say,
“I prefer the world’s mirth, and the
world’s laughter, and the world’s innuendo,
and the world's paraphernalia.” Well, this
is a free country, and you shall have the
right of choice; but let me tell you that the
pure?t mirth, and the most untrammeled
glee.and the greatest resilience of soul are in
side Christian companionship, aud not out
side of it. I have tried both styles of com
panionship—the companionship of the world
and the companionship of Christ, and I know
by experience. 1 have been now- so long in
the sunsniny experience and society of
Christian people, that w-hen I am compelled
to go for a little while amid intense worldly
society I feel depressed. It is like going out
of a June garden into an icehouse. Men
never know fully how to laugh until they
become Christians. The world’s laughter
has a jerk of dissatisfa tion at the end; but
w hen a man is consecrated to God, aud he is
all right for the world to come, then when he
laughs, body, mind and soul crackle. Let a
group of ministers of th? gospel, galhered
from all denominations of Christian-, be to
gether in a dining hall, or in a social circle,
and you know they are proverbially joeuud,
O, ye unconverted people! I know not how
you ian stand it down in that moping, bil
ious, saturnine, worldly association. Come
up into the sunlight of Christian so iety
those people for whom all things are working
right now,and will work right forever. I tefi
you that the sweetest japonicas grow in the
Lord’s ga;den; that the largest grape? are
from the vinevards of Canaan: that the most
sparkling floods break forth from the Rock
of Ages. Do not too much pity this Ruth of
my text, for she is going to be ome joint
owner of the great harvest fields of Boa-.
V. Once more: If we want to become
Christians, we must, like Ruth in the text,
choose the Christian's death anl burial. She
exclaimed: “Where thou die ?t will I die, aud
there will I be buried. ’ I think we all, when
leaving this w-orld, would like to be sur
rounded by Christian influences. Y’ou wou’d
not like to have your dying pillow surrounded
by caricaturists aud punsters and w-ine
bibbers. How would you like to have
John Leech come with h s London pic
torials and Christopher North with his
loose fun, and Tom Hoed with his rhyming
joke?, when you are dying? No! No! No!
Let me have a Christian nur. e in my last
sickness. Lit me have a Christian physician
to administer the meliciue. Let it tea
Christ an wife, or jarent, or child, that
watches the going out of the tidis of my
mortal existen e. Let Christian men corne
into tue l oom and read of the illuminated
valley and the extinguishment of grie F , and
drown the hoarse blasts of death with the
strains of "Mt. Pisgah” and “St. Martin.”
In our last moment we w;ll all be children.
Baid Dr. Guthr.e, the famous Scotch < lergy
ruan, when dying: “Sing me a bairn's hymn.”
Yes, we will all be children then. In that
hour the world will stand confounded aro nd
us. Our friends may cry over us; tears will
not help us. They may look sad: what we
want is radiation in the last moment—
thinking it will help them die. In our
last moment we wai t that bread which
came down from Heaven. Who will
Rive it to us ? Oh, we want Chris
tian people in the room, so that
if our Lope begins to struggle they may say:
“Courage, brother! all is well! Courage!”
In that expiring moment I want to hear the
old songs we u ed to sing in church and
prayer meetings. In that last moment I want
to hear the voice of some Christian friend
pleading that the sins and shortcomings of
my life may be forgiven, and the doors of
heaven may be opened before my entranced
spirit.
“Come sing to me of heaven,
When fm about to die:
Sing songs of holy ecstasy,
To waft my soul on high.”
3 es. Christian people on either side of the
bed, and the Christian people at-thefoot of the
b i • - binstian people to close my eyes,
Christian people to rarrv me out, "and
Christian people t < look after those whom I
leave behind, and Christ an people to re-
b u r me a little while after lam gone.
w here thou diest, will I die. and there will
I ba burie 1.”
Sometimes an ypitaph covers up more than
it expresses. \\ alking through Greenwood
Cemetery I have sometimes seen an inscrip
tion which impressed me how hard the
sculptor and friends were trying to make out
a good story in stone. I saw from the in
scription that the man or woman buried th?re
hal d:ed without hope. The ins ription told
me the man was a member of Congress, or a
bank President or some prominent citizen,
but said nothing about his soul’s des
tmy. The body is nothing. The soul!
