Decatur Democrat, Volume 38, Number 25, Decatur, Adams County, 7 September 1894 — Page 5

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*\l #///" lU /if I I 1 11 **n 7 Ofi - ff\\J fl Jilt ■* ■FI ■ — CHAPTER XXlll—ConUntuKl James Wyatt paced his room in the darkening shadows, deep in thought. He had sent a poisoned barb to the heart of the man he hated, and ho was Siad. There was not a petty slight of ays gone by, not a small insolence, for which he had not paid himself handsomely by to-night’s work; but it was not to avenge the millionaire’s petty slights and small insolences, not to uplift the wounded crest of his own self-esteem, viper-like, that he had stung his enemy. His hatred of Gilbert Sinclair had a deeper root than wounded pride. Disappointed love was its source. But for Gilbert Sinclair he might have been loved by the one woman whose regard he valued. Clara Walslngham’s constancy to her old lover was the offense that made Gilbert loathsome to his quondam friend, and it was to gratify his own jealousy that he had aroused the demon of jealousy in his rival's breast. “He shall know the flavor of the anguish he has caused me,” thought Wyatt, “if his coarse soul can suffer as I have suffered for a woman's sake. Whether his wife is guilty or innocent, matters nothing to me. The pain will be his. If he were man enough to blow his brains out, now, there might be a chance for me with Clara. So long as he lives she will cling to the hope of winning him back. Where is she hiding, I wonder, and. what is her scheme of life, while I am wearing my life out for her sake?" Mr. Wyatt had not seen Mrs. Walslngham yince that interview in which evening, te*Ained to make peace with her at any jaoriflee of his own dignity, with the slavish pertinacity of a man who passionately love*- He had driven up to the door, expecting to see the lighted windows shining out on the wintry street; to hear Herr KlavierFChlager pounding the Erard, and the hum and twitter of many voices, as he went ud the narrow flower-scented staircase; bit to his surprise the windows were all dark, and a sleepy little maid-servant camo to the door with a sputtering tallow candle, and informed him that Mrs. Walsingham had gone abroad, the maidservant knew not whither. “Was there no direction left for forwarding letters?” asked Mr. Wyatt “No, sir, not as I knows oi. The hagent, p’r’aps, wot has the lettin’ of the ’ous might know.” Mr. Wyatt went to the solicitor, who politely refused to give his client’s address. “Perhaps she hai gone into a convent," thought James Wyatt, at his wits’ end, and this disappointment added not a little to the bitterness of his feelings toward that profitable client of his, Gilbert Sinclair. *«•. ♦ » • * Staples, the.butler, came in with the lamps, shut the solid oak shutters, cleared the tables, and brought his master a cup of coffee, all in an orderly and respectable manner that was well worth his sixty pounds a year, Mr. Wyatt was a man who would not have kept a bad servant a week, and never parted with a good one. The postman's knock Founded on the ponderous door while Mr. Wyatt was sipping his coffee, and Staples came in with several letters on a silver waiter. James Wyatt spread them out before him thoughtfully, as if they were cards and he were calculating their value. Handsome, creamy envelopes, thick and aristocratic, with armorial bearings on the seals; others blue and business-like, and unpretendingly inexpressive. One narrow little envelope, thin, green, and shiny—this was the first he opened. Whe letter it contained was written in a small, scratching hand, unmistakably foreign, litt'e curly tails to all the d’s, a general tcra-giness In the y’s, a paucity of capitals. “Why do you not let me see you, or write to me? Is it not that it is cruel, after so much of promises? _~%pu.leave me to languish, without you that I shall content to be aTervant for always, after what you have promised? But do not believe it I have too much spirit. It must that I talk to you of all that at leisure, the eyes in eyes, that I may see you if you are true, if you have goad intentions to my regard. Wi ite me, and very quickly, my friend, it must that I have of your news. Always your MELANIE.” “This comes of an innocent flirtation- pour passer le temps—in a stupid country-house,” said Mr. Wyatt, crumpling the letter savagely. “This girl will worry my life out I was a fool to amuse myt elf with such a dangerous litt e viper. And if I were to bo frank with her, and tell her to go about her business, she might make matters unpleasant for me. The law comes down rather heavily on anything in the shape of conspiracy, and that little affair at Schoenesthal might be made to assume that complexion. And the law never comes down so heavily as when it gets it# hoof on a mi n who has plenty to lose. Your B itish jury, too, has no liking for a m m who turns his superfluous capital to good account by lending it to fools. No. I must keep that Schoenesthal bu iln-'ss out of the law courti at any cost. Melanie must be pensioned, and sent back to her native valley, or her hatlve slum—for I should think such I

