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81.00 A YEAR, IN ADVANCE.
BETRAYED;
-OK
A DARK MARRIAGE
MORN.
4 Romance of Lcue, Intrigue and
Crime.
BY MBS. ALICE P. CARBISTON |
(
CHAPTER XXIX—fContinued.)
Some time now passed without mak.
ing any sensible change in (he relations
of the different pei sons of this story.
This was the most brilliant phase, and
probably the happiest, in the life of Eu.
gene Cleveland.
The sudden death of Sidney Leland
had more th n doubled his foituDe, and
his careful business management nnd
clever speculations augmented it every
dav. .
Mrs. Leland continued to reside at hei
old home in Roxbury, whore her son
pa-sed much of his time. Mildred Lester
Clara Denton and were
s'ill, for the most part, in New l’ork, nnd
there vveie now bright hopes that Mil¬
dred would soon be her old self ogain —
this the great special! t emphatically
promised. Warren Leland all evenings,
passed his
when he was in the city, in their society.
Eugeno Cle eland’fl iiiisonwith Cora
Elliston, without being proclaimed, was
suspei ted. and completed his prestige.
His prosperity, too, was great. It was,
nevertheless true that he did not enjoy if
without trouble. Two b'ack spots-dark
ened the sky above his head, and might
conta n destroying thunder.
His life was eternally suspended on a
thread.
Any day Senator Ellision nrght bo in¬
formed of the intrigue which dishonored
him, either through some selfish reason
or through public rumor, which began to
spread. Should this happen, he knew his
ever
uncle would never submit to it, nnd he
had determined never to defen 1 his life
against his outraged friend and relative.
This resoive, firmly decided upon in his
secret soul, gave him the last so!ace tc
his conse ence.
All his future destiny was thus at the
mercy of an accident most likely to hap
pen. The second of his disquietude
cause
was th 6 jealous hatred manifested by
Cora against the young rival she had her¬
self selected.
After baCng jested freely on this sub¬
ject at first, she hid, little by little,
ceased even to allude to it.
Eugene could not misunderstand cer¬
tain mute symptoms, and wai sometimes
alarmed at this si eut jealousy. violent
Fearing to oxa>perate this most
feminine sentiment in so strong a soui,
he was compelled, day by d y, to resort and
to tricks w-hicli wounded his pride,
probably his heart also; for his wife, to
whom his new conduct was inexplicable,
suffered intensely, and he saw it.
One evening there was a grand recep¬
tion at the Elliston mansion.
Cora, before making a little trip with
her husband, whoso duties at Washington mak¬
were now over for the season, was
ing her adieus to a choice group of het
friends.
Although this fete professed to be bui
a sociable gathering, she had organized
it with her usual elegance and taste.
A kind of gallery, composed of drawing¬ verdure
and. of flowors, connected the
rooms with the conservatory nt the other
end of the garden. proved painful
This evening a very one
to ITora.
Her husband's neglect of her was so
marked, his assiduities to Cora eo per¬
sistent. their mutual understanding so
apparent, that the young wife felt the
pain of her de-oition to an almost insup¬
portable Ehe degree. and took refuge in the
went con¬
servatory, and finding herself alone there,
commenced we ping. Eugene, not
A few moments 1 ter, see¬
ing her in the drawing-room, became un¬
easy. he entered the
She sawhim as conserv
ato y, by one of those instantaneous
glances by which women contrive to see
without looking. be examining the
She pretended by to effort of will
flowers, nnd a strong
dried her tears.
Her husband advanced slowly toward
her. said
“What a magnificent camellia!" he
to her. “Do vou Know thD variety?"
“Very well,” she replied; “this is the
camellia that weeps ”
He broke off the flowers.
"F’lora,” he said, “I have never been
much addicted to keep.” sentimentality, but
this flower I shall
She turned upon him her astonished
eyes. it,” ho added.
“Btcause I love
The noise of a step made them both
turn
It was Corn Ellistcn, who was crossing
the conservatory on the arm of a young
English nobleman.
“1’ardon mo" she said, smiling; “I
have disturbed you. How awkward of
me!" and she passed out.
Flora suddenly grew very red, and her
husband very pile. The Englishman
alone did not change color, for he com.
nrehended nothing.
Flora under pretext of a headache,
which her face did not belie, returned
home immediately, back'the promising her has
band to send carriage for him.
Shortlv after Cora, obeying a secret
sien from Eurene rejoined him in the
retired snuggery, -which recalled .o them
both the most culpable incident of their
lives. She sat down beside him on the
lounge with a haughty nonchalance.
“What is it?” she asked.
“ Why do iou watch me?” asked En
gene. “It is unworthy of you!” Disagreeable
“Ah! an explanation' between
thing. It is the first us—at
least, let us be quick about it, and com
She spoke in a voice of restrained pas
“ Well, tell the truth ” she satd. “You
*re m love With your wife.
He shrugged of his shoulders I repeat.”
“Unworthy you,
“What, then, mean tin so deUcate attsn
tion= to her-”
“ You or-’ered me to marry her, but no,
to kill ht r. I suppose?” “ofsef,
eve^ws/vhichYe fo*
ne ther of them looked at the other.
hiafl bereson * ^Sbo has her mother!
j do"not boro r-o one h it rou’ Hear me when’l Eugene;
mak:- me j‘e ileus, for. terrify am
ks ideas torment me which even
aij’self. 1 instant,” continued, still .
Wait an she
more earnestly. “Since we are on this
subjet, if you love her, tell me so. Yon
know me—you know I am not fond of
petty ertifees. Well. I feu so much the
@k Cjamiltcm ottnutl.
sufferings anl humiliations *f which I
have a presentiment, I am so much afraid
of myself, that I offer you aud give you
your liberty, I prefer this horrible
grief, hut which is at least open and
noble! It is no snare that I set for you,
“CS ! £ L .i\TSS&
in leans.
