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@k ittcrntgoniery Jffanitor.
D. 0. SUTTON, Editor and Prop'r.
DR. TALMAGE’S SERMON.
VOICES OF GARDENS AND
FIELDS,
-- " My beloved Is unto me as a clat
ter of camphire in tho vineyard* o£ Engedi ”
—Song of fcolomi n, i., 14.
Solomon's Song has been considered by
many as fit only for moon struck sentimen
talists, written by a voluptuary, the storv of
a man crazed by a fair maiden, neither fit lor
family prayers nor lor church. Indeed, we
must admit that there were years in Solo
mon's lie when ho had several hundred more
wives than ho was entitle! to, but he re
pented of his sin, and God * hose him to write
some of the best tilings about Christ that
have ever been written. Beside that,
1 think the criticism of modern times
upon the immodesty of the Bible comes with
poor grace from a century iu which the writ
ings of George Sand came to their fortieth
edition, and Christians cannot get to the
prayer meeting because they have tickets for
places of amusement so depraved that they
make ‘'The Black Crook” respectable. I
think, however, as far as I can see in my
stupidity, that there are things turned out
upon the community to-day that bid fair io
do more damage than the Song of Solomon.
Hear, now, one of his fresh and fair de
scriptions of Jesus. If I had twenty years
to preach I would like to employ ten of them
in bringing out to observation those repre
sentations of Christ that have as yet been
passed by. Ido not know why the pulpit should
hover over a few types of Christ when
there are so many symbols of Jesus that have
never been discoursed upon. Why should wo
employ all our time in examining a few lilies
when the Bible is a groat garden filled with
fuchsia,, and with dalfodils, and with ama
ranths, and evening primroses for the close
of life's day. and crocuses at the foot of the
snow bank of sorrow, and heartsease for the
troubled, and passion-flowers planted at the
foot of a cross, and morning glories spread
ing out under the splendors of the breaking
day ? Some years ago I discoursed to you
about “tho white hairs of Jesus,” and some
of the newspapers supposed it was a mere
fancy of my own—the poor fools not know
ing that in Revelations, the first and the
fourteenth, the Bible speaks of Christ: “His
head and His hairs wore white like wool —as
white as snow”—symbolizing the eternity of
Jesus.
Terraced on the side of the mountain were
the vineyards of Engedi. Oh, they are sweet
places! From a shelving of the mountain,
4nOfeet high, waters came down in beautiful
baptism on the faces of tho leaves;the grapes
intoxicate with their ow n wine;pomegrauat«s
with juices bursting from the rind; all
fruits, and iiewers, anil aromatic woods—
among the sweetest of these the camphiro
riant of the text. Its flowers are in clusters
like our lilacs—graceful,fragrant, symbolical
of Jems; for “my beloved is unto me as a
cluster of camphure from the vineyards of
Engedi.”
1 will carry out the id a of my text, and in
the first place show you that this < amphire
plant of the text was a symbol of Christ, bo
nauso of his fragrance. It 1 had a branch of
it, and should wave it in your midst, it would
fill the house with its redolence. The cam
phire, as we have it, is offensive to some; but
the camphire plant of the text has a fra
franco gracious to all. The vineyards of
Ingedi Lathed in it—the branches, the buds,
the blossoms dripping with sweetness, typical
of the sweetness of Christ.
How sweet the name of Jesus sounds
In a believer's ear I
It soothes ’lis sorrows, heals his wounds,
And drives away his fear.
The name of Ciesar means power; the
nau o of Herod means cruelty; tho name of
Alexander means conquest; the name of De
mosthenes means eloquence; the name of
Milton means poetry; the name of Benjamin
West means painting; the name of Phidias
means sculpture;tke name of lieethoven means
music; the name of Howard means reform;
but the name of Christ means love. It is the
sweetest name that o ver melted from lip or
heart. As you open an old chest that has
long been closed, the first thing that strikes
you is the- perfuma of the herbs
that were packed amid the clothing; so there
are hundreds ol hearts here which, if opened,
would first offer to you the name of Jesus.