The soul! And here by this inscription
I see_that this man was born in 1800 and died
in 1875. Seventy-five years on earth, and no
Christian hope! Oh, if in all the cemeteries
of your city the graves of those who have
gone out of this world unprepared should
sigh on the wind, who would have the nerve
to drive through such a place? If all those
who have gone out of this world uup>repjared
could come bak to-day and float through
the air,telling the story of tlieir discomfiture
this audience would fall flat on its face, ask
ing to be rescued from the avalanche of hor
ror.
My hearers, do you wonder that this Ruth
of my text made the Cnristian's choice and
closed it with the ancient form of imprecation
upon her own soul, if she ever forsook Naomi
“ The Lord do so to me, and more also, ff
aught but death part thee and me.” They
were to live together. Come the jackals
come the bandits, roll on Dead Sea! My
bearers, would you not like to be with your
Christian friends forever? Have there not
gone out persons from vour household whom
you would like to spend eternity with? They
were mild, and loving, and gentle, and beau
tiful, while here. Y’ou have no idea that the
joys of heaven have made them worse
Choose their Christ, and you may have their
heaven. They went in washel through
the blood of the Lamb, and you must havp
the same glorious ablution.’ With holy
violence I put my hands on you to-day
to push you on toward the’ immediate
choice of this only Saviour. Have him you
must, or perish world without end. Elect
this moment as the one of contrition and
transport. Oh, give one intense, earnest, be
lieving, lcviug gaze into the wounds opened
for your eternal salvation!
Some of you I confront for the first and
the last time until the judgment, and thea
we shall meet. Will you be ready ?
The Editor Receives a Call.
A chronic loafer, who thinks he
right to bother people and render
as idle as himself, walked into the Tele
gram office recently. He wanted to see
the editor. Ke saw the editor.
“Nice day,” said the visitor.
“Pretty warm,” replied the editor.
“Warm enough for you?’’ said the
visitor.
A look of disgust on the face of tha
editor.
“How are yougettin’ along?” said the
visitor.
“Very well, thank you,” said the edi
tor.
Pause.
“Guess it’ll rain 'fore night,” sad the
visitor.
“Probably,” said the editor.
Full stop.
“How’s all the folks?” [asked the vis
itor.
“Well, thank you.” replied the editor.
Another pause.
“Hotter’n ’twas yesterday, I believe,”
said the visitor.
“Very likely.” said the editor.
“Need a good shower now to cool the
air,” said the visitor.
“Y r -e-s,” said the editor.
“What’s new?” asked the visitor.
“Nothing special,” replied the editor.
Avery long pause.
“Believe it’s gettin’cooler,by George,”
said the visitor.
“Shouldn't wonder,” replied the edi
tor.
“I’ll be blamed if I don't believe I'd
freeze to death if I stayed here much
longer,” said the visitor.
“Quite likely,” replied the editor.
And then the visitor coolly vamoosed,
and the editor, “hot in the collar,” re
sumed his pencil.— Cincinnati Telegram.
An Unpleasant Reflection.
City Dor:—“Good gracious! how sun
burnt I have got since I have been in the
( ountry. I shall actually be ashamed to
meet my friends again.”— JadjC.
Chips of the Boston Block.
A lady who was not feeling very
was importuned by her little son with
questions which she answered too sharply
to suit Young Aracr ca, when he ejacu
lated: “Goodness! what is the matter
with you? I hope you're not going to
have one of your bilious turns.”
Another lad who was learning his Sun
day-school les on with the words: “Con
sider the lilies of the field how they
grow; they toil not neither do they spin,
and yet I say unto you that—” here the
boy paused, forgetting the next word,
and then proceeded wth a pronounced
voice : “Sullivan in all his glory was not
like one of these.”— lio.it on Iraceller.
Costume for a Mountain Climber.
— Fli'gende Blaetter .
The Circus.
Little Johnny, age five, was greatly
taken with the circus-posters, and begged
his papa to take him to the circus. He
could get no promise from him, how
ever, until, making a last beseeching ap
peal on circus day, his father replied:
“Well. .Johnny, we will go down
street and see the tents.”
Johnny walked along with his father,
looking very dubious indeed at such a
scanty privil ge, until, glancing up, he
remarked:
“Papa, I’d much rather see the con
tents.”