“Yes, I am sincere,” she went on; “and
I beg of you, if it is so, profit by this will
moment, for, if you let it os jape, you
never find it again." little prepared for this de¬
Eugene was iking off
cided proposal. The idea of bre
his liaison with Cora never had entered
his mind. ’1 his li ison seemed to him
very rsconcil ble with the sentiments his
wife would inspire him with.
It was at the same time the greatest
wickedness aud the perpetual danger of
his life, but it wss also the excitement,
the pride, and the magnificent voluptu¬
ousness of it.
lie shuddered.
The idea of losiug the love which had
cost him so dear exasperated him.
He cast a burning glance on this beauti¬
ful face, refined and exa tel as that of a
warring archangel.
“My life is yours,” he said. “How
could you have alarmed yourself, or even
thought of my feelings toward another?
I do w at honor and humanity command
me—nothing you—understand more, that.” as lor you—I love
“Is it true?” she asked. “It is true! 1
believe you!”
She look his hand and gazed at him a
moment without speikiinz her eyes
ffuddenlv rising, she said.
“lily beloved, you know I have guests!"
and sa'uting him with a smile left the
little room.
This scene, however, loft a disagreea¬
ble impress on on tbo mind of Eugene
Cleveland.
Ho thought of it impatiently the nexl
morning while trying a horse in Central
Park—when he suddenly lound himself
face to face with the ex-private secretary,
Oscar Slyme. this since
He had never seen personage
the day he had ventured to make love to
his wife.
The park was almost deserted at this
hour. Slyme could not avoid, as he had
probably done more than once, encount¬
ering Cleveland.
Seeing himself recognized he saluted
him and stopped, with an uneasy smile
on his lips.
His worn black cort nnd doubtful linen
showed poverty unnekuowodged but pro¬
found. Eugene did not notice these de
tils, orhi-i natural generosity probably
Will Id have been awakened and have
curbed the sudden indignation which took
posse, s on of him.
He reigned in his Slyme?” horse sharply. said. “ You
“Ah, it is you, he
havo left Boston, then? What are you
doing now?”
“I am looking for a situation, Mr.
Clevland," said Slyme, humbly, who
know his old rival too well not to read
clearly in the curl of his mustache the
prognostic “And why," of a said storm. Eugene, “do-yon not
return to your trade of locksmith? You
are so skillful at it! The most compli¬
cated locks had no secret for you.” meaning,’
“I do not understand your
murmured SB mo.
“Ah, a liar as well as a words picklock, oh?"
and throwing out thosa with an
accent of withering scorn, Eugene, strik¬
ing him one sharp blow across the face
w th his r ding whip, tranquilly passed
on at a walk.
Instantly tho face of the ex-secretary
became ghastly white, save only for the
fiery red mark across it. A look of mor¬
tal ia tred came iuto his eyes. Ho gazed
after the slowly retreating form of the
horseman until a bend in the road hid him
from view-; then hissing oiit the words,
“You shall pay dearly for hurried that, Eugene
Cleveland!” he turned an.l away.
-CHAPTER XXX.
phepaiung roii the tjiaoedy.
Mildred Lester and her devoted friend
and constant companion, Clara Denton,
did not spend all their time in New
York. Scarcely a week passed home during
which they did not visit Clara’s in
Roxbury, for a day, ot least, and ofton
times when they returned to the city,
Edith Denton, who was rapidly develop- would
ing into a lovely young woman,
accompany them.
The groat specialist was assiduous in
his attentions on Mildred, nnd almost at
every visit emphatically declared that tho
time was now close at hand when all
that she had ever lost would he restored
to her.
Thus far the past had come.back to her
gradually, but in the doctor’s opinion
the complete restoration of her faculties
would bo instantaneous, and and probably
brought about by some great sudden
shock.
Warren Leland, who had now attained
the object of h.s ambition and was a
memFer of Congress, was indefatigable
in his attent ons to the two ladies,
Whether they were in New York or Box
liurv, ho too was there, and at last Ihe
devoted Clara h d the desire of her soul
gratified, his affections were wholly trans
ferred to Mildied, and abruptly, wif§, one and even
ing, he asked her to he his was
eccepted. it while he yet
Strange as may seem, regard for Clara
retained the warmest
Denton, he almost idolized Mildred—felt
for her a love, a passion, which even the
beautiful and royal Clara had never in
spired, and he could not bear to be absent
from her side even for a day.
Under these circumstances he urged with
that the marriage should take place
the least possible delay, and after some
deli eratioa an early day was set, and
prep rations for the interesting event
were begun iu earnest.
And now Edith became a very tmpor
taut jiersonage. Her services were re
qu red by her mother and Mildred from
early dawn till latest eve. Everybody
e ,]i e d upon her for assistance. She be
came a female Mercury, and her face was
soon ns well known in the great dry goods
establishments as those of the proprietors ’
ttc ciseNes
More than once in her excursions she
j, ad mtt a i 0T ely voung ladv, several
Teal3 h er senior, hut with tbe sweetest
yet sadest face, she thought she had ever
J One day, in Marcey’s she saw this lady
to him that she should like an .ntrodne
- on.
He responded promptly said, to
Miss Fielding, he permit me
make you acquaint^ with my charmmg
young friend, Mws Edith Denton. Miss
. Denton, this is Miss Fielding fehe will
eil z°u presently that her name is Meta
ladiettharthmug^e
be - C No more plea^edThlnYam " exclaimed
her acquaintance ever since I first saw
her, and I am glad yon were the medium
j through which my desire has been
| gratified.