an artful young person must have boen i born in some festering city alley I rather than among vineyards or orchards.” Mr. Wyatt went to his writing-table, and answered Mlle. Duports letter without delay—briefly and cautiously. CHAPTER XXIV. oiusaav asks a qvxbtiom. - If Lord Clanyarde had been within easy reach, Gilbert Sinclair would have gone straightway to upbraid him with his treachery In bringing Sir Cyprian to Davenant disguised and in a false name; but Lord Clanyarde, finding himself at 50 years of ago entirely unfettered by domestic incumbrances, was indulging his natural frivolity among more agreeable people than his serious and business-like fel-low-countrymen. Lord Clanyarde was eating ices and playing dominos under the colonnades of Venice, with thoughts of moving to Tyrolean mountains when the weather grew too warm in the fair sea-girt city. So Gilbert, not being able to get at Lord Glanyarde, nursed his wrath to keep it warm, and went straight home to Davenant Park, where Constance was leading her calm and happy life, seeing hardly anything of wnat the world calls *Yociete,” but surrounded by the people she had known since her childhood—the good old rector, who had christened her; the devoted little doctor, who had watched her so patiently when her dull eyes had hardly recognized his familiar face; the school-mlstre s, the old pupils, the gray old gardeners, and sunburned game-keepers; the gaffers and goodies who had been old when she was a baby, and seemed hardly any older for the twenty years that had passed over their heads since then. Cheeks a little more shriveled, perhaps, brows more deeply wrinkled, shoulders a trifle more bent, but exactly the tame appreciation of tea and tobacco, half crowns and new neckerchiefs, the Psalms and the rector’s sermons. Never had spring seemed to her so beautiful as it seemed this year, when she led her little girl through the woods and showed her the newly awakened flowers, and told her the names ofjthe.blrds that poured out such gushing songs of gladness in the warm bright noon. The child’s lips began to shape Isolated words—mam, mam, and birdie, lowers for flowers—divine lanI urao lion. Once, inspired by some familiar spirit of evil, she could not resist dropping a little poison into her mistress’ cup of joy. “Do you feel quite sure there has been no mistake, ma’am?” she asked. “I sometimes fancy our darling could not have been saved: I saw her carried away by the current, carried past me like a straw, and it has never been quite explained how she was rescued.” Constance looked at her with eyes on fire with indignation. “Am I sure that this is my child?" i she cried, clasping the baby to her j breast. “Am I sure of my own name, of my life? Il all the rest of li'e were a dream or a shadow, I should know that Christabel was real and true. Who can deceive a mother?” “You were so ill when the little girl was brought home,” suggested Melanie, with an air of conscientious doubt. “Not too ill to remember my Christabel. We knew each other, did we I not darling? Our lips clung together • as if we had never-been parted. Not know my own child, indeed! Never dare to make such a suggestion again, Melanie. ” After this Mlle. Duport was discreetly silent on the subject of this present Christabel’s identity with the Christabel of the past: but the time was to come when con stance Sinclair’s faith was to receive a ruder shock. Gilbert went home that evening after the Two Thousand savage, with h's mind full of scorpions. Goblin’s sue- i cess was nothing to him. He hardly remembered that one of his horses had won a race for the first time since ho had kept horses. He had counted on James Wyatt’s fidelity just as he had counted on his horse or dog-a creature bought with his money, fed and housed by him. Wyatt had profited b,- him: Wyatt was bound to stand by him; an 1 as to those various slights which ho had put upon his confidential adviser at divers times, almost unconsciously, it had never occurred to him that there could be any galling wound left by such small stings, the venom whereof was to react upon him-elf. If he had heaped favors upon the man, if he had been the most unselfish and devoted of friends, ho could not have felt James Wyatt’s treachery more keenly. He was angry with himself for having been so easy a dune, for having given any man power to get the better of him. “The whole thing is a planned re-, venge," he thought. “Wyatt knew , how it would gall me to see Sir Cyprian back at Davenant." And Wyatt had flung a fire-brand into that revelation about the pretended German doctor. Could it be. Gilbert asked himself, or was it a malicious invention of Wyatt’s? Would Lord Clanyarde have lent himself to such a deception? Even Lord Clanyarde might have been hoodwinked by his daughter's 1 ver. •' “I won't accuse her, not yet a while,” he said to himself. “It will be better to keep quiet and watch. I have been too often away. I have given her too much license. That Innocent face of hers would deceive Satan himself. And I have allowed myself to think that there was no guile in her; that, although she has never loved me, she has never wronged me. Hard to find, after all, that I have j'udgel her too leniently." It Was after midnight when Mr. Sinclair arrived at Davenant, and fie had to ring up one of the servants to let him in, nls return being altogether unlocked for. He did not see Constance until the next day, and by this time had regained the mastery of him- | self. The position of affairs between