Havo you u t seen Him? Through the dark
night of your s:n has Ho not flashed upon
your vision? Beautiful when lie comes to
save you. A little child was crying very
much during the time of tlin eclipse. It got
so dark at noon that she was afraid and kept
Gobbing, and could not be silence! until
after awhiio the sum caino out again,
and she clapped her bands and said:
“Uh, the suui tho sun I” Some of us
have been in the darkness cf our sin;
eclipse after e iipse has parsed over our soul;
but after awhile the Suu of Righteousness
poured His beams upon our hearts, and we
criei: “Tho sun! thesunl” Beautiful dawn
in the straw of Bethlehem Khan! Beautiful
in His moth r’s shawl, a fugitive to Egypt!
Beautiful with His feet in tho Galilean surf I
Beautiful with the children hanging about
His neckl Beautiful in the home i irclo of
Bethany! Fairer than the sons of men; day
spring from on high: l:g t for those who sit
in darkness, rose of c Ire on lily of the valley
—altogether lovely! Oh! He is su h a sin
pardoner, such a trouble sooi her, such a
wound-binder, such a grave-breaker, that the
fainte :t pronun iatiou of His name rousei up
the in en-o of the garden, anil all the t er
fumo of the tropics; while the soul, in ecstasy
of affection, rfes out: “My beloved is unto
me as a luster of camphire from the vine
yards of Kng fit”
But bow shall I talk of tho sweetness of
Christ s pardon to the e who have never felt
it : of the sweetness of His comfort to those
who have refused his pr< mise; of the sweet
ness of His face to those who have turned
their back upon His love! Now, a groat
many pe iple may think this is merely sickly
sentimentalism. Jonathan Edwards was a
cool man. He was harsh in some of his opin
ions, he was never afflicted with any senti
mental ardor, and yet, when the name of
Christ was mentioned, it threw him iuto a
transport. Paul was a cool logi ian,
with nerves unshaken in the Medi
terranean shipwre-k, a granitic nature,
comfortable with the whole world against
him. shaking his fist in the face of tlie gov
emmentsof earth and tho iorcesof darkness;
yet the thought of Christ thrillei him,
transported him, overwhelmed him. John
ICnox was unbending in his nature an 1 hard
in some respects. The flash of his indigna
tion made the Qu* en sh'iver and the Duchess
quake, yet he sat down as a little chil l at
the feet of Jesus. Be lomon was surrounded
by all palatial splendor—his ships going out
from Ezion-geber on voyages of three j earn,
bringing la"k all the wonders of the world,
his parks afloat with myrrh and frankin
rer.S). and a rustle with trees brought from
foreign lands: the tracei of his stupendous
gardens found by the traveler at this day.
Solomon sits down at this place to think of
Christ, the altogether lovely, and the alto
gethc- fa r: and whilst seated there corner a
breath of the spices and aromatic woods, and
of the blossoms in through the palace wdn
uo'.v. and he cries out: “My beloved is unto
me as a cluster of camphire from the vine
yards of Engedi.”
Oh. rich and rare, exquisite and everlast
ing perfume! Let it in every poor man's
windows: piant it on every grave; put its
leaves under every dying head: wreathe its
b.osaoms lor every garland; wave its tranche*
In every home; and when 1 aih about to die,
and my lland has cold and stiff and white
U)xin the pillow, let some plain and hunu.ie
*oul come and put in my dj iug grasp this liv
ing branch with clusters “of camphire from
tho vineyards of Engedi.”