; “So you really wanted to know me,
dear?” asked Meta, in a pleased tone,
“Yes, indeed, I did,” answered Edith,
• mpkaticallv. make
“And I was most aniious to jour
HAMILTON. HARRIS COUNTY, GA., APRIL 13, 1894.
acquaintance. Your face pleased me so
much.”
They talked for some lime together,
and before t ey parted Edith had prom¬
ised to piy Meta a visit tho very next
day. she reached home,
Of course, wheu
Edith was full of her new friend, and
could talk of nothing else.
“Meta Fielding!" repeated Mildred,
with a troubled look. “Meta before." Fielding!
Surely I have heard that name
“When and where, doaasked Clara,
eagerly. “AVns it in the old times, before
your sickuess?”
“A'es, yes, it was before that, when
I-” aud then she stopped, with a be¬
wildered expression on her face.
A little later AVarnn Loland called,
and ( lara at once uskid him if ho knew
a lady named F'ielding. supplemented Edith;
“Meta Fielding,” F’crty-soventh
“and she lives on West
street.”
“A single Indy, I suppose?” he said.
* Yes, and young.” AVanen, slowly. “I don’t
“N-no,” said
think I have the pleasure of the young
lady’s acquaintance.” brother named Ray, and
“She has a
he's in a bank down town,” Edith ox
pained. different face tho
“Ah! that puts a on
matter altogether,” said I.eland. “I
know liny F’ielding very well. He is now
HRsi8t«int cashier in the Atlantic National
Bank, of which mv father was President.
Arc you sure he’s her brother?"
“db, yes,” said Edith; “Meta told me
all about him."
“ Then it's all right; tho family is very
well connected, aud they are perfectly
proper people to know.”
“Glad to hear it!” exclaimed Edith;
“for I intend to call on my new friend
to-morrow. ”
“Do so, by all means.”
“You may be sure I shall.”
“lint, AVsrren,” broke in Clara, “Mil¬
dred feels sure she knew this Meta Field¬
ing ia the old days; at least, she is cer¬
tain she hag heard the name before."
“ She may have heard tho name, but I
hardly think she has ever mot Miss F'ield¬
ing. The brother and Bisler, I believe,
have passed most of their lives in New
York.”
“Then where can she have heard the
name?”
“Why, perhaps in this very room. I
have had short business note 3 , drafts,
and other papers, signed by Fielding, al¬
most every day, and, no doubt, h ave
spoken hi- name in her presenco.”
“Ah! that maybe.” the explana¬
“I am pretty sure that’s
tion."
“I shall know to-morrow,” laughed
Edith.
"How will yon find out?” nslced Leland.
“Easy enongh,” was the reply. “I shall
ask Meta if she ever knew Mildred
Lester. ”
“Of course!" exclaimed her mother;
“why didn’t we think of that before?”
“Because you’re not young and quick¬
witted as I am," laughed tho girl, as she
fled from the room.
When she was gone, Leland suddenly
turned to her mother and asked:
“When did you or your father hear
from XiilflroJ’a hroihe- i***-*?”
“We have not heard lrnm him in some
time; indeed, for several months,” was
the reply. “He is si ill in the South or
West, I believe.”
“But remittances father.” come regularly?"
“Yes—to my
“From where?”
“From Mr. Lester’s agent here in New
York.”
“Have you his address?”
“No. I have not; and I question if my
father has.”
“That is unfortunate; for Mr. Lester
should be notified of the impending event
in his sister’s life.”
“I have thought of that."
“Can you suggest anything?” with
“Perhaps if you saw and talked my
father, ho might think of somo way
whereby you could communicate with
Jlr. Lester.”
“I will go to Roxbury to-morrow.”
“Do so; and meantime, I will look over
what papers I have with me. I may find
some note from him that will give me a
clew.”
The next day Leland went to Roxbury.
At the station when he changed cars,
he was surprised to see old Welch, the
quondam rag-picker, boarding a Western
bound train.
Somehow, but why he could not think,
the sight of him brought poor Amy Brow
nell and her wronged husband to his
mind.
But hastily dismissing . . these he thought
of ‘V® o1 ^ m n '
Now, what i . can , he , he „ going , . 0 v “ ®
York for? he mused. Can it be that he
is tired ot a rural life? I hope not, for
his daughter s sake, ®bd hurrying to
catch his own train he thought no more of
the matter at the time.
Meanwhile, Oscar Slyme, the brotUer „
with whom he was so anxious <o com
municate, was already thoroughly in
formed as to nil that had transpired re
lating to Mildred Lester since his last
visit to her in Roxbury; and he knew per
fectly veil-that she was likely very soon
to marry Warren Leland.
But instead of warning her or net
friends of the terrible mistake they were
about to make, he hugged himself with
fiendish delight to think of the misery it
would cause his hated eDemy when he
should hear of it; and ho resol-ed that he
should hear of it very soon after the weu
ding had tnken place, when some other
interesting things should he revealed.
But did Oscar Blyme no longer care for
Cora Elliston?
No, his eyes had been thoroughly
epened; he knew he had merely been her
iool, and he thoroughly hated it.
But he did love F lora Leland.
He knew Flora never could be his. lie
knew wnat ho was about to do would
make her hate him and might Kill her;
but he was thoroughly resolved to wreak
vengeance on Cleveland and Cora at any
cost, and such a vengeance as never he
“ c’nnnmc and calculation man’
and be P r er8 uaded ,, ad fld himRe himse.f f that that, bv by man
aging properly, he could gain a large sum
from Sherwood Elliston, for the unholy
secret he possessed.
^^"nd "misery t’n T'n^h'i'm’^U^or.C'' 1 ’andwant,’ for all
by deveriy •
^eat”fortune "the^e 'atol- 00161 ’ ^ ^
of
F his hands the
ffienti bi]t he h ad then in
proofs, P which he now was without.