husband and wife since Mrs. Sinclair’s recovery had boen a kind of armed neutrality. Gilbert had never alluded to that awful day on which he had raised his hand against his wife, nor had Constance. Doubtful whether she remembered that unhappy occurrence, and deeply ashamed of the brutality into which passion had betrayed him, Mr. Sinclair wisely kept bls own counI sei To apologize might bo to make a I revelation. His remorse showed Itself ! by increased civility to his wife, and a new deference to her < feelings, for which bho was duly grateful. Gentle, submissive always, she gave her husband no cause of offense, save that one rankling sore which ha i begun to gall him directly the triumphant sense oi possession had lost its power to satisfy —the consciousness that he had never won her heart Tho smoldering fire needed but a spark of jealousy to raise a fatal flame. Constance expressed herself much pleased at Goblin’s success, when Gilbert announced the fact, with very little elation, on the day after the race. They were dining together te e-a-tete in the spacious paneled room, which seemed so muon too big for them. These ceremonious late dinners were Constance s aversion. In her husband’e ab. ence she dined early with Christabel, and spent tho long afternoon* walking or driving, and came h< me at twilight to a s - cial tea-party with Martha Briggs and the baby. “I didn’t think you cared about racehorses,” said Gilbert, as if doubting the sincerity of his wife’s congratulations. “Not in the abstract; they are such far-off creatures. One never gets on intimate terms with them. They are like the strange animals which the Emperor Commodus brought to Rome —articles of luxury. But J am very glad your horse has won, Gilbert, on your account." “Yes, it’s a great triumph for me. If I can win the Derby I shall be satisfied. Racing is confoundedly expensive, and I’ve had quite enough of it. I think I shall sell Goblin and the whole stud after Epsom, and the new stables into the bargain, and then 1 shall improve that great barrack of a Flace in the North and settle down. m sick of this part of the world. It's food d civilized," added Mr. Sinclair, forcibly. “Do you mean that you would leave Davenant?” asked Constance, with astonishment “Yes. I ought to have told you, by the way—Davenant ceases to be mine after mid-summer-day. I’ve sold it ” “Sold Davenant!” “ Yes. I have never really cared for the place, and I had a good offer for it while you were ill. Things were not looking very well in the North just then, and I was in want of money. I dare say you'll be pleased when you hear who is the purchaser," said Gil~T xl-lfi at nnnhnna tnAAma/l too big iot mo. I liked shabby old Marchbrook Better. But I have been so happy here lately, and it is so nice to live among people one has known all one’s life.” “Yes, old associations are sweetest,” sneered Gilbert,' the demon jealousy getting the upper hand. “But, after all, the place itself matters very little,” said Constance, anxi ious to avoid anything that might seem like upbraiding—no wife so conscientious in the discharge of her duty as a good woman who does not love her i husband. “I should be just as happy , in any cottage in the neighborhood.” “Especially if you had old an friend settled here, said Gilbert. “You havenjt asked me the name of my successor; but perhaps you know." “How should I know?” “You might have means of obtaining information. ” “Who is the person, Gilbert?" “Sir Cyprian Davenant. ” Ho watched her closely. Wai the I announcement a surprise, or did she ■ know all about it, ana was that look of grave astonishment a touch of social comedy? She looked at him earnestly for a minute, and grew somewhat paler, he thought, as if the very sound of his rival’s name were a shock to her. “Indeed! he has bought the old place again!” she said, quist;y. “That seems only right. But I thought he had gone back to Africa." “Did you really?” with a somewhat ironical elevation of his eyebrows. i “Well, I thought so, too. But it seems he is still in England. Oh, by the by, do you remember that Gorman doctor, who came to see you when you were ill?” There was a purpose in the abruptness of this question. He wanted to take her off her guard; if possible