It is many years now since I found the
Lord, and I must in your presence tell you
how good He has been to my soul. Ot ten
since then I have given Him a hard thrust iu
His sore side, but He lias been patient with
me by day and by night It is tho grief of
my life that I have treated Him so badly,
but Ho has never let mo go. I have seen sip
wonderful sights, I have heard no wonderful
sounds, I have no marvelous experience; it
has beon a plain story of patience on His part
and of unworthiness on my part. Some of my
dear friends before me have >ad -i-we
rapturous experience. Christ to them lias
boon the connquerer on the white horse, or
the sun of righteousness, setting everything
ablaze with light; or tho bridegroom, com
ing with lantern and torches. To me it has
beon a very quiet and undemonstrative ex
perience. It has been something very sweet,
but very still. How shall I describe it? 1
have it now: “My beloved is unto me os a
cluster of camphire from the vineyards of
Engedi”
But I remark further: This camphire
piant of tho text was a symbol of Christ in
the fact that it gives coloring. From tho
Mediterranean to the Gangos the people of
the East gathered it, dried the leaves, pul
verized thorn, and than used them as a dye
for beautifying garments or thoir own per
sons. It was that fact that gave the cam
phire plant of the text its commercial valu*
In the time of lviug Bolomon—a type of uir
l.ord Jesus, who beautifies and adorns and
colors everything He touches. I have no
faith in that man s conversion whose religion
does not color his whole life. It was intended
so to do. If a mtui has the grace of God in his
heart it ought to show itself in tho life. There
ou :ht to be this “duster of camphire” in the
ledger, in the roll of government securities,
in the medical prescription, in the law book.
A religion is of no value to a merchant unless
It keeps him from putting false labels on his
goods; or to the plasterer, unless it keeps him
from putting up a ceiling which he knows
will crack in six mouths; or to tho driver,
unless it keeps him from lashing his horses to
eight miles an hour when the thermometer is
at ninety; or to tho farmer, unless it keeps
him from putting the only sound pippins on
tho top of tho barrel; or to tho shoemaker,
unless it keeps him from substituting brown
paper for good leather in the soles, m other
words, the religion of Christ is good for
everything or it is good for nothing.
Tho grace of God never affo ts us by
piecemeal. If tho heart, is changed, the head
is changed, and the liver is changed, nnd the
spleen is changed,aud the hands are changed,
and the feet aw changed, and the store is
changed, and the house is changed,and every
thing over which man has any influence
comes to a complete and radical change. The
religicn of the Lord Jesus Chr st is not a put
of hyacinths, to be set in a parlor bay win
dow for passers by to look at and to be ex
amined by ourselves only when we have
comnanv, but it » to be a porfumo filling
all the room of the heart os “a cluster of
camphiro from tho vineyards of Engedi.”
The trouble is men do not take their religion
with them. The merchant leaves it outside
the counter, l-sd it disturb tho goods. The
housekeeper will not let her religion trail its
robes In tho kitchen on washing day. The
philosopher will not let his religion come iu
amid the batteries, lost it get a galvanio
shock. But I tell you unless your religion
foes with you everywhere, it goes nowhere.
hat religion was intended to color all the
heart ami the life.
But, mark you, it was a bright color. For
the most part it was an orange dye made of
tliis camphire plant, one of the most brilliant
of all the colors: nnd so the religion of Jesus
Christ casts no blackness or gloom upon the
»oul. It brightens up life; it brightens up
everything. There is no more religion in a
funeral than there is in a wedding; no more
religion iu tears than in smiles. David was
no l etter when ha said he cried out of the
depths of hell than he was when he said
that his mouth was filled with laughter
and his tonguo with singing. The best men
that I have ever known have laughed tho
loudest. Religion was intended to brighten
up ail our character. Take out the sprig of
cypress from your coat and put in “a cluster
of eampliTre from the vineyards of Engedi.”
Religion s “ways are ways pleasantness, aud
all her paths are peace.” I have found it so.
There are hundreds in this house who have
found it so.
1 remark again, that the camphire plantof
the text was a symbol of Jesus Christ be
cause it is a mighty restorative. You know
that there is nothing that starts respiration
as soon in one w h i has fainted as camphor, as
we have it. Put upon a sponge or handker
chief, the effeats are almost immediate.
Well, this camphire plantof the text, though
somewhat different from that which we
have, was a pungent aromatic, and in that
respect it becomes a typo of our Lord
Jesus Christ, who is the mightiest of re
storatives. I have carried this cam
phire plant into the sick room, affor
tho doctors have held their eousultation
and said there was no hope and nothing more
could lie done, and the soul brightened up
under the spiritual restorative. There is no
fever, no marasmus, no neuralgia, no con
sumption, no disease of the body that the
grace of God will not help. I wish that over
every bed of pain and through every hospital
of distress we might swing this “cluster of
camphire from the vineyards of Engedi.”