It was necessary, then, for hmi to arm
h atld infallible determined proofs; hut
if the iEtrigue be was to un
Ina ., k H titl existed, he did not despair of
detecting * something certain, aided by
, the dl know i e dge he had of the pri
<* b ’ ,h Ea « eMMd
This W8S tbe ta sk t0 wljic \ h « a pplied
K ’ , a“‘f ^ ^
^° . , hl / wo , lld be the onteame?
It i g not difficult to gcees.
CHAPTER XXXE
j PIseOVEET—DEATH.
The absolute confidence which Sher
| wood Elliston reposed in his wife and bis
nephew, alter the latter’s marriage wi h
Flora Leland.liad doubtless allowed them
to dispense with much of the mystery and
im -ginution had not been lost.
Love alone was not sufficient for her.
She needed danger, scenic effect and
pleasure, heightened by terror. reckless Ones or
twice in tho early time, she was
enough to leave her home day. during llut the Ehe night
and to return before was
obliged to renounce these audacious
flights, finding them too perilous. with Eu
These nocturnal interviews
gene were not very frequent, and she had
usually received him at home.
This Was their arrau ement:
There was an entrance to the garden
from a tiide street. This entr nou was
through an archway in tho stable build
ing. The room over the archway was oc
cupied by the head coachman, a middle
aged man, who fully onjoved 'thoroughly his master’s
oonfidenee. Indeed, so did
(he Senator trust him, that he often sent
inm to distant places to execute commis
sions for him.
It was the time of those absences that
Cora Elliston and Eugene Cleveland
chose lor their dangerous interviews at
night. apprised from within by
understood Eugene, T, entered the inclosure some
sign
back of the stnbles through tho archway,
and thence crossed the garden, and so
reached the roar of the mansion.
Cora always charged herself with the
p.„l IW
open ono of the lower windows. h
ordinary custom of lodging the domestics
in the upper story gave to this hardihood
a sort of security, notwithstanding its
being always hazardous. at this period of
On a moonless night, always
our story, One of these occasions,
impatiently awaited on both sides, pie
sented itself, and Eugene at midnight
penetrated into the Elliston garden.
At the moment when ho turned the key
in the door of the archway he thought he
heard a slight sound behind him.
lie turned, cast a .......L„.,?i„.i rapid glance over the
dark space ,i.. that , sunoui ded bin i ,
thinking himself mistaken, entered.
An instant after the shadow of a man
appeared Bite at of the angle of building a pile of opposite, lumber,
ou the a new
This shadow remained for some time
immovable in front of the windows of the
Elliston mansion and then plunged again
into the darkness.
The following week Eugene Cleveland
was at his club one evening, He remarked playing
whist with the Senator.
that his unclo was not playing Mb usual
game, and saw also impnMed on his fen
turns a painful pteoeoup uncle? a said n. he, after
Are you m pam,
they had finished their game. I only
“No! no! said the Senator; am
annoyed—a tiresome atlair between two
of my tenants up the Hudson. I sent
Johnson—my head coachman, you know,
and a good fellow—up it." Iheie this morning
to inquire Senator into made few steps, then
The a re
turned to Eugene and took him aside:
“My just young friend, ” he said, “I deceived
you now; I have something on my
mind— 'li 1 something s ?“fu bl1 verv serious T nm nm ’ to t0
What ,. is V® the matter? V U ^°Fi ,y asked ’ , jt- Eugene,
whose heart sank.
“1 shall Come, tell you that probably to-mor
row. in any case, to see me to
morrow morning, won’t yon?"
“Yes, certainly.”
“Thanks. Now I shall go, for I am
really not well.” his hand affection
Ho squeezed moro
atelv than usual inv
“Good-ninht Lt° 0(1 night, my dear aenr bov uoy, ” ho ne naaeU addod
and turned around brusquely filled to bide the
tears which suddenly his eyes.
Eugene disquietude, experienced but tor tho Borne friendly moments and
a hvoly adieus of (he Senator reassured
tender
him that it did not relate to him. Still
he continued astonished and even nf
fected by tho sad emotion of the old man.
AYas it not strange? If there was ono
man in tho world whom beloved, or to
whom be would have devoted himself, it
was this one whom he had morally
wronged
lie had, however, good reason to be un
easy, and was _____i,i„ wrong in reassuring Rim
self; for the Senator, in the course of
that evening, had been informed of the
treachery of his wife; at J east, he had
been prepared for it. Only ho was still
ignorant of the name of her accomplice.
The one who informed him was afraid
of encountering the blind and obstinate
faith of the Senator, had he named Eu
gen0 _ probable, also, after what had
It was
already occurred, that had he again pro¬
nouuced that name, the Senator would
have repulsed the suspicion as a tnou
B t ro us imirossiljility, regretting even the
(bought
Eugene remained until midnight at the
c j u b an d then walked to the Elliston
mansion. He was introduced into the
house with the customary precautions,
8nd t big time we shall fo,low him there.
On account of his poor health and rest
i eBBueB g the Senator usually occupied a
i-qq^ by himself. In traversing the gar
don Ku o ene Baw the soft light, of the
night-lamp burning behind the blinds,
(jora awaited him at the door of her
boudoir, which opened of on few a circular
passage at an elevation a feet,
j^ 0 hissed her hand, and told her in a
few wordg 0 £ t b e Senator’s sadness,
She replied she had been very uneasy
a b ou t his health for some days. This
explanation seemed natural to Eugene,
Bnd he followed Cora through the dark
gnd Bi , ent roomg .