startle her into betraying herself. If there were any truth in Wyatt’s assertions, this question must be a startling one. Her calm look told him nothing. She was either innocent of all guile or the most consummate hypocrite. “Yes, I can faintly remember. I can just recall that night like a dream. Papa and you coming into my room, ana a curious-looking old man with a kind voice—a voice that went to my heart, somehow.” Gilbert started and frowned. “Yes, I remember It seems like a picture as I look back; your anxi >us looks, the fire-light shining on your faces. He asked me to sing, did he , not? Yes, and the song made me cry. Oh, such blessed tears—they took a load off my mind. It was like the loosening of a band of iron round my head. And he spoke to me about Christabel, and tola mo to hope. Dear old man, I have reason to remember him.” "Has ho never been here since?" “Never. How should he come, unless you or papa brought h m?” “No, to oe sure. And you have no curiosity about him—no desire to see him again?” "Why should I be curious or anxious? He did not deceive mo with false hope. My darlinar by him.” s And you thank him for that?" 1 “I thank God for having saved my dhild. I thank that good old Doctor for being the first to tell mo to hope.” This much and no more could Gilbert’s closest questioning extort from his wife. What was he to think—that Wyatt was fooling him, or that Constance was past ini dress in dissimulation? He did not knew what to think, and was miserable accordingly. [to bk coNTinnaal Almost ae many orators as raw recruits shobt too high. . »- *

TALMAGE’S SERMON. PEACEFUL DEATH AND BLISSFUL ETERNITY COST NOTHING. Rev. Dr. Talmage Preachee Another Remarkable Sermon Through the Free#— Historical Faith and Faith In the Kock of Agee—The Lamp Above the Grave. The Great Beeeue. Rev. Dr. Talmage, who is stfll absent in the South Pacific, has selected as the subject of this week’s sermon through the press “Tho Rescue,” the text chosen being Acts xvi, 31, "Believe on the Lo r d Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved.” Jails are dark, dull, damp, loathsome placeseven now, but they were worse in the apostolic times. I imagine today we are standing in the Philippian dungeon. Do you not feel the chill? Do you not hear the groans of those incarcerated ones who for ten years have not seen the sunlight and the deep sigh 01 women wno remember their father’s house and mourn over 1 their wasted estates? Listen again. It is the cough of a consumptive or the struggle ot one in the nightmare of a great horror. You listen again and near a culprit, his chains rattling as he rolls over in his dreams, and you say, “God, pity the prisoner!” But there is another sound in that prison. It is the song of joy and gladness. What a place to sing in! The music comes winding through the corridors i of the prison, and in ail the dark wards the whisper is heard: “What’s that? What’s that?” It is the song of Paul and Silas. They cannot sleep. They haze been whipped—very badly whipped. The long gashes on their backs are bleeding yet. They lie flat on the cold ground, their feet fast in woolen sockets, and of course they cannot sleep. But they can sing. Jailer, what arc you doing with these people? Why they have been put in here? Oh, they have been trying to make the world better. Is that all? That is all. A pit for Joseph. A lion’s cave for Daniel. A blazing furnace for Shad rach. Clubs for John Wesley. An anathema for Philipp Melanchthon. A dungeon for Paul and Silas. An Earthquake Shock. But while we were standing in the gloom of the Phillippian dungeon, ana we hear the mighty mingling voices of sob and groan and blasphemy and hallelujah, suddenly an earthquake! The iron bars of the prison twist, the pillars crack off, the solid masonry begins to heave, and all the doors swing open. The jailor, feeling himself responsible forMhese prisoners and believing in his pagan ignorance, suicide to be honorable—since Brutus killed himself, and Cato killed himself, and Cassius killqd himself—puts his sword Paul cries oi|t: Midp, flop! uv inyself no harm! We are all here!’’ Then I see tne jailor running through the dust and amid the ruin of that prison, and I see him throwing himself down at the feet of these prisoners, crying out: “What shall I do? What shall I do?” Did Paul answer: “Get out of this place before there is another earthquake. Put handcuffs and hopples on these other prisoners lest tney get away?” No word of that kind. His compact, thrilling, tremendous answer, memorable all through earth and heaven, was: “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved. ” Well, we have all read of the earthquake at Lisbon, in Lima, in Alleppo and in Caracas, but we live in a latitude where In all our memory there has dot been one severe volcanic disturbance. And yet we have seen <SO earthquakes. Here is a man whg?ha» been building up a large fortune. His bid in the money market was felt in all the