Christ’s hau l is the softest pillow, Christ’s
pardon is the strongest stimulus, Christs
comfort is the mightiest anodyne, Cbrist’3
salvation is the grandest restorative. It
makes a man mightier than his physical dis
tress.
Art thou weary? Art thou languid? Art
thou sore distressed!
"Come with me,” saith One—“and coming,
be at rest."
If I ask Him to roceive me, will he say me
nay?
Not till earth and not till heaven pass away.
Finding, following, keeping, struggling, is
He * ire to bless!
Saints, apostles, prophets, martyrs, answer
yes!
Nero tarred and put pitch upon the Chris
tians of his day, and then set them on fire,
that they might illuminate the night round
about the palace, but, while they were burn
ing, and the crowd beneath were jeering,
louder than all the noise went up the song of
sraise5 raise and triumph from the dying martyrs.
ohn Bradford came out in presence of the
instrument of torture that was to put him to
death and said: “I am a Christian now; I
have never been before.” And so again and
again the lion of Judah’s tribe has torn to
pia -es this wild beasts of martyrdom.
This gra- e is also a restorative for the back
slider. Who do you mean by that! you say.
I mean you who used to frequent the hou «
at God, but seldom go there now; you who
once need to pray, but never pray now; you
who once sat at the holy communion, but
take not the Lord’s cup now; I mean you
who once rejoiced in Christian society, b it
now sit among g'offers. Backsliderl Oh,
whata suggedive word! Backslider! From
what have you slid back! You have slid
back from your fathers faith, from your early
good habits. You have been sliding back from
Christ, from the cro-J) —sliding back from
Heaven. When a man begins to slide he
knows not where be will go. You have been
sliding back toward darkness. You have been
sliding back toward an unblessed grave,
toward a precipice, the first ten million miles
of which downward are only a small [ art of
the eternal plunge. You were, perhaps, pro-
MT. VERNON, MONTGOMERY CO., OA., THURSDAY, AYGl T ST 12, ißßfc
lessors In tfie country; you have made ship
wreck iu the town. It way bo that the
Blub blasted you; it may lie that fashionable
society destroyed you; it may bo the kind
of wife whom you married. You have no
more hope for Heaven near than if
you had lived in Central Asia mid never
heard of Christ and tho judgment. Oh,
where is that Bible you used to read l Where
Is that room where you used to pray? What
have you done with that Jesus whose voice
you once hoard? Oh, murdered hours! Oh,
inassa rod privileges! Oh, dea l opportuni
ties! Wake up now ami shriek in that man’s
ear until he shall rouse himself from the hor
rible somnambulism, walling, as he does, fast
asleep, within an Inch of hell. Oh, that he
might cry Out now: “Golden Sabbaths,
come back! Communion seasons, come back!
Wooings of the Holy Ghost, come back!"
But they will not coma Gone, gone, gone!
Sorrow will come, but not tlyjy. Ob, that
you might save the few remaining years of
vour life and cons crate them to Christ! I
nave seen sad sights i have heard sad
sounds; but I tell you the ghastliest thing
outside the gates of the damned is n back
sliders deathbed, Do you not feel like hav
ing applied to your soul this divine restor
ative! Do you not feel like crying out with
David: “Restore unto me tho joys of thy
salvation?" For great sin, great pardon; for
deep wounds, omnipotent surgery; for d as
ears, a divine aurist; fer blind eyes, a
iieaveuly oculist; for the dead in sin, the
upheaval of a great resurrection.