S b e held in her light hand a which small portable
lamp, the feeble of threw on
h er delicate features a strange pallor. As
t b e y passed on the rustling of her dress
was the only sound which betrayed htv
light movement. J;ed from time to time—all
tibg 8lo p
B hivering-as if to better taste the dra
mat ic solemnity which surrounded them
_( nrntd her blonde head a little to look
at £ n(fe ne, then cast on him her inspiring
Bm jl e , placed her hand on her heart, as if
to say, “I am fearful, and continued to
I’ ro< r ee ' J -
They reached . . . her chamber, , . where . dim ,.
a
gas j et faintly illumined the somber mag
nificen ce, the sculptured wainscotings,
and the heavy draperies, hearth which flick
The flame on the
^ beauu/ufltalT itaEg “wMch
formed the chief decorations of this
^do tou doubt me, Cora? Do you
doubt me’ Then I swear it 1 ” repiied
£"iLl with Itt^fcet warmth and energy f^I ss he
“ e ®““ gd at tiJ ° fte * of 01 the I#SCU nating * *
-V. fc0und o{ b j s vo ; ce bad scarcely
dj . awav “?o wbeil the door suddenly
Ve b re them
Senator entered.
fe^nd? standmg side*by Ifde?motion-
1 be beDaxo J paoseu near near the me door uoor.
hi^frame^Ind" Tie Vce'' astumed'“ft assumeU lWid
I pallor •
[TO SK CONTINUED.!
Fine sense and exalted sense are not
I half so valuable as common sense.
llEY. DR. TALHAGE.
THE BROOKLYN OWINE'S SUN
I>AY SERMON,
_
Subject: “Sustaining Power of Rc
ligion.”
Text : “ Though ye have lain among (he
pots, yet shall ye he as the wings of a (love
covered with silver and her i3. feathers with yel
low gold ."—Fsalms lxviii.,
j suppose y OU know what tho Israelites
did dovm in Egyptian slavery. They made
bricks. Amid the utensils of the brickkiln
there were also other utensils of cookery
the kettles, tho pots, the pans, with which
they prepared their daily food, and when
these poor slaves, tired of tho day’s work, lav
down to rest they lay down among the irn
plements of cookery and the implements of
hard work. When they arose in the moru
K^Whe^o^S'thST^, besmirched and begrimed with tlie utensils
of (, ookorv
But after a while the Lord broke up that
slavery, and He took these poor slaves into a
land where they had bettor garb, bright and
clean and beautiful apparel. No more bricks
for them to make. Let Pharaoh make his
own bricks. When David, in my text, comes
| to describe the trausiiion of these poor Is
raelitcs from their bondage amid the briok
kilns into the glorious emancipation for
B ball J ye be us the wings of a dove covered
wjth s(lvor auiJ lier fathers with yellow
ld »
6 ' whately. of celebrated
Mi ss the author a
book, “Life In Egypt,” said she sometimes
saw people in the East oookingtheir food on
the tops of houses, and that she had often
seen doves,' just before sundown pigeons and
which had during tho heat of the day
been hiding amongthe kettles and the pans
with which the food was prepared, picking
U P the crumbs that they might find. Just
'I 1 ’ 0 /' 1 u !° hour ? f th «Y ' T0 " ld
'heir wings and fly heavenward, entirely
unsolled by tho region in which they had
moved, for the pigeon is a very cleanly bird,
An( j ag t | 10 pjg eong Hew away the setting
gun would throw silver on their wings and
gold on their breasts. Ho you see it is not a
farfetched simile or an unnatural oom
parison when David, In my text, says to
these emancipated Israelites, and says to all
those who are brought out of any kind of
troublo into any kind of spiritual joy,
“Though yo have lain among tlie pots, yet
shall ye be as the wings of a dove covered
with silver and her feather! with yellow
8°*. • { . anPharaohfit .. , , . , ,, , Slug ,
S "keeps
h us
m a most degrading service, but after awhile
Christ oomes, and He says, “Lot My people
go,” and we pass out from among tlie brick
fiUns of sin into the glorious liberty of the
gospel. We put on the clean robes of n
Christian profession, and when nt last we
soar away to the warm nest which God has
provided forus in heaven wo shall go fairer
than a dove, its wings covered with silver
and its feathers with yellow gold,
I am going to preach something and that which
some of you do not believe, is that
the grandest possible adornment is the ro
l, S lo “ ot Josus Chriat - Ther0 "re a great
many people who suppose that religion is a
very different thing from what it really is.
The reason men condemn the Bible is because
they do not understand tho Bible. They
have not properly examined it. Dr. Johnson
said that Hume told a minister in tho bishop
rio of Durham that lie had neverpartioularly
examined tho New Testament, yot all his life
warring against it. Ilaliey, the astronomer,
announced his skepticism to Bir Isaac Ncw
ton, and Sir Isaac Newton said : “Now, sir,
I have examined tho subject, and you have
not - Anil I am ashamed that you, profess
in * g to be a philoaepher. P „! consent to condemn
hlng you have JV er examined.” religion
And so men reject the of Jesus
Christ because they really have never in
vest!gated it. They think it something Mot un¬
desirable, something that will work,
something Pecksnifflan, something hypoerit
leal, something repulsive, when it Is so
bright and so beautiful you might compare
it to a chaffinch, you might compare it to a
robin red breast, you might compare it to a
dove—its wings covered with silver and its
feathers with yellow gold,
But how is it if a young man becomes a
Christian? All through the clubrooms where
he associates, all through the business elr
oleg w i lore he is known, there is commisera
jion. They say ( “What a pity that a young
man w h 0 had such bright prospects should
so have been despoiled by those Christians,
giving up all his worldly prospects for some
thing which is of no particular present
worth !” Here is a young woman who ho¬
comes a Christian—her voice, her face, her
manners the charm of the drawing room.
Now all through the fashionable circles
the whisper goes, “What a pity that such a
bright light should have should been extinguished,
that such a graceful gait be crippled,
that such worldly prospects should be
obliterated!” Ah, my friends, it cau be
shown that religion’s and ways all her are ways of
pleasantness that paths are
peace ; that religion, instead of being dark
and doleful and lachrymose and repulsive,
is bright and beautiful, fairer than a dove,
its wings covered with silver and its feathers
With yellow gold.