large cities. He thinks he has got beyond all annoying rivalries in trade, and he says to himself, “Now I am free and safe* from all possible perturbation.” But in 1857 or in 1813 a national panic strikes the foundation ot the commercial world, and crash goes all that magnificent business establishment! Here is a man who has built up a very beautiful home. His daughters have just come home from the seminary with diplomas of graduation. His sons have started in life, honest, temperate and pure. When the evening lights are struck, there is a happiness and unbroken family circle. But there has been an accident down at Long Branch. The young man ventured too far out in the surf. The telegraph hurled the terror up to the city. An earthquake struck under the foundation of that beautiful home. Trust and Believe. The piano closed; the curtains dropped; the laughter hushed. Crash go aft those domestic hopes and pros, pects and expectations. So, my friends, we have all telt the shaking down of some great trouble, and there was a time when we were as much excited as this man of the text, and we cried out as he did: “What shall I do? What shall I do?” Tho same reply that the apostle made to him is appropriate to us, “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thoushalt be saved.” There are some documents of so little importance that you do not care to put any more than your last name under them, or even your initials, but there are some documents of so great importance that you write out your full name So the Savious in some parts of the Bible is called “Lord,” and in other parts of the Bible He is called “Jesus,” and in other parts of the Bible He is called “Christ,” but that, there might be no mistake about this passage ail three names come together —“the Lord Jesus Christ.” Now, who is this being that vou want me to trust in and believe in? Men sometimes come to me with credentials and certificates of good character, but I cannot trust them. There is some dishonesty in their looks that makes me know that I shall be cheated if I confide in them. You cannot put your heart’s confidence in a man until you know what stuff he is made of, and am I unreasonable when I stop to ask you who this is that you want me to trust in? No man would think of venturing his life on a vessel going out to sea that had never been inspected. No; you must have the certificate hung amidships, telling how many tons it carries, and now long ago it was built, and who built it, and all about it. And you cannot expect me to jisk the cargo of my immortal interests on board any craft till you tell me what it

was made of, and where it was made, and what It is. The Divine Character. When, then, I ask you who this is you want me to trust in, you tell mo he Is a very attractive person. Contemporary writers describe his whole appearance as being resplendent. There was no need fcr Christ to tell tho little children to come to him. “Suffer little children to come unto me,” was not spoken to the children. It was spoken to the disciples. The children came readily enough without any invitation. No sooner did Jesus appear than the little ones jumped from their mothers’ arms, an avalanche of beauty and love, into his lay. Christ did not ask John to put his head down on His bosom. John could not help but put his head there. I suppose a look at Christ was iust to love him. How attractive His manner! Why, when they saw Christ coming along the street, they ran in their houses, and they wrapped up their Invalids as quick as they could r/id brought them out that He might look at them. Oh, there was something so pleasant, so inviting, so cheering in everything He i did, in His very look! When these sick ones were brought out, did He say: “Do not bring before Me these sores. Do not trouble Me with these > leprosies?” No, no; there was a kind : look; there was a gentle word; there was a healing touch. They could not keep away from Him. I think there are many under the influence of the Spirit of God who are ' saying: "I will trust Him if vou will only tell me how.” A*hd tne great question asked by many is: “How, how?” And while I answer .your question I look up and utter the prayer which Rowland Hill so often uttered in the midst of his sermons, “Master help!" How are you to trust in Christ? Perfect Confidence. Just as you trust any one. You trust your partner in business with important things. If a commercial house gives you a note payable three months hence, you expect the payment of that note at the end of three months. You have perfect confidence in their word and in their ability. Or. again, you go home to-day. You expect there will i be food on tho table. You have confi- , dence in that. Now, I ask you to have the same confidence in the Loni Jesus Christ. He says, “Youbelieve: I take away your sins,” and they are all taken away. “What!” you say, “before I pray any more? Before I read my Bible any more? Before I cry over my sins any more?” Yes, this moment. Believe with all your heart, and you are saved. Why, Christ is only waiting to get from you what you give to scores ot people every day. What is that? Confidence. If these people whom you trust day by day are more worthy than Christ, if they are more faithful tban Christ, if they have done mpife than Christ ever did. then give them the preference, but if you really tM-nk that Christ is as trustworthy as ■ pre thfWdpalwith Him as fairly. Bethlehem,tend 1 believe tnat nemet, on the cross. 