llut iu the heavenly world we shall feel the
chief restorative power of religion. This is a
planetof weeping we are living on. We enter
upon life with a cry and leave it with a long
sigh. If I could gather up the griefs of this au
dieuce and put them in one sentence and then
utter it, it would make everything between
here and the throne of God shudder aud howl
The earth is gashed deep with graves. As at
the eloso of the war, sometimes we saw a
regiment of one hundred and fifty men, the
fragments of the thousand meu that went
out, so, as I stand before you, l cannot but
realize the fact that you are tho fragments
representing hundreds of regiments of joyful
as-oeiuti ms that have been broken up for
ever. Oh, this is a world of sorrow! But,
blessed be God! there will be no sorrow in
heaven. The undertaker will have to have
Some oth r busino-s there. In the sum
mer time our cities will have bills of
mortality which are frightful—sometimes
in New 'York a thousand deaths in a week;
sometimes it has been two thousand in Lon
don; but in that great heavenly city there
will not be a single casi of sickness or death;
not one black dress of mourning, hut plenty
of white robes of joy; handshaking of wel
come, but none of separation. Why, if ono
trouble should attempt to enter Heaven,
tho shining police of the city would
put it in in nr everlasting arrest. II all
iho sorrows of iilo, inuilod and sworded
under Apollyon, should attempt to force that
gate, ono company from the tower would
strike them l ack howling to the pit Room
in heaven for ail tho raptures that ever
knocked at the gate, but no smallest annoy
ance, though slight as a summer insect.
Doxology, but no dirge. Banqueting, but no
"funeral baked meats. '
No darkness at nil, no grief at nil. no sick
ness at all, no death ut all. A soul waking
up iu that placa will say: “Can it be that
lam here? Will my head never ache again!
Shall 1 never stumble over a grave again?
Will I novel- say goodbye to lovod ones
again? Can it bo possible that the stream is
oust, that tho bank is guim-d, that tho glory
1; begun? Show me .lesus that I may
ki.-s His feet." When the clock of Christian
suffering has run down it will nover lie
wound up again. Amid the vineyards of the
heavenly Engedi, that will be restoration
without any relapse. That will be day with
out auy su ceding n’ght. That will bo “th*
saints’ everlasting rest.”
.. .. " . i
Motors.
The future of the world’s progress rests
largely with the improvement of its mo
tors. Steam has given vast impetus —has
made the electric light and electric heat
possible. The era of improved motors
upon which we arc entering will give us
vastly improved methods, compared with
our present conditions. We shall have
improved ruii cars, improved and cheaper
freight transit, and in many ways vastly
improved conditions. Improved rnortors
will give us an improved and cheaper
electric light arid electric heating and
electric power. The field is vast for im
provement in this direction.
The motor of labor is money. Men
labor and live for money. Life is prior
without it. Disturb money and you dis
turb the entire fabric of labor and indus
try.
But the motor of all motors is labor.
Labor coins and counts stores and guards
the money. Labor sets in motion the
ponderous engine which rusts in idleness
until the act of labor sets the wheels in
motion. Labor and capital are the Sia
mese motors of the age. They must work
together.
Behind these—the life of each—is the
great moral motor of Right. Without
this the good-will to man the world s
forces jar. The rhythm ceases, and ere
long prosperity fails. Bight in education,
right in conception, right in execution
are the great motors of humanity.
Fun for the Court.
The constable was s- nt out to bring an
impirtant witness on a trial before a Da
kota justice of ihe | e ice. He soon re
turned without the man.
“What’s the matter?” demanded the
justice.
•‘I found him holding a man’s coat
during a fight and so didn’t disturb him,
your honor. ”
“Sir!” thunder d the justice, “don’t
you understand your duties better than
that?”
“Why, your honor, I thought this was
your ruling in such < ases.”
“No, sir! this court was never guilty
of making any such order.”
“What was it then:’’
“That you were to immediately bring
the parlies fighting into the court room,
whee they could have it out and I could
see that they had fair play. Go right
back after them. The jury will remain
seated, and some of the spectators will
please move hack the chairs and form a
ring. Any gentleman making Lets must
deposit the f takes with the court, who
will retain ten per cent, commission. If
this court knows herself, she is going to
have her share of the fun that isgoingjon
in this town '."—Eatelline {Dak.) Bell.
it it were not for the weaknesses ol
the mijoritv tho suojess of the ftv
would be a myth.
"SUB DEO FACIO FORTITER."
Satisfied.
After the toil and turmoil,
And tho anguish of trust belled;
After th<> burthen of weary cares.
Baffled longings, migrant**! prayers,
After the passion, nnd fever mul fret,
After the aching of vain regret,
After the hurry and heat of strife,"
Tho yearning and tossing that men call
“life;”
Faith that mocks and fair hopes denied,
Wo —shall be satisfied.