See, in tho first place, what religion will
do for a man’s heart. I care not how cheer¬
ful a man may naturally be before conversion,
conversion brings him up to a higher
standard of cheerfulness. I do not say he
will laugh any louder. I do not say but he
may stand back from Borne forms of hilarity
in which he once indulged, but there eomes
into his soul an immense satisfaction. A
young man not a Christian depends upon
worldly successes to keep his spirits up.
Now he is prospered, now he has a large
salary, now he has a beautiful wardrobe,
now he has pleasant friends, now he has
more money than he knows how to spend.
Everything goes bright and well with him.
But troublecom?s. There are many young
men in the house this morning who can tea
tlfy out of their own experience that some
times to young men trouble comes-hfs
friends are gone,his salary is gone, his health
is gone. He goes down, down. He becomes
sour, cross, queer, misanthropic, blames the
world, blames society, blames the church,
blames everything, rushes perhaps to tho in
toxieating cup to drown his trouble, but
But here is a Christian young man.
Trouble oomes to him. Does ho give up?
No! He throws bimseir back on the re
EES "outfall
pluck advantage for my soul. All the prom
isee are mine, Christ is mine, Christian
panionship is mine, heaven is mine. What
though X'kr.tsK'.XK.s be gone? I have title
my money a
deed to the whole universe in the promise,
;zrirway ? ^ia though ra ^
my body-guard. What my fare bo
poor and my bread be scant? I sit at
K "what
enjoyment Oh compared* a poor shai.owstream whiT is
the deep two
overflowing river of God’s peace,
midway in the Christian heart! Sometimes
you have gone out on the iron bound
of the sea when there has been a storm on
the ocean, and you have seen the waves dash
into white foam at your feet. They did not
do you any harm. While there you thought
jaswsss s
storm was making commentary upon the pas
sage: “God is our refuge and strength,
very present help in time of trouble.
fore will I not fear, though the earth be
moved, and though the mountains be
into the midst of the sea, though the
thereof roar and be troubled, though
mountains shake with the swelling
Oh, how independent the religion
VOL. XXIII. NO. IT.
mattes a man of worldly success and worldly
circumstances! Nelson, the night before hU
last battle, said, “To-morrow I shall win
either a peerage or a grave in Westminster
Abbey.” And it does not make much differ¬
ence to the Christian whether he rises or falls
in worldly matters. Ho has everlasting re¬
nown anyway. Other plumage may be torn
in the blast.' but that soul ndorned with
Christian grace Is fairer than the dove—-its
wings covorod with silver and its feathers
with gold.
You and I have found out that people who
pretend to bo happy are not oarloaturing always happy. the
Look at that young man
Christian religion, scoffing at everything
good, going into roistering drunkenness,
dashing the champagno bottle to the floor,
rolling tbo glasses from the barroom coun¬
ter, laughing, shouting, stamping the floor.
Ts ho happy? I will go to his midnight pil¬
low. I will sea him turn the gas off. I will
ask myself if the pillow on which he sleeps
is as soft as the pillow on which that pure
young man sleeps. he his in the
Ah. no ! When opens eyes
morning, will the world he as bright to him
ns to that young man who retired at night
saying his prayers, invoking God's blessing
upon his own soul and the souls of his com¬
rades and fatiier aud mother and brothers
and sistors far away? No, no 1 His laugh
will ring out from the saloou so that you
hear it as you pass by, but It Is hollow
laughter. In It is the snapping of heart¬
strings and the rattle of prison gates. Happy
—that young man happy? the he
Let him till high bowl; Let cannot
drown an upbraiding eouscionoe. the
balls roll through the bowling alley ; the deep
rumble and voices the sharp of condemnation. craok cannot Let over¬ him
power the
whirl In the dance of sin and temptation and
death ; all the brilliancy of the scene cannot
make him forget the last look of his mother
when lie left home, when she said to him :
“Now, my son, you will do right; I am sure
yon will do right. You will, won't you?”
That young man happy? Why, eternal across darkuess every
night there flit shadows of ;
there are adders colled up in every cup ; there
are vultures of despair striking their Iron
beaks into his heart; there are skeleton
lingers of grief pinching at the throat.
I come In amid the clicking of the glasses
and under the flashing of the chandeliers,
and lory: “Woe! Wool Tile way of the
ungodly shall perish. There is no peace,
saith my God, to the wicked. The way of
transgressor is hard.” Oh, my friends,
there is ntoro joy in one drop of Christian
satisfaction than in whole riv >rs ot sinful de¬
light. Other wings may be drenehed of tile
storm and splashed of tlie tempest, but the
dove that oomos in through the window of
this heavenly ark has wings like the dove
covered with silver and her feathers with
yellow gold. I remark, religion is adornment
Again, an which In¬
in the style of usefulness Into it
ducts a man. Hero are two young men. The
one lias line culture, exquisite wardrobe,
plenty of friends, himself. great His worldly chief success, Is but for
he lives for care
his own comfort, lie lives uselessly. Hedies
unregretted. Hero is another young man.
His apparel may not lie so good ; bis educa¬
tion may not be so thorough. He lives for
others. Ills happiness is to make others
lmppy. He is as self denying as that dying
soldier falliug in the ranks, when he said :
“Colonel, there is no need of those boys tir¬
ing themselves by carrying me to the hos¬
pital. Let me die just where I am." Ho
this young man of whom I speak loves God,
wants alt the world to love him, is not
ashamed to carry a bundle of clothes up that
dark alley to the poor. Which of those young
men do you admire the batter? The ono a
sham, the other a prinos imperial. hearer,
Oh, do you know of anything, my
that is more beautiful than to seo a young
man start out for Christ? Hero Is some one
falling | ho lifts him up. Here Is a vagabond
boy ; he introduoes him to n mission school.