1 ' Do you believe it with your head of your heart? I will illustrate the difference. You are in your own house. In the morning you open a newspaper, ana you read how Captain Braveheart bn the sea risked his life for the salvation of his passengers. You say: “What a grand fellow he must have been! His family deserves very well of the country.” Ypu fold i the newspaper and sit down at the table and perhaps do not think of that incident again. That is historical j faith. Saved by Faith. But now you are on the sea, and it is night, and you are asleep, and you are awakened by the shriek of “Eire!” You rush out on the dock. You hear, amid the wringing of the hands and the fainting, the cry: “No hope, no hope! We are lost, we are lost!’’ The sail puts out its wing of fire, the ropes make a burning ladder in the night heavens, the spirit of wrecks hisses in the wave, and on the hurricane deck shakes out its banner of smoke and darkness. “Down with the lifeboats!” cries the captain. “Down with the lifeboats!” People rush into them. The boats are about full. Room only for one more man. You are standing on the deck beside the captain. Who shall it be? You or tho captain? The captain says. “You.” You jump and are saved. He stands there and dies. Now. you believe that Capt. Braveheart sacrificed himself for his passengers, but you believe it with love, with tears, with hot and long continued exclamations, with grief at his loss and joy at your deliverance. That is saving fauh—in other words, what you believe with all the heart and believe in regard to yourself. On this hinge turns my sermon—aye, the salvation of your immortal soul. You often go across a bridge you know nothing about. You do not know who built the bridge, vou do not know what matertai it is made of. but vou come to it and walk over it and ask no questions. And here is an arched bridge blasted from the “Rock of Ages’’ and built by the Architect of the whole universe, spanning the dark gulf between sin and righteousness, and all God asks you is to walk across if, and you start, au 1 you come to it, and you stop, and you go a little way on, and you stop, and you fall back, an i you experiment. You say, “How do 1 know that bridge will hold me?” instead of marching on with firm step, asking no questions, but feeling that the strength of the eternal Goa is under vou. Oh, was there ever a prize profferea so cheap as mrdon and heaven are offered to you? For how much? A million dollars? It is certainly worth more j than that. But cheaper than that you > can have it. Ten thousand dollars'? , Less than that. Fivo thousand dollars'? : Less than that One dollar? Less i than that. One farthing? Less than I that. “Without money and without j price.” No money to pay. No journey I to take. No penant e to suffer. Only just one decisive action of the soul, I “Believe on the Lord Jesus Christ, and thou shalt be saved ” Forgiven and Safe. ’ Shall I try to tell you what it is to be savea? I cannot tell you. Nlxman, no angel, can tell you. But I canlnnt at it, for my text brings me up to this point, “Thou shalt be savea.” it means a happy life here, and a peaceful death, and' a blissful eternity. It is a grand thing to go to sleep at night, and to get up in the morning, and to do business all day feeling that all is right between my heai't and God. No accident, no sickness, no persecution, no peril, no sword, can do me any permanent damage. lam a forgiven child of God; and Ho .is, bound to.see me

through. Ho has sworn He will see me through. The mountains may depart, the earth may burn, the Hgnt of the stars may be blown out by the blast of tho judgment hurricane, but life and death, things present and things to come, are mine. Yea, further than that it means a peaceful death. Mrs. Hernans, Mrs. Sigourney, Dr. Young, and almost all the poets have said handsome things about death. There is nothing beautiful about it. When we stand by the white and rigid features of those whom we love, and they give no answering pressure of the hand and no returning kiss of the lip, we do not want anybody poetizing round about us. Death la loathsomeness and midnight and tho wringing of the heart until the tenI drills snap and curl in the torture unless Christ shall be with us. I confess to you an infinite fear, a consuming 1 horror of death unless Christ shall be with me. I would rather go down into a cave of wild beasts or a jungle of reptiles than into the grave unless Christ goes with