When the golden bowl is broken.
At the sunny fountain side;
When the turf lies green and cold above,
Wrong, mul sorrow, mid loss, and love;
When the great dumb walls of silence stand
At the doom of the undiscovered land;
When all we have left in our olden plaeo
Is an empty chair and a pictured face;
When tho prayer is prayed, and tho sigh is
sighed,
Wo—shall bo satisfied.
When does it boot to quest ion,
When answer is aye denied?
Better to listen the Psalmist’s redo.
And gather tho comfort of his creed;
And in peace and patience possess our souls,
Whilothe wheel of fato in its orbit rolls,
Knowing that sadness and gladness pass
Like morning dews from tho summer grass,
And, when once wo w in to the further side,
We —shall be satisfied.
AT DAGGERS’ POINTS.
“You see, I’ve lmd considerable expe
rience in these Ancona and Fordway
shares,” said Mr. Leigh, rubbing the bald
spot on the crown of his head. “Aud I
advise you logo in for ’oml”
“Thanks," said Richmond Grey, care
lessly, "I’ll look into the matter.”
“And all this time I am detaining you
from your dinner,” cried Mr. Leigh.
“Pray excuse me; I never thought of
that.”
“It’s of no consequence,” said Grey,
moodily. “I don’t know but that I
shall step into Delmonico’s."
“And Mrs. Grey?”
Tho young husband shrugged his
shoulders.
“Pardon an old friend’s curiosity—but
I hope you have not quarreled?" asked
Leigh, with a solicitous glance.
“Quarreled? We never do anything
else 1”
“Are you in earnest?”
“Yes; serious, sober earnest!”
“But—pardon me, once again—yours
was a love match?”
“Unfortunately, yes!”
“And you arc not happy?”
“I don’t know why," said the young
man, with a perturbed face. “No, we
are not happy. Agnes never meets me
xvitli a smile. I have done my best to
please her, and in vain—and now I have
left of! trying!"
And Redmond Grey sauntered off with
his hands in his pockets, and his chin
drooping listlessly upon his breast, while
old Mr. Leigh looked after him witli a
sigh.
“There’s a screw loose somewhere, ”
said he. “There he goes, into the res
taurant wit.li Archer and Lonsdale;
there’ll be several bottles of gold-seal
damaged, and a round bill to pay, wind
ing up wilii an evening at billiards.”
And off trotted Mr. Leigh to tho beef
steak that formed his frugnl dinner at a
cheap eating-house. For Mr. Leigh be
longed to the noble army of old bachelors.
At tiie same hour a tall, beautiful wo
man was pacing up and down the floor of
a handsomely furnished dining-room in a
brown-stone house up town, while the
rustling of her rich amethyst-colored silk
dress made a sound like tho waves of the
sea.
“It’s too bad,” said Agnes Grey, bit
ing her full scarlet lip. “The second
time he’s been late within a week. And
yesterday he forgot all about that box
for the theatre. But I’ll show him what
I think of his behavior when he comes in.”
She rang the bell sharply, a servant
answered the summons.
“Dinner, Spencer!” said she.
“But, ma’am, my master hzz art
“Dinner, I say! Do you hear met"
Miss Tilly Handley, Agnes Grey’n ma
ture single cousin, shrugged her shoul
ders as Spencer left the room.
“Is it worth while to excite yourself
about such a trifle, Agnes?” she said.
“A trifle!” cried the indignant young
wife. “I don’t call it a trifle. If the
man had a particle of affection left for
me he would not treat me so!”
“If he could sec your face just at pres
ent, Agnes, he would be pretty certain
to absent liimself,” quietly observed
Miss Handley. “Do you know, rny dear,
I think you scold him too much?”
“Not enough, you mean.”
“I mean just what I say. A man don’t
like the reins held too tight.”
But when Richmond Grey himself
sauntered in later in the evening, a cloud
came over her classically beautiful face.
“Well,” said be, “does any one want
to go to the opera to-night?”
“To the opera?” echoed Agnes with an
expressive glance at the o rnolu clock,
which occupied tho place of honor ou
the mantel. “It is too late.”
“Not a bit too late. Who cares for
tho overture? Will you go?”