Here is a family freezing to death ;he carries
them a scuttle of oonl. There are 800,000,
000 perishing In midnight heathen darkness.
By all possible means ho tries to send them
tlie gospel. He may Vie laughed at, and
lie may ho sneered at, and lie may be cari¬
catured, but he Is not ashamed to go ’every¬
where saying* “I am not ashamed of the
gospel of Christ. It Is the power of God
and the wisdom of God unto salvation.”
Huoh a young man oan go through every¬
thing. There Is no force on earth or in hell
that can resist him. I show you throe spec¬
tacles : by
Spectacle the First—Napoleon with passed him to
wit It the host that went down
Egypt and up with him through Russia and
crossed the continent on tho bleeding heart
of which he set his Iron heel, and across tho
quivering flesh of which he went grinding
the wheels of his gun carriages—In his dying
moment asking his attendants to put on his
military hoots for him.
Spectacle the Second—Voltaire, bright
and learned and witty and eloquent, with
tongue and voice and strategom infernal,
warring against God and poisoning whole
kingdoms with his infidelity, yot applauded
by the clapping hands of thrones and em¬
pires and continents—his last words, in
delirium supposing Christ standing by the
bedside —his last words, “Crush that
wretch!"
Bpectacle the Tbird-Pnul—Paul Insigni¬
ficant in person, thrust out from all refined
association, scourged, spat on, hounded like
a wild beast from city to city, yet trying to
make the world good and heaven full ; an¬
nouncing resurrection to those who mourned
at the barred gates of the dead ; speaking
consolations which light up the eyes of
widowhood and orphanage and want with
glow of oertuin and eternal release; un¬ his
daunted before those who oould take
life, ills cheek flushed with transport and
his eye on heaven ; with one hand shaking
defiance at all tho foes of earth and all the
principalities .... of . hell, . aud with the ... other _
hand beckoning messenger angels to oamo
’ and hear him away as he says: l am now
ready to be offered, and the time of my -
parture is at hand. I have fought the goo have J
tight; I have finished my course; I
for kept me the a crown faith. of Henceforth righteousness, tll ‘; re jf which tl “P
Lord, the righteous Judge, will give
Which of t he three spectacles
admire? Wheu the wind of death struck the
conqueror and the infidel, they drenched wore ofthe *o**®d
like sea gulls inaUmpes, the hurricane, their dismal
wave and tom of
voices heard through the everlasting storm,
but when the wave and trie wind oi uoatri
struck I’-tuL hkei nn^ albatross, he made a
throne of the tempest and one day floated
away into the calm, clear summer of heaven,
brighter than the dove, its wings covered
with silver, and its feathers with yellow
SS^SffiK ifSS ~
a man while he lives and so muoh for a man
when lie eomes to die?
I have noticed „ , the ___ eon
supporso you may
omH he departure of^n iufldel. Diodorus,
dying in chagrin because he could not com
pose a joke equal to the joke uttered at tne
other end of the table jZeuiis, lying in a flt
'lying playing cards, his Wend holding his
hands because he was unable to hold them
“at on one side, compared who with said the
departure of the Scotch Minister,
to Ms friends: “I have no interest as to
Lorded f/l'llve the'Lord “ 5
wUU the OrC Washington,
with me.” last words of
“It is well.” Or the last word of McIntosh,
the learned and the great, ‘Happy • ur r e
last words of Hannalj More, C r stia
poetess, “Joy!’ Or those thousands oi
Christians who have gone saying. L r
Jesus, receive my spirit! Come, Lord
come quickly ! O death, where ts tn>
of the one, behold tbo darkness of the other,
Now, I know it is very popular in this day
tor young men to think there is something
more charming in skeptidsm thanin reKgiom
They are ashamed of tho old-fashioned
! ligion ofthe cross, and they pride themselves
on their free thinking on all these subjects.
My young friends, I wantAo you what
know from observation-tbat while
lam la ft beautiful lan-1 nt the start, it is a
great Sahara desert at the last.
Years ago a minister’s son went off from
home to college. At college he formed the
acquaintance of a young mau whom I sh all
oall Ellison. Ellison was an infidel. Ellison
scoffed at religion, and the minister’s son
soon learned from him the infidelity, and
when he wont heme on his vacation broke
his father’s heart by his denunciations of
Christianity. Time passed on. and Vacation
came, and the minister’s son went off to
spend the vacation and was on a Journey and„ “I
came to a hotel. The hotel keeper said:
am sorry that to-niglit I shall have to put
you in a room adjoining one where there is
a very sick and dying man. I can give you
no other accommodation.” “Oh," said the
young college student and minister’s son,
“that will make no difference to me’, except
the matter of sympathy with anybody that is
suiTerinv.”
Tho young man retired to his room, Put
could not sleep. All night long he heard the
groaning of the sick man or tho step of tho
watchers, and his soul trembled. He thought
to himsejf: “Now, there Is only a thin wall
between me and a departing spirit. How if
Ellison should know how I feci? How if F.l
lison should know liow my" skepticism heart flutters?
What if Ellison knew my gave
way?” Ho slept not. said to
In the morning, coming down, he man?”
the hotel keeper, “How is the sick
“Oh,” said the hotel keeper, “ho is dead,
poor fellow. The doctors told ns he could
not last through tho night.” “Well,” said
the young man, “what was the sick one’s
name—where Is he from?" “Well," said Col¬ the
hotel keeper, “ho Is from Providence
lege.” “Providence College! What is his
name?” “Ellison.” “Ellison 1” Oh, how
the young man was stunned I it was his old
college mate—dead without any hope.