me. Will you tell me that I am te be carried out from my bright home and put away in the darkness. At the first coming of the evening I must have tne gas lighted, and the further on in life I get the more I like to have my friends round about me. FearleM of Death. And am Ito be put off for thousands of years in a dark place, with no one to speak to? When the holidays come and the gifts are aistributed, shall 1 I add no joy to the "Merry Christmas” or the “Happy New Year?” Ah, do not point down to the hole in the ground, the grave, and call it a beau- ; tiful place. Unless there be some su- a ; pernatural ilhmjination I shudder back from it. My whole nature revolts at I it. But now this glorious lamp is lifted above the grave, and all the I darkness is gone, and the way is clear. I look into It without a single shudder. Now myanxiety is not about death; my anxiety is that I may aright. What power is there in anything to chill me' In the last hour if Christ ! wraps around me the skirt of his own I garment? What darkness can fall upon my eyelids then, amid the heavenly daybreak? O death, 1 will not fear ! thee then. Back to thy cavern of ! darkness, thou robber of all the earth. Fly, thou despoiler of families. With 1 this battleax I hew thee in twain from helmet to sandal, the voice of Christ sounding all over the earth and through the heavens: “O death, I will be thy plague. O grave. I will be I thv destruction?’ i To be saved is to wake up in the ■ presence of Christ. You know when , Jesus was upon the earth how happy be made every house he went into, . and when he brings us up to his house in heaven how great shall be our glee: His voice has more music in it than is to be heard in all thp oratorios ol eternity. Talk not of banks dashed with efflorescence. Jesus is the chief bloom of heaven. We shall see the very face that beamed sympathy in of the cross. I'wam. ro ’uwwJg’ eternity with him. Toward that harbor I steer. Toward that goal I run. I shall be glad when I awake in his likeness. Glorified in Heaven. Oh, oroken-hearted men and women, how sweet it will be in that good land to pour all of your hardships and bereavements and losses Into the loving I ear of Christ and then have Him explain why it was best for you to be ■ sick, and wiiy it was best for yon to be ' widowed, and why it was best for you to be persecuted, and why it was best for you to lie tried and have Him point to an elevation proportionate to your disquietude, here, saying, “You suffered with me on earth: come up now and be glorified with me in Heaven.” Some one went into a house where there had been a good deal of trouble and said to the woman there, “You seem to be lonely.” “Yes,” she said; “I am lonely.” “How many in the tamilv?” “Only myself.” “Have you had any children?” “I had seven children.” “Where are they?” “Gone.” “All gone?” "All.” "All dead?” “All.” Then she breathed a long sign into the loneliness and said, “Oh, sir, I have been a good mother to the grave.” And so there are hearts here that are utterly broken down by the bereavements of life. I point you to-day to the eternal balm ot Heaven. Oh, aged men and women who have knelt at the throne of grace for threescore years and ten will not your decreptitude change for the leap of a Peart when you come to look face to face upon Him whom having not seen you love ? Oh, that will lie the Goo I Shepherd, not out in the night and watching to keep off the wolves, but with the lamb reclining on the sunlit hill. That will be the Captain of our salvation, not amia the roar and crash and boom of battle, but an? id his disbanded troops keeping victorious festivity. That will be the Bridegroom of the church coming from afar, the bride lean'ng upon his arm while he looks down into her face and says: “Behold, thou art fair, my love! Behold, thou art fair!’’ _____ A Nail-Driving Tourney. “A Female Columbian Carpentership Contest” was a novel feature ot an entertainment given not long since at Allen Methodist Episcopal Church, South Stockton street. Eight women entered the contest, and each was decked out in a white cap and carpenter’s apron. Before each was a pine plank, down which a line had been drawn. Each con--1 testant was armed with a hammer, ! and a handful of nails. The feat for ; which the prizes were awarded was the driving of twenty-four nails in a workmanlike manner within a time limit of ten minutes. When the signa! “Go” was given there was a sound of ra ghty hamI merlng, an o casional howl over a mashed finger, and a tremendous fumbling for nails. Annie McCarmick got her twenty-four in first and, as they were also driven straighter than those of the other lady carpenters, she was awarded first prize.—Baltimore Sun. When a woman is too stout, we have noticed that her' intimate friends are sure to refer to her as an _ “awfully nice little woman.” A idea of the right time to move is when he becomes too well known in a town to have a good time without bis wife hearing of IL