Mrs. Grey coldly shook her head.
“I do not care to go now.”,
“Very well, then 1 shall go alone.”
“Just ns you please,” said Mrs. Grey,
haughtily. And Richmond Grey went
out, closing the door not very gently be
hind him.
Agnes burst into tears. “He behaves
like a brute,” said she.
“And you behave like a goose," said
Tilly Handley. “Now he will »“>t como
back until the ‘wee suin’ hours,’ —,tn»l I
would not if I were he.”
“Let him stay away then,” said Agnes.
“Oh dear, how I wish 1 had never left
uncle and mint Miishaitil”
“I have no doubt Richmond wishes so
too,” said Tilly, calmly.
Two weeks from that evening, Rich
mond Grey cunic home with a tiny little'
bouq ct of hot-liouse flowers in his hand
and a new hook under his arm. It was
the birthday of his wife.
“We are not happy,” said Grey, “but
perhaps it is partly my fault. If 1 go
back to the milliners and custom* of old
courting days, perhaps the old charm will
return. At all events, it is worth trying
for.”
As he opened tho door and entered his
wife’s boudoir, a curious sense of vacan
cy and Absolution smote upon him. No
ono was thare; but upon tho table lay a
small note addressed to him. Mechani
cally, ho opened it.
“When you read this,” were the words
that saluted his eyes, “I shall have left
the protection of your roof forever. I
feel that wo cannot make each other
happy, and it is useless longer to keep up
the farce of social happiness and mutual
os teem. I shall return to my undo nnd
aunt. You arc free to scloct your own
path in life. Agnes.”
Richmond Grey dropped the cruel bil
let as if an arrow had smitten him to tho
heart.
“Agnes!” ho gasped. “Agnes, my
wife, my darling!”
For never until this moment, in which
he learned that she was gone, did lie
comprehend how dearly he loved her,
how necessary sho was to his happiness.
He sank pale and half paralyzed with
horror, into his seat, covering Ids face
with his hands.
“Agnesi Agnes!” ho gasped, “I can
not live without you.”
“Richmond!”
lie started up with a low cry. Before
him, dressed in black serge, like a palo
and lovely nun, stood his lost wife.
“I could not go, Richmond,” she
sobbed. “1 could not leave you when
the moment for my final decision came.
I did not know how deeply rooted was a
wife’s love for her husband. And I be
gan to realize that f had been haughty,
cold and capricious—-that I had not al
ways treated you as I should. Will you
forgive me, Richmond? Will you let us
begin our married life over again?”
“My darling Agnes!” was all that ho
could say, but the tears that glittered in
his eyes spoke more eloquently than any
words.
That was tho night of their new be
trothal, the end of all their married mis
eries. And the key to all the mystery
was very simple—-to hear and to forbear.
“I thought it would all come right in
time,” said Miss Tilly Ilandloy, triumph
antly.—New York Hun.
Tho Largest Cotton Blunter.
Since the death of Col. Edward Rich
ardson of Misdsippi, Mr. C. M. Neil of
Bine Bluff, Ark., is, perhaps, the largest
cotton planter in the South. He was bora
in Alabama and is only thirty-eight years
of age. In 1860 lie went to Arkansas
penniless and went to work on a farm.
He is now president of the First National
Bank of Bine Bluff and lias 12,000 acres
of cotton in cultivation. He owns three
large stores and a railroad twenty-six
miles in length, all of which runs through
one of his plantations Ho is now build
ing another road forty-two miles in length
through his plantations. Mr. Neil’s
wealth is estimated at $8,000,000. Re
cently he advanced to one person SOO,OOO.
The moment he heard of the Hot Springs
fire he forwarded 800 barrels of flour, 200
barrels of eornmeal, 20,000 pounds of
beef, besides clothing, &<■., for the bene
fit of the sufferers. —Baltimore Hun.
The Biscuits Were llcary.
At the tea table:
Phasceius—“My dear, I have a sugges
tion to offer.”
Lavina—“ Well, what is it, pray?"
Phasceius —“It is that we have these
biscuits adorned xvitli painted decorations
of Japanese design, apply for a copyright
and get some wholesale stationer down
town to introduce them to the trade as
Mikado paper weigiits. What do you
say?”