It was many hours before tho young man
could leave that hotel. He got on his horse
and started homeward, and all the way ha
heard something saying to him: “Dead!
Lost 1 Dead! Lost f” Ho I camo to no satls
faction until he ontored the Christina life,
until he entered the Ohristinn ministry, until
he became one of tho most eminent mission¬
aries of tho cross, the greatest Baptist tho mis¬
sionary tho world has ever seen since days
of Paul—no superior to Adoniram Jadson.
Mighty on earth, mighty in heaven—Adoni¬
ram Judson, Which do you like the best,
Judson’s skepticism or Judson’s Christian
life, Judson’s suffering for Christ’s sake,
Judsom’s almost martyrdom? Oh, these young
man, take your choice between two
kinds of lives. Your own heart tells you this
morning tho Christian life is more admir¬
able, moro peacolul, more comfortable aud
more beautiful.
Oh, If religion does so much for a man on
oarth, what will It do for him in heaven?
That Is tho thought Hint comes to mo now.
If a soldier can afford to shout “Huzza!"
when he goes info battle, how much moro
jubilantly ho can afford to shout “'Huzza 1”
when he has gained the victory. If religion
Is so good a thing to linve here, how bright
a thing ft will be in hoavou ! I want to see
that young man when the glorios of heaven
have robed and orowned him. I want to
hoar him sing wheu all husk incus of earthly
oolds is gone nnd he rises up with tho great
doxology. standard he will
I want to know what
carry when marching under arches of p carl
In the army of banners. I want to k now
what company ho will keep In the land where
they are all kings and queens forever and
ever. If I have induced one of you this
morning to begin a better life, then I want to
know it. I may not in this world clasp Minds
with you in friendship. I may not hear
from your own lips the story of temptation
and sorrow, but I will clasp hands with you
wlion the sea Is passed and tho gates are en
That I might woo you to a better life, and
that I might show you the glories witbwhioli
God clothes His dear children In heaven, I
wish I could tilts morning swing back ono of
the twelve gates that there might dash upon
your ear one shout of the triumph ; that
there might flame upon your eyes one blaze
of the splendor. Oh, when £ speak of of that
good land, you involuntarily think mother, some
one there that you loved—father,
brother, sister or dear little child garnered
already. what they doing
You want to know are
this morning. I will tell you what they are
doing. Hinging I You want to know what
they wear. I will toll you what they wear.
Coronets of triumph ! You wonder why oft
they look to the gate of the temple and watch
and wait. I will toil you why they watch
und watt and look to the gate of the temple.
For year coming I I shout upward of tho will news
to-day, for I am sure some “Oh, you bright re¬
pent and start for heaven : ye
ones before the throne, your earthly friends
are coming ! Angels poising midair, cry up
the name! Gatekeeper of heaven, send for¬
ward the tidings ! Watchman on the battle¬
ments celestial, throw the signal!" going to
"Oh,” you say, “religion I am
have. It is only a question of time.”
My brother, lam afraid that you may lose
heaven the way Louts I'hilippe lost his em¬
pire. The Parisian mob came Around the
Tuilerles, the national guard stood in de¬
fense of the palace, and the commander said
to Louis Philippe : "Shall I fire now? Shall
I order the troops to fire? With one volley
we can clear the place.” “No,” said Louis
Philippo, “not yet.” A fow minutes passed
on, aud then Louis Philippe, seeing the case
was hopeless, said to the general, “Now is
tho time to fire.” “No.” said the genera),
"it Is too late now. Don’t you seo that the
soldiers are exchanging arms with tho citi¬
zens? It is too late.”
Down went the throne of Louis Philippe.
Away from the earthswent the house of Or¬
leans, and all because the king said, “Not
yet, not yet!” May God forbid that any of
you should adjourn this great subject of re¬
ligion and should postpone assailing your
spiritual foes until it is too late, too late
you losing a throne in heaven the way that
Louis Philippo lost a throne on earth.
When tlie JuCku UeMre-As tn mlgbr,
Clotiied In majesty nn i light; wlthfesr,
When the ear-h shall i.u ike
Vv h»-re, oh, where wilt cuou appear?
A Mastodon’s Tusk*,
^ prospector who down , tho ..
came on
8 ^ eamg p 1 jp * City J of Topeka / Thursday /
night from the gom ,, news hl or { zjjasaa A1
brought a number of curious relics
f rot n that far-away region. The most
jtrgti B f tbe collection is a set of
ivory tusks of all cnonnqus „, in _ mons size, „ ize the the
remalns Q f a mastodon. A great tooth
wag 8 l BO f onn( j w ith. the tusks, which
eral ».«. hundred a™™*.,«• miles • back *«r. m the moun- *«
tains from Juneau. The size of the
tnB j cg question is something pho
nomenal They form almosta semi¬
circ l e , the circumference being ten
j ge ^ ^ actual measurement, tapering
j own to »«&>.« a po i n t Irom a thickness of
.b.«t wh„.ihct«,k, P ,».
j ect f rom the head. The elements of
^ hftT© apparently bad but little ef'
mastodonic ornaments '
feet on these
for the surface is almost smooth and
near jy as hard as rock, and the com
bitted weight of the two tusks exceeds
3o0 pounds. The tooth found is of ir
regn l 8r 6 h 8pei probably through, fourteen and in
c hes long, six inches
weigus j h ten or o* fifteen pounds.—Seattle r
(Wftfih.) Telegraph.
—
- [ j j f or Haehalish. , ^ Bailey,
g c a me(
wm ^yrr 15 ,l*
brought into the L “ited States n the
fi r8 t elephant, called “Old Bet, which,
other er animals soon afterward im
ported, formed the fi lir-t traveling ave llg
men agene in this country. Van Am
the noted lion tamer, was subse
“ associated with the
] quenwy t j assotmieu kimi me company. cuu-pany.