But she was silent .—Detroit Free Brett.
VOL. I. NO. 23.
Again.
AgSfrt, ns evening draweth nlgfr,.
Mv SMll most, sadly needs thee;
Again, fo.Mtso my heart with song".
My poet Ntfcry leads mo;
Again the sun ißtrtw down to rest,
All wrapped in fe '(twiou» splendor;
Again thy voice falls .on my ear
In accents low and tcnJw-
Again, as in tho glad old timo,
Thy hand I’m fondly pressing;
Again I note with rapturo sweot
Thy manner so caressing;
Again the evening’s slipping by
On wings of cruel lleotness;
Agnin I prem thy rosy lips.
And sip their dewy sweetness.
Again into thy haze! eyes
The lovolight’s softly Mealing;
Again I see thy bosom swell,
Tho tale of ]ovo revealing;
Again thy face looks up to mine,
With love past all expressing;
Attain upon thy ggpoious hood
1 crave God’s richiNt blessing.
~K V. CaveU.
HUMOROUS.
A pen picture —A fat pig.
Hoops arc still in fashion—on flour
barrels.
There is nothing so fruitful as current
opinion.
The blacksmith secures prosperity by
being always on the strike.
“This requires head work,” as tho
barber snid when preparing for a sham
poo.
There is a hen in Florida that lays two
eggs a day. This country will be ruined
by cheap labor.
The pleasantest way to tako cod liver
oil is to fatten pigeons witli it, and then*
eat the pigeons.
The farmer is more seriously a fleeted
than anybody else when everything goes
against the grain.
All men are not proud, but the chap
with tho bald head knows that ho looks
best with his hat on.
“Name the most dangerous straits,”'
said the teacher. “Whiskey straights,"
replied the student promptly.
There is some appropriateness in
ing of a lady’s bonnet us “just killing”
in those days. It is chiefly inode up of
dead birds.
Young housewife—What misorabln
little eggs again. You really must tell
them, Jane, to let the hens sit on thorn a
little longer.
A number of Philadelphia ladies have
formed an association to do mending for
bachelors, it is conjectured that they
“sew” that they may “reap."
The man who thought he could grow
wiso by eating sage choose, was own
brother to the one who believed he could
live on the milk of human kindness.
A tramp, who was driven from a house
by an irate party with a club, rcinurkcd
that such conduct was most ungentle
manly and lie felt very much put out.
Oil aeard in a Philadelphia street car
is a great truth thus succinctly stated ;
“Advertising is a great deal like making
love to a widow- it can’t ho overdone.”
What is tho difference between tho
man who cuts off tins end of his pro
bosis and a hoy who has just finished
bis task ? One lessens his nose, and
the other knows his lessons.
“Can’t you give us something with a
stick in it? asked Mr. Smartic, putting a
quarter on tho soda fountain and wink
ing knowingly. “Oh, certainly,” said
the polite attendant, and ho wrapped up
a bottle of mucilage and swept the coin
into tho drawer.
“Bay, Mr. Goggle scope, what do you
come to our house so often for?” Gogglc
scope (patronizingly) —“Now, Tommy,
you must ask your sis'er Clara that,
when she comes into the parlor—just ask
her.” “Well, I did, and she said she’d
he blest if she knew.”
Tho Retort Courteous
A blatant, braying sample of the loud
voiced, self conscious, look-at-mc variety
of men took his seat in a Philadelphia
street car, and called to the conduc
tor:
“Docs this car go all the way to
Eighth?”
“Yes, sir,” responded tho conductor,
politely.
“Does it go up as far as Oxford street?
I want to get off there.”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply.
“Well,l want you to tell me when you
get there. You’d better stick a wafer on
your nose, or put a straw in your mouth,
or tie a knot in one of your lips, so that
you won’t forget it.”
“It would not be convenient for one
in my position to do so,” said the con
ductor, “hut if you will kindly pin your
cars around your neck, I think Fwill re
member to tell you.”
Amid the roar of the passengers,
the man said that ho had
forgotten something, and got oil at the
next corner. — Puck.